Poet | Writer of Indian Fantasy fiction | Forever Perpetually Dreaming
"May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks." - J.R.R.Tolkien, The Hobbit
Thoughts to live by for her
She says that her eyes strain for the trueness of colour Yet all her sons are equally bright The sin and sinner the price devour
The Spell Book
Back at school, when they taught me to spell, I learned nothing. Words were sounds and sounds became pieces of memory stored in a vacuum. The teachers tried as did the spelling bee. But nothing stuck or stung. The right letters and the left letters were the same. Vowels were consonants before consonants were vowels. I used to stare at the black board and memorise only by geometry; if they did all the teaching then I was the student. Kids these days have computers, half-eaten apples, but back then I had my apple and ate it too. How things have changed now, I wonder as I type into my MacBook Air - artificial intelligence, the cutting edge of science and modern technology inventing the wheel for the first time. But I am here. The nothingness in the vast dark matter of space, in between the letters and beneath the sounds as meaning. I was ‘bi-lingual’; teaching my mother tongue of the Dravidian family the Germanic lingo was like using a pick-up truck to deliver a village. Finally, my will was what gave way to the birth of a new era of sounds within me, for a wise man once said, sounds are sounds; we make up the meaning. So now, I deliver my mother tongue in Germanic as I stare at my old spelling books and replay the memories, giving them new meaning. I experience an explosion of psychotic cosmic chaos - a bunch of words that make no sense, yet I started to revel in the fantasy of this non-sense verse. A universe of zeros and ones.
Seven they say, seeds of seers sown The rules to play by, the notes of Cupid’s bow I lick my rainbow coloured lips And whistle an ode to my mother.
Perpetually Dreaming Make-Up
My watch slipped off my wrist and fell on the shop floor. I snatched it up and snapped it to my wrist. Eight past eight and the glass had a clean split going half way across the screen. Great, just what I needed after the long haul. The ouroboros tattoo still stung underneath the cold metal as I stared into the mirror in the shop. I flattened the stray hairs and ran my hand through my hair to weed out the loose ones, then looked properly at my reflection. 42, and not counting. They say that my age is the number of actual worlds in the real world. Whatever that means. I looked at my eyes. The bags had bags and could do with some concealer. I take brush and dab underneath both eyes with a colour far lighter than my skin tone. Not bad. I could do with some black eye-liner and thick clumped mascara. There. The 21 year-old me stared back at me. All this talk about physics and time being relative could just as well be achieved through make-up. I glanced back to the watch, any minute now. And then it happened. The dial started moving backwards, only at double the time per cycle. They say the older you get, each year is a smaller proportion of your life, but what happens when you grow younger? Each year is a bigger proportion of your life. Did things appear normal then? Inverse exponentials were not my forte back in school, but now that I was anti-aging, inverse inverse exponentials were troubling my mind. I frowned at the watch, unable to read the time. Half the time, later I was half as old, eleven and a half. I looked at the mirror again and saw reflections on reflections, a myriad of myself or selves. Relativity is not something out in space, it is here now, I thought, as I watched myself tending to the infinity of my negatively infinite birth. The tattoo was alive and I watched the glass on the watch repair itself. The mirror was no more. I know not how long I have been dreaming on this eight by three swing called Time. Too much much of an eye-flick. I reach out for the wipe to dab at the corner of my eyes and erasing the upward flick of the lines I had drawn on. Instinctively knowing the trend was not right, I drew my upward left flick in the outer left corner of my left eye and a tiny inward and downward flick in the inner corner a reflected the same on the right side of my face. Now, surveying my lips, I noticed my bottom lip was larger than my upper. I drew in more volume on the upper lip with my red lip liner and filled in my now even lips.
Guardians of India (Chapter 1)
Suspended in the fall from the heavens, painted gods and celestial beings of chiselled stone guard the temple entrance from the entire gamut of mingling juxtaposed humanity. Though sculpted into the pyramidal towers, they sense the young men below being drawn by the scent of the jasmine garlands in the braids of the maidens who wear vibrant saris and carry caskets of flowers as offerings for the carp-eyed goddess, Meenakshi.
A Dying Love
You left me raw, once. My tragic screaming, your pursed lips How I remember our last dance The breaking violin, red tulips
The Tree of Possibilities
Nourishing is this darkness, and damp. Yet I know; darkness alone I am not. So I search on, Bursting through this coat Mother had given me,
The Heresy of Herstory
Repeat. Forward the will of the feminine, Her sight is beyond worlds. Glory to her eyes That look on as ropes tie Her hands into prayer.