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indi

indi Poetry

i don’t look at you any more

  i don’t look at you any more for i think you’re the same every day yet you aren’t, are you the light falls differently the colours carouse at their own will there’s purple and pink some day some day it’s less orange sometimes more red than you are in the mood for there’s ochre, mocha, and blue and the shapes? what are they called wish i knew streaks and billows shimmery peaks and meadows lashes of a riotous unfettered…

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indi

a sliver of sky

the sky is always there, beyond my computer. some instinct of mine, first thing in the morning straight after i wake up and make my way to the day, i come here to my corner and lift the latch of the window, push the frosted glass pane slightly, it swings back. and the sky is there. a narrow triangle of it, lacework of leaves and branches across, but still. along with the sounds of cars from the road and flyover…

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indi

sunday at the keyboard

i haven’t walked on grass in years. why do my toes wiggle and crush up as i type this? as though anticipating something delightful? memory of dew-wet bright green blades between my toes; something pokes, a bed of green and earth yields, my foot sinks into its springy comfort; and lets go, lifts up. the next step. but before that, a rush of breeze on the wet sole of my foot where a few strands of grass and little specks…

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indi

taj snapshot

  i must have been four when i saw the taj mahal. been back many times since then. i love the gardens, the fountains, the humongous entrance, the grace, the people looking expectant, taking funny pictures, the sange marmar… the white marble; finding out mumtaz mahal and shah jahan wasn’t exactly a fairytale romance didn’t spoil the fun (c’mon, he threw pearl necklaces at her in the meena bazaar, didn’t he… and if he didn’t, too bad for him). the…

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Festive Specials food indi

yes, deep fried, of course.

it’s not possible to think of history while thinking of chops. especially mutton chops. and yet, i tried. one may not think that’s an achievement… and this would only be because one hadn’t had a mutton chop, the way bengalis make it. chop, to a bengali, is not a cut of meat. it’s a beatific smile inducing joyful experience that involves getting lost in another world while recalling exactly how mother or grandmother or boro ma or younger kakima, or…

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indi

the parrot green umbrella

i won’t start singing but hoisting that umbrella over my head and dashing out onto the glittering rain lashed zebra crossing i did feel like mary poppins the other day. remember ms poppins? she who sits on a cloud and pulls lamp stands out of her carpetbag? and sings a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine…? and flies off with you to who knows where? whenever i think umbrella, i see her sitting on a cloud, powdering her nose, then…

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indi

remember the code?

this morning, twitter took me to an article in the washington post, which in turn hauled me straight back to school. 1976… or was it ’77? grade ten or eleven. we all had to do a national cadet corps (ncc) certificate course. tt was compulsory. that’s when we heard “dit dit dit dah dah dah dit dit dit” for the first time. our instructor was teaching us morse code. the dit was a short sound, the dah a long one,…

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indi Poetry

for b

who reaches through the shredding the dreadful denuding who thrusts away the demon embedded entrenching who catches the sun and brings it to the cave tell me, girl, who who holds you when light has gone who touches you when nothing remains who sings to you when the hour breaks faith who, tell me, girl, who who will cleave you as they deceive you who will cover you as they unclothe you who will raise you as they inter you…

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indi Poetry

the battle

my heart was in a battlefield today defeat had touched my dreams truth as i had always known it to be writhed torn and begged to breathe   demons came raging from hidden caves demolishing my faith, denouncing my dawn mortal wound crushed my land as it lay twined in my ambushed heart   then a sound came near from far away so far it exceeds all my reach and yet it was here, carried on another sound whose decibel…

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indi

the chilli farmer’s son

i keep thinking of her face. the naked helplessness. her expressions are almost gone, the suffering robbing her of that too perhaps. she’s saying something in telegu. i don’t understand what she’s saying but her vulnerability is making my heart hammer in a strange way. that’s real, that’s so real, no fudging in it. once in a way her voice shakes and she trembles a little as a sob escapes silently, a tear drops from a vacant tired eye and…

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