Granny Smith magazine features my story, Reflections.

Sepia colors
All that remains
Footsteps
A child’s prattle
That heady run-rush of youth
Executed with a dancer’s grace
Then the reel turns blank
Burnt sienna, no soundtrack
Just the whirr to the end.

Standing room only at the Kabir concert


For a day now I’ve been trying to unravel
The import of all I’ve seen and heard—and barely scratched the surface
Of a pure voice reaching for the heavens,
Sometimes I think I’ve caught a glimpse, a sliver of light, quizzical
A gigantic kaleidoscope of swirling colors
(Then the rest of life takes over)

Ages ago, the poet wrote
Even as his loom clicked through weft and weave
He wrote of the connection beyond
A line as fine and real and fleeting
As the line on the horizon, racing
As the sun dips into the sea
Past the gulls wheeling overhead
Unnamed colors fill up the sky, then dissappear

Ages ago, the poet wrote
Of life in every thing
Of the essence in every being
Of having found the source, free of book and worldly reign
Simple words that still ring true
Yet why so difficult for me to unravel
This simplicity of the singer
So content in his village life
Inheritor of his lineage, his spiritual wealth

As the hours quickly progressed
Glimpses of the mystic alphabet, fleeting
Humbled by the remembrance of poet-saints and princess-poets
Glimpses, like an electric jolt to the brain
Yet the power of the word…
(then the rest of life takes over)
Even as new champa dance in the sunshine
unfettered.

I must be the weirdest person that I know
A grin so huge it doesn’t fit my face
At a friend’s nervous trepidation, joy
At a super brand new stupendous time
A grin, walking taller, lighter
Sunshine
Leaves like engravings, so detailed
A lily so fine you can see the curve of the green as it holds up the bloom to light
Nonchalance, grace in the kite’s roll
Echoes of A Brand New Day
The percussion filtering out, feather-touch, into the gentle night.

Yesterday evening at the movies
I was reminded
That an hour or two
Of gut shaking, rip roaring laughter and bright colors
Is good for the soul.
Clears out the dank, the cobwebs from the mind
As much as a good shaking-do.
Quick, smart, young—
But what’s wrong with quick, smart, young?
If the locale was not part of my psyche—Vegas, uptown Mumbai
Neither is the grimy underworld, guns ablaze
I came home laughing
With a decided spring in my step
My head held higher
Smiling
paisa vasool.

RIP Whitney H.
48! Bloody hell.
HOW can one die at 48?



This song I've heard too often long ago, tears streaming mode.

The other day I heard some scurrilous gossip.
Remember those wooden dolls where the eyeballs pop out of their sockets, something like that? I consciously stepped away from taking a righteous stand, unctuous holier-than-thou. I must admit I was tempted to.
But yes, I wondered about the way people choose to INVEST the short time I, we, you, they have on earth.
What a surprising time we live in.
Me? I get heady on words.

I watch goggle eyed, the cars vroom vrooming on the TV, revving from zero to zwoop in a blink, a dust cloud trailing--the smell of engine oil, the real adrenalin, racing heartbeat. And I think of my sedate wonder on four wheels, primly cruising along on second gear, L plates prominent--and I smile.

Time marches, I steal slivers, poke in clichés and invest moments in that tiny space and rejoice in them, just as I rejoice in sunlight on my skin, or the measured grace, the sweep of a kite’s flight, sure and persistent, practicing rolls and dives in an emptying peach sky. Life is, life respects no clock or drumbeat, it just is.