The road is uphill.
The way ahead unclear.
But the mind knows that the time has come.
The mind knows the next steps.
Yet I will stop
to read the signs,
to check which way the wind blows
Why?

There was a post here about trust that I took off later.
The intention behind an impulsive action- it is important to look at that.
The heart was clean? The heart was clean.
This is learning for me.

The song of the sparrows is beautiful. Even if I saw only the last ten min.

This must have been a forest once.
Past the turning where a container truck is parked.
Past the mud and rubble on this filthy track
Must have been green, generous, bursting with life, busy bird calls.
Far overhead birds wheel in a V
as they must have, long ago.
About here- sunlight didn’t filter to the ground
Just the touch of the breeze on hushed green.
Perhaps there would have been a path here, deer doe-eyed, or a leopard or a cheetah sunning,
Where the factory now stands.
Next to the BPO. International calls, speaking as Miss Jones.
A well worn path, to the distant cave monastery, the only intrusion, mostly uphill, meandering.
Past the Aviation training academy, where the girls in short red make their way gingerly in the muck
But I’m sure this must have been a forest once.
Tall proud trees reaching for the sky, the whisper of the breeze like secrets.
And this place where a tea stall huddles with cheap meals for factory shift workers
Must’ve been a clearing for the world weary to rest. Or ponder journeys.
The years leave their mark, they say.
I wonder.

So many realities--the slum kid playing with a make believe horse made out of a rusted iron rod; the South Bombay 11th grader struggling with Hindi and class parties.

Today I awoke to a rejection.
Which all in all is a good thing.
One- the publisher got back.So many just don't.
two- the story has now moved from 400 words to 1700 words.
Which is a LOT of words. For me.
AND I have not sulked. For a change.
Ah, life!


Today's high winds are a manic delight, an almost eerie glee as they blow past buildings, whoosh through trees and twist and turn making a mockery of things like scaffolding, branches, and roofs.
The rain Gods were kind and stayed away, the century's higest tide didn't flood the city.

Tagged by Norrbu.
Tagging Amit L, PQ, Quin, mago, manuji.

They've finally taken away that truck that had rammed into the stone wall.
The beam of a heavy duty hoist has turned with the impact.
You can now see it past the huge gap in the stone wall.
The crushed auto was removed a day earlier.
The bus with the bad brakes stands at the turning.
Seven people, my autodriver tells me. Including a passer-by.
Sobering.
The plight of Yudhishthir at the gates.
Reminder to self: leave the desk and kitchen counter clean.


That glimpse of sunlight off the swishing palms, then dark clouds raced by.

Forwarding Address, a translation of Pravinsinh Chavda’s Agalnu Sarnamu, is online at Pratilipi.
http://tinyurl.com/lxgkvh

Hand in hand, we amble.
You’re saying your prayers, you set the pace.
How else would I have seen the Monet-like leaves, almost white green, or the bed of flamboyant red tiger lilies.
In colors, my prayer.

Tied myself up in knots over some words for most of last week, amazing how calm one feels once one decides upon the course of attack.

Looks like monsoon-time now.
Mumbai floods, and is as stoic.

I've watched with quiet peace the sky talk to the earth, envelop it in a misty rain cocoon, as leaves take on a million shades of green and the world looks fey.

A cocoon that I happily slip into when there is too much- too much at work, to much to think about, too difficult to find a way to say “No”. And it is still work.

Why is egoh a four letter word?
Isn’t it a thread that ties together diverse pieces of what we call the self, each with a will of its own?

My story Trital finds place in the July issue of the Birmingham Arts Journal.

http://tinyurl.com/nnpjos