Tower of Love

And the story teller always says "and they lived happily ever after" after each fairy tale. Really??!! Who saw that? Was there a 'happily ever after'?

So the shoe fit and Prince Charming got married to Cinderella. And one fine day they realised they were both in their 30s with three brats. Prince Charming was busy with the administration of his kingdom and

Locked up by you in this

tower of love,

I search for you

in my thoughts and in my

dreams, only to be woken up

in colourful nightmares.

Only I see you when I

am awake,

holding hands with

someone else, while

mine are groping for

the key that you have

thrown away.

There are no more stories

right now.

No more words that flow.

No more tears I can

wipe with this stale

handkerchief.

Sita's Walk-2

Sita Janaki, Princess of Mithila, daughter of King Janaka, was the not the easiest to please. Her father, Kin Janaka, was finding it hard to find her a husband, arranges a Swayamvara where a princess can chose her own husband from the assembly of Princes, Warriors, Kings, merchants and learned men. And this time he arranges a contest where each participant will have to string Pinaka, Shiva’s bow and hit a target. When the king informs Sita about the Swayamvara, she has a few words with him.

She looks at him with steel in her eyes

and asks “What do you mean, win

me in marriage father?

Am I a chattel, an object, a prize 

to be won? Look at me, I am,

the daughter of a king,

a Kshatriya who can lift the Pinaka,

Shiva’s bow with one hand!

I am a singer, a dancer,

a princess and a warrior!”

She raises her voice, “Why can’t I follow my heart?

Why this Swayamvar? Who will be this man?

Is he a warrior or a king?

He might be a prince of his land, but will

he be a prince of my heart?”

And she whispers softly and firmly

“Will he be MY equal?”

First rains...

Rain rain rain...the first rains are here...

I am sitting on my terrace and watching thunder clouds. The cool wind is ferocious, trying to wipe out the remnants of summer. I try to imagine what earth must be feeling. Earth, brown, dusty and bone weary and pining for his touch, waits in anticipation; waiting and watching for a lover to come home and quench her thirst. It seems like a thousand years since he has held her in his arms. Longing for his return, she looks often at the lightning and thunder, imagining his footsteps.

And when he comes, he comes home with all the glory of a warrior returning to his beloved. And she, she runs up to him and opens up to his embrace...

This rain...sweet rain,

tastes of you

rolling over my tongue

drenching me

in your embrace.

This rain...sings

warm melodies,

whispers of a forgotten

longing,

in your breathless voice.

This rain...touching,

flowing,

moving into my soul,

making me shiver and sigh.

This rain...dripping

from you to me

folding, enfolding

warmth and wetness.

This rain...dark rain,

ignites memories...

quenches my thirst.

You call it love?

It is quite common in India to conceal our love affairs from our family and friends. And then, when the issue of marriage arises (that too after 'seeing' a few boys and girls), we manage to remember we do have someone we love. This gives rise to a host of family dramas - tears, threats, fasting,  absolute silence, you name it! Have I been through it? No alas no, I had an old fashioned arranged marriage. And guess what, if anything goes wrong, I just look at my folks with the look "See what you have done. Its all your fault". I am getting my revenge for the all the looks I recived from them as a kid. Ha ha ha....

I have also been noticing it is usually the girls who are bold enough to accept and flaunt their love. Is it their faith in their lovers or faith in love itself? Or perhaps, it is hardwired in us, remember Mahabharta? Rukmini took the reins of the chariot and drove Krishna away. So technically, he did not kidnap her, but she eloped with him... I think I will go with this argument. So you see, Indian women will always be bold and gutsy to accept their love. I just wish the guys were too.

Searching for Salvation

Call of the Eagle...

Some sights/images have a hold the power to create a hold on us. They evoke a host of emotions and perhaps remain with us forever, stuck in our minds, sometimes forgotten and often recollected. Sometimes in happy situations and sometimes in nightmares which leave us drenched in sweat, screaming in silent screams.
And there are some that will touch a chord with the artist in all of us. Last month my friend Nivedita Aluri uploaded photographs of the Yellowstone National Park. One of them happens to be a lonely eagle flying across the road with tall pines on either side. Somehow this image remained in my mind and it took nearly a month to complete this poem.

Sculpture...

When your heart breaks...

So there is this novel I read the other day, called 'If I could see you now' by Cecelia Ahern. Delightful novel, about children who see characters, characters who are not visible! So you might want to ask what is delightful about that, after all it should rather be a case for psychiatry, should it not?

May be, but why would a child want to create a character unless he wants company; unless she is being neglected; unless they are being abused. In most cases, I have read that these characters do disappear after a period of time, perhaps when the child has no more need of support or help; perhaps when a child gets bogged down by all that homework and all those tests; perhaps when children have no option other than to grow up. Is that why do we have so many depressed individuals? Well I am going off on a tangent here.

What I actually wanted to write about was this beautiful passage I read in this book, which I am posting below. It is about what happens when your heart breaks. When I read through this passage, I was speechless for the longest time, even thoughtless I can say.

Who has not gone through a heart break for one reason or another?

Who has not felt the need to scream, to shout, to hit and destroy; who has not felt the need to bang a door, run away, or break something?

Who has not felt the need to curse at the Gods, to cry hot tears till you run them out, to keep a brave smile when your tears want to escape and your eyes start burning?

Somewhere amidst this, a tiny organ called the heart is hurting, wanting to scream out. Yes the doctors tell you it is an organ with chambers and valves, a mechanical device that pumps blood day in and day out till the day you die. It is only your mind that plays these tricks. Somehow I am not convinced, especially after reading this paragraph:

When you drop a glass or a plate to the ground it makes a loud crashing sound. When a window shatters, a table leg breaks, or a picture falls off the wall, it makes a noise. But as for your heart, when that breaks, it’s completely silent. You would think as it’s so important it would make the loudest noise in the whole world or even have some sort of ceremonious sound like the gong of a cymbal or the ringing of a bell.

But it’s silent and you almost wish there was a noise to distract you from the pain. If there is a noise, it’s internal. It screams and no one can hear it but you. It screams so loudly your ears ring and your head aches. It thrashes around in your chest like a great white caught in the sea, it roars like a mother bear whose cub has been taken. That’s what it looks like and that’s what it sounds like, a thrashing, panicking, trapped, great big beast, roaring like a prisoner to its own emotions.

But that’s the thing about love; no one is untouchable. It’s as wild as that, as raw as an open flesh wound exposed to salty sea water, but when it actually breaks, it’s silent, you’re just screaming on the inside and no one can hear it.

whose war is it?

The newspapers in the last few months have been reporting an escalation in kidnapping, shoot outs and bomb blasts either by the Maoists or by the Police force. Note that these wars are fought in forests and other terrains where the Maoists are old hands in hiding, pursuing or killing people. And most of the times, they have better weaponry than the Police force.


The Maoists seemed to have lost sight of their agenda. Or may be I do not know the entire story, but why would you want to kidnap an officer who is working to make people's lives better by listening to and solving their problems. For example, one of the officers was actually responsible for the construction of a  tar road, which was promptly destroyed.

On the other hand, the police personnel often behave like 'goondas' kidnapping and raping women and beating up people in the middle of the night. I guess if you are on the receiving end and don't know how or when or where you will be killed, then the animal in you just comes out and damn the consequences. 

But in this war, who is the villain, who is innocent and whose war is it?

Men in fatigues.

Men in camouflage.

Some. Call themselves guerrillas,

Heading people’s movements.

Some. Are in the government.

Pushing forgotten papers.

You say you work for the people.

And you say you work with the people.

The passion was lost long ago.

Now the forests echo with pain.

Fool hardy. Brave souls.

Circling each other.

Preying on leftover lives.

Kidnap/Raping.

Arson/Pillaging.

Gun shots/Bomb blasts.

Blown to bits, blown to dust.

What ancient drumbeats do you follow?

What soundless bugles do you hear?

What is the agenda?

Whose war is it...Who is the enemy...

The reason is adrift. The cause is dead.

Foolish Men!

You forgot the colour of blood.

You forgot those who wait.

With lamps lit.

At the threshold of their homes.

Chant of the Rain

A collaboration by Golam Wahedur Rahman and Bindu Babu. 

It started off with me commenting about the rain in Hyd, India and Golam wanting that rain in Bangladesh as well. Looking at Golam's dialogue, I wondered if we could collaborate on a poem. I asked him to begin first and he came out with this beautiful poem titled ‘He:’. It was quiet challenging to come up another to match his and I ended up with various versions. Finally I decided on this one, titled, 'She:'. 

He:

When the humid wind turned soothing cold
and the sweltering sun buried below
the dark grey clouds,

my wait to greet the rain - I could feel, 

would be over soon.
As Gods played Diwali in the sky,

Thunders, blue and white

appeared to my eyes.
I thought I could hear your song

and your sigh!

Yesterday you said, it was raining there,
and when I asked you for some,

You replied, 'But that I cannot share'!

Deep down I knew,

your love was too sublime
to deny me anything from your heart.
So when the raindrops smelled like you
I wasn't surprised at all, I was,

rather soaking wet

from the rain

and glowing from your love.

She:

I stand in the balcony

watching the downpour, watching for you.

As the rain dances down my skin

I wonder if you hide behind

these dark clouds,

playing with my tresses

while I shiver under your

lingering gaze.

My thoughts are like

paper boats sailing here and there...

and the wet chant takes me

to a buried moment.

Of incense and crushed rose petals.

Of candle light and soft kisses.

Of slow strokes and silken sighs.

Of thunder and faraway lightning.

I am drenched in those memories

and time grows heavy with longing.

I wonder if the caress of the breeze

carries my unspoken song!

For the wind blew strong

and the raindrops smelled like you,

I knew I had found my sanctuary!

I found you!

Photo Courtesy:

http://www.boostinspiration.com/photography/35-really-beautiful-examples-of-rain-photography/

http://www.boostinspiration.com/