Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Randomly scribbles poems..

Some random ones that I scribbled in the last one year..

For tonight, I will sleep with you..

Tonight I will sleep with you,
My legs are tired,
I have walked long,
Evening, with its fresh scent of jasmine,
Sets the hope so strong,

Pots are dry,
Children are hungry,
O hari hara!
Tell me when its time,
For I will pass away,
As softly as I came.

My hands blistered with spading gravel,
Neck stiff with carrying bricks,
What do I do?
O hari hara!
For Tonight, I will sleep with you,
Never to wake up again.

Walking with you....

Holding onto your fancies,
Your dimple, 
Tangling your curly ripples,
To make you giggle
Walking with you in my arms
Carrying your dreams in my heart
You cuddled, gurgled, crawled,
All in a rush,

Suddenly you walked,
Calling me names, 
Clutching my dupatta tightly
Stop the time dial,
Not in a rush,
For I’m engrossed in the wearies of life.

Pull down the drapes

See it in your eyes,
Need you back,
Your glowing smile,
It’s been awhile,
Since I felt the warmth of your palm.
Ruffle your hair,
Just like old times.

Missing a beat, each time you shrug,
Everywhere it’s your magical voice,
Crisp and poise, 
Carrying in it hurt & pain,
Piercing my heart, in your feign.
Pull down the drape,
The sanctum of my soul.

Rhythm of a hued dream...

Heart flutters, each time you cross,
Your manly gait takes me for a toss,
Beating a little too fast,
Faraway I sail, with you to mast.
Swept off by your looks,
Soft desire hooks,
Day and light blurred and lost.

Friday, July 27, 2012

a reely Short Story

I have written my first short story. here is the link ... I have made my friends read it and have good mind to circulate free printed versions of this, so that you read even if that means spending the last penny of my savings

Its only one page. I myself cant tolerate online stories running to pages. It's different if its a printed version. The musty smell of the book and feel of the torn leaves, makes it a different experience altogether. It gives you a feel that book has been read and reread through the years. So enough nonsense from me.

Thanks a lot Telltaleclub. And a special mention to Sabapathy Narayanan, for inviting me to write.

Thanks a lot Saba!!! Look forward to write more.

Here goes the story:


Coming back from school, Ammamma used to pick us back from the bus stop.  We followed her as 5 little piglets.  All of us were cousins of almost same ages,  7 or 8 years old.  Squatted on the floor, she used to feed us curd rice with some left over Kolambu/gravy. A ball of curd time rice topped with a pinch of kolambu.  It was the most delicious of the food, because we were hungry.

We played with the cousins on the terrace, until dawn filigreed her gentle touches of darkness on the evening sky.  As if on a routine, the evening velaku(lamp) will be lit, a small flickering lamp would be placed near the front door of the old house.  That 30-year-old puja room smelt of camphor.

At this sign, my cousins will be promptly taken in.  Complan in big silver vessel will be steaming and made to warm for the cousins,  to drink.  Washed and powdered, they were made to sit in front of wooden desks and start to do their home work.  The steaming smell of the complan and camphor, remained with me till date.
Ammamma used bring us outside on the porch, as an indication.  The evening was scented with heavy smell of jasmine (PITCHI/jathi mali), a 20 year old plant.  The darkness slowly crawls.
The lamp slowly flickers…Amma and appa were working in Govt office.  Standing near the old grill gate, me and my sis, watched each person passby.

I kept listening to each scooter that passed.  I know the sound of my appa’s bajaj chetak.
The usual people that I kept staring on a daily basis were the candy floss boy with his bell shaped Jar filled with white cotton sweet and his small lantern (we pronounced it as lawnther).  The dirty boy with folded lungi, who gave me a smirked look.  The short, dark milk man with his aluminum milk can. My ammamma sits near the gate, two other neighboring ladies come and sit and they chat.

Amma and appa used to come at 6.30.   Amma then teaches us our lessons.  Appa starts cutting the vegetables  and getting ready for the meal.  Then amma sets to clean the fish or chicken or prawn and cooks it for us. Fish was like a vegetable for us.

She feeds us our dinner, telling us beautiful stories, pointing to rented fairy tale books from a library.  Was it the story that was beautiful or the fish that tasted fine.  I really didn’t know, but it was delicious.
Those beautiful stories that I felt for in that tender age were Matilda’s Diamond Necklace and The Little Matchstick Girl.  She told us with a deep and sad rendition, that I almost cried.   I imagined the poor match stick girl left to die in the cold.

Each day spiraled on and on…

But today, there were no signs of the familiar chetak.  Instead a news came, that a road accident happened..  I never heard the sound of that chetak again in my life or the sad soft voice.  Ammamma beat her chest and said that I am cursed.

Suddenly I woke up with a start, as the point where I had to get down came.   I slowly got down from the PTC bus.  The conductor yelling medavakkam,’ get the ticket and give the correct change’.  And walked reluctantly to my apartment, my little girl mridula with wide open eyes and same dreamy look,  greeted me Amma.  .

The maid said that she kept on looking out for me for hours together..

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Sand Dunes

Lost in the wilderness,

Wandering in the magic of an unknown flute,

And as I go along life's way,

Hold my hand, dear God

Why is this happening?

My eyes light up to you, with tears,

Sinking deeper and deeper.

Mind reeling like kaleidoscope in varied patterns.

Like the eerie of the silence that flows from a conch,

Blind alleys that I keep floating endlessly,

Desperately searching for that voice,

Save me, save me, dear God.

A little hand is tugging me,

Wake me up,

From this terrible dream.