the tunnel

Last night, a mythical creature crept into my bed. It took me in its virulent embrace, crushed my ribs and made a paste of my flesh. Liquid, I flowed out. The monster watched with disdain.

I remember the weight of the snake on my chest, its bone crushing chill. Eyes, dim. Not really doing what it was… bells rang somewhere…. Amid misty dawn it kept on crushing me until I was… I was and was not beyond that.

Close by a young priest sang a hymn.

The snake waited… destined to wait… wait and crush… crush until eternity.

Gods made a mistake and they corrected it. When Nahush fell on the earth, it was raining. After an eternity, it does not rain anymore. A blurred thin line demarcates the forest and the desert.

His vision retains the curse.

Did they look into his eyes as they drove the nail in his palms? Did father look at his children?

Back in my slumber, Nahush did not see me. He was just waiting. Weighty wait went on till the day woke up. I was no more.

Someone has stolen the balance from Yudhisthira. It would take a while before he finds his way in the forest now. For the time being, we’ll have to wait. Nahush will have to wait. And the rains…

They say Monsoon will be early this year….

At the hilltop temple, the deity for now has gone out for a dive in the sea… Radha loves pearls!!

db

never calls

Almost 3300 kms covered. Pine Hills, virgin ravines peeping and giggling from one hill to another, 17 degrees; chirpy chilly wind deafening the ears, cold yet vibrant café’s, verses in guitars and poetry on tea cups- Shillong swarmed in life. Black and white flashback.The kites now fly overhead, covered faces, smog-clouded streets, Sabarmati flows sidelined with bollywood songs and jagraatas in the background. Patellia rules in this part of the land. 

 6 long years of waiting. Waiting to go back. Hopefully, unlike waiting for Godot... We reiterate to each other everyday when Ahmedabad bedlam wakes us up. A stroll of a peacock with his 5 queens in our backyard is the only delight. Cup of tea sipped and kick started the day..

After all its the call of the belly. And here we are. Roasting ourselves in the sweltering heat.There. Rains weary off the denizens.

The door to a chalky city unbolted... 

Opulence strikes on your face. Zooming big cars deafens the silence of the night. What was that car? A Chevrolet? A Merc? The tiny little small town girl grows up. Market is booming.Market. The all pervasive, the ultimate, the supreme. Boom! Students have evolved to compare your care with the others in the market. 200 years of Darwin… indeed!!

Nights: sweltering heat brings in chilly frozen tears. “You think too much.” “Do I?” “Do we?” By any chance can we get over with our thoughts? The nights in any case deepens, darkens our ceaseless haunting thoughts. Can nights be blacked-out?

The process of growing up in a big city- a compulsion. Conflict breeds and braids poetry. We live. Muses after all are by far the most amusing and most often the boring breeds of all human forms .Banters my husband . swallowing. 

Standing on the balcony: the only outlet for a small town woman now. The world yawns here. Emotion gets stifled. Obnoxious odor of politics insinuates the ones uncorked soul. You are in the news making mine, my dear.The incessant flow of breaking news on the background, Barkha Dutt, Prabhu Chawla...Bla bla bla never stops.T.V is all puissant, husband's soul mate after all. The keyed toy just walks in to disturb the peaceful date of the two- one the animate the other the inanimate.

Time has worn a new face. A bridal move. worry thickens. what next?

“I am a poet too.” voices out my soul. I want my writing there too. Printed.

The affinal bonding didnt just stir up my personal being, every thing connected to me rippled. My publishers address, my favourite college students, my favourite work place, my native. All have been left behind. 

Most North-Easterners believe that its good to move away from the eastern side of the country. Growth surmounts.

 PART1. PERIOD.

Does it really?

 PART2.Growth definitely has stumbled upon us. We have grown up to see different faces of our species. Ones you land in Delhi, you grow up. Up your sleeves, your visciousness in your eyes. YOU dictate. you meow, you are sold-upright. Thankfully, unlike my father who was robbed off in Delhi railway station for his sheer display of naivity, my husband called the shots through the claustrophobic Delhi streets till we boarded our train to Ahmedabad. Weeping within for having heard slangs that never travelled across my mouth, my journey to womanhood began. 

Six years have rolled on. Ahmedabad streets still alien,people still not befriended, food not yet tasted. We spend sultry evenings in our solitary trees and wait for the rain to wash off our tears. Our native never calls upon us. 

The patience of waiting is gradually fleeing somewhere amid the concrete jungle. loneliness breeds in our terrace garden. It crawls into our bed. Tears too don't roll any longer. our breath is louder than the sounds of the cricket outside, singing the song of night.

Bereft of motherly love, the two lost souls ride on the back of life trying to pull the string and manipulate the move of destiny. We look at each other and laugh out at our foolishness.

Kankaria lake opens for public view amid tight security...

pb

wait....

Familiarity begets distance. Or distance familiarity…? 12 years is a long time. Intermittent rains…scorching heat… at one point everything seems to be same.

Did it rain last night? Or was I dreaming?

Dead pines have left their cones. Someday they may germinate… weeping willow whips the air… for now.

Some things never go away. Remember, last-time you had cried over whisky. Things just refuse to fade out. In fact nothing goes. Stars of midnight are all there… buried in sunlight. Did the grand old man say this? Of course he did. Who cares… now I am saying this.

Up in the market, they just sliced the lamb.

The meaty fatty one did not make a sound. It was dead long back. Knives only made the meat accessible. Flys celebrate the stench… dogs, the bones thrown.

The ascetic had prayed to the deity. Let lambs grow on trees. He is a vegetarian, walking around the countryside barefoot in his tattered white robe.

The crook has struck a deal. This time he wont fail. Dogs and lambs look the same once you skin them.

The dainty girl is horrified. “They actually kill and skin a lamb for its meat?” “But kebabs are so yummm.” Mixed emotions I think.

The boozer is a little dazed. Lamb steak is great… what’s the fuss all about.

Christmas years away.

db