Welcome to my A-Z 2018, for which I am revisiting Africa, the continent of my childhood and my dreams. The posts are, as always, infoheavy and opinionated, but they are sectioned off - some music, the day’s topic, couple writers, a slideshow from the safaris – plenty ways to cherry-pick. So you may consume just as much, or as little, as you're cool with. Zero obligation to agree with any of my views either, feel free to air yours :)

Saturday, 12 January 2013

Romantic Friday Writers Challenge : New Year! New Love!



It’s time for the first RFW Challenge  of the year!  With the New Year there are some changes there,  the challenge will now be monthly, with an extended word limit and time frame.  Must admit I like both the ideas.  Higher word limits mean more elaborate, fleshed-out stories to read (what fun!), and the new deadline means more time to come up with one and also greater leeway to tell it, all entirely welcome.

Membership is not mandatory for participation, so if you like writing, then do go over and see if you want to give it a try.

Here is my entry for this challenge:






Vikram shakes a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, stirs it and brings the mug through to the sitting room.  A quick sip later, he sets it down; on the lace coaster Anita had got, that looks as frozen snowflake-like as ever.  So many things in this room, in his life are so completely hers that it’s practically impossible not to see her everywhere.  In the stuff she’s left behind, the clothes and the books, her collections of milkjugs, old handwritten letters, brass oil lamps, newspaper cuttings; she’d always been a great one for squirreling.  Friends had helped him pack them off, the ostensible bits anyway.  But many frozen snowflakes in the gullies remain unnoticed; refusing to melt.

He still wishes that things had worked out different.  Sometimes, back from work, he absent-mindedly thinks that he must call her, calculating the time difference as a reflex almost.  Then he remembers and comes to himself again. No-one knows that she is still there on his personal gadgets, password-protected among his Skype contacts and cell-phone shortcuts. A photo of them both, grainy and indistinct, still preserved in one of the rarely used flaps of his wallet.  Shot in their final year at the university, she looking at the camera unsmiling; his face is flung open in a wide smile, his eyes trying to look wicked and not quite making it.

He had teased her about that fortune-teller. They, with friends had visited the winter fair, and trooped into the astrologer’s marquee.  The old man had looked at Anita’s palm and face and mumbled stuff about her past life, mostly accurately. Vikram had known Anita right from childhood, the two families had lived close by.

The chap had stroked her palm, and peered at it; and then mumbled, ”What you think is love now, isn’t.  Real love will come late.”

She had withdrawn her hand sharply, and let the next person take her place.  It was ridiculous nonsense of course, just some harmless fun among friends.  So he had teased her afterwards, but she hadn’t laughed, her irritation mounting at his banter.  A little later, some friend had clicked that photo, a sharp silence in her face forever captured in monochrome.  He had got a copy and carried it in his purse; he always did think that she looked magnificent when she was annoyed.  Somehow the photo had taken on an extra significance, an added shade of humorous defiance when they had got married later.  He had never removed it, stuffing it in all the successions of wallets that he’d used in over two decades. He had never had any occasion to think of the astrologer or his predictions.  He’d never had much use for astrology anyways.

They got married, moved a couple of times, then Vikram had got an offer abroad.  He had wound up his life and moved, and she’d followed him after she found work there; things had fallen into place in uncommonly lucky ways.  The children came, and the beam of their love widened to include babies without weakening its focus on each other. The kids grew up and first Sam went off to university a whole continent away.  Then Vir and Vidhu followed, but were somehow unable to settle down.  So after much discussion she had gone to look after them, leaving Vikram alone and a little at sea.  It had been difficult to get used to the empty nest, a lot emptier than he had bargained for. 

For several months he had felt unsettled; hard done by because he had to come back to a dark home and eat alone; robbed of the pleasure of seeing the children’s sleeping faces at the start and end of day;   the rooms stripped of their laughter and rivalries, the bickering over the TV remote suddenly acquiring a shine now that it had gone entirely quiet.  But he had gone about building his solitary life slowly and painstakingly, employing his empty evenings to pick up a hobby, rekindling old friendships, and acquiring a deeper understanding of himself and the culture he lived in.  And a sudden empathy for many co-workers living here without their families.  He had coped somehow, moved into a smaller home that didn’t emphasise their absence in such an unnervingly pointed manner.

He and Anita spoke every day.  They wrote emails and texts, on screens large and small; shared photographs and updates, in too vehement an attempt trying to erase the distance.  They met every holiday. He never doubted that they would resume their old life from where they’d left off.  And they had done, too; she’d come back once the offspring were settled and there remained no excuse for her presence there.  But something about her, and perhaps him too, had irrevocably changed. Picking up the threads of the relationship turned out surprisingly difficult.  It felt like having to relearn to live together all over again.

They’d had a baffling number of arguments about complete trivia, shockingly vicious, the painful aftermath lingering for days.  One night she’d been disproportionately angry about some piffling serving spoons, claimed to be her favourite suddenly, of which he’d had no inkling. It had ended with the absurd idea of moving back with the kids. 
 
He’d tried reasoning but she was impervious.  He’d lost it then, at her playing the victim always, supposedly uprooted at every whim of her family.  Did she think he’d had it easy?  She at least had had the children. He’d had nobody. Did she even know what being truly alone was?  A silly argument had somehow morphed into a life-changing one.  He’d suddenly remembered the strange prediction.  Was there somebody else? She’d said nothing, just looked at him appraisingly for a long moment. And then gone back.



That had been a year ago this New Year.

Vikram finishes his coffee and picks up his cell.  Who knows, perhaps it’s time to go wooing again. He dials a number; and waits.


WC-993
FCA
 

 

 

 

Monday, 7 January 2013

Comfort and Karma



Image courtesy Dina M. Ramadan. Used with permission.





I too will find my comfort somewhere
treading these virtual hamster wheels.
There are spokes enough for people in despair -
a moment’s fragile foothold made in steel -
that bring me around, endlessly spiralling stairs
and I climb forever, blindly follow the spiel
of a final happiness that’ll always be there
just because I’ve bought into this deal.

 

Outside in the world, minute by minute
the old lamps are switched off one by one
other brighter bulbs are tentatively lit
and already some splutter, and some are done.
And circling is easily bent into habit
wherever it is that I might choose to run
and despair equally impossible to quit
it has its own headiness of addiction.

 

Not every night explodes into a dawn,
the flare of dawns can likewise be a curse
the wheels might turn, the roads go on and on
with nothing worth tugging into a verse
and comfort itself so brief that it’s gone
before I’ve raised my head, or even worse
it’s just like despair, its face wan and withdrawn
and even as I look its outline blurs.

 

Each chipped beaker that I stop at and sip
whips past so fast, before I can make out
its contents or its level, just touch my lips
and swill and swallow the stuff in my mouth
and then again get back on that doped trip
the spokes and the bespoke roundabout,
the treadmill and the wheels of pain and hardship
the routine numbers of despair and doubt.

 

My small world within worlds within worlds
each nested into others and the infinite;
Tiny fists of events eternally unfurled
and analysed till they splay and fray to bits
despair seeded deep in them and pearled
and strung into the same lines and orbits
that grain of pain preserved and never dulled
though the nacre vainly tries to cover it.

 

But I will find my comfort, never fear,
in the vastness of the universe, its splendour;
in the microcosms that my life here
tries to replicate fitfully and so render
them meaningful, yet meaningless too; in spheres
of unreality, where I grasp the slender
rim of that wheel, though I can’t feel or steer
by it; though all I do is, in the end, surrender.



Shared for OLN@dVerse where "each week we connect to share our words, our hearts, our hopes and dreams…linking up with one of the most awesome, vibrant, poetic communities on the web"…

Sunday, 6 January 2013

Back to school





The new term starts tomorrow,
the children go back to school
a different kind of peaceful
will warp the day, almost semi-sorrow.

 

While they were home, they woke up late,
ate at odd times, played with screens
kept hours that wouldn’t be allowed in
your days, but you didn’t remonstrate.

 

Two weeks of merry upheaval -
young voices in the living room,
weird music played at a hiked volume
you can barely call civil;

 

thank god, the neighbours can’t complain
because their children, home as well
make enough noise of their own, cancel
out yours, but it’s still hard to entertain

 

sudden demands for junk food,
cola, rides to places, movies, malls;
your day’s routine scrambled by it all,
your days of ordered solitude

 

now they’ll lie blankly tranquil,
with precise routines of nothingness
tomorrow a sterile silence, less
noise, politely low music, time to kill;

 

leisurely prepared and sipped coffees,
unbroken quiet hours to yourself
minus all turmoil, but you can’t help
wonder if it really makes for peace.



Shared at Poetics@dVerse where the prompt today is "peace".

Saturday, 5 January 2013

Hearts





At the heart of pearls
just the dark,
earthly grains of sand

 

and the blue-green world
its core the
darkness of metal.

 

You don’t know the heart;
don’t presume
you do, or you can.

Wednesday, 2 January 2013

Pirouette





Another year comes and pirouettes
twirls once, twice, and then leaves the stage
without making time for elaborate
recaps, without the clichéd, set
speeches that fall grandly off the page;

 

the last of the mornings draws to a close
behind an amorphous mist of rooftops
behind the naked trees, and winter shows
of merry red blooms, and jingling radios
and pushy red signs in the malls and shops;

 

somewhere the leaf-drop of terrible news;
the scream of a shell fossilised into stone.
Soft mollusc insides of lives torn, the livid bruise
of blood in stinging brine, the wounded queues,
the bubbles of pain, each cruising alone.

 

But the vicious trickle of viscous black despair
still gets stoppered by the crumbly cork
of shaky hope, and love pricks it everywhere
and breaks the quick-formed crust over its layer.
The new year comes in with its turns and torque.