Kallola

They asked me for two lamps.  Because a pair is more auspicious than one.  But light is light. One lamp or two –  how many are there in the Sun?  They thought a while and considered.  Beat, they smiled and surrendered.  But logic is stark and doctrine is dark –  fact became as fiction rendered.  Scriptures preach to set us free.  Believe. And you won’t be forsaken.  But freedom comes from fearlessness –  or are the bonded yet to awaken?  Ask and you’ll receive say the Good.  If charity were free I probably would.  Here all things that count, come at a price –  so, you do what you can and I’ll do what I should.  Action counts more than words. That’s a simple truth to keep.  Learnings from life don’t come without sight –  yet the blind will drive us into deep.  Look within, you’ll find your fate.  Believe your instincts, you’ll never hate.  Faith and freedom beget one...

Once Upon a Pallu image source: www   A trusty   little black dress works its magic at a high-stakes gala and all goes as planned until heads turn to pay due respects to a swooshing six-yarder making its   haute   entry. Quite clear in her mandate and assured in her stance, this real-life cat-woman wears her cape on her arm.  She is well-heeled, suitably accessorised and, despite a racy neckline, she is utterly graceful. And because she is technically ‘traditionally’ dressed, she is also appropriately attired to address an unexpected boardroom debacle directly after. Back home, when a conservative elder meets her at the door, a firm tug of the   pallu   over her shoulders serves her just fine. For the benefit of a stricter doctrine, she simply drapes it over her head. Yes, she plays it well. Dignified, contemporary, complete and confident in her ethnicity, she is our   sampoorna bharatiya nari , the epitome of elegance.   ...

When they say age is a number, ask a mother's heart that waits upon each moment right from the start. Every turn, every coo, every kick that turns her blue, every twitch, every ache... a million times over she will take because those nine months were not numbers, they were worlds she cherished awake and sedate...dawn to late. And now, there are fights and senseless squabbles. There are those 'orders' and sporadic baubles. Each year that rolls on is a laurel on laurels - every one a victor, despite the foibles. And now I stand, the mist filling my eye. When I look up to you, I can't help but sigh. My not-so-little man, all of fifteen, I see it in your eyes, in your manner so keen that age was never just a number. Your years, Son, are an appraisal, of goals seen and unseen. It's my score-card of promise - my graph past the mean. My heart swells with pride, as I watch your unmistakable stride. Your life lies ahead, waiting, its winds, sere...

He waits for the dark to engulf him. He finds that rather safe. The moonlight sways to tease his eye but gets lost in the alley’s haze.      She walks alone, her home in sight      of the city that’s asleep.      He makes his move. Under the street lamps high,      he bids to daunt her grace. She fends him off. "That daring bitch! How dare she stay out late! And then to say she’s not for takes ... what insolent craze!"      A city swells in loud lament,      its reputation at stake!      What’s changed so much? Why do evils rise now      from celebrations’ daze? "The winter’s winds are warmer", you say, "And the streets are rife with life!" What one would think as grand design is another’s watcher’s maze.      You blame the wind, the people new.      You blame the men in chair,      w...

Mr Iyer Goes to War - Ryan Lobo A logic-defying, maverick, rollercoaster of a thriller 3D read. Popcorn, anyone?        “ When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin ”. Even in translation, even with the day’s twitter-size sensibilities, and even though very few find succour in the existentialist stronghold of Franz Kafka’s writing, his most unforgettable opening line of The Metamorphosis, haunts. This is not just because the writing is stark but because the imagery connects at a basic level of humanity’s absurd struggle for emotional wellbeing. Cut to Varanasi. Ryan Lobo’s debut protagonist, Mr Iyer, breaks free from the absurdity of his own existence and takes us on a fantastical rampage, all too real. The Ganges flows unperturbed, as two accomplished gentlemen lay on adjacent hospice beds, waiting to die, alone. While one fought for the country and has a gall...

. “Do you realise that you must wear a   sari ?!” a dear aunt gasped in mock earnestness, while heartily congratulating me on my looming wedding. It brings a smile to me even now, 15 years on, when I think back on the day, as I sit snug in my well-fitted denims, exactly as I did back then, caressing fine silk and contemplating between its many folds whether the colour would reflect the light, if it was too heavy to carry and if I should escape to the ease of a chiffon   kurta   and silk cigarette pants for a festive albeit traditional evening. That effortless elegance can come in lengthy fabrics of all kinds and has held our mothers securely every single day of their adult lives rendering them breathtakingly divine when the occasion so demands, is now a matter of deliberate consideration for ‘special wear’. It makes for serious thought. It is also time again for the cosmopolitan urban belle to revitalise the cultural context and rediscover the glory of the ...

Time has a way with time itself And yet it falters at the close The best of times are untimely... even cursed And the worst of times are best at worst Where does that leave a plan or a scheme Where does a wish get fulfilled Once upon a time Comes but once in a while Even for the sake of verse. ¬¬ Also on: Unboxed Writers  

Seven Rose plants were laid to rest today. After several trials, many buds, many more blooms eaten by nature’s cutest creations and many re-positions to pander to light and air fickleness, I had to concede that my balcony was just too moody for these seemingly hardy yet extremely delicate plants.  न चलती हवा काम आई न धीमे धूप की तपन न हल्की वर्षा की ठंडई न प्यार से बोले वचन . मेरे गुलाब आए , खिले और बिखर गये . किसने सोचा था कि  छाया भी कभी कातिल बन जाएगी . पर चार गज़ का आँगन मेरा , मेरे दिल का बाग़बान , मेरी राज़ों का रखवाला , मेरी सोच का कदरदान , यही समझाता रहता है कि ज़िंदगी एक नाटक है जिसका सूर्य है सूत्रधार और हम उसकी कठपुतली. यहाँ कभी पंखुड़ी हंस कर खिल जाती है तो कभी हवा से हिल जाती है . हम तो बस माली हैं , समय के . निगाहें हैं , एहसास के . कुछ दिख जाए कहीं तो परखना ज़रूर , इस लेन - देन के चक्कर में , संभलना ज़रूर . And so, my tiny garden tutors me...

Does a fish catch cold? Can a Sun ray turn to gold? What if the sky turned green and stalks grew inside the bean? Where do all the colours go when the lights are out and candles blow? Who made the smile, ma? And why does it tickle so? How do you know my bruise will heal? Kiss it better, seal the deal. Why is a cuddle the best of all? When will the kitten call? Will the Sun always shine so bright so every misty morning turns out right? Tell me what is yet to come Let me in on the fun. My curious mind will always seek and keep me young and on a peak. My wings will always stand to fly down valleys lush, up endless sky. Because that's what you taught me, ma. To be, to live, to ever see. So my heart is warm and mind is free. Happy Childrens' Day :-)

What is it with domineering foes like suspicion, inhibition and other marital woes? Why can a day not just pass without the thought of another's lows? Why is it that the world matters more than what one can do to hold it all close? How is it that love becomes less than what an unknown universe unfolds?! Think! Oh! Silly heart. It is all in your grasp - your love, your life, your moments that clasp every tenderness, all that joy to hold and behold... It's your Kingdom, fool. Sit back and bask!