Madwoman of my heart

The madwoman

runs through the bazaars

And when she finds

thoughts of my Beloved

wandering the muddy lanes,

she swirls and twirls

and throws her arms

up in the sky.

Primal sound

He comes on stage, folds his hands in greeting, sits down. The light shining on him is too bright, too harsh. It won’t allow his magic to take root, grow, flow. They have to be dimmed. There, that’s right. Just enough so we can discern his form in still motion, and the expressions that arise and ebb on his mercurial face.

Silence hovers over the crowd like a krishna-hued monsoon cloud, heavy with anticipation. It’s rumbling with thunder now, unable to contain its own fullness. As his voice, and his hands, move from the earth to the sky, the cloud bursts into warm flashes of rain, drenching us with the furious beauty, the momentous suddenness, of his music.

Somewhere deep within, a snake uncoils and frees itself, rising all the way to the crown chakra.

Somewhere in the universe, a sun implodes.

Somewhere in the ocean, a pearl forms.

Somewhere in  our collective consciousness, love begins. Once again.

First light

The fine hair

on the reeds

the delicate drops

of dew

on the bamboo leaf

the flurry of feathers

on birds’ underbellies

the clouds engaged

in erotic embrace

your eyes

my eyes

all catch

this first light

this first warm kiss

between

earth and sky…

Fruits of anger

I’ve had enough of anger. Violence and aggression. Others’, mostly, some mine too. I’ve changed newspapers, switched off news channels… nothing seems to work. Somehow, through some silent crevice, some crack somewhere, anger seeps in. Perhaps because I get suckered into watching an ‘award-winning’ film where somebody’s killed every two seconds. Perhaps because I can’t navigate away fast enough from a channel that is showing a mob lynching a hapless ‘thief’. Perhaps because I can’t look away when an angry driver brushes past my car and gesticulates obscenely.

Fruits of anger fill my heart, make it weary. Today I will let things be. Close my doors, switch off, opt out. Perhaps I can find a way. Transform my heart. Unburden it of its bitter harvest. Uncover its pristine original state. Develop fierce compassion. Perhaps then, I could let the world in. Love the mob and the thief, the beauty and the beastliness. 

 Until then, let me be…   

Any day now

Any day now

I expect

the great mother goddess

to rise in revolt

in this ancient land

that she has nurtured

with her breath and milk and love

whose rivers carry her blood-benediction

whose very earth is her body

in her we all exist…

Any day now

I expect

the great mother goddess

to shrug off her benevolence

and turn against her children

a terrible beauty

astride a rampaging tiger

or perhaps

the old crone

who dances death

any time now…

For, hasn’t she taken offence

at far less provocation

than presented by

scarred wombs

from which

have been ripped out

her own emanations

stopped from being born

because they are

what she is — female?

Any time now

I expect

the great mother goddess

of this ancient land

to fill the breasts

of us ordinary women

with her divine rage

her unstoppable courage

and then we, her daughters

will rise

ululating and angry

adorned in red

millions of mother goddesses

carrying our emanations

 in ironclad wombs…

Then perhaps

this massacre of innocents

will stop?

Say cheers!

It’s that time of the year again. When we brush the cobwebs off tricolours and our patriotic spirit. “The national anthem is my favourite song. And I get so upset when people don’t stand when it is played,” a starlet gushes. So, does she stand bolt upright and listen to the national anthem every time she wishes to relax? That’s what the rest of us do, you know, listen to our favourite songs when we want to relax.

How do we celebrate the anniversary of our independence as a nation? With tricolour sweets, sarees, bindis, and any other surface that might lend itself to being coloured into saffron, white and green. What does the tricolour mean, what do these colours mean? Who cares? Have fun, yaar. Say cheers with a tricolour mocktail.

If its not the tricolour, its got to be a thin person (child preferably, oh cho chweet!) dressed in a white dhoti, round spectacles and brandishing a long stick. The Mahatma, you see. We have to remember him, at least what he looked like. No problem that we hardly remember what he stood for. He got us independence, right? With Gandhigiri, right? Say cheers to Munnabhai. There’s no Gandhi like Munnabhai! Hey, was that really a ‘m’ocktail?

This year, the din is particularly loud. It’s been 60 glorious years, you see. And look where we are. The biggest democracy, the fastest growing economy, the loudest cheerer of our cricket team, the most wondrous example of secularism…… Everybody say cheers!

Hey, don’t get me wrong. I am no party pooper. I love to toast everything worth toasting. But I do have a problem. And that is with allowing synthetic, garish, filmy displays of patriotism take over an occasion that must lead to some serious soul-searching. At a time when so many people identify themselves with their caste, religion, region and language identities, where do we place the idea of India? What is the direction we would like to move ahead in — a materialistic soul-killing environment destroying focus on commerce and economy, or some sort of a middle ground that is sensitive, compassionate, just?

 I know, I know. It’s old fashioned to talk about social justice and such things. But that is the powerful, radical idea on which this nation was built. Isn’t it time to relook at it 60 years on?

I’ll say cheers to that.

Tears of light

A solitary tear

clings to the edge

of my left eye

for the longest while…

until I coax it

onto my finger

and hold it up to light…

Have you ever

seen sorrow

luminous and bright

and pain transformed

to unbearable delight?

Everyday magic

If you look long enough

into this magic tree

that’s taken root outside my window

here’s what you will see –

a lattice of leaves

transform mid-morning

into starry sky….

Street sounds,

motorcar horns

become

the musical clip-clop

of a horse…

cruel smoke and smog

filter through

as shape-shifting stardust…

and tears charmed

right out of my eyes

to become

drops of dew, drops of rain

on the leaves’ undersides…  

Lunar love

Astronomers, scientists

and all other rationalists

have ruined

celestial love!

By calling it ‘occultation’

and observing it

with telescopes

and other instruments

that measure distances

between the two lovers

 – Moon and Venus

they were, last night

drawing close

in slow seduction

until she lay

beneath him, above him

tongues and limbs intertwined

united in love…

Watch, if you will

but with love

and respect

for a sacred amour

Be a voyeur, if you will

But please,

not a data-notching scientist!

Ever new

Every moment life

also dies 

And begins

itself anew…

In this way

we dance…

ever dead

ever new!