And so it ended...

I’m standing on my terrace today, something which I rarely do. It is about six-ish, a time when it’s not exactly twilight, but the day is inching languidly towards it. After days of depressing rain the sky is a clear, matted, evening grey-blue-orange. There are only two stars, bright and trembling, arranged in a canted line. But what strikes me most is the moon; it’s a wafer-thin crescent, placed below the stars. Voila! A smiley face :)

A grayish cloud smudged in dull orange in the edges, owing to the setting sun, slowly makes its way towards the face. There are other clouds too, but they are just wisps of white, like white cotton candy strewn randomly. The cloud looks like a nymph now, with long, flowing hair… Now, now! It’s a locust, crouching, but slow… there! It’s a see-saw!

Everything is so slow, silent, calm… as though hushed in prayer. I cannot make out when and how the cloud changes shape, even as my eyes are riveted on it. It seems to flow. Even the birds, in groups and in singles, are inky shadows, gliding, sliding over the velvet sky. No cackling, no flapping… no sound…

Slowly the evening chants begin in the nearby temple… Om… Om… Om… with a slight hint of cymbals. The moment is so real… The cloud, the stars, the birds… They are so alive, even as they are so silent and slow.

The sky is turning a twilight-blue now… The cloud is drifting away into oblivion, finishing its slow, graceful dance.

My mom rushes up the stairs, sees me and screams “ENNA DA PANRE!!!” (What are you doing?!!)

It’s over.

TAJ, YOUR PIGEONS

Just that evening
They fed them so,
With eager hands
And cozy smiles
As the sun set over
The Gateway of India

The pigeons,

They pecked and cooed
It tingled, it soothed
To feel their delicate beaks
On open palms

Yet, back they went
To the majesty of the Taj
To sip on their wine
In the marble rooms

Gun shots.
They spilled their wine
And blood spilled too
In earnest measure
Which one was redder?
They wouldn’t live to see

Oblivious to the stiffening
Of the palms that fed,
They cooed, they cooed
Outside the royal inferno

The denizens of a century,
In hordes and hordes
They had fed off the crumbs
From the palms of the Taj

They flutter in groups
At every shot and blast,
Confused and struck
Like their human counterparts

Fire and smoke
Billows into the sky,
Still they don’t fly too far
How can they?

Terror?
They know nothing about that
Grenades?
No, they haven’t seen one
All they have seen and know
Are the crumbs they fed
Off the palms of the Taj

A shot rings out.
They fly again,
Then return to search
For the palms that fed.

They don’t find them.

PAANDI MACCHA...

Gawd... This is the third year in a row I had been to Pondi as part of the cul team and I think its high time I wrote a testimony to this fish town and the JIPMER fest called 'SPANDAN' that has been the scene for many a winner treating friends in the (only) canteen out of joy, and many a loser treating himself in the (only) canteen out of depression; for splendid bike rides of threes and sixes! with the girls, inviting envious looks from the city people (Of course, the guys weren't complaining); for midnight domino pizzas and countless pictures taken on countless digicams and the undeniable (and inevitable) groups that formed within the cul team and MORE.....

THE PLASTICS

JIPMER unbashedly promotes usage of non-degradable material by providing us with plastic buckets the moment we step on the campus grounds every year, as with this year. I think its a secret code to the Christite crowd that we all need a freakin bath cause we stink! Some brilliant mind in the team came up with the idea of tying our team buckets with orange twines so that we can identify them, sort of a local Christite flag it became, that orange tag. Unfortunately, some other smart asses form other colleges slyly took off the tags and made the buckets their own. Not that we bothered much about the buckets (they rightfully belonged in the re-cycling centre of Pondi! Man I've seen one blue and white bucket, all broken and cracked, for all my three visits!), what bothered us was that that the brilliant mind in our team who came up with the idea forgot to notice that - twines can be untwined :P and yeah, none of us realised either.

On the street one day...

THE COBBLER, MAN


With the morning dust
Scattered ahead
Cross-legged he sat
The cobbler, man

With solemn gaze
Slowly he placed
The wares before him
In perfect pairs

Sunlight clean, streamed through leaves
Formed dancing patterns
On the ground
And on his mind unsettled too

‘Will someone trip
And snap her sandal strap?
Will someone his ankle twist
And let his shoe-heel fly?’
He waited in vain
For misery to strike
And his empty penny-box
In earnest to fill

He placed the needle
In a perfect line
Right ahead in the
Centre of his square

No, it didn’t seem right
To place it here
On the left then
Let’s place it there

To the centre again
And then to the right
Thus he spent his time
Waiting in vain
For misery to strike

He then packed his wares
With a twisted frown
Saying
‘Luck runs high here
For passers-by’

So he left in search
Of a place uneven
Where men tripped and fell
And let their shoe-heels fly.