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.

It was republic day yesterday, the day we signed the constitution, ages ago, of course now several political parties swear allegiance to the writer of the document and choose to forget that probably a committee drafted it in the first place, and given our propensity for all things British, there must be chunks thusly inspired. January 26th, now another holiday, a day to salute the flag, sing patriotic songs off key, and walk about waving paper flags stapled on to softdrink straws. Later at night, there was Gandhi, on TV, but to get to it you had to surf past footage of march pasts, missiles and tanks and what not, and one wondered if those men of steel of which those on the screen only were a depiction, were from a different gene imprint, and where did that steel go, and the man singlehandedly credited for cobbling together a country from a hundred and ten fiefdoms, kingdoms, headstrong rulers, where did that steel go? Though as protests and clamor go we’ve had a pretty neat year, a new drama a fortnight and I watch wide eyed—but something’s off in this land of two Indias, the chasm deepening every damn minute.

A friend’s going to a literary festival
Hulla hulla jamboree
100,000 and counting
Dust clouds and shamianas
Speeches and milling crowds
a regal façade and a roll of drums
will they wear hats, I wonder? And gloves!
and much too much of chatter
echoing, rebounding, ricocheting from ancient walls.
Me?
My literary festival
Is 400 word quickies
And my barrage of obtuse. “cut, cut cut” heavy crits
As also poem a day (that alas I often miss)
That pulls out dark stuff from shuttered tight corners
Of my brain and mind, such that it is
And yes, heart sometimes
(but the heart is pokey holey, not much to count there)
And my literary festival is:
Trying to stretch words to not bloat, stay afloat and more
Clenching, grasping crazy deadlines
If I can I must, or so shouldn’t I?
And my jamboree is
Merrily switching words tenses weights across languages
If I can I must, or so shouldn’t I?
And this year, I admit, the first of for-fee subs
multiplying by fifty as I hit send...
So even while the flashing lightbulbs
And newspaper double spreads
Devote eulogies, quotes, reams to the craft
I shall put my head down
Squiggle out a line or two.
Sing along to my sing song
Hulla hulla jamboree

The formal year 1 date, and today I shall release you of all promises but one, and I shall let you go to the space of the four directions, to the glorious sunshine and the green and the mountains you loved so much, and to the word, spoken and unspoken, written and read in all your languages, to drama and literature and marching numbers and erudite philosophy I don’t even try to understand, but crisp and without need of that magnifying lens. And I shall release you to the wind and the rain and the million and one stars in the night, and to the brilliant sunsets over water, and images of places never seen but on TV and you’d remark “what a view” and to intricate melody and to Rashid khan and to stories I’ve only heard, of night long concerts and weekend trips to any place on a whim… and I release you of all promises but one, that in this endless cycle of soul paths and nights and days, that we shall meet again, and I shall guide your step again, and again I shall know your thoughts without your framing them into words. Adieu, and see you soon, or how else shall I live?

Flashes in the Dark has published my rather nasty flash, DARK.

http://tinyurl.com/84nkbq8

Once again, it is uttarayan, the day the sun changes direction, the golden orb lasting a mite longer in these stark winter skies. Also the day the sky is spilling over with kites of all colors and sizes. Also the day the mighty Bhishma (in the Mahabharata), long vanquished and in repose on a bed of sharp arrows, bided his death for.
Uttarayan. And I see that young girl in her usual uniform of cap-T-jeans, prancing about on the terrace, her voice hoarse with cries of victory, even as her kite soars higher in the glorious sunlight, higher than any other in its exclusive blue sky.
And I watch closely, try to unravel the victory cheers and bursts of songs from radios from the neighboring terraces, and all of a sudden the sound predominates, and the girl’s image begins to blur, shake and dissolve into a pool of golden sunlight.

Poonam of the paush month again.
This morning, the full moon
Efflulgent and radiant
Peered over the trees, and waited.
I watched in silver silence, chilled
A year ago, about now,
Time stood still.
Time, the thief—too early-- this time, every time.
A year ago, time stood still
The whoosh of the machine no more
Your hand grew cold, in mine
That line on the ventilator vanished
White covers were drawn
Time the cheat, the thief!
Time, ever victorious, on quicksilver wings
Scorching time!
For a week now I’ve been recycling Sting
A lament , a dirge, a daughter’s plea
A Newcastle ship without coals
We sail to the island of souls
The cry of
The bridge to heaven is broken
Please repair it for me
The bridge to heaven is broken
And I’m lost on the wild wild sea
These words
A nonstop loop to the backdrop of my day
I work, I laugh, I watch myself laugh
A nonstop loop to my day
Been trying to think instead
Of a burst of light, Santorini
Of drumroll and bougainvillea in the sunlight
Morning filtering on the green
A toddler wobbling on unsteady legs
trying
My road ardous, steep
I shall try to be my father’s daughter
Your hand forever in mine.

Reading Tagore in the 21st C
Reading Tagore, the poems in particular
(all means to an end, I must confess)
D’you suppose he’d still write as he did
Or bemused, watch
Would he seek grace and music
In sunlight on green
Or the way gold traces a line through a grove
Or would he read
the face of the devout praying to the rising sun
Would he be captivated
By a child on a playswing
Or sunlight gleaming off the Petronas or Al burj
Or smile at
A gaggle of schoolboys enumerating conquests?
For the paced flow of the river, unhurried, is overrun
By the energetic rush of the latest superfast metro
And demure anklet- wearing damsels no longer fill water at the river
Now that protest-fluff-bling tend to overwhelm
Would he have taken the tide, holding his own
Or stepped away from the clamor, a recluse
To a garden, walled
Or a city with no name?
Would he have gleaned lyrics from the milling crowds
Or sought the refuge of the quiet glade?
Reading Tagore in the 21st C
I read the lines
And let it be

No, I did not quite expect this.
Not on Loksabha TV. Which is in recent times, going much beyond carrying inaninities on the latest political discussion or debate. Which is anyway a drama, an expensive one!
Fantastic program on one of the land’s greatest quawwals, Meraj Ahmed Nizami saab.
One of the pieces they performed had long ago been part of our classical music learning-- Hazrat Khwaja sang kheliye dhamar
I winced when he said women cannot sing the qawwali. Some other life time then. (Or maybe as long as it is not a prayer at a shrine, it is permitted as my faith is different, and Sufism is all about one's personal connect)
And I clapped when the youngsters picked up, supported, strengthened the aging maestro’s sur, tone.
More on him here: http://www.mabelis.nl/Qawwali/merajnizami/meraj.asp

When I channel surfed last night, I got startlingly lucky.
Riveting story. Dry wit. Detailed, intricate Claymation.
Stunning work.
www.maryandmax.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_and_Max

On the back-home front, the MSU Fine Arts Fair is on Dec 23 and 24. if you're there, please go!
I still own art (cards) and a fired-mud container I'd picked up from there. Maybe 20 years ago.
Amazing energy to the fair, great ambience, out-of-the-world art.

Have just returned from a long and dusty ride out of town (almost), have seen what can be done to schooling for the poorest of the poor if there is intent, resources, sharp will, using available structures and govt. facilities, and tweaking what is needed. Also, in the swing of places from last week’s opulence and creamy layer in attendance to this, I’ve come full circle. Just for the record. Dizzy.

In following routine, I find much satisfaction, even contentment, ticking off a task once done. A remnant of the “should” mentality... Or just that, comfort,knowin you're doing ok--comfort like an old chair or t shirt
Today I re-started a thanks journal.