Oh yes the genre is new for me. I learned to reach beyond the obvious.
To look at the shifting, surging, shimmery layers beneath.
That reality can be what you want it to be.
That writing about sneering men and women on pencil heels is not the only choice.


(story courtesy: Swapna)

I cough my lungs out. I wheeze. I concoct and sip strange admixtures. I sigh like a heroine in a Victorian novel, my voice a throaty rasp. I sniff and inhale, alas its only steam.
As you may see, I’m doing better now. Somewhat.

Parallel veins on the palm leaf stand out, etched in mad hues of green crayon by THE master artist; what does it take to see, for long I had eyes but did not.

So filigree like; hinting at the shadows and shapes beneath the surface:

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
-Wordsworth, from Lines written in early spring.


With shock I watch the reigning king of the marquee walk by, dark, wiry and unimpressive. Its all the director’s doing, all glam sham I realize- the emperor has no clothes! Under the harsh lights they’re practicing a mass drill type of dance step in a purported state room- no envy, not for anything in the world. Not this.

Basking in reflected glory.
One more.

calquezine.blogspot.com

At a quarter to three in the morning the clouds are low and bear a trademark red tinge, as if streetlights flood the heavens; but that's not reason enough to awake at that blessed time every night, like a third bit actor in a ghost movie. Neelkamal anyone?

Copyright infringement can be infuriating. But I got back, I stood up to authority- a big change.
And then I let go.
Like several I let go in the recent past.
You have to choose your battles.

yahooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
A Fistful of Flowers.
On Muse India
A translation of the original by Shri Pravinsinh Chavda.
http://tinyurl.com/q7ramk

Just coasting along. In a state of contemplation. In the quiet.
Marking the shadow of the palm fronds on the tar.
Marking the curtain of sunlight past the green on the awning.
Revelling in the gulmohars that bloom, no reason or reasoning required or proffered- they just are.
Thrilling in the cuckoos and parrots and sundry strange birds.
An orchestra or a cacophony? You decide. I can't be bothered.

If only I’d known cleaning out my mailbox would be as therapeutic.

From a visit to Mani Bhavan on Saturday.
Gandhiji stayed here from 1917-1934.
This is where the civil disobedience movement began.