Myriad Reflections. Shastri Akella

2008-07-08T02:54:00.000-07:00

The Kiss

She cradles the tube roses in her arm. The white petals of the flowers are smudged brown. But didn't Neil say that wilting flowers release the most intoxicating fragrance?

She wears her gray fur coat. It has acquired the musty odor of neglect that belongs to her room. She doesn't notice. She is in a hurry to hold the flowers again. Once they are perched on her forearms, she looks for her house keys. On the dressing table: amidst talcum powder, jujube lipstick, eye liner, foundation, and a dried-up kohl. In the washroom: on the windowsill above the commode, between a four-week old
newspaper and dog-eared paperbacks.

A fleck of spittle smears her lips. Her eyebrows crowd her forehead. She looks on her bed: under pillows, damp and smelling of the room.

Oh what will one find in her room anyway? Expired make-up and tangled sheets? She smirks at her need to secure her possessions, steps out onto the cobbled street, and draws the door shut, recklessly deciding to leave it unbolted.

She walks with a forward stoop, the posture her body assumes when she is at ease. Irish winters are inhospitable. The frigid caress of the winds leaves even the sturdy birch with brittle branches. But at least tourist season is over. No more Asians and Brits scampering on the streets in clutters of brown and white skins, clutching Celtic crosses or porcelain dolls and glossy tickets to Aran islands. It is once
again the Galway of the townspeople.

She takes the shortcut through Prospect Cemetery. She likes the squeal that accompanies the opening of the cemetery gate; a song for the living, she fancies, a compensation for the dirges sung in their honor, that they will never savor. The tombstones seem like hands wanting to wave, but frozen, partly by the weather, mostly by the cold corpse below. A lone willow rises amidst the graves, stripped of
flower and leaf. Was it under this tree that he kissed her? She stops beneath its gnarled branches. Yes. It was here. He shoved her against the bark and pressed his mouth against hers. When he withdrew, he found her eyes were glassy, cold as the coldness she cursed his lips to. He wiped his cherry lips, as though to rid them of a stain.

He arrived at her doorstep that night. Tormented by the aborted kiss. He felt the familiar privacy of her room would coax her into responding. She lay below him, stoic as the naked cadavers that eceived a ritualistic bath of rosemary and mint in the days of the Gaelic.

His body ached with a passion whetted but not satiated. He left, crimson with humiliation. How was she to tell him? That she was tormented by the hallucination of a serpent entering the mouth of a canary and watering down its sweet song to a wispy caveat? Did you know Neil, she says bitterly to the tree, this chimera haunted me from the time I turned six, from the time Uncle, mother's brother, began living with us, doing more than helping mother accept her widowhood? A tear froze on its way down her cheek. Her eyes trembled. She placed a tentative finger on the tree.

The scar was still there. Left on her wrist by the ropes that bound her to the iron bed. A bed that hundreds slept on, schizophrenics, manic depressives, people called mad for lack of a fancy phrase to attach to their lunacy. What was the nomenclature attached to her act of consuming forty sleeping pills after Neil dumped her? Without
racking her brain she summons the name. Suicidal extreme.

The nurse who injected tranquilizers into her veins, cast sympathetic looks at
the red spots that cropped up on her face. It was a reaction to the strong dosage, administered to banish her callow acts of heroism. She had dragged the iron cot with her wrists, hoping to raise the shutters and jump into her liberty. They found her kicking at iron flanges, rusted, refusing to budge.

But they managed to cow her masochistic pining. As a bonus for spending ten numb months in a deserted, whitewashed room, her delusion was cured. She may not be as free as Uncle who lay in one of the graves behind. Still. She can offer Neil a
body that is willing to take him in, lubricate him, satisfy his biological hunger.

She walks past the revolving gates, crosses the garage Neil owns. There it is. His house of adobe bricks and slate roof. Surrounded by acacias. With a feel of the woods.

The main door is left ajar. Was Neil too a man of few possessions, so that anyone trespassing his house will walk out, robbed of their spirit to thieve? She turns scrutinizing eyes on his garage. Brown jeeps, used to lug tourists around Aran Islands, stood in a row; their owners parked them and left for their hometowns to celebrate Christmas. They pay him a handsome parking rent. He's also kept their
jeeps in smooth condition, inhibiting possibilities of breakdown during peak season. They're Craig now.

She walks in. The house carries the smell of beacon. He is away, perhaps to shop for groceries? She starts stripping. She leave her corset intact, so his fingers can relish opening it. She lies on his bed, waiting for her prey, waiting to become his prey.

And then she sees him. First she is amused. She thinks he is standing with his head on the ceiling.

Then, tube roses in her arms, she rises and kisses his lips.

The blue lips of death.

2008-02-19T19:45:00.000-08:00

Movie Review: Jodhaa Akbar

When the curtains descended over the magnificent ‘Jodah-Akbar’, I felt as though my skin shone with a newly acquired opulence: a whirlwind of rare, historic dust, gathered from Mogul gardens and battlefields and sprinkled over body and heart.

Hollywood has often been applauded for its befitting treatment of historical cinema. The cast and crew of movies like ‘Elizabeth’, ‘Troy’, and ‘Gladiator’ have often been seen walking down the Oscar aisle to collect awards bestowed in recognition of their outstanding contribution that helped weave the elusive genre of historical.

‘Jodah-Akbar’ is our very own historical masterpiece then. It shimmers through and through. Be it the dialog that holds the distinction of casting itself into poetry, witticism, metaphor, and action, the sets that gloss the screen and eye in burgundy and green, or the music that makes you celebrate things as diverse as love, victory, tenderness and grandeur all at once. This is perhaps the first Indian historical where the emperors and their counterpart are shown to speak and behave as people do at their home: cooking food, casual banter, and no officious language that is reserved for the court.

What I liked most about the film is its screenplay. There is not a moment of the film that is vapid, that makes me want to check on the time. Vividly detailed in the able hands of Ashutosh Gawarikar and Haidar Ali, every scene rings with authenticity, and captures the nuances of human equations. And to be able to sustain the human angle and make it stand out in the face of dazzling Rajput jewelry, grandly captured wars, and rich tapestry of Mogul tents is the true victory of the screenwriters. They have succeeded in showing one the most basic and yet rarely understood reality: that emperors, queens and the entire gamut of support team that populated their armies, courts, palaces and harems, are human beings. They too, possess their frailties, their moments of indecision, their moments of reveling in cold bloodedness, and ultimately, their moments of experiencing the absolute glory of human fragility.

The scene where Akbar rises from his imperial seat and swirls ecstatically with the dervishes; his steely eyes when he instructs his foster mother’s son to be thrown from the roof twice in succession; his reaction when he is honored with the title of Akbar. Undoubtedly, Akbar’s character is well rounded, holding enough gravity to not slip away in the breathtaking elephant, sword, and fist fights. And Hrithik essays this role with an aplomb that leaves one speechless. His eyes convey entire chapters of history, his expressions melt over your skin, making you want to fall all over in love with Bollywood’s most underrated actor. Hrithik’s persona not only provides him with the punch and veneer to carry the role of India’s most illustrious emperor, his stellar performance creates new insights into this famed emperor of our land. And there lies Hrithik’s greatest achievement of an actor. He not only portrays the nuances skillfully detailed by the screenwriters, he embellishes them with his onscreen persona.

Aishwarya is a fitting choice for an empress who possessed a rare streak of quite strength. It was a layered character that she had to portray on screen – a princess who handles sword and prayers beads with equal conviction. And she does justice to the role. Watch the confrontation screen between Jodah and the foster mother: kicking off in the imperial kitchen where the queen goes to prepare food for her husband, and culminating in the scene the queen has to eat the food herself first – as demanded by the step mother – to testify that it is safe for the emperor to have. Her expression, even from behind the gossamer veil, grab your attention by its cuff and draw you to the very edge of your seat.

The chemistry between the lead pair helps in understanding the complex progress of the relationship: from the misplaced alliance, to overcoming the distance of different cultures, religions, and hurdles set up by the entire gamut of thankfully non-cardboard villains, to their sword fight, to the final coming together in an intimacy that leaves you breathless.

Notable amongst the support cast are Ila Arun as the foster mother and Sonu Sood as Jodah’s brother.

Bringing together all these aspects in a project of this proportion and complexity, and yet offering a shimmering, seamless experience, the filmmaker, Ashoutosh Gowarikar transforms ‘Jodah Akbar’ to a monument of cinematic experience. Attention given to details – the first battle of Panipat, unlike the other war sequences that feature in the film, does not use canons – speak for his caliber. And where he succeeds the most is in translating the excellent characterization into unforgettable on-screen experience, so that the age old characters of Jodah and Akbar seem real, contemporary, their mores of love and family that exist in spite of the political and religious upheavals of the times carrying a universal ring that seem identifiable even in the contemporary era.

And ultimately, yes, ‘Jodah Akbar’ is a film that has much to say in today’s times. By watching the story of an emperor whose religious tolerance helped the scattered factions of the country unite, we have much to learn. Quoting the emperor himself, ‘By discriminating between the peal of the conch and the call of the azaan, one is only belittling the power of the supreme who has given all of mankind the right to worship Him in any manner that is aligned with their faith.’

Do yourselves a huge favor. Watch ‘Jodah Akbar’ today. Do not deny yourself a five star instance of cinema. We Indians are passionate cinema lovers. We deserve cinema like ‘Jodah Akbar’. Entertaining, riveting, with a solid message, and ultimately, leaving you feeling cleansed and richer.

2007-11-12T02:20:00.000-08:00

TO WATCH A ROSE BLOSSOM...

It takes a Sanjay Leela Bhansali to make even potholes and dusting carpets look so alluring, so poetic, you would hope in all sincerity that you walk on roads pockmarked with potholes and switch professions to dust Persian carpets at least part time! ‘Saawariya’ shimmers from within: gorgeous sets in turquoise and emerald seem so beautiful because they blend with a story told with heart-aching beauty. It is one of those movies that is not about the story itself; it is about the experience of characters within a given framework of time and destiny. And given this premise, Sanjay does a phenomenal job as a storyteller. Each moment in the film is like tender pollen, and watching them bunch together to create a beautiful flower is a sheer pleasure that no lover of cinema should miss. Lights have been used well to bring alive the sets that captivate you for the genius with which different shades of blue and green have been used to create eye candy that never looks monotonous. The music is mellifluous and songs are used to deftly map the story. The dialog – by Sanjay’s favorite Prakash Kapadia – uses a nifty combination of poetry and casual to create thoughts that hit you straight in the heart. Ranbir Kapoor is a brilliant performer with a simmering screen presence. His expressive eyes and ability to suffuse energy into the simplest of scenes are what I loved about him. In the last scene, where his tear drench his heartbreakingly sad smile, live in your heart for long after the curtains are down. Sonam Kapoor has a limited scope when compared to Ranbir (who is there in practically every scene and is offered a variety of moments to display his acting finesse). But she does a commendable job of what is available. There is an untouched innocence to her beauty that makes her apt for this role. Seasoned actors Zohra Sehgal and Rani Mukherjee add to the films sheen with impeccable performance that touch your heart. But the film, from my experience as an intense cinema viewer, belongs to Sanjay Leela Bhansali. I doff to you sir, for yet again having crafted poetry for the silver screen. ‘Saawariya’ melted on my skin in all the elegance of a Milton poem and tapestry of an Indian miniature, and left in my mouth the bittersweet taste of dark chocolate. Thank you sir, for yet another five-star instance of cinema.
It takes a Sanjay Leela Bhansali to make even potholes and dusting carpets look so alluring, so poetic, you would hope in all sincerity that you walk on roads pockmarked with potholes and switch professions to dust Persian carpets at least part time!
‘Saawariya’ shimmers from within: gorgeous sets in turquoise and emerald seem so beautiful because they blend with a story told with heart-aching beauty. It is one of those movies that is not about the story itself; it is about the experience of characters within a given framework of time and destiny. And given this premise, Sanjay does a phenomenal job as a storyteller. Each moment in the film is like tender pollen, and watching them bunch together to create a beautiful flower is a sheer pleasure that no lover of cinema should miss.
Lights have been used well to bring alive the sets that captivate you for the genius with which different shades of blue and green have been used to create eye candy that never looks monotonous. The music is mellifluous and songs are used to deftly map the story. The dialog – by Sanjay’s favorite Prakash Kapadia – uses a nifty combination of poetry and casual to create thoughts that hit you straight in the heart. Ranbir Kapoor is a brilliant performer with a simmering screen presence. His expressive eyes and ability to suffuse energy into the simplest of scenes are what I loved about him. With the last scene, where his tears drench his heartbreakingly sad smile, he lives in your heart for long after the curtains are down. Sonam Kapoor has a limited scope when compared to Ranbir (who is there in practically every scene and is offered a variety of moments to display his acting finesse). But she does a commendable job of what is available. There is an untouched innocence to her beauty that makes her apt for this role. Seasoned actors Zohra Sehgal and Rani Mukherjee add to the films sheen with impeccable performance that touch your heart.
But the film, from my experience as an intense cinema viewer, belongs to Sanjay Leela Bhansali. I doff to you sir, for yet again having crafted poetry for the silver screen. ‘Saawariya’ melted on my skin in all the elegance of a Milton poem and tapestry of an Indian miniature, and left in my mouth the bittersweet taste of dark chocolate. Thank you sir, for yet another five-star instance of cinema.

2007-05-10T01:04:00.000-07:00

Diamond

She arrived in a rush
her gown swirling & swelling
golden locks entangled & strewn all over her face
------------
‘can you please mind this word for me’, she requested
crimson lips shivering whilst spelling her etiquette-dabbed question
------------
‘Can’t you see my hands are full’, I ask, baffled
‘pantomimes swimming in my arms,
free verse crawling over my shoulders,
words spilling over,
a tender thought, a fragile dream holding together the complex design
in a varnished cauldron of inspiration’
------------
a flicker of pride in my voice,
Tut-tut vain writer
------------
‘but it is just one word I want you to mind’ she restates
‘I promise I shan’t be long,
I’m off for but a brief swim in the oceans of madness,
to taste the sweet ambrosia of genesis in
all its archaic glory’
------------
Intrigued, I offer my consent:
‘place it on the white sheet there,
the paper was meant for a requiem of lost muse,
but it shall now be the caretaker of your word’
------------
‘You are a generous soul’ she cooed,
as the word cascaded from her cupped calms,
a tumble of azure with sparkling-white dust motes,
imprinting itself brazenly on my crusty parchment,
in grand sweeps & callous curves
------------
the dawns faded, the moon depleted, the days slid past,
silent hours of the in-between
spent seeking the flutter of golden hair across my mahogany door,
but there is no sign of her return
------------
when she finally emerged at the brink of my property,
I bawled, ‘Lost in the dollops of time when you vanished:
poetic notes of musical meter,
precious tales of jewel shimmer,
all because your big fat word,
sat at the center of my page:
the only available cushioning,
for all my thoughts’
------------
‘patience’, she said,
the timber of her voice etched with discovered notes of self-assuredness
------------
her outstretched hand & an open palm,
offer me a diamond,
one that could have as well been a star from the galaxy,
glittering & aglow with a cosmic allure
------------
I pick my quill & dab it with the ink of muse,
to capture that vivid beauty in a free verse of sorts
------------
She objects with raised eyebrows, ‘Not for muse,
‘but for pain.
It takes a diamond to cut another,
it takes pain to open up the tunnels of poetry,
for after all, is not all poetry,
the quintessence of pain:
the final distilled remains,
of pain sanitized of human trauma & prejudice’
------------
she flung the diamond at my chest,
& it became awash in my blood
------------
I clutch my bleeding heart,
& find my poetry afloat,
unbridled & free from the fetters of a thinking mind,
appending bits of infinite to flood the milky way,
------------
it suddenly strikes me,
the absence of that word from my attention span,
the one that sat silently on my page all this while.
------------
She ran past,
& I saw the sweep of azure,
my lips moist with tears,
as I spell it out, that word.
------------
True: it takes a diamond to cut another,
& pain to decipher the crystallized sum of all pain:
the artifact I discover on my page,
& that imprints my poetry with a finishing signature of eternity.
‘Love’.
------------

2007-04-14T04:13:00.000-07:00

Purple Subways

Everyday
I cut a piece of
memory

and fling it
into the fire

I smile wickedly
eyes shining with evil
as I see the seething embers
eat at them

My memories
crumbling and burning
like hapless paper sheets

But when I wake in the morning
they are complete again

These wretched memories

Full, with the richness
of pained screams
passionate kisses
burgundy bedsheets
and final farewells

Back to haunt me
torment me
and see me through the end of madness

these memories of you.

But ah! I have discovered
a way to put an end
to their immortality

Tomorrow I will come
and lie beside you

And in that one single moment
when I turn
and our fingertips will meet

I shall gaze
into your hollow eyes

We will together
paint our dreams in the pink
blush of first love

and relish the smell of dahlias
growing above
the infinite dust of our cold graves

Then I will know
that they have burnt away
these memories of mine
in the purple subways
of afterlife

2007-04-12T05:09:00.000-07:00

Couplet

finger tips pointing upward offering a prayer,
from the shattered verses of my past,
a drop of blood tumbles into my open palms,
I stare at the dried up stain – a frozen memory, perhaps,
a black and white word from some forgotten page of childhood.

2007-04-12T05:08:00.000-07:00

Conversations

The book was returned
on Tuesday at dusk.

It's a smoggy Friday morning today
unreal as a dream

I sink into the sofa
smell the pages

and am numbed with
the scent of her fingers

running along the bare bodies of the page
an unlikely romance

her finger and these pages
drinking in the words

mind squiggled with the tales that emerge
a chapter beginning

heavily underlined
a question mark crafted at the end
personification, of unsure smiles and confused-cat stares

I fell compelled to respond
and scribble the answer
of culture polemics and layered tunics

and so the book connects hearts
hers the origin,
the book a bridge

over which the thought dances
and reaches its destination
my heart filled with the sweet music of its coo

She shuts the book and presses the flap
against her lips
her mind a maze of thoughts

woven from the threads of
hazel eyes, simmering loves stories
antiques, carpets

candlelit faces, drunken carousals
all of which unfurl between
the dog-eared covers

They sense it all
my fingers, as they potter
over the burgundy edge searing

with the hot touch of her lips
the discovery seeps in
like the warmth of kindred sunbeams

that lay scattered
all over the sky
a love story

begun in the proscenium
of the world
finds its culmination here

across deadpan pages
written decades, no, some centuries ago
published in a frozen city
passed from hand to hand
kiosk to sales counters to second-hand road side shop
and sitting in my lap now

the sensations gathering within
of human touch
finger meeting finger
over the little crease she creates over a page
a bookmark, if you like

lips locking,
over the spine where her lips,
briefly hovered,

and conversations completed
in the invisible space
between the pages

The sirens weep
lift creaks into its cockpit
songbirds croon a strangely familiar tune
the maids hum and sweep, hum and sweep
bells clang and the priest chants
I settle into the rhythms of life
and whisper
'long live the world of fiction'

2007-03-19T02:10:00.000-07:00

Rendezvous
what is the substance
of a baby’s dream
what does the mind, fresh as lily-petal and untouched by desire
envision in the hours of somnolence

what are the beseeches
laced into a mendicant’s prayer
the one who has given it all up in the powerful wake of renunciation

what are the notes
silence is made of

and what is the color of music
is it a hotchpotch of the colors of the nine emotions,
or something different and singular?

I sought these answers everywhere:
in the galaxies, amidst star-crossed patterns of the cosmos
in the darkness of the netherworld, in cold, unexplored planets
but found them finally in surrender to your

serpentine flow, Ganga

Floating over your waters
I found matter: flowers, lamps, and the ashes of the dead
all together, adrift: existence as it is
devoid of organization and judgment
the fluid expedition of vivid sensations

and I discovered what a baby’s dreams are made of

I submerged myself into your undercurrents
and heard the prayers of mendicants
whispered into your ears
during countless oblations

give us not the wealth of kingdoms or the
might of emperors, they said
they sought neither the exalted seat of the Gods
nor age that extended unto eternity

they sought thoughts clear as your waters,
journeys well-defined with purpose as yours,
and life experienced as a rose-petal lilting,
floating over your being, purifying all that comes in mere contact

I found the truth of silence in the space,
between prayer and oblation,

in that one defining moment,
between an uttered chant,
and the music of your waters squishing and parting
to let my head plough through

your placid waters elucidated,
how silence itself is note, a single note,
that occurs between every pair of notes,

at that breathtaking fraction,
where one note ends,
and the next begins,

padding the two elements of music with a touch of thoughtfulness,
transferring the canto to the realms
of fulfillment

lascivious as any musical note
and yet sovereign
a bridge connecting two lands of brilliance

the color of music
I found floating over your waters
rich as the cry of a flute
powerful as the percussion of a pakhwaj

a merger of all the colors it was – a sparkling white
full of and yet distinct from the colors of the nava rasas
much like your waters, a mingling of human faiths and yet independent of them

my rendezvous with you stands complete
yet I stand along your bank
beseeching unto the Gods

Drenched I am the waters of the Ganga

Drenched I am in nectar
heed my prayers, O honey-bees of the heaven
I seek thy sting of redemption

2007-03-07T23:09:00.000-08:00

Green Rooms
The lips of the flame
crackle and leap

trying to reach out
to some unfulfilled dream
of their burning heart

striving to transfer
the soul of the departed
to heaven’s safe custody

eyes blazing
brows drenched in sweat

heart echoing the
melancholy cry of the
embers

I stand and stare
at the burning Ghats – the green rooms of afterlife

where human life ends
a body crumbled and
defaced

to be refashion and structured
into another form

the actor ready to take on
new roles
in another lifetime

my senses mingling
with the rotting graveyard smells

I wonder what would happen
if life imitated afterlife

and there was a green room
where we could just enter

surrender our follies
and emerge

our memories pasted over
with a magical rouge
the cracks and blank spaces blended
our memories of the epoch gone by, indistinguishable

yes, a green room

where we could surrender our tears
and the flickering screens
smiling lips
brown beard
blue eyes
and caramel face

and emerge from the room
mind blank and
face made up
clean of all traces of emotions

lips painted with the red of new loves
eyes framed with the kohl of fresh dreams
and cheeks imprinted with the blush of
a new life unexplored

Thunders strike
the skyline pinched with
purple flashes

the flames leaping higher
crying and angry and helpless

A dark cloud emerges from within
and steps closer
fists clenched
eyes glazed over

the tongues of the flame leap and lick
like the pallet of a hungry beast

the dark cloud has vanished, only the satiated glee of the flame remains

The hours are gone
so is the struggle
all is silent now

I am a star
cushioned in the velvety carpet
of the heavens
away from the world
and yet a part of its green rooms.

2007-01-30T04:38:00.000-08:00

Ochre lights & monochrome

Soft ochre lights
dancing over
long stretches
of brown earth

Puppets
in pink
musicians
in emerald

Krishna of tulip eyes
Mogul queens in imperial silks
Dancers in burgundy blouses

All staring from
window panes
vibrant colors and curios
in a shopping lane with no name

And suddenly
the scent
of musk
drags me

away from
the burst of colors
into a world
of monochrome

A sheet of marble white
nestled
amidst layers of black

A face of rough rigged features
and cathartic beauty
above a night-black tee
and below locks
dark as the deep of a well

A face?
no, a tome
brimming with a thousand stories

Stories of infinite power
of mystic lands
and hushed moments
that haunt my thoughts and stain my dreams

when I lay trembling
beneath thick woolens
tears drenching a throat
cursed with muteness

Those sepia tales
now come alive

welding themselves
into the form from where
they originate
and perhaps disappear

I peer into the face
his face
the place where it all began

That face –
a frozen memory, a drop of blood
from a gash of my heart
created by the piercing gaze
of the pianist

The one who stands inches away

He is washed in ochre light
and framed by a flood of color
and yet is so somber, so away
as only true beauty
can ever afford to be

he places his fingers on my arms
the camera winks
and he is gone

The moment now lies captured, I think

But how does one ever capture
that one single moment
when they have felt truly alive
from deep within

How does one create the essence
of a meeting
with a stranger

In some unknown land
On a street
with no name

A stranger?
Oh yes. One who has flooded
my hours ever since
his azure eyes flickered to life
over a hazy screen

God, those pellucid eyes
boring into my souls
little pockets of smells, memories, moments and pain

A tear trickles down
flushed cheeks
and I tell myself

Remember
remember this moment of powerful beauty
of life experienced at a pinnacle
of jewels acquired that may last a squalid lifetime

The skylights have paled
and so have the colors

The shops are shut
and the city is asleep

The dark clouds come searching and go away
the wild winds come looking and leave disappointed

But I know it is still there
I see it as the music of Bach fills my soul

Yes I see it
in thick darkness of this terrible night
that defining moment
of ochre lights and monochrome

2006-12-25T22:09:00.000-08:00

Too Many Yesteryears

I stare across my window sill,
beyond the frenzied patterns of the rusting grill

A stark sky dotted with dazzling stars,
as if a satanic face of heavens gorged with bright scars

Tucked under creased blankets, a stank bedspread under my hind,
A thought creeps into my mind

How does my little window frame this infinite sky’s face?
Audacity conducted with grace

The sky color strangely reminds of old, blotted ink,
& the smell of smudged words appear along memory’s brink

Words incessantly scribbled with undulating passion,
and woven thereafter for fictitious fashion

Where are those words where are those tales?
Oh, my memory is stained with darkness my senses pale

Those stories have now escaped beyond the gates of anonymity,
their presence consumed by failure’s sorority

Stories that once carried torches of hope,
in a young heart to which everything seemed possible – with any difficulty it could cope,

It dawns on me that my heart has grown old,
my yesteryears have jaded it with mildew of melancholy and a lachrymose mold

So many yesteryears nothing that can console,
all they have left in my heart is a tear-stained hole

No warmth of love no material glory,
If only the book of my life had but one happy story

I let out a tired sigh,
my tears dried up I cannot even cry

Hope has eluded me each time I knocked on its door,
Oh, I have no faith left in its allure

My heart is as cold as the winter night outside,
all is icy within – the flowing warm blood stirs nothing inside

And then the clock chimes the midnight tune,
the desert of my life loaded with another day, another dune

It suddenly dawns on me it is the 19th of December,
I surprise myself – cause I never expected to remember

I knit my arms around my shoulders giving myself a hug,
I wish myself “happy birthday” & sense wilted yesteryears giving tear-flooded eyes a tug

2006-12-25T22:06:00.000-08:00

Ballads of love

Music of anklets usher for him an era of ecstasy,
shadows swept away by the winds of change

Her little footsteps bridging the spaces the separate,
hearts alternately whispering tales of anxiety and promises

Games of peek-a-boo played with fluttering curtains,
moonlight etching out nimble emotions

He and she now in the open – nothing more to hide,
their arms entwining in an embrace of urgency

Gasps fill the air – wondering over the potency of love,
almost immediately unseen kisses felt by faces in the dark

Throes of applause resound as curtains descent,
Audience sigh & utter, “Ah, if life were but a ballad of love”

2006-12-24T06:09:00.000-08:00

Pilgrim

A tiny swallow descending over the crumbling port
her brilliant azure lost
to the ocean’s immense blue

A dot of red placed over shut eyes
a tear of infinite piety
veiled by a sudden rush of Benrasi silks

Ahir Bhairav emerging from the moving boat
eternity in transience across some distant shore
suddenly muffled by the clamor of the devout

Terrains of dreamland drowned in an omnipotent mauve
promises of ecstasy vaguely crumbled by the alarm of dawn
reminders of the mundane of existence that lies ahead

Tired eyes stolen from the blinking screen
in moments of hushed contemplation
quest for the purpose of pilgrimages – so lost to the witchcraft of routine

An answer emerges –luminescent as the oil lamp that flickers on the altar
Amidst the fragrance & smoke of frankincense sticks
& a reverent gaze watches across folded palms even when eyes lay shut

The clangs of the temple bell remains and so does the peal of the conch
Starkly reminiscent of the cry of soul
so eager to merge with point of origin

The holy chants remain and so do the songs of distant lands
all placid reminders of the sublime journey to undertaken
from darkness to light

Yes indeed reassure the infinite, loving eyes from my little altar
what remains of a pilgrimage is the very essence of life
the ambrosia of after that parched lips yearn to sip

My questions are laid to rest
tired limbs drift to sleep
life experienced as a lilting petal floating over the Ganges between me and Him

2006-12-13T06:13:00.000-08:00

Journey

As the sun fades in the twilight zone,
I feel awfully alone,
A boat moves along the tumultuous river,
& my being feels a tender shiver,
As shadows from the past appear menacingly near,
My well of grief consumes another tear,
I beseech unto the boatman, “Pray, your name I wish to hear”,
In a hapless conversation, I hope to forget that I have lost something dear,
But I realize – there in no way out,
I ought to face the reality and fight it out,
I wish to forget; I wish to rise,
I have to take myself by surprise,
I need to travel and move on,
The journey of life beckons – I cannot stay on,
Many more miles to go, a lot many things to achieve,
My true identity I must retrieve,
The world is not kind to a lonely soul and yet I shall not rest,
Till I discover that which is the best,
So I knell the fear and the tear,
And I move on, with the hope that one day my destination will be near,
But for now, as the sun sets and all is stark,
On my journey – lonesome and solitary, I embark…

2006-12-10T02:32:00.000-08:00

Trapped Freedom
An ocean of sadness – its velvety blue woven with the inscrutable heavy brown of being,
Rises in tyrannical waves from my eyes towards the unknown shore of melancholic bliss,
Alongside its journey, crumbling the heart,
Like wood piled onto a pyre – discarded and unwanted,
Sepia toned missives from the bygone days,
Their letters fading like the memories of a distant dream,
Flutter in the room like an injured reptile,
The messengers of love and longing have escaped from their once crisp paper,
And have disappeared down the unending pockets of time,
A mud-stained satin blankets me with a vengeance akin to that of a shroud,
And I lie there resigned like a mould battered by the tears of despondent clouds,
Everything moves like the incessant tick of the clock – the clouds, the tears, the sepia toned letters,
But all within is still – the heart, the feelings, the dreams – like the sensations of an atrophied limb,
In the season of stillness, the beating of the heart churns like a cruel whirlpool, a reminder of existence,
Beyond a stratum where the rainbows and sunshine can no longer be seen,
Suddenly, the border of the other world appears stunningly near,
Filling me with the aplomb of infinite possibilities,
And the heartbeat – the enemy in the garb of an alley irks no longer as much,
I move towards that border hopes of the life gone by discarded like the skin of a snake,
New hopes to step the line of that boundary burn within like the passion of a tiger during the season of heat,
Evocative iridescence and hushed, stark whispers will interlace in posterity if one does so surface on that border between worlds,
But for now my gaze is filled with eclectic beams of seething light, that chars my body and blinds my eyes,
The failed hopes of yesterday, those sepia tones letters, and the tears smolder in that light like the carcass of a laughing hyena trapped in the jungle fire.

2006-12-01T05:57:00.000-08:00

Across the shores of vicissitude
Shattered dreams, broken window panes,
Echoes of a lifetime scattered across barren planes,
Searching glances responded to with an accusing gaze,
Promises of an eternity effaced by a distending haze,
A riot of thoughts squabble with intimidating questions,
The heart a hapless prey for the ensuing belligerent machinations,
Roses of love pile up in discarded heaps,
Their sheen lies wilted, their beauty consumed in eager leaps,
Stealthy marauders pilfer from the garden of the soul,
Leaving behind a bleeding gash and an unending hole,
The soul as always offers congenially,
Eclectic beams of love veiling its eyes ingeniously,
That the marauder is an alley is the soul’s surmise,
Only after the damage is done does it awake to the guise,
Aching with the pangs of a lost bloom,
Tear-stained eyes watch the merry marauder with irrepressible gloom,
Eyes shut on illusory promises and unfaithful love,
Life shut on discarded horizons and a wing-broken dove,
Moments limp along on the crutches of the past,
Hoping the end is approaching fast,
And then one day, a prosaic truth draped in a ashen white cloak,
Knocks on the closed doors of life with a gentle stroke,
‘Pray, let me in the shut doors’ it pleads,
The heart refuses even as it pitifully bleeds,
Utters an unperturbed truth, ‘The faster you accept me as a guest,
The easier can you giver your turmoil a rest,
It is in your best interest,
That you accept my behest’
Doors splay open, the charred innards revealed,
Truth stares on, its calm disposition pealed,
‘My name in unrequited love’ states the guest,
‘You have loved and lost, left with but an aching chest,
Mark my words – new horizons await,
There is much more to life than infidel love that offers you as bait,
Life is a canto divine,
If you but become mine,
That’s the secret of life my dear,
Accept the truth, and redolent blooms appear swiftly nearly’,
As the heart throws truth a suspicious glance,
A waft reaches it – almost by chance,
The aromatic wafts heal it some,
And the heart absentmindedly utter, ‘Many more dawns, yet to come’,
‘A thousand suns wait to be discovered behind every cloud,
If only the eyes discern and shed their melencholic shroud’.

2006-11-30T21:39:00.000-08:00

Departures
The car wheezes through the thicket of the early evening traffic, its gentle snore rising steadily to combat the music of the rain as it patters over ephemeral worldly objects along the course of its descent from eternal heavens. In an era proclaimed as the zenith of corporate rivalry, the inanimate too have a right to claim competition, I decide. The drone-like hum of the car. The drumbeat of splenetic rain sheets over tarmacs and car tops. A soaring competition of sorts, sultry as the summer noons that have just bid their farewell.
The car halts suddenly with a screeching noise that almost seems like a mild objection to the cramped road space offered to its rather flamboyant gray body, as if in pittance. Cars have lost their glory. Gone are the days when they had an air of mysticism surrounding them, their association with affluence, instant, almost satanically unconscious. Why, even the street urchins who would run behind the aura-effused four-wheelers (as an unfair bargain for their adulation, dousing themselves in layers of dust it unleashes in the wake of its departure), bear a bored look, one of a resigned, ironic observer when they watch a car zoom past. They have found avocations and interests more profound than a zooming mass of tin and petrol. Alas, what has the grandeur of the car been reduced into.
The traffic jam thickens and I realize it is going to be a while before locomotion can be hoped for. The delicate whimpers of the radio as it croons “Thank you for the music” is snubbed by the fierce honks created by inebriated truck drivers and anguished employees returning home after another frustrating day of worklife. I crane my neck to stare distractedly at the sky, where amidst the splenetic sheets of rain the sun peeps charily from behind a cloud. It quickly hides behind the cloud, momentarily converting the gray cloud mass into an illuminated chandelier. It emerges again, and for a moment I think of the sun as a conspiring kid, playing games of peek-a-boo with me. Amused, I look around to see that the rest of the sky is overcast, a thick streak of gray painted in somber strokes over the sky. It is a perfect setting for a burying a departed soul, I think. My wandering gaze and thoughts are suddenly arrested by an intriguing sight. A line of television sets of varying sizes are placed atop the roof of fading yellow building. 21 “, 15 “, and the more pristine 9”. I try and conjecture the brands of what have now been reduced to mere lifeless boxes. Sony, Philips, and Onida. Color, Black & White, and Black & White. What are televisions doing atop a fading, dying, yellow building – the thick streaks of water clogged lines left atop its crumbling surface like the approaching noose of Yama. (Like competition, the inanimate also have a right to ultimate redemption from the vagaries of existence, you see). I realize I have spelt my question aloud when the driver answers me – his bored voice not very different from the voice of the engine as it hums in its temporary immure. Apparently, the television sets are products exchanged by eager families in return of more sophisticated models. While the deal takes place in suave, air conditioned show rooms under the aegis of a smiling, lipstick smeared dame, the accepted, unused sets are handed over to mechanics and other technicians as such. Having extracted vital usable parts from the television – the remains – a true blue idiot box is discarded atop this fading yellow building, till a kabadiwalah with a spare trifle offers it deliverance. The driver’s eyes suddenly gleam to life when he notices a small clearing – an escaped from the gnomish traffic that encircles us. As the vehicle sputters to life again – the roar, again distinct, I stare back, silhouettes of square bodies disappearing into the gray of the hour. I think: For how many years have these televisions entertained a little family in some alcove, in some apartment, the fading lights of the evenings settling over their excitement. I can imagine the 9” television set in a dinghy, squalid single-bedroom apartment, its incessant flicker reflecting on the faces of the family accumulated in front of it. Grandmother crying as the soap unleashes its saga. The tiny body of five year old Bunty in all the wilderness of a baboon as he watches the animated ‘Jungle Book’. Grandfather’s brows knitting over darkened eyes as he watches the latest political conspiracy revealed under the vigilant eye of a news channel. Father sitting on the edge of an easy chair – his fingers drumming over his knees, his temples streaked with sweat, and his chest rising in accordance to the cadence of tension and excitement, as he watches the final over of an India-Pakistan one day international. Mother, as she furiously fights the lures of an afternoon siesta, her fingers fidgeting with pen and paper to carefully note the recipe chattered away by a corpulent, bubbly Sindhi. So many tales, so many hours, so many emotions, all cramped in the tiny space – between television set and easy chair, between viewer and object on display. The dank dullness of the drawing room, only marred by the gay flicker of the television set and of course, the emotions it unleashed in its viewer – sorrow, mirth, solicitude, excitement, and agile eagerness. But today, gone is its moment of limited glory, and it lies in an unknown, crumbling building, privy to its fate, and perhaps its existence. Why cannot discarding be done with an air of dignity, I wonder. But perhaps, as a wise man had once said, sometimes, journeys must be undertaken, even when there is no specific destination to be reached. So here is the 9” set, away from the long years of familial love, with no destination it seeks anywhere in the vicinity of its dead gaze, fading from my vision and under the gray shroud that sky had become.
I slouch and shut my eyes, and for reasons unknown to me, am reminded of a visit I had paid to a graveyard, about two years ago. I studied the names etched on gravestones over dove-white sepulchers. Strange names, varying life spans. Different continents, starkly contrasting destinies. All together sharing space and comfort in a little corner of the world. I suddenly notice a name: Ann Mary. Born 1945. Died 1990. And below is inscribed: “the great author whose little tales inspired children of many generations. I recall then, settling reverently in front of the gravestone, that I had read her stories as a child. Fables relating to strange worlds where mythical creatures ambled with the air of an emperor, to ancient cities that flourished in distant lands, to bygone epochs that bespoke of unthinkable splendor, and sometimes, to indigent, forgotten corners of our planet where nature and man existed, bearing a perennial sense of intimidation for the other. But how many of children – of course, grown into full-throttle youth now, busily pursuing our individual fortunes and phantoms – remember Ann Mary. How many know she died in 1990? Such evanescence, and such vanity in the name of posterity. Human life I decide is a series of ephemeral glories, interlaced with long, mournful departures. The presence of the glories ever so unpredictable, the presence of the departures, sure as the noose of death. A gust of wind blows, and the dried leaves rustle, sounding an elegy and for the dead. I get up to leave, but not before caressing the engraved name of Ann Mary, as if in that one moment of touch between the living and the dead, I had created a cosmic connection to transfer an eclectic word of gratitude. I leave, for it is time for departure too.
The car comes to a halt, and the driver informs me that my destination has arrived. I let out a long sigh, pay him and enter my destination. I am discarding my old home – to me, it is now, nothing but the grave where I wish to bury my anguished memories, traumas, the outcomes of my follies, and the melancholy that still pierces my heart with a merciless dagger. I draw out the key from my pocket and stare hopefully at it, as if it were not the key to my new home, but the entrance to a heaven, where freedom from the miseries that manacle me to themselves is an assured benediction of the Gods above.
I open the door of the house, the musty, mildew-coated air of unused rooms and unspelt dreams conspicuous. I stare into the empty spaces that will witness my life as it unfurls – interlacing sorrow with little sprinklings of joy, and wonder: how long will this sojourn last, before it is time again, for another departure?

2006-11-02T01:05:00.000-08:00

What mother knows
A grainy silence, rivaling the uneven surface of the sheets I am about to etch my thoughts on, fills my mind with a curious thought: my life as I understand it from keenly observed memories is incomplete: an unfinished manuscript, some vital images of early days, conspicuous by their absence. Who would know of those times better than mother?
Mothers, the keepers of the dusty, forgotten corners of the heart. So I set to work describing the images mother would recount unto me, if I were to ask her what she recalled of my toddler days. Topping the list is a bucket full of bathwater: soapy, a little dirty, and freshly drawn from the baby tub, its rippling, unclear contents reflecting a distorted version of the smile that twinkles on mother’s face as she watches the dew-fresh, petal-tender, pink skin of her child. Then comes the Johnson & Johnson baby oil bottle, its pink cap carelessly open – an otherwise meticulous woman forgetting to do the needful, in the hurry to invite the sleep that dances uncertainly over her baby’s eyes.
There is also the little soft toy of a puppy – his red tongue foolishly jutting out of an obnoxiously wide mouth, his sleepy button eyes casting a bored look, and a sienna coat rising alluringly over soft masses of cotton. A black dot suddenly appears in my field of imagination, and I add it eagerly to my list: a single dot of kohl, placed by a trembling, affection forefinger onto a cushion-soft cheek to ward off evil spirits. And of course the song proclaiming the virtues of Ram, sung as it is, placing the tender head of the child in the crook of the arm, and imbuing a fondness for immortal mythology in the blank mind sheets of incipient days. Finally, for some strange reason, I scribble the name of an audio cassette – its black body covered with layers of dust; it is a collection of mother’s favorite songs, and like the many things she savors, it has remained discarded in the wake of the newfound responsibility of child-raising.
These vivid images that I conjured from a burgeoning imagination worthy of a budding writer require affirmation from mother, and I wait for her return from the temple, fingers clutching onto those crusty sheets. I give the list a fancy title: “What mother knows”. It is the languid hour of afternoon, the heated fingers of the hour numbing my mind with a touch of somnolence. I drift into sleep, and when I awake, dusk has almost set in. The horizon is tinted with an amalgamation of ochre and crimson. I realize that the paper – that I slept clinging onto – is neatly folded and placed under a lamp on the bedside table. I open the paper, and decide on approaching mother, when I notice that the last item on the list has been struck off, and below it is scribbled in an affectionately familiar handwriting – the words curving and slanting like delightful terrains of nature and stating: “An ocean of love that only a child creates in the life of his mother”. And just then, finger run through my hair, the moment of familiar touch filling my eyes with unbidden tears, and my mind with a solitary thought: love experienced, in a little corner of the world.

2006-11-01T06:35:00.000-08:00

She
Her hazel eyes, moving incessantly in milky-white sockets, peer eagerly at me, awaiting an answer that may satisfy her question. Golden curls cascading down her crevice, frame her face in thick, luscious strokes. Her cheeks – aglow like a Tuscan summer and pastel like caramel custard, make me shifty – I can no longer think of the answer I must provide. I am buried under an overwhelming desire to touch those cheeks – soft as a cushion and tender as a feather – and run my forefinger along the length of her cheekbone and the little cleft that sits prettily on her chin. She repeats the question and despite forgetting the question altogether, I don’t concentrate on what she is saying. The lapse somehow does not rivet me with the prospects of being reprimanded. I instead, stare at the deep crimson imprinted on her lips, and am reminded of the tulips of Amsterdam, how the sway in all the glory of their color, to the flirtatious flutter of an autumn wind (no, I have not had the good fortune of seeing either Tuscan or Italy. What I gather of these ethereal environs, is from longing glances affixed on postcards sister sends me religiously each time she pays a new foreign terrain a visit). How nature – in all its bounty and color, replicates itself with such precise clarity on a woman’s face does not cease surprising me. A man, even at the zenith of his manly splendor, appears pale in comparison to the brilliant mural that a woman’s visage ably lends itself to. Even a neutral God has a heart that palpitates with added vigor when creating a woman, I decide. So the mantle is laid carefully, every feature depicted by the divine brush in careful strokes, the overall developed after painstaking attention to the finest detail.
Suddenly, she snaps her finger, drawing me out of my state of poetic enrapture. She states her question again, a slight tinge of irritation now creeping into a carefully maintained phlegmatic tone (her Spanish accent delivering the vowels with an additional layer of air, her tuneful uttered words melting my sensibilities even further). Her mantilla – a fine lace cloth that is predominantly white, gently slides from her hair and falls to the floor. She chuckles and bends to pick it from the dusty carpet. Her legs are elegantly placed over each other, and as she picks up her fallen treasure, the floral patterns imprinted on the turquoise shirt pulled over a tautly sculpted upper body are creased. Placing the mantilla on the glass table she folds her hands across her chest and looks at me intently, oceans of hazel locking my dream-laden vision, ever so delicately. I nod my head, careful not disturb the cosmic connection so magically created. She breaks into a smile, her teeth – like perfectly cut marble stones, creating a brilliant instance of perfect alignment. She softly says, “thank you” and leaves the room, her stride certain to put even a doe’s jungle exploration in poor light.
I continue sitting there, staring at the vacant place that was once the chair she sat on, perhaps wanting to embrace the air of warmth lingering in the wake of her absence. I do not know what I have agreed to or where I have led myself to, but this much is true: when the heart leads, we have no option but to follow, even if the destination were an abyss or dungeon. For, in the cuddle of love, even the most formidable of places become reincarnations of what poets so emphatically describe to be paradise.
I collect a pinch of the warm air that is alive with her presence and feel giddy with delight. An unconscious finger patting over the table – providing rhythm to the sonnets the heart sings, abruptly encounters a soft piece of cloth. Without opening my eyes, I realize that it her mantilla and draw it close to my nose and take a deep breath; I’m instantly hit with a million smells – a drop of honey, mingled with the taste of figs, or perhaps a sprinkling of cinnamon over a small piece of sandalwood, or better still, a breath of frankincense sticks, imbued into an air, already divine with the smell of oil lamps set alive with ghee. I fold the mantilla and slip into my breast pocket. Subtle encounter with love, folded, encompassed and précised into a single mass of square cloth, and placed close to where such tales are nurtured – the heart (is there an invisible connection created now between the mantilla and my ululating heart?). I walk out of the room, humming a tune I had long forgotten. “She’s always a woman to me”

2006-10-07T08:51:00.000-07:00

Afternoon

Strange images of distant afternoons haunt me – the unsaid crimes of languid hours emerging from random images that are in utter defiance of destiny’s patterns. An accusing gaze delivered from behind drawn curtains, a single tearstain over a sienna tee-shirt that embarrassed fingers try to efface, the rosewood tabletop of a detachable teapoy flying wildly in sultry air like a sorceress gone awry, and dust motes entrapped in flickering rays of sunlight, settling over the charred remains of dragon flies. Yes, these are results of crimes that I am guilty of. The fingers of my mind work with an air of importance similar to a dignitary who draws that important name which shall be graced with the windfall of the lottery gift. Memories pertaining to different epochs of my life are written on little square sheets of reminiscence. The bundle of carefully folded and concealed recollections wildly juggled, shuffled and juxtaposed, before a prized piece of paper is unfolded, revealing an odd icon here or a strange occurrence there for my keen study. I notice, as the images unfold one after the other, that these otherwise disparate ideas are interlinked by one common thread: searing heat of afternoons. The languorous moments, that in summer lay thick with the smell of summer fruits and in winters settle over cold-clogged noses like the touch of a physician, hold a special meaning for me, and are silent witnesses to my foibles. I sometimes wish I can collect a handful of summer noon every year and stash it away in my personal diary, for ready reference on winter nights – the stark contrast of the perilous hot spanks of the past and insidious cold fingers of the present embedding the lessons thereof in the realm of permanency. As my mind becomes a ready pale screen to hoist these images, I study them with grave, beady eyes, and realize that most of my follies have unfolded in these hours, my weakest moments of the day. I then wonder if it is at all possible to classify our weakest moments of the day, and then be vigilant in those hours and gift ourselves the luxury of a life sans mistakes. But then, lives are not a series of hours lived successively, they are complex conundrum of multi-hued moments cramped randomly into different parts of days, stringing together a gossamer life that offers little scope for study and rectification.
But perhaps I have found an incipient point: afternoon, the chatelaine of my vanguard of foibles. But does the eternal vigil over an afternoon that religiously pays its daily visit – like an ardent relative, or like an avid pilgrim, translate itself into a worthy result – tangible or otherwise? I am not sure. But perhaps, if I crumble this building, like a mongrel, like a waging crusader, I may walk along the paths of life amidst the resulting debris of incidents and phantoms, to emerge as an ultimate victor who finally seizes the possession of his passport from the tyrannical hands of destiny. Oh, I notice waves of vigilance fluttering before this little candle of hope that I have managed to illuminate. The grandfather clock in my room with a heavy tick and a loud peal announces the arrival of another afternoon.

2006-09-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

Festival of light

The insatiable change in the moods of seasons,
The vivacious blend of ochre and azure across a pinched skyline,
Wind shedding accrued warmth to don the cloak of a demure chill,
I gingerly eye another festival of lights sashay towards my tumultuous world,
A plane of existence where primeval promises are relentlessly pursued,
Shattered hopes discarded, fresh ones procreated,
In keeping with the irrepressible human spirit,
Of trudging along the dust-laden roads of life despite the storms that inundate,
I ruefully conclude – my eyes ablaze with an ancient wilderness,
Yet again I shall rekindle my sainted web of fantasies,
Rather than set it ablaze,
For what is life without the whispers of impossible dreams,
That I hear – faint and distinct like the voice of specters,
As they hover in my mind whilst nimbly balancing in their ashen hands,
My delicately woven loom of nascent dreams,
And fledgling they are, those dreams of mine,
Despite an existence that rivals eternity,
For, a dream ages only with fructification,
Until then like an ungainly girl,
Who matures into ethereal beauty only when the mist of age floats over,
My dreams too, linger in the shadows of youth,
Ah! Who bespeaks of eternal youth as a benediction – I beg to disagree,
Again the authoritarian muse flogs my heart with haloed verses,
Supplicant hands write in response – words formed of the blood of a trembling heart,
And out of the patterns created by the window sill of frenzied grills,
I notice a rocket shoot into the thick of the night,
Dabbing the starkness of the higher echelons with a dazzling circle of light,
I shut my eyes and ruminate over that harbinger to the fast-burgeoning air of festivity,
And in a nimbus of spirited thoughts reconstruct,
With little threads of hope my drape of unfulfilled dreams,
A revisited antique with whose inauguration on the darkest night – that witnesses, the brightest festival of the year,
I anticipate a renewal in my lease with those ancient promises,
Pray heed my beseech for the renewal Oh fate,
Until the loom of dreams becomes a reality I may drape, my eyes sprinkled with a smile,
Again, who says reality is harsh –pray, which truth works universally for the speckled lot of mankind,
Ah! Do I hear the whispering, clandestine chatter of my specter-dreams,
As they loom with a greenish-violet halo within?

2006-06-29T22:22:00.000-07:00

Season of change
I sit in my caged balcony, staring distractedly through the frenzied patterns created by the grills that rise imposingly above me. I notice rare ripples of turbulence prance through the waters of Hussain Sagar, as gray clouds loom ominously over the waters that have successfully trapped the agitation of the oncoming monsoon. Realization settles rather later over my senses (that have been numbed by an overdose of somnolence), that I am in the season that crouches uneasily between two starkly different seasons. Yes, I am in the season between summer and rain, between despair and hope, between unshed tears and crisp, poetry-inspiring emotions. Summer had abandoned the pernicious gnawing at nimble emotions, sore feet, arid limbs, sweat-strewn backs, and disoriented gazes. And rain was yet to settle like a soothing blanket over eager faces that stared emptily into the unending layers of the heavens.
The moment of incessant change fluttered impatiently in the sky above in the form of the clouds that ambled uncertainty – moving a step ahead and then retreating back as if unsure of the itinerary chalked out for them by the deft hands of nature and the seasons. I uneasily shifted my gaze, not wanting to be trapped by the cloud’s allegories that had the deceitful face of change imprinted all over. My life itself lay splayed into a multitude of streams, the ruthless incisions of change so neatly etching themselves along the paths where destiny willed their presence. So a confrontation with such explicit change – even if it were nature’s lyrical tapestry, was the last thing on the agenda of my cluttered mind. The wanderings of my escapist eyes suddenly halted when the fell on a cage. The desire of my gaze to travel transformed itself into a desire to halt, as I watched a little bird flutter in the trapped confines of the cage with mounting interest. Flying in well-practiced circles, the bird seemed to sing an undecipherable song, which echoed from that apartment across the street like a fading dream, like a drowning elegy. Its chaotic flight reached a sudden halt, as it settled on the very end of the perpendicular bars, just below the point where the bars converged with the rusting, fading green roof of the cage. Its eyes rotated wildly within its sockets, and came to a sudden halt as they stared at the skies that appeared deceptively near. I drew in the finer details of the bird as it stayed still there, like a lively moment suddenly frozen in the camera of a dexterous photographer. The birds seemed white washed and streaked with thick, dazzling jets of lapis lazuli. Its brown beak shone with clarity as it curved into an aquiline dip, while its tiny head bobbed ferociously, much like how its eyes had a short while ago. I suddenly realized that the bird pined to embrace the infinite expanse of the skies. The longing gaze that leapt out of its little eyes pierced the sky, and seemed capable of compelling the clouds to shed their heavy tears. As I sat within the bizarre-looking cage like structure that jutted out of my balcony, it suddenly dawned on me, the startling similarity between my life and that of the bird. Both of us – procreations of freedom and dreams, both pinned down heavily by extraneous forces beyond our arena of control. Both sought the fructification of dreams – the bird the kiss of the wind, and I a hopeful letter from an eager publisher. I had been writing now for over three years, and yet, none of my writings have seen the light of the day. Like the bird, I roamed in seemingly infinite circles, never reaching he open door that finally declared the opening of the passage to my dreams – a published work to my credit, and perhaps, in more daring, bold leaps of imagination, a Booker and a Pulitzer. My initial writings were stilted and without life, almost like a stillborn baby. To my delight, over the course of many frustrating nights and feverish writing sprees, my writing has evolved into its own league, unleashing wafts of promise, even if they are minor ones at that. And yet, a concrete fruit of my labor is yet to fall into my lap, I derisively conclude.
I’m sifted out of my ponderous rumination by the bird that has bolted into another round of fanciful flight. I cast my lamentations aside, and observe with mounting interest as that bird settles on the door that leads of the cage. Its look is that of intense concentration as it considers the wooden plug that joins the hole on the door to the hole on the cage. It gives the door an uncertain push. Stubborn rigidity. Impassive solidarity. It then cranes out its head, and holding firmly onto the wooden plug, gives it a slight tug, so that the little mass of wood inches slightly out of the hole on the cage. Drawing its head in, the bird gives the cage door another jolt with its head. This time the door quivers gently, the creek that it unleashes almost reflecting the fear of defeat. The motion of the door fills the bird with fresh streams of ambrosia, and with eyes alit with renewed hope, it tugs at the plug determinedly till the plug is released from the grip of both the confining holes. Spitting the plug onto the floor, the bird gives a confident kick to the door, and the door swings open, as if offering a salutation to the determined, never-say-die attitude of the bird. The bird steps out of the cage engulfed by an almost regal air. And then, flapping its wings, the bird takes off into the air of earned freedom. The scene vividly etches itself into the depths of my heart – the blue tinged bird, with wings billowing in flights of fantasy, as it flits across a skyline that had now rid itself of the melancholic clouds to reveal a deep shade of burgundy. As it roved above my roof, it sang a melody of hope that it had learnt from distant lands before losing itself to the safe confines of the cage. In its hearts, the realization that life was not going to be a fairy tale perhaps dawned grimly over the joy of the acquired jewel of freedom. In the cruel world of beasts where only the fittest survived, it would have to fend for not just its very existence. At the very least, under aegis of the bird owner, safety and food were assured treasures. And yet, it hummed joyfully, for it knew it was in the embrace of the infinite arms of the sky, and in its bounty, it felt at home, just as how a child feels secure in the warm proximity of her mother. What hardships the upcoming days held, the bird really did not care. For now, it arrived to where they truly belong – to the vast immense of the skies – its home; it had regained the lost melody of life, and that’s all that mattered to that little, beaked creations of wonder and beauty.
As I lay surrounded by my observant thoughts, suddenly, in that infinite season of change, an aspiration rose from the ocean of my heart, like a graceful, inviting wave. The bird had discovered its freedom, its destiny. Perhaps, one day, I too will discover my destiny, perhaps I too will live to embrace my dreams, and bury my head in their warm, familiar bosom. The sun was now out, bright as the flicker of summer, and through his light, he blinded out all traces of monsoon that lingered a few minutes ago. Perhaps, trapped freedom will not be the only pitiful cowry thrown in my direction by my diffident fate I surmised hopefully, in that season of incessant change.

2006-06-23T04:31:00.000-07:00

Cappuccino
Languid, never-ending afternoons and sleepless nights interlaced with fitful sleeping patterns and dreadful nightmares. Both stained a neat brown with unending cups of cappuccino. Plopping sugar cubes into the thick, gooey liquid (reminiscent of sepia images of the past), I watch little swirls of vapor rise from the ceramic cup and disappear into the air above in elegant, leisurely curves. Swishing a spoon through the cup, I create frenzied ripples in that ocean of silence, and watch with considerable candor, how the sugar cubes disappear into the eager folds of the coffee ripples. The act of coffee-making done with, I return to my work at hand – invariably involving the glaring, poker-faced screen of the computer. And in an instant, the doors of the mind are shut on the vivacious world of images, color, smell, and sound, the disappointment of their countenance heightened to a conspicuous reality just before the door closes rudely on their face. The web of melancholic words envelops me like the tight embrace of a shawl on a frigid winter morning – warm and yet suffocative.
But today is different. Rain – the icy tears of the clouds, batter the earth with forlorn ferocity. A thick, surly gray defines the color of the Saturday afternoon, and the normally amicable moment seems unfriendly and intimidating, like a friendship gone sour, like a sibling estranged. In the battle between the two worlds of inebriated electricity – natural and man-made, the latter withdraws into a pitiable defeat, and I am subsequently drowned in a cloak of darkness. My ally of grief, my companion of ecstasy – the computer having gone into a forced slumber, I have little else to do but to observe nature and its little handiwork that spells both havoc and creativity simultaneously. Brewing myself another cup of cappuccino, I amble casually back into my room, enjoying the thick, heady smell of coffee that laces itself deftly into the air around me. Leaning on to the sill, I peep through the glass window, scrubbing with my hands in slow zigzag motion to efface the misty haze that has settled on it. Awe. That’s the word that most accurately defines my feeling in that moment of rapt observation. Rainwater approaching in piercing, splenetic sheets fills me with awe, not so much for its sheer tapestry, but for the realization it brings about. The realization, that splendor of nature can strike you in the most casual of moments, in the most familiar of environments. Not a plush guesthouse obscured in the deeper folds of the Himalayas, but the familiar little window sill of the house I have lived in for a decade is where nature has decided to unfold its poignant opera. And what an opera it was – thunder echoing the voice of an able tenor, breeze sauntering wildly and singing like a soprano in the highest octave, and sheets of rain striking the earth in a state of trance, deftly slipping into the role of a befitting orchestra. That little window elevates itself to embody the role of a kaleidoscope, and fills my vision with images snatched from a wild Himalayan setting, a lush play of the Opera House, and a lush valley of Switzerland captured in a prized picture postcard. All the while I gently remind myself that the iridescent, vivid images when culled together create nothing more than the picture of the pond street and the horizon hovering fixedly over it. As a writer I pride myself on my ability to observe and absorb foreign terrains in rich detail, and as a human, I am appalled by the dexterity with which I can take for granted the splendor that constantly surrounds me. I dig into the somber worlds within with ferocity to spell out the sadness that has streaked my world with thick eloquent strokes, but I do not raise my gaze to notice the presence of divinity that is waiting right there, a heartbeat away, only to cheer me. It is only when the manmade facilities (that I so deftly used to express my anguish) crumbles, that I am compelled to undo the laces that I have strongly knotted with them. It is only then do I notice the sparks of divinity that float around me. In the rain that tumbles eagerly onto a parched earth, in the clouds that so happily give up their impregnated existence to fructify the earth life, in the thunder that streaks the sky in eclectic beams. I sip my coffee in that state of keen cogitation, and my being is instantly filled with rhapsody. The thick taste of coffee as it journeys from my palette, down my gullet, and into my tummy, is electrifying energy. Each sip that I drawn in fills me with shots of ecstasy, and I observe the little beads of water that have appeared at the rim of the ceramic cup with strange fondness. I reflect: How many cups of coffee have I guzzled down whilst feverishly working at my latest tragofictitious saga? Endless. And how much of the taste that has now spread its long fingers all across my heart can I recollect? Nothing – I conjure a lackluster blankness. But I don’t regret. Lost moments cannot be reclaimed, but an awakened consciousness certainly can prevent the yet-to-sprout moments from the clutches of banality. I’m suddenly filled with the unbearable lightness of being, and I scuttle into the kitchen, my coffee cup empty, my heart aching for another engrossing odyssey of cappuccino through my system. As the milk brews, and I look at the eager cup, I feel excited at the prospect of filling my hours of sainted rumination with another shower of dazzling cappuccino.

2006-06-22T00:42:00.000-07:00

Love
The mythological manifesto etched in the tales of yore is enlightening, echoing the irrepressible truth of our splayed lives: love is often veiled by the cloak of feeling colored in an emotive iridescence, and the brightness of the luminosity that rises thereof often blinds us to the gross, at times startlingly simple reality called love. Indeed, love is not as complex as we make it out to be. It is the reality we guzzle throughout our lives, and yet are impervious to its taste, much like how the neophytes of life lot are impervious to the taste of life-engraving water. And yet, just like how the parched gullet echoes appreciation for the taste of water, the one who has unveiled the many hues of nimble emotions gone awry, the beauty of true love becomes stunningly eloquent: it is a vivid beauty of on ocean thats there and not there, and drowning into which fills our being with mists of ecstasy.

2006-06-21T02:00:00.000-07:00

The irrepressible twine
There is perhaps something about pups that makes them ideal allies of grief. Limpid eyes overflowing with pity, a soft, pink tongue peeping out of their mouth, and their downcast gaze oozing with sympathy. As Tuffy walked up to Grace and stared intently at her – offering an assortment of evocative expressions so typical of a pup, Grace’s lips broke into a smile, and she took Tuffy in her arms. The comforting cuddling of her black Pomeranian brought her back in touch with her world of realities, and she became aware of the loud music that roared in her hall. The party was over an hour ago, and yet the music continued to linger like an unwanted guest. She frowned, walked up to the stereo system, and switched it off with a quick jerk, her desire to cast away the unwanted guest, intense. The presence of the frown persisted on her brow as a thought crossed her mind. “The music continued to play for a good hour after the party was over, and yet I failed to realize. Oh Lord! What am I doing with my life” And then she quickly turned around, as another thought occupied the spaces of her mind. She leaned against the wall for support, sank to the floor, and ran her fingers through her long, wavy hair. Her drawing room lay strewn with used paper plates, crumpled paper napkins, broken plastic glasses, and blots left by cream – reminders of the party that had just concluded. A half-eaten lobster stared at her in the face, while a broken beer bottle lay carelessly in a corner, its contents creating a small, yellow stream. “What a mess”, muttered Grace, as she slowly raised her head and surveyed the state of affairs her hall lay in. That was not the thought that inspired the birth of the party. Grace had recently purchased this spacious apartment. With a desire to show off her new acquisition that she prided on, she decided to host a party at her new residence. Her heart throbbed with excitement as she went about making the arrangements for the party – ordering for the food, buying little decors to do up the empty walls of the house, handpicking aromatic candles to light up the occasion with the glow of softness, and selecting fresh flowers that would fill the spaces of her house with scent and beauty. But all the while, a doubt nagged her mind constantly. “Will Brian make it to the party? I reminded him so many times, but there’s no saying with him until he actually shows up.” A flower that had withered with the passage of time fell into Grace’s lap and brought her out of her reverie. Grace picked up the rose and examined it. “Ah! This was part of the bunch that elegantly graced the TV top.” She threw a glance at the other lot of roses that still stood together in the vase, exactly the way she had arranged them, though the passage of time had wilted their sheen. Looking at the withered rose that desolately sat in her lap like an orphan child, Grace twitched her lips and thought sadly, “I purchased these roses only for Brian, he just adores them. If only he had bothered to turn up…” Brian’s absence from the party was conspicuous, and throughout the loud ongoing, inquisitive colleagues queried, “How come Brian has not turned up? You guys fought or something” As they laughed at their own banter, Grace turned a deep beetroot red, and quickly dialed his number. Brian, however, remained inaccessible, and refused to take her call. After her persistent attempts, when he finally did, he let out a violent fume. “What is the sense in calling me repeatedly when I’m not taking your call? My phone has registered sixteen missed calls from you in the last six hours? Have a heart for Christ’s sake! Anyways, I’m not going to make it to the party, caught up with some work. I’ll catch you later.” Click. Even before Grace could as much as utter a word, he was gone. The proud woman that she was, when Brian hung up on her, she quickly gathered herself, turned around to face the expectant glances of her guests, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Said he can’t make it now. He’d rather come over after you guys leave.” As the collective, mischievous “Oooo…” of her guests enveloped her, Grace congratulated herself, for being able to pull off a façade so flawlessly.
The guests reveled and danced in total abandon. They gorged on the butter chicken and pastries as if there were not going to be a tomorrow. But the host remained desolate, grossly missing being beside the man she loved so much. When she watched the couples hold hands, and dance cozily, her heart pined to hold on to Brian, place her head on his shoulder, and move to the rhythm of the symphony, her hands neatly tucked under his arms.
The sudden whimper of Tuffy filled the air, and Grace bent forward with a start. The little pup had skid over the stream of beer whilst trying to prowl for food. “Aw, my little munchkin. Hang in there, let me clear the mess, and I’ll get you something to gobble.”
Resigning to the task she had at hand, Grace sighed, collected herself, and set to work.
Fetching the bin from the kitchen – Tuffy following her like a faithful friend, Grace began culling the remains of the party – waste that put her house in disarray. Colleting paper plates, soiled napkins, leftovers, and the works, she shoved them into the bin, walking slowly in a backward motion as she went about her rigmarole. Suddenly, she let out a soft gasp. She felt her feet step onto something smooth, and the noise of a muzzled crack followed immediately. She knew what had happened, and she quickly turned around to confirm her premonition. A broken glass stared at her dejectedly. As picked the pieces together and held them in her hands, their hazel tinge and sharp cuts shimmered in the glory of the glass chandelier that dangled from the roof. As tears flooded her eyes, she recollected the day when Brian had so fondly gifted her with this set of cut glass wine glasses. The trail of incessant thoughts had begun, and there was nothing that could stop them now. Thoughts, that led her into the alleys of the past and softly reminded her of the warmth of romance that that had set her heart and home aglow with the mush of first love.
It was Valentines Day last year, when life was a beautiful lyric, that danced to the percussion of the heartbeat, and swayed to the lilting tunes of romance. As she waited for Brian at Eat Street, drumming the table with her fingers, she suddenly felt a pair of palms veil her eyes. The warmth of the touch swept her heart with a feeling of unerringly familiarity and love, as she smiled, placed her hands on his, and said, “Love you sweetheart” Letting out a dejected sigh, Brian took his cupped hands off her eyes, pulled out a chair, sat in front of her, and asked admonishingly, “You could have feigned unfamiliarity, at least to keep my heart. What was the necessity for such an instant recognition?” Her eyes twinkling with the warmth of his touch and her voice oozing with love, Grace looked at Brian and said in a tender voice, “Because the faster I recognize you, the faster I get to see you – your endearing face in front of mine.” As Brian threw his head back and drowned himself into peels of laughter, Grace had her gaze fixed firmly on him. “Oh my! What a handsome man. His perfectly etched, pointed nose, the luscious curves of his lips, those large, twinkling eyes, the beads of hair that appear around his upper lip. I can just die for one gaze of him.” As Brian controlled his laughter, had a sip of water, and wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand, he spoke in his characteristic, baritone voice. His word interjected with giggles, he said, “Left to you, you’ll declare me to be the most handsome man on planet earth!” Clasping his hands that rested on the table, Grace kissed them and said, “But of course you are the most charming man on plant earth. You know, when you smile…” Brian cut her short by pulling his hands away and waving them dismissively. “Come on now, don’t start off all over again. You know I can’t bear this maudlin talk.” Looking at the tinge of disappointment that accompanied her downcast look, he quickly drew open the black coat that clung onto his burly chest, and withdrew a box wrapped in a cherry colored paper. When he softly said, “Happy Valentines day” Grace looked up, and the shimmering object in Brian’s hands instantly arrested her gaze. Letting out a slight shriek, she clasped Brian’s hands again. When he winked his eyes, nudging her to take the gift, she picked it from his hands, where it loosely sat. As she undid the wrapper carefully, Brian chuckled impatiently. “That wrapper is not made of gold for Christ’s sake. Just rip it apart and take out the gift already!” Grace retorted, “To me, this wrapper is priceless. I shall keep it with me for life. My Brian gave me my first Valentine gift, and everything associated with it is for keepsake.” As Brian let out a resigned sigh, Grace carefully removed the tape that held the wrapper together, and folded the bright paper neatly. She then opened the box, her heart fluttering with excitement. But the moment she set her eyes on the gift within, a wave of disappointment swept her, something she instantly hid. As Brian looked at her expectantly, she looked up at him with a smile on her lips and a flirtatious flutter on her eyes and said, “What a lovely pair of glasses! I just love the hazel.” As Brian’s heart heaved with pride, and he ribbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger, Grace thought, “What on earth would I do with wine glasses, I’m a teetotaler. And I hate hazel, or any dark color for that matter. Does he not something so simple about me?” Meanwhile, he outstretched his hand and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Grace smiled, and confidently took out a small box. She was sure of her decision. “He is definitely going to like the gift.” Grabbing the box from her hand, Brian quickly tore apart the cover, muttering, “I don’t have your kind of patience, so don’t mind me ripping apart the cover.” The moment the wrecked gift wrapper fell to the floor, he let of a shriek of joy. “Wow! Its a Titan” He looked joyfully at the watch that sat comfortably in its glass case. As Grace outstretched her hand, wanting to fasten the watch on his wrist with her own hands, he opened the glass box, took out the watch, and wore it in a hurry. As disappointment stung her heart again, Brian looked at his wrist and said with the excitement of a child, “Ah! Doesn’t my wrist look so manly with that hot watch sitting on it?” He pressed his lips against the watch, kissing it again and again, and Grace smiled to herself and thought, “Big deal, at least he loved what I got for him.” As she saw his eyes swoon under a spell of joy, she felt a surge of love for him again, and looked at him, her limpid eyes brimming with love. Suddenly, Brian said in a tone of shock, “Holy cow! We are getting late for the movie. Let’s get going.” As Grace got up in a hurry and followed him, she asked, “Which movie?” She was hoping to hear, “Black”, but instead heard, “Murder”.
Indeed, the undercurrent of differences between the two could not be denied. It remained an undercurrent when the relationship was in its fledgling stage, when there was a bounty of love that caused their togetherness to blossom and swept away the differences.
For Grace, it was love at first sight. As a voice and accent trainer at ‘Speak well’, she typically went about her work with a business like attitude, paying little heed to issues not in the purview of her work. But when she saw Brian enter the training room along with the other new recruits, she was swept away by his charm. As he sat at his desk, drumming the table with his fingers and looking around confidently, his handsome visage was a perfect picture of poise, of someone so sure of himself. A quality rare for a fresher, as experience told Grace. She went through the first session of the induction in a state of daze, and approached him the moment a break was announced. Stretching out her hand hesitantly as he sat at his desk sipping coffee, she said, “Hi, I’m Grace” Raising his eyebrows and smiling in an irrepressibly charming way, the young man clasped her outstretched hand and said, “And I’m Brian. A pleasure to meet you Grace, again.” As he winked his eye mischievously, she bit her lip realizing her folly. Why, she had just introduced herself to the batch! She plopped herself beside him, and began talking. Undeniably, the conversation between the two flowed easily. So they met up again in the next break. And in the next one. Rising at a feverish pace, their meetings gave them a chance to explore each other. Sure, they were as different a chalk and cheese. But they loved soaking themselves in each other’s company, in their togetherness, and that’s what mattered. Grace would go out of her way to dress, feel, and sound in ways that pleased Brian. She would shower him with gifts, and swell with joy to see the glee on his face when he saw his prized gifts. She had studied him with great concentration, and knew his every like and distaste. She knew the smells that irked him and the music that put a smile on his face. She prided herself on the amount of knowledge she had about him – a prized possession she protected fiercely. And he on his part was flattered with the amount of love and attention she showered him with. Being clamored for, and being the cynosure of the most popular woman at work, was an undeniable high for him. The waves of first love had taken them away in its swift sweep, and like willing cohorts they went with the flow. And then, as it often happens when one blindly rushes forth into a wave just to enjoy its frosty embrace, without realizing its capacity, they made a vital mistake. A mistake, that Grace never forgot for the rest of their life. On the spur of the moment, they made a sudden decision one evening, to plunge into cohabitation.
The initial euphoria of the drastic move was tremendous. Grace had the man she loved with unbridled passion in front of her eyes every single waking moment. And in the nights she slept unabashedly in his arms, her head nuzzled onto his hairy, masculine chest. She knew every hair on his chest, the way they curled in, and embraced her hair. For Brian, it was the most euphoric phase of his life. If he ever went out to shop and set his eyes on an object of desire, he could be sure that it would be neatly ensconced in his cupboard the next day. The price was never an issue; his liking was all that mattered. Every night, he had an opportunity to live out all the wind fantasies that he cravingly spoke of as a teenager in hushed tones. He was a dominating man, demanding attention and his way of things, and she, a willing companion, relenting to every demand of his.
And then something happened. Not overnight, but gradually, over a period of time. The sheen of the initial rapture began fading, and the disparities that lay safely undercover, began brimming to the surface. If he loved cricket, she detested it with a passion. If she poured her heart over soap operas, he couldn’t stand being in the same room where their drama unfolded. Candle lit dinners in a room abounding with heart shaped balloons was pretty much her idea of romance, while trekking or any activity that created a shared sense of adventure defined his idea of romance. Bhansali’s sensitive dramas were what she looked forward to, while sleazy thrillers were what he reveled in.
With the passage of time, many more differences boiled to the surface. Grace reacted by making desperate attempts to adjust her lifestyles and outlook to make them seem in accordance to his liking. Brian on his part, resigned to silent withdrawal to shield himself from the discomfort of facing the differences. To the many questions that she excitedly poured forth in front him, he responded with a silent nod or monosyllabic replies. A disappointed Grace would turn her head away after unsuccessful attempts at striking a conversation, and with a look of disappointment writ across her face, she would wonder, “Why on earth is he punishing me with his silence? He continues to remain talkative and jovial with other friends, then why am I the only to be made an exception?” After the question troubled her unendingly for days, when she found the torture excruciating, she her query a manifest form and stood in front of Brian, demanding a reply. Brian continued looking into the newspaper and replied in a deadbeat tone, “It is just your perception. Nothing has changed.” She burst out – her voice reaching a shrill crescendo, “Yeah right. I am hallucinating and imagining things. Is that what you are trying to suggest?” Brian shoved the paper aside, and begin walking away, whilst muttering, “If you stop being so possessive, always expecting me to talk to you, and behave the way you want me to, then things can be better.” She in turn screamed from behind, “Don’t tell me that someone like you who doesn’t shut his mouth for a single minute when he is with his other friends, cannot utter a single word with me. And you have the gall to tell me that I expect too much from you. Come back and speak to me, you escapist!” But he did not come back. Not on that day. Never again. The cracks were transformed into chasms, too big to be bridged.
Brian moved out of the house, and moved on with life itself. He had collected his bearings quickly, and continued with the proceedings of life as if nothing had ever changed. Perhaps, he was never particularly attached to the relationship. He enjoyed the togetherness as long as it had something to offer unto him. But the moment the time for adjustment emerged, he backed out, preferring the comfort of old habits to the oppression of change. “She never gave me enough breathing space.” he complained to some of his older lot of friends. Of course, all the many times when she went out of her – sacrificing her own desires, just to see a smile on his face, were never mentioned. They were comfortably forgotten. He unabashedly wore the clothes and accessories she gifted him, and continued to whine about her misgivings.
Grace too had become familiar with his behavior pattern – of viewing her as a means to achieve his desires – both physical and material. And yet, for reasons best unknown to her, she found it impossible to move on with life, attempting to embrace newer horizons that give her life a sense of meaning. She kept convincing herself that the relationship was going to work. She made repeated attempts at trying to please him, to bring him back to the relationship. She showered him with more gifts. Gifts that he was very willing to accept as long as they did not come with the tag of her company. So she would leave gifts at his doorstep, at his desk, or in his mailbox. He in turn would leave thank you notes at her desk or door, with his signature and a smiley neatly etched on the Post-it. Those were more than enough for her lovelorn heart, and she collected all of them and stored them in a big red envelope. Every time the realization that the relationship was no longer meant to be dawned on her, she would settle on her sofa with the red envelope in her hand, and patiently read all those little yellow slips. And she would successfully deceive herself, just like how she deluded the world around her
A sudden, seething pain swept through her, and her face grimaced. Little, red droplets fell on the marble floor, and Grace realized that in reminiscing the blooming and gradual fading away of the relationship, she had forgotten the present moment, when she was standing all alone in her hall, with a broken glass in her hand – the very same glass Brian had gifted her. She held his gift rather too forcefully, till it dug into her skin and sucked up her blood.
After an hour’s effort, she found a certain sense of semblance in her home. The broken beer bottle, paper plates, and plastic glasses were in the dustbin, the excessive food was stacked in the fridge, the cushions and sofas were back in their place, and the floor was mopped to efface all signs of beer, blood, and celebration. Tuffy hungrily gorged on her chicken, and Grace settled on her sofa, the music system filling her room with soulful soufflé of the santoor. As Grace grabbed a cushion and hugged on to it tightly, in a moment of rare, objective reflection, she thought, “Why am I trying to hard? Why don’t I just realize that Brian and I are just not meant to be man and woman? To save that one relationship, I have lost and sacrificed everything else. How long has it been since I have called Mom and Dad?” She tenderly looked at the picture frame that sat on the side table that and showed her clasping onto her parents, her arms around their necks, their smiles reflecting the joy of togetherness. As she made a mental note to call up her parents’ first things in the morning, her eyes fell on the sitar that stood in a corner. A look of despondence overwhelmed her, and she lowered her gaze in shame. “The only thing Dad ever desired of me was that I play the sitar well, a dream he could never pursue because he was busy eking out a living for all of us to live in comfort. Why, I myself derived so much pleasure and peace in playing the instrument.” The look of dejection was suddenly replaced with that of determination. “I will no more let a dead relationship effect my present and the people to whom I’m so intimately connected. Yes, Brian is now a man of the past, and I’m going to live for myself, doing the things that matter to me.” She spread herself out on the sofa, and switched off the light with the remote. Tuffy let out a squealing bark, complaining about the darkness that caught her without warning. “Come here baby”, said Grace feeling bad for her pup – it had been such a long while since she took her for walk. When Tuffy came and licked her outstretched hand, she tickled the nape of her pet and said, “We’ll go for a walk tomorrow morning, ok little fatso? Of course, only after I give Mom and Dad a call.” This last thought jostled her to sleep.
It was seven in the morning, and the sun was out – nice and bright. She had a fitful sleep, and woke up with a sudden start, soaked in sweat. She franticly searched for her phone. Finding it on the center table, she grabbed it and dialed out the number. The phone rang. But no one picked up the call. After dialing the number over a dozen times, a groggy voice complained into the phone, “Why have you disturbed me so early in the morning? Have a heart, it’s Sunday morning.” Grace spoke at a feverish pace, “But I had a dream that you met with an accident. I was so scared. I anyway wanted to call sometime later. Please meet me, even if it is for two minutes. I beg of you.” The voice on the other side said, “I am not able to hear you, I’ll call you back.” Grace rushed out into the balcony, hollering into the phone, “The signal is crap, but I’m going to the balcony, it should be better there. Hello! Are you still there my sweetheart? Brian?” As she rushed into the balcony like a possessed woman, two things happened: First, she unmindfully hit the side table, and the picture frame went crashing down, and the glass cracked at two places: the points where her hands were wound around her parents. Second, Tuffy walked aimlessly towards the sitar and sniffed, and almost instantly, began sneezing – the instrument was dust laden. Sneezing, little Tuffy hoped that her mistress would come back soon, to feed her, to dust the sitar and use it more than just as a showpiece, and perhaps, to repair the broken picture.

2006-06-19T02:34:00.000-07:00

The Bangle Seller

The narrow lane – silent and solitary, looked on desolately. The mist of dawn flooded its environs, and the rays of the sun, trickling through the tree branches, rendered unto the alley a hallowed glow. Tiny shops, neatly aligned on either side of the lane, were interspersed with street lamps and benign-looking trees. The shutters of the shops were shut, their owners lolling lazily at home. The festive season of Ramzan had concluded amidst great fanfare, and there was little business to be eked out for the next few days. So an uncharacteristic hush – occasionally marred by the odd bark of a dog, filled the spaces of the lane. Suddenly, from this silence, emerged a noise – the clatter of a shop shutter as it was unbolted and heaved into its recess. At the very end of the lane, a small bangle shop now lay splayed open – spick, colorful, and inviting. Ashwak – the septuagenarian owner of the shop, decided that business or naught, he was going to indulge in the ritual that he prided himself on for the last sixty years – that of opening his shop.
Dusting the white cushions that lay skewed the chair, a dark skinned helper boy muttered, “The others opens the shop at half past ten, but Baba insists that he open the shop at seven.” In response, another assistant – wrought in the color of black metal, who was cleaning the glass of the horizontal showcase, complained in a hushed tone, “Why, Ramzan has just passed by, and business will be lean for a while. Yet our Ashwak Miyan insists on religiously opening the shop. Neither does he take a holiday, nor does he let us take some rest.” Ashwak twitched his brows, chortled impatiently, and in the husky voice characteristic of him, said, “You little devils, stop your nonsensical talk, and get along with your work. If I find a single stain on the glass, even Allah cannot save you from my wrath.” Ashwak went back to his prayer beads, and the wrinkles on his temples and the alcoves of his lips coalesced, as he intoned the holy chant.
“Why do you vent your temper on these hapless chaps? I tell you, if they leave in disgust some day, you will have a tough time finding a replacement.” Ashwak placed his beads to a side, peered at the young man who berated him, and said in a sarcastic tone, “Here comes your Nasir miyan, he finally has the time to privilege us with his company.” Nasir waved his hand dismissively and said, “Don’t fuss. There is no necessity for such derisive remarks. Nor is there any point in rebuking Sameer and Ishrat.” Ashwak snapped, “I reprimanded them because they were doing a lousy job of the cleaning.” Nasir retorted, “What is there to clean? The shop is already immaculate. It has been lying vacant for a week; not a single customer has stepped in.” Ashwak suddenly fell silent. His flaxen visage grew dark with worry. He stroked his white beard thoughtfully, his son’s words ringing in his ears. ‘Not a single customer stepped in.’
“Tea time”, announced Gurdeep and brought Ashwak out of his reverie. Gurdeep was a dwarfed young man, who passed off as a boy on account of his stunted growth. His face too, was child like, smooth and hairless. He never made an effort to deny the misconception his image created. When he arrived at the footsteps of the shops clad in a torn, dirty vest with plastic tea cups in his hands and an innocent smile on his brownish face, he created a perfect picture of pity – a kid who was ruthlessly torn away from the innocence of childhood and thrown into the wicked world, to fend for himself at such a tender age. So often, out of sympathy rather than necessity, vendors and their customers would purchase the tea he offered, and Gurpdeep happily resigned to his imagined misfortune that filled his pockets with the delightful music of clanking coins.
Presently, Nasir walked out of the shop, greeted Gurdeep with a slap on his back, and said, “Chotu, four teas.” As Gurdeep collected his money and walked away, leisurely kicking a hapless stone that lay on the road, the four men settled down at the entrance of he shop. Ashwak sipped the tea, and instantly his face grimaced. He complained, “The tea tastes terrible. I am certain he passes off gutter water as tea.” Nasir looked sympathetically at Gurdeep and said, “Come on Abba, it costs a mere two rupees, you certainly don’t expect five star hotel quality. Besides, our simple gesture prevents his little tummy from going to bed empty.” Overhearing the dramatic statement made by Nasir, Gurdeep suppressed a laugh, and walked away with a quickened pace.
Ashwak cast aside the cup that was still brimming with tea. As he got up, dusted his white kurta, and adjusted the cap that sat clumsily on his head, he said, “Who cares for the tea of five star hotels? According to me, no tea equals the taste of Irani chai. Ah! Those were the days when Liyatat and I used to sit in small, stuffy cafes sharing a cup of Irani chai and a plate of tie biscuits.”
Nasir said, “Why do you hold on to the past so much? Wishful thinking is not a businessman’s virtue.” Ashwak threw an angry glance at his son. Nasir’s fair visage showcased ire with clarity – his sharp nose grew red, his greenish eyes were shrunk, and his trimly shaped eyebrows were twitched. Walking towards his seat Ashwak said, “Anyone who’s seen glory at its zenith would not prefer a jaded version. Of course, left to you, you would bundle the old word charm and throw it into the bottom of the sea.” Getting up, Nasir retorted, “All I say is that a businessman must think about the present, rather than about the beauty of something that is no more.” “And pray what is the present?” said Ashwak mockingly, “girls demanding Bunty and Bubbly bangles?” “What is wrong with that?” queried Nasir, “Bangles are merely one of the many mediums girls use to show off that they are in line with the latest trends. She would rather go and tell her friends, ‘look, I’m wearing something similar to what Rani wore in Bunty aur Bubbly’ than say, ‘I’m wearing bangles similar to what the 18th century queens wore’!” Laughing at his own banter, Nasir sank onto a cushion. Ashwak shook his head and said, “Those were the days when women knew so much about bangles. One flaw in the Kundan work, one shade of shimmer less in the gold lace, their sharp eye was quick to notice.” Nasir retorted, “Women in those days had nothing better to do than to dress up and wait on their shohar. They could only think of fighting with their mother-in-law and discussing jewelry with idle neighbors. It is a very different world today. Women are studying, working, taking care of the home, and doing a hundred other things simultaneously. They cannot afford to get into the artistic intricacies of ornaments and dresses.” Ashwak sardonically said, “Maybe, that’s why they don’t dress at all.” Sameer and Ishrat looked on with resigned interest. They had seen this confrontation between father and son occur many times. It was now as much a part of their jargon as the names of the various types of bangles. Sometimes, they would silently mime the remarks of the duo, and congratulate themselves at their accuracy.
Ashwak settled on his chair, and glanced expectantly at the street, hoping a customer would walk up that passage and enter his shop. The lane stared back at him – empty and mocking. Dejected, he aimlessly looked at the gutter that drifted nonchalantly in front of the shop. His mind was flooded with myriad images of the bangle shop he so dearly loved. Images, handpicked from different phases of the past to create a vivid kaleidoscope.
The tiered eyes of Ashwak had seen the bangle shop go through diverse phases. His father - Ejaz had set up the shop with great zeal. Four decades ago, when the final etches of the mahogany display cases were complete, the glasses were polished and fixed in place, and the spotlights were staring out gleefully, the shop was ready to be occupied. In a week’s time, the shop was brimming with life, colorful bangles, and women who viewed their objects of desire with animated marvel. Ashwak gradually picked up the threads of business from his father: How Ejaz engaged his customers in private conversations, as he went about his business. “So Shilpa Bhabhi, has your sister-in-law’s behavior changed at all?” he would query, his eyes overflowing with interest. And the woman in question would respond with a sigh, “Well, the dog’s tail as they say can never be straightened.” She would then proceed to pour out her heart. All the while, Ejaz would be slipping different bangles into her gloated hands, and her whining would be occasionally interjected with comments such as, “Not this yellow, show me that red.” As her fingers pointed to the bangles she greedily eyed, she would go back to a detailed narrative of her grievance, unfalteringly picking up the threads of her conversation from where she had left.
In the initial phases, Ashwak kept himself busy with the logistics – his pencil busily scribbling the inventory details onto dog-eared papers, and his focused gaze studying their quality with great absorption. If a customer were to arrive when Ejaz was taking in his afternoon siesta, he would offer to show them the bangles. The women would eye him suspiciously, unwilling to trust their delicate hands in his young, wavering ones. Somehow, they found comfort and confidence in the wizened, shaking hand of an old man. So Ashwak would sheepishly wake up his father, who willingly effaced all traces of sleep from his eyes and offered himself to customer service. Ashwak would look on, admiringly. How easily Ejaz went about his work. Indulging in blithe talk, so effortlessly slipping bangles in and out of women’s hands; as if he were born to handle their delicate hands and beautify them thereafter with bangles in the colors of fuchsia, claret, auburn, and mauve. He would think dreamily, “One day, I will be as capable a bangle seller as Abba Jaan.”
Business was brisk for many years, with customers walking up the lane that adjoined the chudi bazaar of Charminar, to buy bangles from Ejaz’s shop.
Time is a paradoxical witness: its passage plays a vital role in the evanescence of an ever-changing world, and yet it views these changes with marked indifference. The same spectator, that witnessed the nikaah of Ashwak, also saw the shop blossom into a full bloom, where loyal customers felt at home in its warm, familiar environs, and where it became a delightful cocoon for the workers and Ashwak alike – a place where they bickered, laughed, cried, and shared their world. The passage of time etched the wrinkles of age onto Ashwak’s face with unerring clarity, and the women were now more than happy to thrust their hands in his palms.
The incessant ticking of the clock also brought about another change with its deceptively simple stride. Many more shops sprung to life around the previously sleepy cul-de-sac. Run by aggressive businessmen to whom bangles were no art, but a medium of setting the cash register ringing, they filled up their showcases with bangles whose designs reflected the dictums of Bollywood. Under their aegis, the fine art that bangle were, relegated themselves to being relics – hollow reflections of the glorious past. Bangles, embellished with antique designs and intricate patters, and created with days of effort, slowly disappeared from the showcases.
Shopping malls too began sprouting to life. Seated in the plush, air-conditioned precincts of the mall, dainty saleswomen muttered in English, while customer sipped away on Coke whilst making their purchases. “The way their lips obnoxiously round up and curve as they mouth utter nonsense”, thought Ashwak, with considerable disgust. “What do they know of customer service? When we meet a customer, they become acquaintances for life, and we become familiar with ten generations on either side. We know every tear and every smile that shapes their life, while they conveniently forget a customer soon after the sale is made. It is sad that the delicate art of bangles has been thrown into their juvenile hands. To them, bangles and money are synonyms.” He closed his eyes in repugnance, trying to shut out the image of a bangle transforming into a hundred Rupee note.
A sudden, loud clap brought him out of his revere. Ashwak opened his eyes and blinked, his vision trying to adjust to the sudden brightness of midday. In the glare that filled the streets outside, he saw a eunuch peering at him. Cussing under his breath, Ashwak pulled out a two-rupee and shoved into the hands of the eunuch. The hijra pulled back Ashwak’s hands, pressed the two-rupee note into his palms and said in a guttural tone, “Who wants your charity? I’m here to buy bangles.” He entered the shop confidently, plunked onto a cushion, and shoved his hand into the face of Ashwak, demanding his attention and bangles. Ashwak looked at the soiled, frayed sari that clung itself to the hijra, got up in aversion and walked away, griping. “What bad times have befallen us! We have to sell our exquisite artistic creations to hijras!” As the eunuch frowned and looked at Ashwak, Nasir quickly stepped behind the counter, opened the showcase, and began taking out a collection of glass bangles. “Don’t mind the words of Abba Jaan”, he said looking apologetically at his customer, “his ideologies are rather antiquated. You know how it works.” The eunuch was greatly pleased – someone actually apologized to him. He broke into a smile and browsed through the bangles with gusto.
The languor of the afternoon consumed everyone in its embrace. Ishrat and Sameer slept blissfully in the room behind the shop, where bangles were stocked to the brim.
Ashwak sat at the doorstep and let the sun wash over his aged being, as his despondent gaze surfed through the bangles stacked in his showcase.
“Such exquisite creations of beauty, that took so long to be created. From a lifeless piece of glass or stone, they were transformed into vivid creations that played myriad roles in the drama of life. They embellish the beauty of the bride as she departs to her beloved’s home. Their music, gentle and gurgling, often silence the verbal war that took place between spouses. The wife brandishes her hand feverishly, and a peeved husband would listen to the lilting music created by the bangles. Clasped onto her hand, they would gently clank into each other, and in the companionship of their music, his ire would melt. He would lovingly pull his wife into his lap, and play with her bangles whilst saying, “Come on now, don’t bicker. I’ll take you to a movie tonight, ok? After that, we shall go and buy you some nice colorful bangles.” In response, the wife would smile, and tuck a strand of hair behind her ears, her bangles creating the same beatific music, further luring the husband into its grip. Why, there was a time when an offering unto the Gods was considered incomplete without their colorful presence. But today they lie in my store, tired, disappointed and forlorn.” As his old eyed brimmed with tears of sadness, and echoed the pain of a vanished past, he coughed gently, and held his chest, trying to suppress a pain that had suddenly surfaced. Nasir, who lazed on a cushion, rushed to his father, and held him by the shoulder with firm hands. Ashwak took some recourse in the warm embrace of his son, and placed his weary head on Nasir’s shoulder. In a feeble voice he said, “Perhaps it is Allah’s desire that I retire. The times have changed Nasir, and my stubborn heart is unwilling to accept a future where bangles are treated as just another commodity. But you are still young. The warmth of your blood will easily take changes its stride. Bas, I have decided, I have spent enough time in the fickle vagaries of the world. I will look for a nice, homely girl for you, and after your nikaah, retreat to Mecca.” Nasir caressed the shoulder of his father and said in a soothing tone, “I am still a fledgling Abba, and need your guidance. You cannot leave me alone. Besides, it’s not so difficult to accept change, it’s more of a mental fixation. I mean, what was wrong with selling bangles to a hijra? Times are strained, and any customer who brings in business is welcome. As such, who buys bangles now-a-days? The foreigners prefer the comfort of the malls, not realizing that to feel the heartbeat of India, they have to saunter in her galis. As for the Indians, they purchase bangles only during marriages or festive seasons. Gone are the days when acquiring bangles was an important ritual which women indulged in on a regular basis. Why, the bangle sellers who used to eke out a living, going from one home to the other, with their bangle rack on their shoulders, have almost vanished. Yes, times are changing, and we ought to change with them, not abandon what we love. And I know how dearly you love these bangles.” Finding some comfort in the words of Nasir, Ashwak thought with paternal fondness, “The little boy who could not as much as walk without holding onto my hand, is today teaching me the ways of the world. Ah! The tricks played by time.” As father and son shared a rare moment of togetherness, the bangles watched on, bright and smiling.
The darkness of dusk unfurled over the lane, overpowering the last traces of the ochre-colored sun. The bangle shop shimmered with passion under the effulgent caress of the lights. The mirrors on the walls of the shop and the colorful bangles winked in the brilliance of the light. Time hung as flaccidly across the moonlit lane as it had during the heat of the day. Ashwak pined for the hustle of the footsteps that would herald elation. He broke into a smile, when his deepest desire fructified. Aneri, one of his oldest customers, entered the shop and sat comfortably on a cushion. Without being told to, Sameer rushed to fetch a cup of coffee, while, Ishrat switched on the fan. “What a long time it’s been since you gave us the pleasure of service Aneri behn”, said Ashwak, his face flickering with delight. Aneri was a corpulent Gujarati woman with a happy face. Her saccharine smile often overshadowed the wrinkles that begun appearing on her brownish visage. A lady with a penchant for talking, she gave a loud, cackling laughter and said, “I went to Vaddodara, it was my aunt’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, you know.” Gasping, she placed her hand on her chin and nodded her head as she said, “Can you believe that Ashwak Bhay? The couple has spent fifty years of their life together and is still going strong.” Nodding his head with interest, Ashwak took out a bundle of bangles with mirror work on them. The mirrors on the ornament glimmered in the luminescence of the lamps like seething embers. Aneri clasped the bangles and said, “Wah Ashwak Bhay! These bangles are exquisite! I did not find a single shop in the whole of Vaddodara with such fine mirror work.” Gleaming with pride, Ashwak looked at Nasir and said, “Now what do you have to say, son? Do you still feel that the world lacks people who cannot discern master craftsmanship from a hopeless piece of work that claims to be a bangle? Look at how well our Aneri behn has distinguished a good bangle from an inferior one, just as how wheat is separated from chaff.” Aneri broke into another peel of laughter, beaming in the euphonies Ashwak showered her with. Defending his stance, Nasir retorted, “I was speaking of the people of this generation.” Twitching her brows and looking visibly upset, Aneri said, “What are you are trying to suggest? That I am an oldie?” Quickly correcting himself, Nasir settled beside Aneri and said, “Oh no Aneri behn! Do I have the gall to call a young beauty like you an oldie?” As Aneri lowered her gaze coyly, Nasir explained, “What I meant was that only people of the good old days, and people whose heart still exudes with the beauty of those day, can appreciate the true beauty of a bangle and consider as art worth respecting. That is why I tell Abba, that he too should move with the changing times and create bangles that are more fashionable and cheaper to make. But he never compromises. He still believes in the old way of working, where bangles are made of the finest quality material, and each laborer is treated like an artisan who is working at his masterpiece.” Her expression turning suddenly serious, Aneri said, “That’s not true at all. Agreed that today’s generation have different priorities and don’t care too much for bangles, but there are still many people who consider bangles to be true form of art – something that needs to be treasured, rather than something that is used as an ornament and then discarded. Aficionados of bangles, if you may call them that! Such people are sure to appreciate Ashwak Bhay’s artistry as opposed to the puerile creations of many others. And Ashwak should cater only to them. Remember Nasir, those who have seen sincere beauty, can never settle for a sham, even if it is a matter of convenience.” Nasir suddenly became thoughtful, and Aneri gave a satisfied smile. Paying for her bangles, she left the shop, letting father and son ruminate in silence.
To Ashwak, the shop seemed to have suddenly turned brighter. The bangles sparkled with greater delight, as if rejoicing in the ray of hope Aneri’s words had left in their heart. As Ashwak noticed the austere golden glow that filled his shop, his face was lit up with a smile. Almost immediately, his ears were flooded with the music of mirth. He peeped out of the shop, and found four young girls walking up the alley. The street lamps emanating a bright yellow, lit up their face, and highlighted the look of disapproval in their eyes as they looked at the bangles in the other shops. They were just a heartbeat from the store, and he overheard their conversation as they munched popcorn. “Based on what the NIFT folks said, I expected to find superb craftsmanship. But all the bangles up to now have been such a disappointing fare. Anyways, let’s finish up with our snack and go that last store.” Ashwak looked proudly at his regal collection, much like how a father looks at his children who are about to win great accolades in the trials of the world. As he took out a kundan bangle and caressed it lovingly, Aneri’s words reverberated in his mind. ‘The aficionados of bangles’. Tears moistened his eyes as he thought, “There is still hope for these bangles; they will not die the death of an unknown entity, uncared for and neglected.” Just as his heart leapt with joy at this thought, a sudden seething pain replaced the euphoria. He sank to his seat, sweating profusely. His trembling hands could no longer hold on to the bangle, and it slipped and fell into the gutter. A reed that was stuck in the gutter tried to clasp onto the bangle, but it was no match for the gushing waters of the gutter, that ruthlessly carried the bangle away. The delicate work of art was soon lost in an endless mass of muck and filth.