Archives for the month of: December, 2013

Last evening at Anita’s house,
Birju Maharaj spoke to us all,
of waves returning to shore,
of leaves falling from trees,
of a bird fluttering to feed,
the young ones in its nest,
of little beaks opening in time,
with the mother bird’s return,
of the ring of a telephone,
before one says ‘Hello!’,
of remembering numbers,
by the way they fall from lips,
of the rhythm of lashing rain,
cascading over hair and face,
of the drama in a thunder storm,
the asking of an attending maid,
without ambiguity, in a hotel room,
using a body, speaking just dance,
for a towel to use after the bath,
of baby clothes in a foreign land,
bought without words, or, the baby,
asking for flour, to paste upon skins
of drums, in quest of vibrant sounds,
of erring into the basement floor,
lost, in an elevator, where numbers
are written in a foreign tongue,
of three friends walking together,
of the elephant’s gait, swinging ears,
the attitude of it’s proud mahout,
of a Snake’s conflict with a Mongoose,
of Radha, and of Krishna with his flute,
of transitions, and of transience,
of a learning leaving death irrelevant,
of the impenetrable shrouded depths,
beyond the gates of delirious dance,
of the rhythm of lines and of curves,
in all that we’ve built, new and old.
Of all this and more, Maharaj spoke,
charming us all, on a timeless night!

In utter silence is this highway paved,
with breath, soft, long, short and deep,
in thrust, in flow, held, pulled, released.
There isn’t a cell that isn’t reached.
Simple intention, revealed as action,
all we’ve done, is to pay attention,
to this miracle, our life in the body,
awakening slowly, in deep stillness,
while upon a pilgrimage of presence,
to the limits we’ve set for ourself,
to this disbelief, in our ability to fly.

Shutting out the Moon,
the bracing cold night air,
safe in a silver cocoon,
looking out through glass,
at beauty, passing, untouched,
closed, these sentient pores,
absent to the winds, to the tides,
are we born yet, to the world,
in which, we’re keen to stay alive?

Behold the Beauty,
transfixed further
with your naked feet
planted on fertile soil.
Ditch the motorcycle
as Safety it brings not.


No one who has travelled the ocean side, on a cool, starlit, summer night…

No one who has seen, by the light of the morning moon, the silver grey highway, revealed in the mist…

No one who has, but once, seen the Sun, rising to warm the fishing nets…

Would shy away from rising early, travelling far, sleeping late, and not just for the pleasures, of a motorcycle ride!


It is a rather heavy stone,
floating upon that pond.
Perhaps an illusion, gifted
by the algae shifting around,
in the light summer ripples,
gently teasing the hard edges,
of something that’s coming,
from elsewhere than here.

Not a withering flower,
or, one that wilts
in the noon day Sun,
but one that buds
with much promise,
of a blossom that lasts,
until life itself is done.
Never quite the same
in the changing light,
with its shifting hues
and varied moods,
It is constant only
in its freshness,
flowing through
its tender veins.
Even in the budding,
its promise given.
In too harsh a light,
with too little water, or,
with too much shade,
Even in soil, not quite right,
it moulds and adapts
to an ever changing clime,
staying ever so tender
and deliciously soft.
It is the only home
to a world grown tired,
the only space to refresh
worn out limbs, aching cells.
By its light, we live still,
together, in a rhythm,
that keeps us dancing
to the end of our days!

She writes,

upon skin
and breath

two mystics
one summer moon
by chance

by the shore
inside a cave

woven by
the silken silence
of a distant
moonlit wave

upon skin
and breath

two mystics
one summer moon
by chance

uncovering tenderness
with a
feverish blue


He responds,

* Softly illumined from within

She ponders her own beauty,

Slowly, ever so slowly consumed

To the throes of intense pleasure

Way beyond the grasp of mind.

Every cell in the body

A swooning accomplice

To her swelling passion.

Grown beyond the confines

Of the limiting cocoon,

She bursts forth into the blazing light

Her moist body, a bird of paradise.



*Poem by Kaarthikeyan Kirubhakaran



I started my walk with the fog in my face. A bird chirped high above and I clicked my first photo. As I looked for a better angle I heard the depressing sound of the phone switching itself off. Oh well, I thought it was for the best. This was my first walk outside without the children and I felt excited. Actually any time the temperature goes above the 50 degree mark I feel excited.

There was a small path next to the road. It made me feel special. It felt like someone cared enough for walking creatures to put it in. It was separated from the road by a grassy patch. The fog rolled through the spaces between houses and patches of wilderness. Sweet, romantic, patches of wild growth on my side of the path that almost made me forget the tar road with cars zipping by every few minutes. A squirrel in profile nibbled at an acorn on a branch close to me. A dark green, crisscross wire fence separated me from the wet, mulch slope and trees. An orange coloured ditch lay at the bottom of the slope. A sleeping stream to be explored in the Spring. I felt the fog on my face, soft and thick, humid but cold. After a few quiet minutes I heard cackling, honking geese flying south, chirping birds i could not see, the rustle of creatures hidden in the mulch and fallen leaves, a battle of the birds in a tree that had seemed lifeless a second ago, a squirrel leaping through entangled branches, then suddenly all was quiet again. There is a messy, wet, grow without a care, grow against all odds air about this wilderness, even as it is boxed in on many sides by subarbia.

Sensations of love and acceptance of my path flooded me. It was not lost on me that i had been living a few minutes from this walk for 3 weeks. My life is unpredictable, messy, surprising, full of odd activities, home made jokes of the kind only someone living in this home would get, spills, requests for yet more food and loud bursts of laughter and questions that range from whether Jesus was a real man to what is a spleen. Ironically my life is exactly like the wilderness.

But i have fought it and tried to tame my life, my children, my husband even. I have tried hard to manicure the wilderness. And like the tree-bark that has successfully wrapped itself around and through the fencing, I feel the creatures in my life fighting back. Quietly they spread their shiny toys and art, their messes and games, until suddenly I realise that this is how it is supposed to be. The walk cannot wait. I will do my walk and not clean up. The dishes called me to clean but the fog outside beckoned harder. So i walked. And now while one child sleeps into the morning and the other is upstairs gaming and laughing with friends on Skype, I will write about my walk and not plan breakfast. I feel wild and untamed, living like a messy bachelor who knows that life is in the moment, the cleaning can wait on this pretty foggy day.