Tinge of Turmeric

Forgiveness

2011-03-24T23:02:00.000-07:00

First she was dragged into the lonely alley. Then beaten till her screams had died down to whimpers. When the last stitch of clothing was yanked away from her shivering legs, she looked into his eyes and whispered, “I forgive.”

He sits now amidst scripture-spewing scholars and debates. He rummages through entire libraries. He studies ancient languages and churns freshly born phrases with his tongue.

They have all failed him. She may have uttered forgiveness, but the word had slipped away between their spaces. It will not touch him.

The Gift

2011-03-16T23:25:00.000-07:00

From you I received the gift of poetry
The ability to weave sweet tumult
Into webs of words.

No ordinary gift of course,
For poetry doesn’t haunt calm minds
Or beat to the rhythm of tranquil hearts
Nor tumble out with happy gurgles.

It fosters instead on precision:
The exact amount of grief
Checked by a mounting need to secede
Balanced by a tug of nostalgia
Tinged with a whiff of despair.

Poetry doesn’t grant an audience
To eyes sparkling with delight
But rather, to dams of eyelids
That threaten to pour.
It doesn’t announce itself
To dialogues of poise
But to broken, quivering whispers
That resound at night.

So you see what a tall order it is
And yet you managed to
Give me the gift of poetry.

Words Can Never Hurt Me

2011-02-05T02:48:00.000-08:00

“Nonsense! Whoever heard of a story killing anybody!”

Suddenly the tiny bar of the inn fell silent and all eyes turned. I was pouring beer as usual and had only half an ear planted on the tables but that statement caught me.

“Come on! Tell it to us!” one man shouted. He carried a walking stick and trembled while he drank, but he shouted nevertheless.

“Yes!” another joined in. “What a ridiculous notion! Imagine a toxic story that could kill someone! Ooooh I’m so scared!”

The man shook his arms like in a shiver and the rest laughed. It was the drunken exaggerated mirth of men who do not have happy wives to go home to. I wished they wouldn’t laugh so loud and I wished I could see better the face of the man who had excited them so. He had never been to this inn before, I was certain, and was dressed in a travelling coat, his collar still pressed upwards so that discerning his features was a task. His horse stood outside, a large white beast, and the man had not requested a room in the inn. So he probably meant to go on after a drink or two.

The men started singing and banging their beer mugs on the wooden table.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones
But words can never hurt me!
Oh words can never hurt me!”

“You laugh at me now, you fools,” said the stranger, “and since you do not believe me, I shall tell you the story and you can discern for yourself. It is the story not of one man but of all humankind. Not of what is, but what will be.”

“How do you know what will be?” shouted the old man with the stick.

“The same way as I know, Thomas Sheffield that your daughter got married last year, that she is in way of a child now, who is expected next month, but he shall in fact, be born next week... and yes, it shall be a he. The same way as I know that your wife will die on the seventeenth day of her sixty third year and you shall outlive her despite being much frailer.”

The man who was indeed Thomas Sheffield but had not introduced himself looked on wide mouthed, while the stranger continued, “I know of what will be, because I have always known. The same way as I know, Jack Stein that you have just encountered a tiff with your accountant, that you hate the company of these men here but love the brew, that you married Suzanna although you secretly preferred her sister, but never breathed a word to anybody.”
Everyone stared at Jack, waiting for him to refute, but he didn’t. They then stared at each other, and finally, one man ventured,
“So what is the story that you’re going to tell us? About the future of mankind?”
Then all of a sudden, I was jolted by a deafening crash from the storeroom and I rushed behind. I was certain that one of the girls had dropped a whole barrel of beer and normally I would have given her a dressing down, but today I only wanted to run back before I missed the story. It took a whole fifteen minutes however, to clean up the sticky mess before I could return to the barroom.
When I re-entered, the silence was deafening. Only the stranger spoke and in musical tones, while the forty-odd men sat dumbfounded. I had obviously missed a lot, but little did I know that my ignorance would soon save my life.
“... and man will then use a device that will destroy an entire city in a few seconds. But that’s not the worst of it. Injections to kill people will be common, even legal, and permissions to clone human beings – exact replicas, will be signed. Human beings will be seen as a-religious, soul-less organisms, much like we view the domestic animals of our homes. God will be tested for validity, for truth, in the very same laboratories that will design addictive products to entice and trap human beings.”
I looked around, trying to patch up what I had missed, but it was useless. The story had obviously, reached its pinnacle.
“Your children, your grandchildren will be reduced to artificial conversations with others that are miles apart, but will not know their neighbour’s woes. They will first deliberately put themselves under the mercy of ruthless employers and then unknowingly, the even more deadly owners of advanced means of communication, and between these two, they shall toil till they are spent and useless. They shall be tricked and cajoled and threatened and bribed all their lives by these godless organisations and shall be none the wiser.”
“Your grandchildren will never bother to smell a lily and shall enjoy virtual recordings to the sweet calls of birds that begin your day. They will insult nature, heat up the planet, kill entire jungles and eat mineral-less grains for the earth shall be barren.”
Silence hung heavy in the room. Then one man, a bachelor shouted, “No! This shall not be! I shall make sure that never is it possible for me to participate in this folly!”
With this he ran to the bar, picked up the knife with which I cut lemons and plunged it in his chest.
“I’m with you!” cried another man, while another shouted, “Yes, we shall not let it happen! Nip it in the bud! Rather the race end now than live hell on earth!”
They ran into the kitchen before I could stop them and in a minute, three corpses lay on the floor. By now, men were looking for knives all over, sometimes pulling them out from dead men’s chests and piercing their own hearts with them. Many of them ran home to their wives and children, determined that no chance of such corruption of the human race be allowed. I would learn the next morning that seventy three people had murdered and been murdered the previous night.
“Stop! Stop!” I cried out at the impassioned men, but kept my distance, lest a knife find my flesh, while the stranger stood forgotten in a corner.
“Help!” I beseeched. “Help please! What have you made them do? Stop it! What did you tell them?”
“Didn’t you hear the story?”
“I missed a lot... what is happening here?”
“It’s better this way for you” the stranger said. “Some stories are toxic and should never have been told.”

Green or Brown *

2011-01-19T21:19:00.000-08:00

On winter evenings when ice threatened to plummet onto our barracks, we’d face each other on plastic stools and chat over cups of tea. Only the fire sat between us. And of course, the wires of the border. But they slept. The shadows of the knotted wires ran through the biscuits that we popped into our mouths, dissolving in the cricket scores rolling on our tongues.

I offered whiskey once but he wouldn’t touch it, so I learnt to get drunk on sweet, over-boiled tea. The tea was passed carefully through barbed wires. The sahyak on duty ensured that the sleeve of his uniform didn’t get caught in the knots.
Sometimes I brewed the tea myself, relieving the fussing sahyaks of protocol. I hoped to figure out some concoction by which the metallic smell of the tea would disappear. But try as I did, each time I brought the cup to my lips, I was reminded of the steel smell of local trains. And of the wire. Like the wire added its own flavour to our rendezvous.

I spoke to him of pickled chillies, sweetened yogurt and streets lined with sellers of puffed rice. He yearned for the fragrance of earth doused in the first shower of monsoon. He said it was the most beautiful smell in the world. I recollected school teachers and childhood pets. He mentioned dips in a large lake amidst white mountaintops. We didn’t speak family.

Sometimes I’d imagine what it would be like without the wire. Just two men chatting, cardigans about their torsos, sipping on tea and munching biscuits, like a page out of innocent boyhood. Only it wasn’t innocent boyhood, but then maybe it was.
He sported a moustache, I didn’t. Our uniforms were greenish-brown; his more green, mine a darker tinge of brown. A manipulation of dye, but in our world, that makes all the difference.

“Training tomorrow” he’d tell me sometimes and I would sit on the benches with my colleagues and hear the grenades and rifles go off. I could tell from the sounds that the equipment was outdated, over-used and stained with rust, while his booming voice, younger than the youngest rifle, would ring ominously in my ears. Those evenings we’d play cards and laugh. For some reason, we laughed heartily but couldn’t smile.

Then came the call and the sleeping wires stirred.

It only took one urgent dispatch to awaken the miles of knots through which we had exchanged tea. And more.

A handful of powerful men passed some papers around and two little units across a snoring border abandoned the dress rehearsals and brought in the finale.

Strike, the orders said. And strike, the men did. Cranked up the daisies and loaded the launchers, with cannons and mortars in tow. The wires were now on fire.
The heat of the battle came too soon for me. I pointed the rifle at him the same time as he lifted his.

My finger gripped the trigger and I knew that his too had stiffened. Suddenly, in the dry afternoon dust, I smelt earth. Earth after the first rains, fresh as a sprig of bouncy green coriander.

Between us, the brown filth flew up. Red drops of the wounded met the surging dust halfway and they joined together on the ground. Sounds bombed my ears.
Him or me. Green or brown. The time of reckoning was now. Now! shouted everything that made sense. Don’t, whispered the absurd.

For a second we did nothing.

I pulled the trigger. He staggered backwards and all sound stopped. In the silence, the coriander sprig withered. Around me, mute men whose uniforms were too stained to discern the colour, fell and wept blood.

Slumped on the ground, a red blotch darkened over his chest. The rifle slipped from his fingers. The limp head that hit the ground was his, the eyes that shut out the sky were his, the breath that first gasped and then stopped was his.

But I died.

* Won honourable mention at the Katha DesiLit contest. First published in Khabar: http://www.khabar.com/jsp/mag_feature_view.jsp?sessionid=45FA52FC1A0E2408445DAAE707A6CB24&tempid=6429163019927378667&_articleid=1965

Ramayana: The New Old Canvas *

2010-10-17T23:35:00.000-07:00

* First published in Open Space as the first of a monthly book column called 'Between The Covers'. Read http://openspaceindia.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=441:ramayana-the-new-old-canvas&catid=133:articles-a-essa ys&Itemid=112

If Christopher Booker has argued that there are only 7 plots in the world and all others are variants, the recent spate of books and films from India suggests that the number shrinks even further. With several writers and filmmakers deriving inspiration for their stories from the Ramayana, retelling and rethinking are the flavour of the season. From In Search of Sita - a collection of essays, interviews and interpretations edited by Dr Malashri Lal and Namita Gokhale, to Madhureeta Anand’s documentary 'Laying Janaki to Rest' and Nina Paley’s animated film 'Sita Sings the Blues', the Ramayana has been resurrected several times over.

Much of the literature inspired by the Ramayana is rooted in contemporary times, with the narrative taking strictly realistic forms. For instance, Ramnika Gupta’s 'Sita', originally written in Hindi, places Sita as an intelligent Dalit woman, trapped by caste discrimination and labour laws. It traces her efforts at self preservation while her husband and his second wife manipulate her and even attempt to murder her.

Vijay Lakshmi’s 'Janaki' strips the epic of its grandeur and its veils of honour and duty, shocking readers with the pettiness behind Sita’s accusation and banishment. The short story, told from the point of view of a domestic servant, begins innocently enough with a DINK childless couple, Sudhir and Jakani Thakur - he a manager in a textile firm, she a successful lawyer. Ravana here takes the form of Sudhir’s childhood friend who visits the couple, and the abduction is the seemingly harmless exchange of jokes, laughter and late-night coffee while Sudhir pores over important reports. Sudhir is unperturbed however, until he hears his dhobi slander his wife’s character. After he violently confronts Janaki, she storms out of the house and crashes her car into an oil tanker. She is untouched by the flames, but succumbs before her grieving husband can reach her to the hospital.

Anil Menon, author of 'The Beast With Nine Billion Feet' and co-editor of Zubaan’s upcoming anthology, Speculative Ramayana states, “I think [the fascination with the Ramayana] has to do with the final scene where Rama rejects Sita. If Valmiki had written the scene differently, I doubt we'd be discussing the story today. It's the unfairness of that act, a culmination of many unfair acts, which makes the story so uniquely bitter-sad. It's defeat snatched in the face of love's victory. The Ramayana is a love story that speaks to the impossibility of keeping love, even for a God.”

The injustice that Menon refers to is not too far removed from the biases that many women face even today. Chandra Ghosh Jain’s 'Sita’s Letter to her Unborn Daughter', has a woman writing a winding letter to her daughter in her womb. The letter unravels the attempts her husband is making to get the girl-foetus aborted. The slow, convoluted explanations suggest the traps Vaidehi finds all around her and her frantic but vain efforts to free herself from these. As she writes, Vaidehi feels her daughter slipping out of her body. The letter ends poignantly with: “What is that you say; you don’t want to be another Sita? Abandoned by father, husband and family. No, Paakhi, listen, don’t go...”

The need to re-imagine the epic in contemporary times probably stems from two other factors as well. One is the compelling nature of the story. It touches on issues intensely personal, simultaneously sees its characters as part of a complex social labyrinth and also prescribes to subtle and lofty considerations of dharma and righteousness. An ambitious attempt, sweeping in its wake too many concerns to justify all, thereby raising more questions than it seeks to answer. The other factor is the way it has interwoven itself with our lives. From bedtime stories and primetime television, from comics, video games and movies to prayers, rituals, poojas, blessings and implorations to ‘be like Sita’, the Ramayana lives in the air we breathe. It is hence perhaps understandable for artists to find parallels between the fantastic world of mythology and mundane truths around them, given that there is a timeless quality to the restlessness that the Ramayana inspires.

However, the relevance of mythology is not restricted to those who have heard these stories in their grandmother’s laps. Nina Paley, born in the US, read her first Ramayana when in her 30s and says, “The agni pareeksha I see as a metaphor for grief. I wanted to kill myself when my husband dumped me, and the unbearable pain was like fire... Sita is a model for expressing what we often repress. She loves Rama actively, without censure or shame or any limits. And when he breaks her heart, she expresses her pain with her whole being.” She further states, “What blew my mind while reading various Ramayanas in the midst of my own break-up, was how primal and universal the problems of love are, and have always been... Sita Sings the Blues is just my honest telling. It is modern and American because I am modern and American.”

While Menon and Paley find a love story at the heart of the Ramayana, Deepak Chopra and Shekhar Kapur’s graphic futuristic novel 'Ramayan 3392 AD' provides only the tiniest flicker of romance between Rama and Sita. Rama is a warrior prince, born to fight the demon Ravan, who rules over Nark and desires dominion over all of earth. The swayamvar and marriage are given a miss and Rama alone is banished because he chose to surrender and fight another day instead of dying honourably in battle with the asuras. During his travels, he comes across Vishwamitra, blunders into Mithila and encounters Sita. Though Sita features in barely twenty frames of this novel, she makes a strong first impression. Her first words to Rama are “Don’t stand over there like an idiot. Get some of those gandharva leaves.” Vishwamitra describes her as “the key to the salvation of this wretched world” and Rama as her protector (a responsibility he rejects initially) but the novel is – as it openly acknowledges – a tale of “mystery, adventure, betrayal and heroism.” If Nina Paley’s 'Sita Sings the Blues' is a story of love and heartbreak, Chopra-Kapur’s 'Ramayan 3392' is singularly a battle between the four duty-bound brothers and the demonic Raavan.

What remains undisputed, however, is that the Ramayana has caught our imagination like few other stories have. Anthologies, novels, animations, graphic-books and soon, the much-awaited Speculative Ramayana from Zubaan. Despite bookstores devoting entire sections to the variants of this epic and publishing houses releasing retellings every year, it is unlikely that our thirst for more will be sated. And what is the greatest flaw of the Ramayana is also its biggest strength – its inability to be contained, its defiance of simplistic conclusions, its underlying plea for back-stories and codas, for re-imagining, unlearning and re-questioning.

Happy Birthday To Me*

2010-10-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

* Here's my title story from 'Happy Birthday To Me' - a collection of contemporary Asian writing, edited by Farhana Shaikh. Read this sample and order your copy from here.

It is 11:50 p.m. but these faces do not sleep. The light of the monitor showers upon Priya’s face while the rest of the room bathes in its halo. After ploughing through all the messages, Priya still has fourteen friend requests, twenty five friend suggestions, one invitation to the Earth Hour event and seventeen Farmville gifts.

She tells herself she’ll look into those later and changes her status message to ‘what lies beneath ;-) ’. She is immediately told that Adil likes this.

Of her three hundred and eighty six friends, twenty three are online. Akshay pokes her. Priya pokes him back.

Whtz up grl?

Usual stuff, she types. And then adds a smiley before hitting the enter key.

U hme? Chinese food? asks Akshay.

Yup!

Me yet at office...

As usual... Priya replies. Meanwhile, Tara the online psychic tells Sneha that today is a good day to get a haircut.

Karan is now a fan of ‘Dear Math, I don’t want to solve your problems; I have enough of my own’.

Lipika answers yes to ‘Do you think Chinmay will ever become a millionaire?’

Priya likes this. A thumbs up sign appears near her picture. Priya is asked whether she would like to gift some fertilizer to Pooja whose crops are puny and dry. She ignores it.

Then the wishes start pouring in. A glance at her watch displays the time as 12:04.

Happy B’day!

Mny Hppy Retrns of d Day! Drivin... talk later...

Have a wonderful year ahead!

Five more pour in, all a variation of the same basic message. Priya types out thank-yous and adds smileys. She waits ten minutes, in case any other birthday wishes come her way. They don’t. She logs out.

In the glow of her computer as it prepares to switch off, Priya makes her way to the fridge. She removes a small chocolate cake, fixes a little candle in the centre and then lights a match. Priya carries the cake back with her to the living room and places it on the coffee table. Quietly she hums,

“Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday to me.”

Priya cuts out a large slice and licks the cake from the knife. “Hmmm...” She makes a note once again, of how delicious the cakes of Mama’s Bakes are. She leans back on the couch, the plate nestling near her stomach and switches on the television.

A detective show comes on. Click. A programme on the mating patterns of crocodiles. Not this one. Next is a family drama. Click. The sound of canned laughter rings out, four young friends are sitting around a dinner table, cracking a joke. Another friend joins them, says something about his workplace and the whole group cracks up again.

Priya puts down the remote. She digs into the cake, not looking at what she’s eating, her eyes focused on the television.

An hour later she is still munching on bits of cake, laughing, tears streaming down her cheek.

When she eventually falls asleep, the cake is half-eaten, the television still on, and Priya dreams of four friends in her kitchen singing, “Happy Birthday to you.” Canned laughter echoes even in her dream.

Book Launch of 'Ripples'

2010-10-17T06:14:00.000-07:00

I had a great time at the book launch of 'Ripples - short fiction by Indian women writers'.

In Pune on 16th October, Shaily Sahay , Sucharita Dutta-Asane and I were joined by Priya Sarukkai Chabria and Sonja Chandrachud at Reliance Timeout, Jewel Square, Koregaon Park.

Prashant and Priya Sarukkai Chabria proudly holding the book.

My two bits. :-)

Welcoming Priya.

In Mumbai on 15th October, Irene Dhar Malik, Shaily Sahay, Dagny Samrock and I were joined by eminent guests of honour Sooni Taraporevala, Onir and Sanjay Suri at Crossword Kempscorner.

Sooni Taraporevala and Sanjay Suri launching the book in Mumbai.

The event was as much fun as writing the stories!

Thank you to everyone who attended in person and in spirit! Thank you Prashant for bringing this team together and compiling the book. And congrats to the lucky winners of the gift vouchers and the dinner-dates in both cities!

Glassy or Classy

2010-01-19T22:42:00.000-08:00

First published in Perspectives : http://1perspectives.webs.com

Transparency, I believe, is an important virtue in both life and work. Especially when the latter involves balancing yourself delicately on your boss’ nose, taking care to always be present and yet not interfere. My boss has never given me the credit I deserve, in fact, on my first day at work, all that I got from her was a repulsive and disgruntled stare. True, I don’t have much of what people call ‘looks’ – my framework is dark and lanky, my limbs are extremely long, and my middle is a bit too round and bulging, but so what, isn’t there any room for the hardworking and faithful in this world? Like females all over the globe, my boss is appearance-conscious, and I suspect that she resents me simply because the word ‘good-looking’ could never be associated with me.

Yesterday, my boss took me with her to a place which is often described as ‘happening’. She seemed very excited about it and a tad bit scared too. She had almost hidden her charming face behind make-up and jewellery, but had taken care to expose as much of her limbs as decency permitted. I too went through an extra scrubbing that day, to the effect that I emerged sparkling and glassy – the best I could get.

The place was swarming with people just like her – people who had by way of trials, errors, cramming and licking appropriate boots, climbed up the corporate ladder. I went where my boss went, I saw what my boss saw. Wherever I went people stared at me, and I was enjoying those few moments of attention. I finally felt important. I finally felt imperative. I beamed with pride, I felt that my hard work was being applauded, my sincerity was being appreciated. I assumed that my boss would now realize that she would never be able to do without me. But my happiness was short-lived.

That evening, I overheard her talking to her father about me:
“Dad! This is disgraceful. I was so embarrassed! People were staring at me as if I had just landed from Mars.”
“Dear, you must realize how helpful…”
“I don’t care! I am a progressive-minded person who believes that all her needs must be catered to using the most advanced and sophisticated techniques possible. You would be extremely reprehensible if you allowed your daughter’s humiliation to continue due to your conservative mindset.”

I was too shocked to comprehend what was said further. They should have had the decency to hold their talk until I was out of earshot. The last thing I remember her saying is, “That’s it, daddy! I need a change.”

Thus, my employment span came to an end – for the time-being atleast. I lay in my box-home all day, wondering whether it was criminal to be ugly. I knew my replacement well – those who do the job that I do, correction, the job that I used to do, are in constant fear of those modern types. My replacement was just as transparent as I was, but the similarities ended there. Where on one hand, I had long limbs, it was as though he lacked them completely, in contrast to my thin frame, he was rotund, almost spherical.

I had always had a soft corner for my boss, and inspite of her insolence, I was glad that she had got what she thought was good for her. I would often see her from my box-house, scurrying about her work.

Then Wednesday morning came. I woke up as soon as the first rays of the sun had reached me. You see, I cannot sleep when I am exposed to light. As soon as light reaches me, I become aware and alert – I start seeing. I went about my newly-acquired routine of simply lying inside my box-home, with nothing much to do, when around mid-afternoon, the bomb fell.

Tears! Red eyes! She was crying! I peered more closely at her. Strange. There was a smile on her face and she was merrily chatting with a friend. Stranger. Only one of her eyes was red. Occasionally, she would rub her eyes and sniff a little. Was that moron causing her any kind of trouble or inconvenience? In all my few months of employment by her, I had never seen her cry, let alone be the cause. So what if he was debonair and suave, he dare not make my mistress oops, ex-mistress cry. She, the poor thing, I had always known was naive and a poor judge of character. She needed someone like me, who truly cared about her comfort and went about his job well, I silently prayed that she would realize this before it was too late…

The next few days saw me in a pathetic state of despair. It is awful when someone you love is in pain because then you are in pain too, but it is worse when she is aware of neither your love, nor your pain. I watched mutely, as my malicious replacement bothered her whenever he was with her. In between reading, she would suddenly rub her eyes, while she was talking, sometimes, a tear would saunter across her cheek.

Just when I thought that I could take it no longer, the goddess of fate favoured me. On Saturday, her father rapped at the door of my house-box, and then opened it. He then, gently lifted me up, and bestowed upon me my previous office, never again to vacate.

So now, I am perched on my mistress’ nose, content, and happy. My mistress now regrets the menacing mistake she had made, and is thrilled at having me back.

I am now glinting with pride, it is not often, after all, that a pair of repellent spectacles triumph over contact lenses.

Sonnet composed at Mahabalipuram

2009-12-17T22:58:00.000-08:00

We walked smelling mouldy pebbles and wet sand
Like the urchins, oblivious to the paradise around us,
Aware only that you’d no longer hold my hand
Washing tides of tears at where our lives had found us,
Like the sea, our hearts rumbled; hungry, angry, hurt,
Shocked at the islands they would become now
Mocked by even washed up chappals and heaps of dirt,
Scrambling out of our own filth heaps somehow
Memories will gag me but the day will arrive
When the taste of salty wind will seem sweet,
And the touch of cool wet rocks will drive
Me to laugh and not fall down and weep
The day will arrive but today I know
My heart will retch into the sea after you go.

Written for a mictro fiction contest

2009-09-30T12:31:00.001-07:00

These were written for a 'flash-flash' fiction contest. 140 characters or less.

1) Everything is divided into half. All but the plain gold band that’s too tight now to slip off. I don’t mention it and you don’t remember.

2) The rain patters like it used to when you would welcome it umbrella-less. But today it comes for me and sobs beside the empty chair.

3) My mother doesn’t remember me. I’m lost behind foggy screens. Go home, they say. She doesn’t know you. But I remain; I know her.

A marathon love *

2009-09-16T21:53:00.000-07:00

A marathon love is a slow love

Often it’s a lonely love.

No thrills and cheers that accompany

The popular 100 meter races.

Energy needs to outrun

The long road ahead,

Marked with turns, and curves

And periods of isolation.

It doesn’t absorb the whole runner

Like a shorter race would

Gaze at trees, notice the weather

Soak in sights, churn thoughts.

A regular jog, a regular rhythm

A regular pace, a regular pain.

* First published in A Tinge of Turmeric by Writers Workshop, Kolkata. See http://writersworkshopindia.com/modules/booklists/singlelink.php?cid=15&lid=732

Love in the Time of Swine Flu

2009-09-13T22:10:00.000-07:00

The other day hubby dear stayed home. In eight months of marriage this was his first sick leave. He had trudged to work earlier with body aches, headaches, upset stomachs and the kind, but finally he was broken by my relentless anxiety. He called in sick: cold, cough, irritation in the throat, he explained.

No questions asked, no answers needed.

What followed was a day of rest, chatting, lots of ginger tea, soups and steam inhalation. Advice on how to avoid the dreaded S flu poured in from all corners, though of course over distant media such as telephone, internet, sms. I tucked him in, pampered him, swathed him in attention, making his soups just as he liked them, running for his medicines, checking the fever every few minutes.

Maybe it was the fever but I suspect it was something else – he glowed. Just a bit. And with him, I glowed. A soft dull halo of light surrounded us over thermometers, soup bowls and blankets. We held sweaty hands through his favourite TV shows. He sat in the kitchen while I stirred a thick broth for dinner – the heat helps, he explained, winking.

An early dinner was followed by a game of chess where I let him win and he jumped in the air, throwing his blankets all around, running across the room, yelling “Mate! Mate! Mate!” I ran in the opposite direction and he followed me, still screaming, “Mate! Mate!” I shrieked and laughed, shaking myself out of his hold, hoping the neighbours didn’t think of this as a curious form of foreplay.

Later, the last dose given, blankets in place, lights switched off, he murmured, “Still not feeling good... I think I’ll take an off tomorrow as well.”

I heard his smile and in the blackness he saw mine.

She screamed

2009-08-10T23:04:00.000-07:00

The online rights of 'She screamed' were bought by Page Forty Seven. Please read it at http://www.be-a-better-writer.com/she-screamed.html