tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77508442011-12-15T08:32:16.733+05:30scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.comBlogger381100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-68855965975874151592010-04-01T20:03:00.002+05:302010-04-01T20:05:41.494+05:30

1.Ice smoke kisses coolthe passion of a summerstill sweating for him2.My bare breath and Ilistless longing for a lifeon dry summer days

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-77821533307235748302008-07-03T15:27:00.003+05:302008-07-03T15:37:09.068+05:30

The girl is beautiful I am in awe, but need to blurt out: What kind of name is April?That’s a month.So?So how can your name be April?She towers up in gorgeous splendourand looks at me with pity. Well,There’s the actress called January – you know her.I do?And I have a friend called February.This, with a haughty note of authority. I did odd jobs for Mr. March on weekends, so I look at her glossy

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-33252147210988637782007-07-04T17:32:00.000+05:302007-07-04T17:36:41.162+05:30

I do my friendship test on him :Where do you go when you hide from yourself?We are suddenly buddies.He turns to me, shoulder to shoulder, soul to soul“Like when you want to cry as the plane takes offand you cant tell anyone that you hate flyingand are scared of going crash-bang –over?And when you really want to pick up the freepens and pads at the conference -everyone does but your guilt brought

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-81062351832258288442007-06-07T20:12:00.000+05:302007-06-07T20:18:26.080+05:30

I read to you- my words may slurand run around the room –my tongue may slip.I began toasting tonight pre-lunchand into the hot eye-burning eveninghoping that words and grapes will hold me up.But did you drink the wine todayon this sunshine day rich with wordsthat blur your soaked skin and soul?Around you they speak in Attics with casks of winethat have been aged and gained in taste and

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1169710644499345032007-01-25T12:47:00.000+05:302007-03-06T23:43:16.683+05:30

Later, he would say I think I first really saw her in a sheetclutching the crumpled clothher body awkward in surprisethat she had slept the night with himThe memory of last night written on the faded grey patches of that sheet (scarred by harsh detergentin a mediocre laundry service)a ball-scratching receptionistthe outside neon light leeringat the sweaty forgotten orgasm,or not,in a bare

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She is upsetand regrets that he has behaved so contrarily She is silent or curt when she speaksShe doesn’t look him in the eyenor allows his touch to brush hereven casually.But her eyes are alive and she has left the window openfor him to make upnot overtly, not immediately.He must be subtle and sensitive and coax her gently, perhaps silentlyHe must apologize yet not be servile.Gestures will

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1163159759359442002006-11-10T16:58:00.000+05:302006-11-10T17:26:00.106+05:30

35 years agoa 15 year old boycried out for help, darkly, through a swirling abysscircled by desperatelyclutching arms, black fighting white..No one seemed to have listened.Instead they gave him the prize for'best artist of the year'. 35 years later50 year old schoolboys stand unsteadily on a cocktail forumand express chaotic concern over a mate whose status in their limited evening lexicon they

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Life lives in the long wide spacesthat stretch to apinpointin the far distancewhere your breathpulls in and moves out.You try to focus asa rushing world distracts youlike whispers from the back row of the theatrethat make you miss a look, a word, a clue,perhaps, the play itself.And as you breathe intothat open vent of light,your thoughts babbleand chatter offstage,streaming layersthat continue

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Last eveningI realized it was truethat my world had stoppedseven years ago.Last eveningthe light in the room across on the terraceof the neighbour’s housesuddenly lit up the dying dusk, and I turned around and said,“Ma?”

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What is with thiseyes-meeting thing?Just another group of suitswalking briskly past each otherin the dry-airedtunnels of an officeand our eyes meetfor barely a momentand glance away whilecontinuing our conversationswith suddenly faceless colleagueswhile holding our folders smartlyyour laptop pulling your shouldersdown to level your eyes with mine.By the time I reach my cabinI’m ready to have an

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There is no oil on my soul. I too have come outto dry my wings.I watch as you take a long flight close to the surface of the waterfast and confidentsmart and straightand then make a perfect divebravely into the world below.Where are you, my Cormorant?I wait breathlessly.Are you breathing in there as you explore and searchfind food and feed your desire? You are gone for

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1151078537408282202006-06-23T21:30:00.000+05:302006-07-04T16:58:33.846+05:30

Can I just stayat the edges of our friendshipwithout swimming to the whorls of the centre?There’s so much I can read from the edgesAre they strong and straight?fenced in by the seams?tattered, ragged or wild?frayed with nervous hysteria?giving way unwillingly to gentle pulls and pushes?Why must I always experience the whole?It tires me.Have the years not taught me yetthat I can stay at the topfor

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1145386112201420012006-04-19T00:15:00.000+05:302006-04-19T00:18:32.213+05:30

How easily we clear the clutterfrom our lives todayTouch buttons to ejectpeople, words, memories, messages.I'm still desperately searchingfor the Erase command on my heartin this new model of Methat has limited card space

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1144425800862310832006-04-07T21:12:00.000+05:302006-04-07T21:33:20.896+05:30

My neice said,What should I do when people say,"I'm sorry about your grandmother.I'm sorry she died"?And I gently gave hera choice of stock answersthat may help her get by.These are easy, I wanted to sayThere are other deathsthat could freeze your wordsand chill your heart.Slowly they all died -Maand Didi and Papaji and Nanimaand friends and relativesand friends' relatives,and strangers in global

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1140610862501028142006-02-22T17:49:00.000+05:302006-02-22T17:51:02.503+05:30

Have you also noticed we have different bodies here?My legs lounge carelessly over yours Uncaring of the angle and closeness of limbsmine or yours.They do not talk to seduceSkin on skin is just drowsy and friendly. Our stomachs protrude on beer and prawnsUnashamedly Rubenesque.Sand-encrusted feet graze against each otherheads thrown back insolently, almost,To a sun unused to our honesty.My

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1140610737349847412006-02-22T17:44:00.000+05:302006-02-22T17:48:57.360+05:30

IIs Lawrence hereafter all these years?Yes, Madam, so glad to see you back.He has no clue of who I amBut we sit close on the deck chair I hire from himand talk as long lost friends do when they pick up threads effortlesslyto knit a new camaraderie that we then wear close to our skins over the next four days.His innocent smile now enmeshed into an ingratiating body leans forward eagerly to provide

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1121858916896330152005-07-20T16:56:00.000+05:302005-07-20T16:58:36.903+05:30

IChocolate flavoured tearsOf the mute women of DafourTaste forever bitter III dream of large canvases with warm chocolate coloured womendraped defiantly in bright flowing fabric - purple, pink, orange -arranged against a stark golden desert.Alert, unbending bodies with mute closed mouthsand dry - bright - white eyesthat say nothing of burning childrenand headless husbands,of marauding

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1121336285310596402005-07-14T15:46:00.000+05:302005-07-14T15:48:05.316+05:30

How effortlessly you topple mefrom the smug crest of my carefully gathered equilibrium,carved patiently over endless time. A swish of verbal weapons rush past, the backlash creatinga rustle in the air around my calm,and my tranquility crumblesin a heap of agitated fragments to be put together once again bit by tiring bit. You have won the war. (c)Anita V. July 2005

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1113980364809924942005-04-20T12:27:00.000+05:302005-04-20T12:29:24.810+05:30

It hasn't grownthe family moans,Such a wild and ugly tree.Ma defends it, as mothers will"'tis Nature running free".Dad shakes his headHe's heard it said,there are beauties in the park-glowing, vivid, sparkling still;Our tree is dull and dark.The years have flown.Now Summer's blownit's warmth into a spring sunrise.I wake at 6 and look outsidelo! a radiant red surprise.My bottle-brush bloomsO'er

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1112090300947448042005-03-29T15:13:00.000+05:302006-08-18T01:18:20.303+05:30

Silence IWe have a strange friendshipSilence and I.We meet again, often now,as when and I was young.It has been many years.I have changed.So has Silence.As a child, I would meet Silencein magic places.on the second branch of the mango tree,in the sweet smelling laundry cupboard,on the front seat atop the double decker bus.Silence was my accompliceand would make space for me to spin fantasies that

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1112089294035343292005-03-29T15:08:00.000+05:302005-03-29T15:11:34.043+05:30

Sometimes when I touchthe centre of my soulI grow endlessly.I am I, I am youI am him and herI am it, and this and thatI am allAnd I wonder why you talk of soulmateswhen there is no otherwhen the soul is only oneIt is all.What are you looking for,if you are the soul?(c) Anita V. March 2005

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You see her on your way to worka brisk efficiency and cheer willanimate her soul as she steps into the office;now her eyes are ringed by dark circlesset in a flaccid fallen face. And you think to yourselfthat between the tedium of last night’s dishesand the children’s morning tiffin she has become a boring nameless woman as routine as the daily train schedule.You see her in the

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1109862616606387252005-03-03T20:39:00.001+05:302005-03-03T20:40:16.606+05:30

In the moments that you bothindulged in sensual sighs,men died in hostle lands,children starved or froze to death,mothers lost their babies,other women were abused,many sold their souls to Mammon,fear and pain and hungerroamed the streets.But your tender lustful passionfound a spot in a manic worldto coyly smile and survive.These are strange miracles.(c)Anita Vasudeva, Feb 2005(c)Anita

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Dying, homeless, aloneunder bright flowering budsWhose spring is it?Toddler in tattersDoing cartwheels at street-lightsSummer jobs?(c)Anita VasudevaMarch 2005

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1109862506096438412005-03-03T20:37:00.000+05:302005-03-03T20:38:26.096+05:30

Often, half-awake,drifting into a dream-like state,a host of wordstwirl in on lyricsfrom another land,and prance about the stagethat waking thought has laid barewhile departing with langour.The words are clear -a dazzle of brilliant blue,the voice of many muses,free, unwatched, in perfect abandon.Hush! Listen.Write it down.But the dreamer-sleeperbasks in the idyll and entrusts the vision to an

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1108045747144175772005-02-10T19:57:00.000+05:302005-02-10T19:59:07.143+05:30

Naked bare feet no socks, wriggling toes Summer freedom. Flowering trees presentation deadlines. Spring distracts. (c) Anita. Feb '05

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That bully, Summer, is pushing a gentle and hesitant Spring to step into Winter's frozen shoes. Her feet are dainty yet and lost in the bear-hug of misty mornings and foggy nights. He's making the days longer this pushy youth, Summer, has stolen the thrill of being wrapped in fleece stoles on red-nosed mornings. The cognac's too warm the snug quilts too thick and we all can't snuggle in a

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Reading Lolita in Tehran A Memoir in Books Author : Azar Nafisi Paperback Publishers : Fourth Estate ISBN : 0-00-717848-4 This is a Writer’s book. This a Reader’s book. For the members of this board, this is a Must-Read book. It has accurately been described variously as memoir, as literary criticism, as social commentary – it is all of those and yet transcends these genres by combining

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I see them serving wafer-crisp pizza to paper-thin women wearing gossamer rags blowing trembling smoke from cigarette chains while their pencil-thin heels under calf-hugging boots tap nervously on a pebbled patio. Bare fox-furred shoulders holding up perfect profiles with hunting eyes and charming smiles that dismiss the humus; glossy lips that sip some wine while kissing air near shaven chins,

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I meet his shadow making magic with the light, and I lean against the comfort of it's vast spread over the bedroom wall. And just as I get comfortable and secure, It turns and sharpens into a blade-thin cold grey line, deserting the morning sun-ray and disappearing into an invisible pin-point. I shiver. What would I do with the real man? This was only the shadow. (c) Anita Vasudeva, Jan 2005

scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04087236556146482746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750844.post-1102490733263733302004-12-08T13:53:00.000+05:302004-12-08T12:57:49.890+05:30

At the end of a tedious evening when he has drunk and talked animatedly (while I have sipped my wine and perhaps scanned a few faces), he looks across the roomwith eyes that want to go home with me. And I forgive him for leaving me to watch the social two-step which I think he is a part of. Driving home, he pours out the day's details of this and that of 'them' and 'him' and 'I' (while I tune

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I stroke his hand loose, transparent folds of skin barely covering fragile veins stretching over fingers still long and beautiful ending at aristocratic blue-tinged nails. I place my vibrant hand next to his, almost ashamed by the alive tightness of the skin, the strength in its colour and control. We are the same, you and I, I tell him. Your hand was once like mine and mine will be like yours

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The room was warm with the morning sun and the ripe Gulmohar spilled through the balcony windows. A sensual light lit up the space, tinged with the freshness of a new-born day. She enters with a light knock, her “hello” is soft and deceptively school-girlish. His artists’ senses are instinctively alert, watching her every move, her every gesture. In the dim background of his thoughts, he offers

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There's a wind that is blowing It's puffing its' way through my life Dust in my eyes And weed in my mouth I'm walking with it - turning blind. There's a wind that is blowing into the corners of my mind clogging up my dreams bursting at the seams I'm thinking with it - turning wild. Stop. Let me walk against it. Can I think without it Can I possibly catch all my dreams stitch back the seams Can I

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I smile at my God and my diya glows quietly while a raging raucous festival plays itself out in the streets and markets outside (c) Anita Vasudeva, Nov. 2004

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How did this silly yellow notebook change the way I’d thought about her for 30 years? I touched the plastic cover. She wouldn’t have bought a notebook with a plastic cover to write her most private thoughts. This was a woman who loved natural fabrics, the beauty of texture and touch. I’ve seen her in bookshops, caressing books and folders and files. Sometimes if she didn’t like the cover, she

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I have nothing to say to the world It is all said. But I cling on to words They are like old familiar friends The very breath of life It is as if I would die if I did not speak or write. So I continue to cling on to words and say my Nothing to the world.

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And I begin in the middle of my life in the middle of a day old enough to know that beginnings dont always begin fresh early bright or with destinations. I just begin...

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