Monday, May 29, 2017

We, the Fish

1. Stop whatever you’re doing 
and read this. Right now.
First, they get you curious.
And eventually, grab your attention.

2. This will change the way you look at or 
do that usual thing forever.
Transformation; not really guaranteed.
Perception change? Maybe.

3. Shocking truths about the bygone era.
Or of the who’s who, who are no more.  
Of course, they know your fingers itch
to scroll and feed those eyes without a fact check.

4. This is the key to land your dream job.
Or 12 skills to learn in a week to move further up.
Now, after reading this will you scale the ladder? Unsure.
But while at it, you missed yesterday’s deadline for sure.

5. Take this Quiz to know which Literary/Historical/ Sitcom character
or as per your Zodiac sign which Extraterrestrial/Jurassic species you are.
Based on certain permutations and combination;
Squeeze yourself into moulds by answering a few idiot-proofed questions.

6. 24 hacks to excel in whatever you do. 
You won’t believe what’s on No. 22.
Pointers prefixed with bullets or numbers.
They ration the one-pot meal into a seven course.

7. 7 worst things that could happen to those reading clickbait headlines. 
Congratulations! You’ve almost read seven. 
And to know that you’re still reading is reassuring.
We, the Fish, will continue to bite the bait, time and again.

Tuesday, May 09, 2017

whispers of a zephyr

Opening the door quietly I snuck in. Slid behind the curtains and flicked through the room from corner to corner, dribbling the dust balls. The room was still and well lit. The cutlery made most of the sounds in no particular rhyme or rhythm. With him on one side of the table and her on the other, it seemed supper is all that had brought them there. Once done, they would be off to do whatever they were up to just before this. Perhaps, stare back at those glowing plaques and thumb down into oblivion. Or, go to bed with their backs facing each other’s while they gazed and scrolled further till their eyes slumped to slumber. Slowly, I made my way out through the window’s crevice; rustling up the foliage on the portico. Whistled at one of my two accomplices up there, who flashed a blinding light and signaled at the other. Within a few seconds the third accomplice cracked his whip in one slick motion and struck the nearby transformer. Pitch dark in a split second. The stars in the skies slowly faded in. The clouds gave way for the moon to slide in through the skylight. I made my way back in to find them in the same place with a candle lit and placed on the table in between. Their heads still hung low. Swiftly I tipped her toes and tickled her under sole. Circling my way up to gently lift her chin up and bounced off her forehead. A few strands of her hair veiled her face that instant. Maneuvering carefully around the flame I puffed his face, at once. They now, faced each other.  He stretched his hand to unveil her face, tucking the hair behind her ears. The incidental brush of his fingertips against the earlobe, simmered them, mutually. They stood up in tandem and walked towards the moonbeam that held the roof above and the mattress beneath. On my way out, I snuffed out the flame and pulled the door behind. A storm brewed; Where? I’ll leave that to your discretion to figure out. 

monday morning motivation

Postcards, polaroids or
whatever you captured on your mobile cam.
Miniature mementos, snow globe or whatever you bought at the souvenir store.
Even the rugged backpack, duffel bag or
trolley you lugged along all the way.
Keep them handy, at a glance's distance for mornings like these.
When Mondays bog you down from leaping out of that bed of yours;
Reach for them, these reminders, hoping
you'll collect some more.
Doesn't matter if it's from some place
that's near of far.
But assure yourself this mundane start to a working weekday
is what's cementing the plan for your next holiday.


broad daylight heist


People scurried at their own pace,
while the sun from an unseen corner 
shone so bright, it took a lot of courage 
to even look up and spot it smolder.

Like any other day, today as well;
None had the patience or the time to spare
to observe a heist, transpire.
And in broad daylight let the loot be carried away.

No hints whatsoever left behind, 
except for the sky absolutely blue and clear.
He’d dyed them all pink, sweetened
and sealed those clouds in see-through packs’ clusters.

then and now

Overtime, their conversations
gradually moved up with two cups
filled up to the brim 
and no string in between.

arm twist

In His way, we crisscross,
run in circles,
and sometimes try to cut distances
without inching towards destiny.
With our finite wisdom
we word our prayers
to craftily tweak
His arm or will.
Rambling on,
in vain to be heard;
To His words
we seldom pay any heed.
Messed mediators.
Multiple media.
Yet we fail to read,
what lies in between.

are we there yet?

Guilty as charged 
I've lost count 
of those
that died a slow death;
During those nights
You slipped
Deep into sleep;
And I, lay awake
scrambling around.
Settling the serene chaos,
in order,
You stirred up.
Guilty as charged;
I've lost count 
of those candles
that flickered away, 
questioning the pen on paper,
"Are we there yet?"
And it's during these mornings
you see the alchemy in all its glory.
Unlike Midas, the sun's absolved
of the greed; as it touches
and lets go, every spot its eyes
could reach.

inside joke

From a distance they saw her
enter the store;
One aisle to another
Pacing slowly, a regular customer.
The word spread; Then and there,
scattered, hushed laughter.
She after all had bought and worn
their hand-me-down from last season.
An inside joke quite popular
amongst the mall's mannequins.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

We, the tolerant

These times are such
when we are at our tolerant best.
Dissed? oh never! 
We never ever anger 
at our own plight when someone, 
holds up a mirror.
And the truth is what, 
at any time, 
we swallow;
Allowing those who seamlessly dispense 
their opinions
with gentle caresses and mild strokes.
And criticism? Tch, tch! 
We take it all in 
bearing 
and follow it up with a grin.
Peace, runs white, as a mere colour, 
right between our banner.
We, in these times,
stand up; Of course,
for all that we are not.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

||Some times you go invisible. Camouflaged. 
Blended in so well, you go unnoticed. 
Perhaps, that's when you've become the obvious. 
As they say, just another face; 
For those who have their sights high 
and raging ahead in the race. 
You're just a fleeting glance 
who never gets looked at a second time. 
A shadow leaving behind shallow footprints. 
Discoloured, lacklustre fragment 
that's there as  an object of obligation. 
Until, there comes someone who gives 
you that undivided attention that's rightly due. 
And then, the shade you had clad makes sense. 
The dots connect in hind sight. 
You were grey all the while 
to be found by someone colour-blind.||
Isn’t it weird that there was a time
when you would fearlessly go sock skating;
Undeterred by the possibility of smashing
your face and breaking your teeth
on the glassy yet hard mosaic floor.

And then, there were those days
when you would balance on a chair’s hind legs;
Oblivious to the fact that you could
fall behind or the chair could give way
for you to flip back over and crack your skull.

This, followed by the reckless phase
when you would cycle downhill, hands free;
Ignorant of what could await you around
the bend; Or how some gravel on the tarmac
could skin you while you skid down the road.

Now, in an unsure age
when a pink slip could be the next mail;
Unconfidently, you gait between the water dispenser and corner cubicle.
Sit upright on an ergonomic chair with wheels, immobile; How ironical?!
And how cautiously you ride; slacklining the employment lifecycle.

Friday, February 17, 2017

A Curiosity Shop of Sorts

Fragile, elusive, wrapped in corrugated paper
and placed in apple boxes on the floor.
Fluid, mercurial, bottled carefully,
corked and placed in the top most shelf.
Noxious, dense, barreled
and shelved in the basement.
Brittle, bubble wrapped, cellophane taped
with an extra layer of shrink wrap, tucked into corners.
All these and more, stored in shelves
line up the walls from beneath the floor
up to the ceiling. More so, like an old curiosity shop.
The difference: nothing on display;
No tales, no labels, attested.
And all are password locked.
Passwords being not the usual combination
of a minimum of eight characters in length
with at least one in upper case,
a digit, a symbol and the rest in lower case.
But these, a notch above, the cryptexes
unlock to hints of scents wafting in the breeze,
cues of tunes echoing at a distance
and images chanced upon during second glances.
Tucked away safely in your mind’s warehouse
these Pandora’s containers, in different sizes,
stock curses, charms, benedictions
disguised as memories, which when unlocked
cloud your vision from seeing to tomorrow.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

growing old together

To know what she also wants
as opposed to what she merely needs.
Keeping in mind what’s negligible, necessarily.
 
When to say yes,
and when not to say no.
Knowing how to tell them both seemingly, differently.

When she’s called on you that she’s in a fix,
and when she fixed things all by herself.
Either way, she only wants to be heard, apparently.

When she says she wants to come over,
and when she wants you to be there.
That’s right. That’s all you need to do. Be there, essentially.

Above all, it is an ongoing endeavor
with ample room for trials and errors;
Growing old together is when you try TO GET HER, persistently.

Conundrum



||Convoluted customs,
Confused creed.

Commercialism's curse:
Cuddlies, candies;

Convenient choices
Courtesy - China.

Cultural custodians,
Clueless chaotic.

Cupid's coiled
Cribbing, cringing.||

Monday, February 13, 2017

A class beneath the clouds - To Mr. Santiago

"This way, everybody! Follow me.
And just carry a pencil and notebook along”
spoke the tall gentleman with a partly visible smile
beneath a frowning zodiac mustache.
Leading them to the open playground beneath the cottony sky;
In a group, and not in a long winding line.
He left the kids wondering if that period was for PT or Geography.


“Look up, now. Take out the pencil
and sketch what you see up there in your book”
Echoed his voice. Someone sketched a toupee. Another, sheets of linen.
While one drew a wincing whale, the other a drowsy dragon;
While the curious started that very instant.
The sceptics and the conformists followed suit
watching others, they herded, after a few squandered minutes.


“Now, one by one show me your sketches.
Let’s unmask those creations and creatures”
he said. Thus, began the lesson on different forms of clouds.
From cirrus, cumulus and stratus; and their combinations
like cirrostratus, stratocumulus and nimbus, they were totally ten.
The class was now on cloud number nine, to be precise, cumulonimbus
as they all knew every cloud by their name.


“We’ll meet again tomorrow, same time; At the park near the Chapel.
Come empty handed. And be prepared to get those hands soiled”
he said and dismissed the class. Since then to this very day;
Perhaps, those kids dwelling within still look up, to find the cirrus
disguised as a toupee, or stratus as linen sheets. Fondly remembering the days
when lessons were taught within walls, across desks and amid chalk dust;
There was one who shared his classroom with a wide blue ceiling and horizon bound floor.

Tuesday, February 07, 2017

Christmas Eve

At the foot of the chimney
by the furnace;
milk and cookies
awaited a saint.
But, not one soul,
sound asleep, could hear
the Saviour
knocking on the door. 

faith

For some, a puddle.
And some, across oceans.
To each their own.
A feat, nonetheless.
A mustard or a mountain.
He gauges not your faith.
But strengthens you
to take that leap. 
During her sleepless nights
she kept him too wide awake.
He tossed, shimmered
and played along,
till daylight.
Only to submerge her
into a blinding deep slumber.
Placid, he rested all day long.
Reeling and regaining the lost
vigor.
Lucid, well rested, she rose from
beyond
and returned for another
all-nighter.
Polaroids,
paintings,
prose & poetry.
All attempts
to picture
her perfectly
turned paltry,
persistently.
Perhaps, she was
perpetually mercurial
to be prisoned
in a portrait.

parched

The beeswax
with a tinge of
peppermint oil
soothed his lips.
Yet the soul
was left parched
till he met her again. 

code name: Mo Mo

And then there are those
reclined on the window seat
with the blinds down
and the blindfold on.
Unperturbed until there's turbulence;
In other words, Monday Mornings.


kutcha road chronicle

Riding homewards
on a still noon,
kutcha road.
Sun hid, an inch,
behind the brows.
Ahead,
an overfull water tanker's
lugged by a tractor.
A chance encounter
with petrichor.
On a scale of
honey from the rock
to
peanut butter stuck
to the roof of the mouth.
She wall all that
he alone relished
before scribbling
them into words.

regrets

Curled, foetal
Floater, log
Sideways, yearner
Stiff, soldier
Sprawled, starfish
Facedown, free falling
Alive, awake
Dead, raging
6 feet under, or above
Regrets, bed-of-nails

Between a "happily ever after." and "The End."

A few millimeters.
An inch.
A span.
Maybe, from the foot
of a page to another’s heart.
Well, this could be
the ideal distance between
a “happily ever after” and “The End.”
That said, what’s unseen,
in between,
at this space.
The meandering universe
flanked by these two clich├ęs
comprise: events, uneventful;
moments, uncertain;
and hours, unforeseen.
This minuscule void
that lies amid is what goes amiss.
In the perpetual haste
to reach a happy ending;
This lapse of reason
towards the end of a season
is what stocks the hidden pursuit;
In volumes of untold tales.

Friday, January 20, 2017

#

#Wavy or #straight,
#Airblown or #just-out-of-shower-fresh. 
There’s no clue 
on what’s brewing within
on deceptively #goodhairdays.
#messy or #tied-up,
#unwell or #stressed
you’ll sparingly catch a glimpse
of these #justnotmydays. 
Copiously sprinkled 
with #everythingunderthesun hashtags; 
The windows offer an illusive preview; 
Hinting not on what awaits
behind those password locked doors.
Comment cautiously 
Or tap in your fade in and out hearts.
Unlike what Banksy’s Flower Thrower clutches;
She’s the real deal. She’s bottled-up rage. 
A Molotov cocktail.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Puttu finds his purpose

Leaned over the balcony’s grill 
He gently blew into the wand’s circle; 
As he dipped into the tiny soap water bottle. 
Serially, out came soap water bubbles;
Tiny ones followed the big ones, bearing rainbows, brittle.


Some, gigantic; Burst before they descended.
The tiny ones would disappear just after they landed.
The ones that would delight the passersby by were all mid-sized.
With kids on the street, leaping up and clasping, the bubbles unarmed.
While grownups, popped them with their fingertips, once spotted. 


What joy he could spread with a little breath and some soap water?!
That moment was when he paused and his mind began to wander. 
He knew what he’d do when he grew up to be taller and stronger. 
A light bulb flashed over his head, and a neon sign appeared around with a glimmer. 
“Puttu’s Soap Water Bubble Bottle Factory” read the sign as he looked up in wonder.