Mohini Pisasu

I rest, languid, on the neem tree
My sari matches the near white light
That shines through the fluorescent leaves,
As the pleading prayers go on below.

To the King Cobra that guards me from his anthill
Come and drink this milk they say.
Appease her spirit, they pray
I am appeased, I suppose.

Its noon and its too hot to be on the prowl
Your daughter’s safe, for now.
I look beyond, into the cavernous depths
Of the well I chose not to fall into.

I see her at night at her window, unable to rest-
The young, eager, restless thing.
Yearning, longing, pining, anxiously looking
For a dream lover to slake her thirst.

Till I appeared in eerie splendour
Poor little princess.
So petrified, yet so sweet
She lies in shock screaming for her mother.

They came to see her the next day
Greedy eyes, salivating smiles
The local princess.
Oh weren't they so fortunate.

But, those cheeks had lost their fresh bloom
Her fish-shaped eyes looked dead they said
She looked as if a ghost had thrashed her
They stayed a while, but soon left.

I too screamed silently night after night
The shame, the agony,
My wasted youth, my wasted life
Wrung out of my pretty neck.

Only then did they take notice
The husband cuckolded
His brother drunk but sated.
Their shame, their pain- all hushed up.

The story that never came out
They may be poor, but they were respectable.
Now, in between death and reincarnation
I command respect in my ghostly existence.

A breather

I sit down, for my ten minutes to stare
To exhale, to inhale, to recall what it means to breathe.
Like those perfect pictures on the computer,
The glossy photo that my mind's captured is crystal clear.
The lush leaves are a still green
As still as the air that’s also stopped to take a breath.
The chameleon is resting on the branch frozen,
Gulping meaningfully, turning from green to brownish red.
It's sliver of a pink tongue pops in and out,
What is its true nature?
Just boringly passive or deeply lascivious?
Butterflies flit inconspicuously
Sipping elegantly at pink liqueur
With the mildest of flutters, they move around the Ixora
From one perfect posy to the other.
The fragrance of the different jasmine reaches me gently
From the fat buds in the shrubs
And from the slim delicate blooms over the creepers
Their scents sharp, delicate and heavy
Makes me quite heady at this instant state of bliss.
The forest bird hidden high in the trees calls out,
Pleading to be heard and then appears
Flying low against an oppressive dull sky.
Those leaves meanwhile are still held in suspense
Any minute I expect background music
And the hushed tones of David Attenborough,
Talking about nature's own soap opera.
Then, from somewhere
Buzzing ever so quietly,
A dozen dragonflies appear above the wall
Suspended, portentous,
I look, and am compelled to receive a subliminal message
I acknowledge, accept, my ten minutes are up.

Soft cheeks no more

I look at his baby face
Its not the same space
That I could smother with kisses
Always to excess.
I still go near
To the one so dear
And look for that lovely softness.
To press against, to breathe in
and to revel.
Alas, those cheeks have had a makeover
Two go's with the razor
I look for a tiny nook
But, I fear, a layer of sandpaper
is soon about to take over.

Ten random words

"Its the principle of it," she said, upset at the paltry effort.
"Where is the mango-blossom?" she yelled. They were still at home, not having left for the wedding hall. It was a sign of good luck to have it hung outside the door.
"No, not there," she cried, her temper rising, her energy dissipating. She saw her young niece and called her over, "You're free aren't you?" She asked her to fetch her lavender oil to soothe her nerves. She was feeling faint. Just then, the doorbell went. All she could see was a huge basket of multi-coloured roses. In an instant, her face was transformed and she was transported to dizzy heights of happiness when she read the card, "To the mother of the bride", from your son-in-law to be.

My inner dragon

Where I live now is near the very edge of Bristol.
A few hundred yards away, I imagine there is a dragon
Lying elegantly coiled in the castle overlooking the Avon gorge.
She comes into her own at night when she slithers out quietly
Onto the grand expanse of the Downs,
Now rid of the barbecues and summer lovers,
To look up at the moon suspended over Clifton Bridge,
She roars in hearty welcome.
Her tongue wagging happily, she laughs at the small velvety clouds
Playing hide and seek in the creamy darkness.
Below, the flaming torches light up the Portway
Where the odd truck passes by the hill-face desultorily-
Drivers struggling to keep awake,
Their massive vehicles wobble before jerkily steering straight
In the quarry beyond, a relentless drumbeat can be heard.
A rave going on or kids playing music
As they climb up to a precarious ridge to paint graffiti in impossible places.
She laughs in sheer joy at being here when everyone else is fast asleep.

Giggles in Xanadu

Into Xanadu came Kubla Khan,
So did Olivia Newton John,
Aparna’s nose quivered
As we settled down with the herd
"Another word for incense?"
Asked Ms De Souza.
Perfume, I said to please her
She shuddered and turned away
"Fragrance would’ve been so much better."

At 18, we were at Stella Maris College,
With all the decorum that we could manage
Any passion strictly suppressed, at the nuns’ behest.
A woman wailed for her demon lover
But we were deep in conversation
Not bothered about the maid or her dulcimer
Aparna's hair was cut like George Michael's
She'd channeled Wham and Careless Whisper
Or was it Imran Khan who made me swoon?
To cause all that consternation.

There in class, laughter bubbled
Mouths stretched wide with no elasticity.
Faces turned up to us in the top row,
We found we had become the show.
Sharing one quick giggle,
We finally came to grips
When we heard the shocking dictum
As if a guitar string had snapped mid-strum
“Put your fingers to your lips!!”

Big English

I was Big English for a while
When I spoke in full sentences
In full English
But my popularity was at stake
Using Big English was a mistake

Only sometimes ya, I’d say
Chumma, just like that
I’m not that bad, man
Don’torry, Don’torry
Me? Big English?
Ayyo Kadavule only

Whom was I reassuring?
Cajoling, in that cloying way?
Finding excuses, feeling self-conscious
As if to say, yes I could speak English
But rather not have it on display.