THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

What is common with the numerous stories  and fables and mythology  and history and NOW, and ever, of a tribe of strong women? Why is history and NOW so spineless that they bring down crime   and war, rights and wrong to the doing of this tribe that they cannot handle? That they cannot handle  a woman with herbs, a woman behind a telescope, a woman with an axe, with a head full of snakes, a woman with beauty or without, and hair, a woman with a voice, in their heads or in their body, a woman with the ballot, with a sceptre,  or women with the pen or swag. The narratives that should move around the morals of right and wrong, are inevitably reduced to darkness, you cannot explain that is beyond your comprehension. BEYOND YOU. And then you chop down the head of Medussas, burn them tied to the poles, and make them examples to many women- to get it in their bones  that strong women are "audacious". That "audacity" is a crime. and then her herbs are the crime, her brains

At the end of the disaster that swept Our streets with the twilight And seeped into our hearts  Like the moonbeams, What remained was a patch of purple On my dress. It was not your purple... It was of a mindful kid who drew blossoms of lavender on everything On my copies, my walls My dress. Yet why does a purple patch  Like the twilight And the disasters  Remind me of  times  That never were.

In smoky alley a knife of sunlight pierced the colourful tarpaulins. Falling slant .. For a few minutes, till The sun is eclipsed or Goes marauding across latitudes. For that brief moment, It lighted his hair And her eyes.

In nights like this, when heavy rain lashes this city from a depression in Bay of Bengal which was earlier a cyclone... I am busy trying to work my life out. But the sounds of rain at night only get me back to that one late summer night. Intoxicated by the spirit of our eyes, We had just returned to your room. Cosied into your never done bed We clasped our hands and tangled up. Something inside me stopped me. I was scared. My pre-conceived ideas swarmed in my sleepy head with the spirit. We fell asleep. We tried to behave normal morning after. But nothing was ever normal after. We were slowly falling in love. Was it only me? You thought I don't remember after the spirit moved out of me. I remember, I still remember. The affection of your eyes-- and your innocent laughter. .that is the best memory I have of you. The day I left, I had fallen asleep to your laughter at some mindless TV comedy. That for me was the idea of home. And of waking up to a dog

All of my cells wanted to love you With all the strength l have... Like I did never before. Some of my cells were scared That you would love me Like none before you .. And then would leave ... So you did.

Walk bare foot In a park. Have tea. Try different types. Green, Red And of course white. Morning paper, watered plants. Sticky notes. Neatly arranged. One crooked. Hum Songs. Long showers. Movies. That make you cry. Memories. That make you smile. And be sad.. a little. Piano lessons. Someday. Own Studio. Colour all over. Diaries… some pain. Write letters. Books, Wednesday evenings. Pastry, Sunday afternoons. Solo breakfast.. Saturday morning. Rains and window stares. Transparent cups and tea leaves Floating. Slow pop. Dance alone. Love. Kiss. Love till the other loves. Love when they leave. But don’t hold on. Believe. Call over friends. Read them stories. And serve them tea. Some cookies. Write. Pack your bags, travel. Near. Far. Within. Without. Solo. With people. Love. Hate. But never show. Cigarettes when you write. Write. Write. Write.

to exist             without acknowledging what existed                           love without being loved back                                  to behave that there is no wound