Sunday, 26 May 2013


My turn has come, she said, my turn has come to write the long parable of...
and she started to write it, and it began and ended with ellipses...
and she tried...
to construct...but the spaces and gaps
pauses, clauses (mostly subordinate)
got all mixed up.

It was meant to be prose,

but whether it can
turn out to be

who knows?

Monday, 13 May 2013

Dimma, come back to me, Dimma. Who will tell didibhai stories? Who will make posto borar chutney? Who will laugh with those teeth like pearls? I can't live in exile for so long without all of you. Come back to me, look I am a fat child rolling about in the sun and reading Agatha Christie. Won't you kiss my forehead and smooth the creases on it, and say, "Didibhai, let me tell you the story of the Happy Prince!" Won't you tell me about ghosts? And poetry?

Who will be as stern to others and giggly to me as you, Dimma?

No, no, no.

I love you love love love love you you you and I'll not cry just because I'm a mature young woman in exile. I'll be a poet instead.

Monday, 6 May 2013


I fell in love with you, it was complete infatuation. I fell in love with you the way children love the first taste of something sweet, I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, the moment I saw you-it was you I loved. I loved you so fervently with so much devotion and desire that every time I breathed in air, it hurt because breathing is a solitary practice. I breathed you in from a distance.

Until I met you.

When I met you, I was shaken to the very core of my being. I felt as if the earth had swallowed me up, and through earth-tinted glasses, I beheld the sky. It has been a long time since I saw you first, and even now when I remember how you looked at me, I tremble when I behold the sky. As a man beholds a woman, the sky is my lover. As the sky beholds the man, you forgot me.

Eternity trickles by. When I met you, I thought time was continuous and never ending and I thought we are alone and we wait, we wait because summers are endless and summer follows summer follows summer, interspersed with some inconvenient winters. And I thought, perhaps some summer, we will perspire into meaning, as we once had or could have had.

And now I think, perhaps I never met you.

But how does it matter, when the leaves turn golden and then from gold to pure dust and then dust shivers into snow and the snow melts to water, and then suddenly, one morning the sun trickles down into my face and I look out of my window and see not bare branches of solitude and endurance but green green green green green.

And I think, yes green green green until I drink all the coffee in the world and smoke all the poetry out of my veins, and occasionally digest some wine, perhaps some smoky steak, and words words words, everywhere words, trapped in glass cases of words, on escalators elevators motors of language travelling travelling travelling through time.

So then, I suppose, it is immaterial to want to gaze into tired yet brilliant eyes, myopic mellow moody...blinking thinking sinking- I suppose now that half the sky is orange and the other half is blue, I suppose I should never ever think of you.

But how 
how can we control the promise of summer
of green and desire and life
and sand and water
and sky 
and all that
all that
which one