Tuesday, 23 October 2012

we used to write to each other
with paper and ink (though it took days
and days, until they turned into months,
transformed into years, we could pretend
that it was because the mail was still on its way
lost in the post, and of course it would reach eventually
the postal service was terrible, but not
evil, exactly, merely incompetent, after
all, so we’d wait and wait and wait and invariably
there would be a card, with greetings and
half-baked comments about the weather
why, even weathermen
do not argue about clouds like we didn’t
leaving all the other words unsaid)

and now, we fail to write to each other with email.

Friday, 12 October 2012


there is melancholy in the wind
and sorrow in the grass
and ne'er before have i doubted it more
that even this shall pass


when the rain of sadness falls
its tears upon your brow
the earth it feeds bears the seeds
that into trees of happiness shall grow


it has been two years since i wrote the first stanza, of which the first couplet belongs to someone else. but it is good.

Thursday, 4 October 2012

Her eyes, seem to have
arms that are
impossible to see but they
seize me, hold me in place
as if I
were nothing but a
fly caught in their
dangerous, destined grasp.

And my eyes, they
somehow hear the invisible
(they cannot turn away) imagine
their delight and joy at
finding a special ode
to them
in her eyes,
their arms.


tell me, how can one hate love?

Monday, 1 October 2012

Arre listen
I’m telling you,
That despite all its hype and hopes
This being in love thing is severely overrated.
And (as someone who thankfully has never engaged
In this rather asinine and quite frankly adolescent activity)
We should put a stop to it.

We should start a movement,
On Twitter and Facebook 
And whatever else they’re calling ‘social media’ these days,
Informing people, ‘No, don’t fall
Into love, or anything else, but Love especially.
If you should fall, fall asleep,
So that when you wake up it all seems like a dream.’

We should organise riots,
Form us a political party
‘The Anti-Love Movement’, we could call ourselves
We’d certainly get seats in Parliament
Even though our main votebank is
Under the legal voting age.

And then, we could let our institutions
Be taken over by vested interest groups
Corporations peddling anti-love perfume
And anti-love anti-greeting cards
Who would lobby on their behalf
(So anti-love would become love)
But at least everyone would agree
Love is pretty damn irritating,
And thank God we got rid of it.

Thursday, 27 September 2012

silence falls like a curtain,
a sheet of soundless rain, all at once, while
people are not looking they are struck suddenly dumb
by anti-noise, by a lack of clamour
today is not a festival day,
nor is it a day of sorrow. silence is a time neither for rest
nor for learning. and though from silence we are forever
turning, in circles we walk, and so our journey
ends where it began: silent we begin,
silent we end, though it is not with silence
that we mend these tears.

Monday, 24 September 2012

To some extent, it is trivially and obviously true that insofar as this is my blog, I have the right to put up whatever I like on it, even if it is not of great quality. To which the obvious rejoinder is that given my generally negative response to bad quality writing on other blogs in other places, which presumably belong to people who are also free to put up things on their blogs regardless of quality, I should at least have the courtesy to not be a hypocrite.

I suppose I must settle with the fact that I am, in fact, a hypocrite. Yes, I rage at bad writing even as I attempt to write, and often end up doing so badly. But I would like the world (or whatever part of the world reads my blog) to, in fact, read my blog and whatever I write. And because I am incapable of objectively knowing the quality of writing on my blog, this is perhaps the only way to find out (if that, since comments are not exactly flowing from the heavens like manna around here, which is not necessarily anyone's fault but is an attribute of this, my blog, nonetheless).

I mean, sometimes I read what I have written and hate it, but then also sometimes I read what I have written and become immeasurably moved by it. Unsurprising, given that the the author of my words has an unsurpassed view into my mind, matched only (perhaps) by me.

So having settled on being a hypocrite, and having also realised that the only way to start writing well is to continue writing badly, and the brain is a muscle to be exercised like any other, I think I should start posting my poetry more. Because I am writing it, but it is not getting put up, you know? The only people who read it are the ones I expressly send it to, and I would like the vast caverns of anonymity known as the internet to ignore my work along with the rest of everybody else's.

But if you want the Ramayana, please wait. I am petitioning Saraswati, and she is koncham angry with me, I think. 

Monday, 21 May 2012


i write things that are not true,
but that makes them sound like
they are lies
and they are not lies.

i dunno, fiction is fiction,
but it can also be true
and not true
and weird.

magic, i am thoroughly convinced
in minds and hearts and souls
(specifically ours,
 yours and mine
 and everyone else’s, too).

it is there, in the dark
in the light
in words, in sleep
in fire, and rain.

it is always there.
magic exists,
but even if it doesn’t, it can still
be true.
do not ask me to explain.
i cannot.
it is just a thing.
magic is there.

it is true.


i wrote this in july of last year. it's been sitting in my computer, and i thought i might as well put it up here. i don't know what it means. if you think you do, please tell me. i would like to understand this. i might even get better at writing it.

Friday, 6 April 2012

The Tale of the Indestructible Monkey

Vayu is the strongest of the gods. You may imagine that it is Indra, whose rain and thunder make him king, or Agni, whose fire binds the most important of oaths, or Surya, to whom the most potent hymn is dedicated, or even Varuna, whose oceans make even the mightiest tremble.

You imagine wrongly. It is Vayu who is the strongest.

Indra’s power has been forever diminished by his many sins. He killed the brahmin Vritrasura, he bedded Ahalya, he attacked Diti’s unborn child, splitting him into seven parts of seven each. He is nominally the king of the Devas, but he is no longer their most powerful. His defeat at the hands of Indrajit was merely the final proof; his fall had been assured long since.

Agni’s power has been on the wane since the Krita Yuga. It will reach a fatal low during the Dvapara Yuga, at which point some of his former splendour will be restored by Nara and Narayana. The sanctity of his vows have meant less and less with every passing age, in the Kali Yuga they will mean nothing at all.

Varuna is not interested in power. While his brothers have meddled in the affairs of men and Asuras almost incessantly, Varuna has been content to sit in his ocean palace, directing his gaze to his own domain. Despite his awesome power, it is this apathy that lost him his struggle against Ravanasura. It is also the same single-mindedness that made him bow before Ramachandra and his Brahmastra. He is the ocean, inscrutable and odd, never to be underestimated but not impossible to defeat.

Surya’s power was most potent during the time of Vishnu’s seventh incarnation, but Vishwakarma had already chiselled a part of it away as a boon to his daughter. His countenance no longer as great and terrible as it once was, he too could not claim the title of the strongest.

It is Vayu, air and wind, breath and life, who is the most powerful of the Devas. His sons have been the strongest and most faithful of all the heroes of all the stories. Listen, for this story is about the most loyal of monkeys, Maruti-called-Hanuman.


Hanuman was called Anjaneya at birth, for he was born of the vanara called Anjana. In truth Anjana was an apsara, whose home was Amaravati, the city of the Devas, and her mannerisms were as odd to the monkey-peoples as theirs were to her.

Anjana was the mortal name of Punjikasthala, She Whose Feet Are As Hail. When she performed for Indra, it was those same feet that bewitched the king of the Devas. But when the lecher made his advances towards her, he found himself spurned, his pride wounded. In his anger he cursed her, to lose her divine status and become a vanara, without civilisation or culture in which to dance.

However, he underestimated the apsara. Bereft of the marble floors that once hosted her arts, she used the forests as her theatre. The trees became her pillars, and the rivers became her boundaries. The vanaras of Kishkindha were mesmerised by her rhythms.

It was during a long night, when she danced the most beautiful dance of them all, that Vayu espied her from afar. Swift as an eagle in flight he came to her, for Anjana's eyes called to him like no other. Indra's advances might have been proud and uncaring, but Vayu was altogether more gentle than his brother and king. Where she had seen coldness in one Deva's arms, Anjana found warmth in another's. For many days and many nights they were lost in each other's embrace, until Anjana found herself with child.

Ordinarily, this would not have been a hindrance. Ordinarily, this would have been an occasion of joy to both parents, as children should be. But this was no ordinary occasion, for Anjana was a cursed apsara, and Pavana the brother of the one responsible for that state, and these things made the presence of a child infinitely more dangerous.

The last night they spent together was one of conflict. Their hearts and their heads argued, their minds and their bodies saying one thing and then another, until even the ever moving Deva of the wind grew tired, and rested in the arms of his lover. Though both knew it was an end, they were also immortal residents of Amaravati, and they knew that nothing truly ends.

Such was the parentage of Anjaneya, called Maruti.


To say that Anjaneya was a boisterous child would be to do an injustice to the sheer chaos that he inspired in his wake. Peace and tranquility were not exactly the hallmarks of the vanara people, but Anjaneya’s antics were epic in their scale. He once painted the entire courtyard of the vegetable market red, and left no proof whatsoever that it was he. Well, no proof but for his mischievous grin, which gave him away instantly. But Anjana handled her son with a stern hand and a fearsome countenance, and his pranks were not as dangerous or malicious as they could perhaps have been.

Anjaneya’s parentage was always a topic of gossip. Anjana’s husband, while a respectable vanara in his own right, could not possibly be his father, for he had married Anjana only after she had given birth. Even if that had not been the case, the child’s unnatural speed and strength marked him as being something other than just vanara. It would be some time before it was resolved.

The parentage of the princes of Kishkindha, however, was never in doubt. Vali and Sugriva were both geniuses, and the queen made it clear that they were born of the Devas themselves. In different ways, Indra’s son and Surya’s son were both scions of their race, but as royalty they were expected to be exemplary. Hanuman’s incredible abilities could not be explained as easily as his almost-cousins.

But in their mutual lack of contemporaries they found a rapport. No one can say how it began, but within weeks of their first meeting the three boys were inseparable. Being the princes’ playmate gave Hanuman an even bigger excuse to wreak havoc in Kishkindha, and they were only too happy to join in. However, when they somehow managed to steal the throne right out of the palace, all four hundred kilos of it, it was decided something had to be done. Even princes of the realm could not conduct grand larceny and face no consequences. So they forcibly sent Vali to the southernmost part of the kingdom, to live with the coastal vanaras. Sugriva was dispatched to the west, to meet his mother’s relatives. Anjaneya himself stayed in Kishkindha, but found that he could not leave his mother’s gaze for even a second. For a son of Vayu, this was galling indeed.

Perhaps it was inevitable that something would happen. Without his friends to keep him occupied, Anjaneya grew increasingly bored. While under his mother’s thumb constantly, he could do nothing but play games he had long ago mastered.

It was on a terrifically sunny day that Surya caught Maruti’s attention. He gazed upwards to find the reddish-gold orb hanging from the skies like the most delectable piece of fruit he had ever seen. On another day, he might not have misbehaved. On this, the most tedious one of them all, he decided to have it.

Right under Anjana’s nose, he found himself a spot with a clear view of the sun. He stretched his toes experimentally, as if checking that they were attached to his feet, and would do as he asked. He spread his arms wide, bent his knees, leant forward ever so slightly, and before his mother could ask what on earth he was planning to do, he jumped.

How Anjaneya soared! In mere minutes he was beyond the reach of even the tallest of the trees of Kishkindha. The air rushed past him as it urged him on, and the birds he flew past squawked indignantly as they came across this intruder into their domain. Anjaneya had not a care for the earth he was rapidly leaving behind, his eyes focused only on one target: Surya.

For his part, Surya did not even notice Anjaneya until well after he jumped. His thoughts were occupied with far loftier considerations than the possibility that a monkey would jump at him from the ground far beneath him. So when he spared a glance downward, just to see that all was well in the world, he was in for quite a shock. Approaching him at a dangerously fast clip was a small but powerful vanara, and Surya panicked.

In the days before the Devas were immortal, the demon Rahu attempted to eat the sun. Though he was unsuccessful in swallowing Surya, he still remains one of his mortal enemies. So when Surya found another interloper attempting to prevent him on his journey, he cried out for help to his brother and his king.

Indra took immediate action. If Surya lost control of his chariot at that crucial moment, there would be havoc wreaked upon all the worlds. A threat to the sun was a threat to all of creation. And so he unsheathed his most powerful weapon: his Vajra. From his position in Swargaloka, he took careful aim, and in one smooth movement he threw the missile straight at Anjaneya.

Straight and true it thundered through the heavens. Before Anjaneya knew what was happening, he was struck square on the jaw by the thunderbolt.

And so he died.


Vayu is not made to rule. He does not care for it, and in any case he is too changeable. He mislikes responsibility and the lack of freedom that comes with it. But he is the best friend you could ask for. Ask Agni, he knows. Vayu’s loyalty is legendary. He will go to the ends of the earth and more for his friends.

Imagine, then, his wrath when his son fell from the sky. Vayu is everywhere; he is the air itself. He felt Indra’s Vajra tear through the heavens, but even his speed could not prevent the consequences. Maruti, known from then on as Hanuman, He Whose Jaw Is Broken, fell to the ground like a speeding comet. For a single second Vayu lost control, and the earth shook. Hurricanes and typhoons began to split the earth in that second, the wind taking on a fury like none had ever known. But only for a second, for after that his anger was overcome by the one thing more powerful: his grief.

Anjana felt her once-lover’s presence for a breath, and then her son was gone.

Vali felt his father’s thunderbolt, but he failed to understand its significance.

Sugriva’s eyes had not left the sun even once since he had seen the tiny speck he knew to be his friend approach his father.

Vayu took his son far and away into the deepest caverns beneath the earth, and there he stayed. In Swarga, in Bhuloka, in Patala there was not a gale, not a gust, not a breeze. The waves fell upon the shore, the sun continued his journey across the horizon, the rains fell from the sky, but there was not a single stirring of air. Vayu’s sorrow was more deadly than his fury.

Unable to take a breath, men began choking. Plants withered, unable to prosper. The Devas were immortal, and the Asuras masters of pain and torture, but Manu’s line died like ants.

It was in this dire scenario that men turned to the gods. They begged, they pleaded, and even as they died they prayed to their saviours, until even the most hardhearted of them could not simply stand by.

The Devas went to Meru, which is the abode of Brahma, the Four Faced Creator. In front of Prajapati even Indra bowed in obeisance, and there he implored his creator and father to take pity. Though he had brought this folly upon the world, he asked Brahma to console Vayu, that the earth might breathe once more. And in his infinite compassion, Brahma agreed.

Together they travelled to the subterranean realm in which Vayu wept for his son. Clutching his child's broken body, he was a far cry from the proud god he once was. And in seeing him, Brahma was overcome by remorse for his son.

And so Brahma summoned Yama from his realm beneath the Earth, and ordered him to release the soul of Vayu’s son. He blessed Anjaneya with intelligence and strength beyond what he already possessed. Indra gave him invulnerability to all weapons in war. Surya taught him the wisdom of the stars. And having already been brought back from Yama’s grasp once, the god of death begrudgingly granted him the ability to choose the time and the place of his next, and final, end.

But Hanuman’s antics would only grow worse as a result of his divine blessings, so Brahma also cursed him with forgetfulness: that he would not know the limits of his own strength until another had told him of them.

From then on they called him Hanuman, He of the Broken Jaw, and Maruti, the son of the Wind, and though he never knew it, when Vayu spoke with Anjana, they always called him Little Mischief.

And so Hanuman grew up, without the knowledge that was already his. At odd moments he would find himself looking up at the sky, wondering what it would be like to fly through it, before dismissing it as an idle fancy. Every so often Anjana would look at him with incredible sadness and relief, and Anjaneya (whom everyone now called Hanuman, though no one knew exactly why) was baffled by those moments.

It was not until he met a pair of brothers from Ayodhya that his memory started to come back to him. It was not until he met Rama that he truly grew into his legacy as the Indestructible Monkey.

Sunday, 1 April 2012


Some deaths are rituals, thought Karna. They are not to be understood, not to be violated. They happen, and all that take part in them are merely pieces upon a board being moved by the threads of Kala.

This was one of those deaths. Karna could feel it; this would be one of those turning moments in the war.

There they were, in a circle around proud Abhimanyu. His eyes were not his father’s eyes, that shone with the brightness of the thunder. They were Subhadra’s, twisted beyond recognition by anger and fear. Abhimanyu had driven deep into the chakravyuha, finding chinks in its armour only a maharathi could have hoped to find, but now he was in its centre, and he was surrounded.

In front of him was Suyodhana, whom the Pandavas and their allies had called Duryodhana. Encircling him were the heroes of the Kaurava army: Drona, Kripa, Kritavarma, Susshasana, Aswatthama, Shalya, they were all assayed around him. Like a young elephant he was, surrounded by a pack of lions, defiant to the last.

Karna knew what was to come. He had known it since he had seen the arrow fly from Abhimanyu's bow mere moments ago. In the shortest gap between one skirmish and the next, while no one else could have stopped it, he had armed and fired an agneyastra. Fiery, as if from the depths of Patala it flew, straight into Lakshmana's eye. Suyodhana's son had been like a son to Karna too, and the horror of his death was not lost upon any in the vicinity.

Like an angry bull Suyodhana had bellowed, and all around him did not even need to hear his commands. With the speed of thought the chaos of battle that had proved Lakshmana's undoing calmed down into an eerie order, a circle of champions surrounding a single hero.

All was quiet save for the whickering of their horses. Karna could feel his heart thumping against his chest, each beat telling him: no, that this was should not, could not be the end. A warrior such as this, who was barely even a man, could not fall in this manner.

It did not matter. With a shout the arrows loosed. Karna lost track of who had let fly first, merely that all the others followed it without the slightest hesitation.

Valiantly that boy fought. On another day, Karna would have wept seeing the skill of his brother’s son (do not call him that, a voice whispered. It will only make the inevitable harder). But today he gritted his teeth, and let fly every weapon he knew. But Abhimanyu was peerless, and his grandfather Indra lent him power like no other. Though from all the directions he was attacked by the elements themselves, he countered them with terrifying ease. Against Drona’s Agni he fired Varuna, against Karna’s Surya he fired Vayu, and against Suyodhana’s Yama he sent Indra. One after another, he fought like no other fought, and with a rallying cry he almost broke through that circle when one of Karna’s own arrows finally met its target.

For instead of attacking his body, Karna had attacked his bow. As Vishnu had done to Shiva, Karna broke the string of the boy’s weapon, and that he had not anticipated. His father would have seen it, would have dodged it, but this one was too young, too unlearned in the ways of war to account for the possibility that even his weapon could be under threat. The moment of his realisation that even his most faithful weapon had deserted him induced an anguish in his eyes like no other. Karna thought once more, this was just a boy. And he was not yet dead.

Bereft of all of his weapons, his sword long since thrown at an errant foot soldier now on his way to Mrtyu’s realm, Abhimanyu was still not powerless. His eyes, wild and bloodshot (whether from grief or fear or fatigue Karna could not tell) now landed upon a fallen chariot, its owner having fled or died or become otherwise incapacitated. With power Karna could not believe he still had had he ripped away its left wheel, and wielded it with rage and impunity.

‘Cowards! Honourless dogs! Is this the way you fight? Ten men to one, none of you having the spine to challenge me like a kshatriya should? Even rakshasas know the rules of war, but it seems my own uncles need to be taught a lesson about adharma! Face me, and even now I will be your doom!’ Abhimanyu bellowed. Karna’s fellow warriors fell for his goading, Kritavarma and Suyodhana and Aswatthama leaping from their chariots, bent on killing him with their blades. Karna very nearly lost his own temper, but he was not a fighter like the rest. They had been raised to privilege, had had power handed to them from birth. Karna knew different.

From his position he saw Shalya had already fallen unconscious from his wounds. Karna scoffed at his weakness. It only embarrassed the Kaurava army to name him as one of its maharathis. Drona was merely watching, waiting for his moment to strike, but Abhimanyu had not yet given him that moment. With a wild swing of his unconventional weapon he felled Kritavarma, whose head now sported an ugly gash. With another he nearly killed Aswatthama, who diverted it by using his arm as a shield and letting it take the brunt of the blow.

In the single moment after that, when he looked for Suyodhana and found him, Karna and Drona struck. In that instant of inattention he left his back open to warriors who would use any advantage to win. And they struck without cavil or mercy.

Drona loosed a potent Nagastra that Karna had rarely seen used. The snake at its heart rendered its victims paralysed before it killed. Perhaps it was kindness, or perhaps it was cruelty. Karna paid no heed as he launched his own missile, a Mahiswarastra that trailed ash as it flew into the boy. 

There was a horrible keening as both arrows met their target, their destructions melding to create a foul sight to all that watched as the boy's body writhed with the energies of the two astras. But an instant later it was over, no doubt the intervention of his grandfather, and the boy that had confounded them for so long finally dead.

Having avenged Lakshmana's death, it was as if nothing else existed. Suyodhana’s control broke, giving in to his grief at losing his son. The bloody mace in his arms fell to the ground as his knees buckled underneath him. Drona and Karna rushed to his side, and as they hoisted him by the shoulders and lifted him into his chariot, they instructed his sarathi to return to his tent as hastily as was possible. He was certainly not capable of fighting after his loss.

As he wept (whether for Abhimanyu or Lakshmana or both, Karna did not know) he felt another potent force. His skin tingled as Indra’s anger pulsed, and a single bolt of white-hot lightning shot forth from the clear blue sky. As Karna and Drona watched, it struck the ground directly in front of the boy, forever marking the spot of his death. From across the din of the battlefield he thought he could hear Arjuna cry for his son, as he realised what had happened.

‘This act will be the undoing of us’ Drona said gruffly.

Karna looked at him with dark eyes, and found that he could only nod in reply. He was right. Even after the horrors of everything he had done, and the horrors he would do in continuing the war, it would be this act that the Devas would find unforgivable. Though he still held Indra’s power, he was for the first time doubting whether he should use it at all. They were perhaps the two most powerful warriors in the Kaurava army, and they had shot a boy in the back. 

He rode out into the spirals of the vyuha, hoping to lend Jayadratha the support he likely did not need. The ritual was finished, and Karna shuddered to see the outcome.


sometimes inspiration is like a switch. it just turns on, and three seconds later you're writing something, and it is the most wonderful feeling ever. 

Saturday, 17 March 2012


The camera has a familiar heft in my hand. Walking down the streets of Vancouver, which is a pretty city, I spot lovers walking side by side, vagabonds furtively glancing this way and that, and it is all I can do to resist capturing them in their most private moments, when they think no one is watching. What is the art of photography, but that of finding the moment that makes us human? Too often we are not human, we are animals who care nothing for the feelings of others. And even that is human, sometimes. No drug dealer ever shot a man, and proceeded to eat him. We are not predators, our prey do not sustain us.

But I prevent myself, because privacy is also something that makes us human. Too many times I have taken pictures that, in their taking, have destroyed the very moment they sought to record. We are not made to live underneath the flash’s glare, for it blinds us. I may have been a paparazzo, once, but it wasn’t interesting, wasn’t human enough for me. My wandering eyes always looked for moments of emotion, and too often celebrities hid behind masks that they had crafted through years of being pursued by my kind.

So now I photograph places. Cities, and their lights and feel, the distinct antiseptic sting of neon and fluorescence. Deserts, that show interminability in a way that nothing else does. Seas, blue and green and sometimes (terrifyingly) a heaving, unnatural black. Now I do not worry about humanity, only what it does to that which surrounds it. And so I walk through Vancouver, past shops and hotels, searching for that one shot that will define my time here.

In four hours, I do not find it. I take the bus and the SkyTrain, I spend half an hour sitting on the waterfront and there is nothing that I find that is singular, that is definitive of this city. Too often this has happened, where I arrive into the airport full of hope and promise, and seven days later I only have five rolls of terrible pictures to show for it. A week in Munich yielded nothing, a fortnight spent in Madagascar only brought with it a case of food poisoning. Sometimes I wonder if I was not made for this, that I could not be this person who took pictures of still landscapes that have no soul.

This is one of those times.

Once it was that only the most patient would become photographers. It was hours of waiting that would yield the perfect picture, of that one moment where every guard your subject had every built up would disappear just for an instant. And in that instant the artist strikes. I have seen joy, ruination, contentment, wrath, all taken by masters of the camera, and only by waiting for it did they come across it.

No longer is this true. Fools who fancy themselves photographers click indiscriminately, without a thought for artistry, for poetry. The digital, the mobile, it has rid the world of something purer, of something that was gained through knowing the moment. I curse them, and I curse the world that has rid itself of ones who curse them.

I wander into a café that is full, but I nonetheless find a seat for myself. An attractive woman still finds herself certain advantages wherever she goes, however old she might be. I cannot stop myself from looking about, listening for other peoples’ stories.

‘Stop me if you’ve heard this one before…’

‘How many people do you know would vote Conservative…’

‘Richard is the most infuriating man I’ve ever met…’

Though my camera is now safely stowed away in my bag, and I know it would cause no little consternation, I cannot help framing everything I see in terms of a photo I want to take. A little voice in my head offers advice, eternally critiquing the image. Wasting even a single picture is sacrilege. ‘No, too much light in the corner. It’s a shame that man isn’t a little taller. What if the woman sat on the other side of the table?’ There is an endless litany of advice, in a voice that I have not heard in the flesh for decades.

But I refuse to let myself wander into such dangerous territory, not when there is food to be eaten, ideas to be had, and the past cannot creep up on me like a soft summer breeze.

Dinner consists of a bowl of pasta with some sort of cream sauce and ham. It is delicious, and I cannot finish it. Vancouver has robbed me of inspiration, and it seems my appetite has gone with it. As I gather up my things and prepare to leave, having paid and left quite a generous tip, I contemplate what I shall do with the rest of my night, and the rest of my trip. I will fly to New York, to meet with the editor of a magazine that would like to use my work, nothing I’ve done recently, but the more famous work that I have left in storage, that no one has actually seen. I know what my answer will be, but they keep asking, in the hopes that one day I’ll give up.

And maybe I will. If things continue the way they have, if I cannot even put together one sub-standard exhibition of some of the most spectacular places in the world, I may have to go back to what I was once best at.

My best friend once told me that what I did was put people under an electron microscope, and studied them day in and day out until they could take it no longer and gave me what I wanted. I have not spoken with her since Christmas three years ago, when she said I was the most hateful woman she had ever met.

I miss Rita.

I hail a cab, and tell him to go to the Fairmont. He is obviously unimpressed, perhaps women tell him to drop them off there all the time, secretly hoping that he might be a millionaire in disguise, waiting for the perfect girl with perfect taste. In any case, Canada is not a country for secret millionaires. I could not imagine Gatsby settling in Toronto, it would not be impressive enough for him.

It is as I am being driven through the city that I see it. The sun is setting, and there is a hint of amber amongst the deep red sky. I can see the skyline as we drive across the bridge and the city’s high-rises have reflected that light onto, and it is spectacular, and it is exactly what I have been waiting for.

Before I can remove my camera from its case, the moment is lost. I cannot even contemplate ordering the driver to drive back, by then the sun will have set, the delicate interplay of faraway glass and light will be gone, and any picture I take will certainly have no soul. For a brief moment Vancouver showed herself to me, but now she is once more hidden beneath a haze of knowing indifference.

My brief start garnered only a raised eyebrow from my driver, who remains stony-faced. If inspiration hit him on the head with a hammer he would not react, I think. I, on the other hand, have lost it, and that loss is worse than never having found it at all.

As the cab reaches the hotel, and I pay the man in exact change, my mind is wavering. Each passing day only makes it more likely I will say yes to the man in New York. And if it means no more of this futility, then I am no longer sure that I should say no.


such an emo i am.

Sunday, 11 March 2012

give me a way to express to you the joy of just one sangati in Kanada. one alapanai in Reetigaula, one neraval in Keeravani, that's all i ask.

To whom cometh happiness, but from the name of Rama?

సుఖి యెవ్వరో రామ నామ

Saturday, 3 March 2012


Lies are like teeth
Sharp, they bite and tear
They’re vicious, if you want
Them to be.

Sometimes, someone will punch you
Just one sock to the jaw
And your mouth fills with blood
Your teeth knocked out
You’ll look like a fool
Till the end of your days.

 And at other times, they’ll just
Fall away
Having rotted black
Because you haven’t taken care of them
And you’ll be left
At the end of a long life
Wondering where the hell they all went to.

All lies are bad
And small lies
Are no worse than big ones.

After all,
However you’ve lost them
At the end of the day
You’re still stuck with mush


yes, i failed. still, any economist could tell you that extrapolating from three pieces of evidence is not a good idea.

Monday, 27 February 2012

Old Age

we’re all going to grow old
our knees will creak
our backs will ache
we’ll curse the youth and their newfangledness
their disrespect for our traditions
of disrespecting our elders

we’ll be cold
and the government will pay
for our heating and our food
and all of our teeth will fall out

so here’s a plan!
let’s become cyborgs
and replace our bones with superstrength alloy
reinforce our spines with cybertronic things
make our ears hear even the slightest of sounds
take out our muscles, and put in Apple’s versions
it’ll be expensive
but we won’t be in nursing homes,
at least.

and then,
if (when) it turns out we’re still
crotchety old souls with regrets and a grudge
even then, we’ll be free!
we’ll be fast and strong
and super like superman

then we’ll see
what those youths will do.
we’ll show them what’s what.


two datapoints do not a trend make.

Saturday, 25 February 2012


Once we were a roaring fire
But now we are embers
Mostly spent,
Our last few sparks
Trying desperately to once more
Illuminate the void.

What if
We became lightbulbs?


the non-rhyming bug bit me again. i will try to stop this from becoming a trend.

Sunday, 12 February 2012

He sits ten-headed

He sits ten-headed, 'pon a throne of gold
His sons would be god-killers, if gods could die
But though his hearth is warm, his heart grows cold
And he cannot stir it, however he may try

'Cross the sea a prince leaves home
A city bereft, a father betrayed
For fourteen years southerly to roam
To live and to die by the bow and the blade

In a forest of monkeys a king returns
Bloody from battle, he attacks his own
Entreaties for peace he scorns and he spurns
He cares only for glory and the throne

Near a sea of salt a bird does not fly
His eyes are the keenest, but his wings have been burnt
Though once he reached the sun upon high
Heavy was the cost of the lesson he learnt

A demoness killed, a bow broken down,
An old man stripped of centuries of power
Slippers that serve better than a crown
These are the things that herald the hour

All this he sees, 'pon a mighty throne of gold
Promised is he that his killer will come
From stock that is man, who cannot possibly be bold
War stirs again, and his heart begins to thrum