Friday, September 28, 2012

The Threshold .. continued

The last strains of sunlight lingered in the corners, grasping every available point of refraction.  She slid her fingertips along the glass wondering if this was all there ever was. Or could be.
She knelt at the threshold and kissed its dust. Her parting glance was blurred by silent tears. Then she stepped across. Into the twilight of 14th August, 1947.

Tryst with Destiny was being made.

The patrol herded her to the jeep. And all that time, her eyes searched the crowds - for Shera. He should have been here. Shera! Her soul cried out. Sheeeeeraaaaa ......
The jeep stirred.

This is in continuation of the submission made on 7th September, 2012, for Trifextra : Week Thirty-Two
The text in green is the earlier entry.

Linked with Trifextra : week Thirty-Five

Tuesday, September 25, 2012


Science had failed to heal him, brazenly called him insane. Perhaps it was right, perhaps not. Desperate, his people sought Elvira, the red haired. With a victorious laugh, her hand went over his forehead, stilling him as ice. Her luscious red lips, shone in the dark, praying and chanting. Echoes hung in the silence. Magic filled the night. Her pitch rose – from whispers to shrieks. Incantations gained momentum and then suddenly died down. Everything became still. Deathly still. Beyond the walls of her sanctorum, a rooster crowed in the dawn. Elvira smiled. Blind faith had won again. Science had failed.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Blessed Ordinary

His spirit drained,
Flowing freely through the papers,
Scattered on his desk.
He thought of her,
And he thought of
The lullabies and cradles,
That waited for him.
Love and life,
Were beckoning.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Doing the dishes!

Yesterday’s gala at our house saw many crossed fingers. Trying to keep away rain. We had planned the celebration as a terrace party to gobble up that ever swelling milieu comfortably. But we expected  some 125 guests. At any other time, we could have managed with plates and spoon from our cupboard but not this time. 125 sets! Wow! The tent house services J my idea. Bad idea! The plates did look clean on the outside. But to be doubly sure, we (me included) sat in the scorching sun, doing the dishes before putting them to use. Hail the hygiene!

Wednesday, September 19, 2012


We are celebrating a wedding here.
Guests have already started coming for what is going to be the most breathtaking moment of my cousin’s life. And excitement galores here.
The ladies of the house are still making rounds to the tailors and the jeweler shops to get their scarlet and green suits right, to find some stunning adornment for their necks, arms, hair or ears. And I am wondering if they or rather their tender ear lobes will be able to bear the weight of things they are coveting. You see, I am pretty much decided with what I am going to wear and how I am going to wear it. Well, well! An advantage of not having to look after tiny trots or an ever nagging husband or wondering what my in-laws are going to think of my shopping spree.
And we are sure looking forward to tonight’s celebrations. With me writing for some three challenges in one post, it should be very clear, that we (I mean me and my family) are the hosts tonight. It is the night when we all sing and dance our hearts out – our ample Punjabi curves notwithstanding. Every nightingale of the house is revising her notes and trying her best to keep her little library a secret from others. Just like every damsel is stealing glances in that ancient mirror, convincing it to aver that she is the prettiest of them all.
Tomorrow, the couple will exchange their rings. Vintage candlestick on tables and roses will set the evening for romance. And come Saturday, we will set out to bring home the bride. Dancing, singing and marching with family and friends. Right from the heart of the town to a beautifully done wedding palace. And finally a sunny Sunday will see the couple exchanging vows.
And before we know it the guests will be saying goodbyes. Lives will be back to normal. Lovebirds will be flying out.
Let the celebrations begin!

Linking with Trifecta : Week Forty-Three
Linking with Write on Edge : Red Writing Hood Prompt - Clue (it goes live on Friday)
Linking with Picture it and Write it

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Rule of Third Eye

His Third Eye opened.
Rage burned desire.
His Tandava trampled life and love.
The Creator and Preserver suddenly became The Destroyer.
Amidst this annihilating chaos,
Parvati still conquered His heart.
Her love salvaged.

Inspired from The Hindu Mythology

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

A stroke of genius

Two stones, struck accidentally.
Sparks stirred. So did a thought.
And the fire was idolized forever.
Years later, someone brought it to our
Hearths and kitchens.
Somewhere out there,
A stone cut into the flesh.
Blood flowed, and thoughts raced.
And knives were born.
Someone dared to taste the apple,
The bread and the cinnamon;
To live in caves, the huts and homes;
To carve out the wheel.
It is to such pregnant minds that we owe our living.
Then be they the stroke of genius,
Or an errant radical thought.
It is what justifies life,
And the joy therein.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

The Lady with the Kilta

Her kilta carries all her burdens. And her kilta carries all her joys.
Every day.
It is the core of her existence.
Like every other persons’ in these villages out here.
And I am always intrigued by it.
Perhaps because, I have always thought that they use these only in the tea-gardens to put in the tea-leaves; that too only in movies and photographs. Little did I know that a kilta would carry not only their harvests, but all their purchases from the main town too? The list includes almost anything that needs to be carried all the way to or from the village. But now when I look around, I can spot many a hill women, wearing the traditional pattus (hand woven shawls) walking with the backs hunched under the weight of these strong hand woven cane baskets. Of course of late, they have started using the plasticized variant in bright green complete with black broad straps.
And boy, are these women strong? Their daily life is full of hardships, even the narrative of which might sound ancient. At least while sitting before a laptop in a plush seat. But they live exactly that life and they live it happily.
Coming back to her.
Every evening, she boards the bus and sits down next to me. And places her kilta safely by her side. It is covered with a red cloth, tied to the rim of the basket. So I do not know what she carries in it. And I have not had the courage to ask her. And I cannot answer the why this last line evokes.
Sometimes I see her smiling to herself. These days she keeps checking if her basket is safe again and again. I assume she is carrying gifts for her grandkids back home.
The other days, she looks heavyhearted. Perhaps, she has not been able to sell her goods. My brain works out the reason.
Only if I could steal a look into this basket of hers!
But, it is already time for her to get down.
May be tomorrow! Or day after…

Friday, September 7, 2012

The Threshold

The last strains of sunlight lingered in the corners, grasping every available point of refraction.  She slid her fingertips along the glass wondering if this was all there ever was. Or could be.
She knelt at the threshold and kissed its dust. Her parting glance was blurred by silent tears. Then she stepped across. Into the twilight of 14th August, 1947.
A Tryst with Destiny was being made.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Growing up

Tiny feet, those darling things,
Trot all over the place today,
Hiding, playing, running!
Was it not yesterday?
When we held hands,
And taught you to walk.
Or was it really yesterday?
When we weaved stories,
To lull you to sleep.
Taught you how to spell and read.
And all the while we were dealing,
With plus and minus,
Time – it flew away.
And today when the thunders strike,
You tell me not to be scared silly!
Boy, you have grown!
The joy I feel,
And a dull, proud ache.
In this aging heart of mine,
Blessings and prayers rise.


The thoughts and the absence thereof
Scribbled on the blank paper,
Perhaps, reads something like this.
Words put together can still make sense.
It is however, a vacant living,
A wandering existence,
That I am really scared of.