Dragonfly

(Artwork by Bella Dos Santos from art.com)

I was seated alone
My thoughts asunder
The meadow, quiet
The waters, still
when that incessant dragonfly
of the green-gold wings,
bearing secret messages
and untold things
buzzed as if possessed.
It buzzed till I gave in,
till I let it sit,
till I let it sing.
It sang of the paths
that had led him here,
of loves and lives
and many a fear.
So I sat and I heard,
about gnomes and fairies,
till my head throbbed
with a hundred stories.
He sang some more
of my reluctant past,
about my childhood,
that had flown too fast,
Of forgotten kisses,
loves I still missed,
roads I had trodden,
that no longer exist,
More songs of passion,
lust and pain;
of emotions I'd grown to disdain,
Tunes of tears and laughter,
and tales of before and after.
He took lead, I flowed
wondrous streams we rowed
My limbs hung limp,
my heart a-skip
Consciousness drowning
phantom images
flying fast and thick.
Then the buzz was gone,
the shadows, long
the mist was swirling
in copious rings.
I awoke alone,
a curious sheen on my skin
that was perhaps
from a green-gold wing.

(Co-written with Anish Nelson - @nelsonnium)

Firebreaths and friendships

(Image source: dart.fine-art.com)

The swords in her belt sat tight, but her heart had not agreed,
That was not the day to fight; might ought not always be right.  
She was to slay some dragons, she trained them instead.
They jumped through hoops in little carousel circles around her head, 
they made her joyful, they made her dizzy.
Sometimes the dragons snuggled up in bed too; 
she learnt to live with the fire-holes in her duvet.
She learnt to live with stares of suspicion too,
People and dragons are not usually friends - 
But all that mattered were her hoop-jumping, loopy dragons
who kept her dizzy with joy.
Dragon slayer turned dragon lover - 
her hearth was bright, her heart was warm. 
In firebreath she found love; unspeaking, but telling.
The story of their friendship spread - 
like wildfire, nay dragonfire!
And then the dragons just like that went away, 
in search of another slayer, a new battle, another lover to make.

Co-written with @A5ma - Asma Kazi

Flame of the forest

(Image source: bovinedawn.com)

Jewelled dewdrops, the night beckons, 

the smile lingers on, the blood has thickened 

Naked, lissome, time stops

Languorous sometimes, ofttimes hurried, 

tastes savoured, for the first time and last

Stirred now, time moves, hearts pound, blood rushes in cold places

The stirrings return. The pious eagle swoops down

across the crevasses of skin, 

ponders the heaven below and the hell within, and smiles

A stranger to the night, but strangely at home, 

the eagle flies where the wind takes him. 

Tonight, is the night of free will - though dark, 'tis pure.

Dawn creaks, the lady speaks, she calls out his name

The eagle fakes, his heart breaks, 

and he bursts into flame.

She watches as he burns, dawn to dusk turns. 

Some silvern ash on her body, and some in the urn, 

it's time to return. 

Jewelled dewdrops once more, 

the night beckons again. 

His new heart must come by, to have his thirst quenched.

His feathers singed from lust, and yet he knows 

he must return from the sprinkled dust 

onto her call....

She arches her back, she calls out to him, 

she unclasps his whim,

and waits for his fall.

And so the cycle turns, and they a myth become. 

By night, when blazes the fire, the villagers sing of the lady's ire, and say, 

no matter how high may eagles fly, passion burneth and brings down

Fables spread, the tales grew, the bard singeth their praise

lovers cry, beneath their skies 

and kings doth hold their gaze 

And night after night, in passionate flight, 

the eagle's love soars, in her skin he cries, 

in her limbs he lies and in her dreams he roars

(Co-written with @bangdu)

The Giver by Lois Lowry: Impressions

I do not read children's books. I think I stopped reading them when I was still a child. Harry Potter, LOTR, and the works have never been part of my bookshelf. Fantasy fiction has never been my thing. But I am glad I read The Giver.  I liked it, probably, because it isn't a children's book in the traditional sense of the word. It is more like a book for adults, who like to read kiddie-style fiction, like my husband - Viren. That's how the book has now got into my...er, our bookshelf.

Anyhow, The Giver is a good book. More so, because it reminds one of George Orwell's 1984. A controlled society with little or no freedom makes for the background of the book, where the protagonist - Jonas - lives with his family unit. A painless society of safe choices lives under some strict codes, follows a dreary principle of 'sameness' so that there will be equality, and is bereft of 'useless' things as emotions and music and art and colour.

Jonas is chosen to be the community's next Receiver (of memories) at the age of 12, just like all other children are assigned their respective occupations for life, and goes to be an apprentice with the current one (The Giver). He receives from his teacher memories of things and feelings he has never known before, and life changes for him. He forges a deep bond with The Giver, learns some terrible secrets about the community and about life outside the community - Elsewhere. He begins to believe that things must change, and he and The Giver hatch a plan that will set them free from the burden of centuries of memory.

The Giver poses an intriguing view of a society minus the things we so take for granted. It also makes us ponder upon the importance of memories, a life without any abberations, and the scope for the humane aspect of humanity in a 'perfect' society. How worthy would life be without pain or joy or love?

Apart from the plot, the book is also striking in its lucidity. That such complex ideas, about a world completely different from ours, could be conveyed with such easy precision, is amazing. But I suppose simplicity of language is a prerequisite of writing children's fiction. The more I grow as a reader, a writer and a human, the more I am awed by, and understand, the power of simplicity. The author, Lois Lowry, obviously knew what she was talking about.

However, the book failed me with its ending. A forced denouement, as it were, pushes the protagonist to the edge of Elsewhere (the real world) with promises of joy, and leaves behind a great many loose ends about the life he has run away from. The author has imposed a sense of heroic on the protagonist, just because it must be done. But there was, perhaps, no other way to end what was so beautifully begun.

The red message

  

   She had been awake for a while; but her eyes refused to open. She enjoyed the light beyond her eyes and the darkness behind them. She was drowsy, and pleasantly disoriented. Like the times when you are not sure which side of the bed your head is on. She could lie there forever. But there was a nasty throbbing somewhere. Her hand... her fingers... yes, her index finger of her right hand.
   She opened her eyes, irritated. There was a deepish cut; now clotted. The pillow had patterns of blood on it. Ugly caked red, but pretty bloody designs. The blood had gotten on her hair. It was matted in places. She'd have to shower & put a tape on her finger. She had no recollection of how and where she had got cut. All she cared about was her hair; and oh, the designs. Like mysterious divinations.
    She dragged herself out of the bed, one leaden step at a time and stood in front of the mirror, groggy yet intensely aware... There were messages she had to hear, to interpret. 'I wish I could cut and frame the blood-stained sheet,' she thought. The thought didn't leave her all day, as she went about her work, carrying her wounded finger like a curious trophy. She got home, carefully cut out the section of the pillow case and got it framed. She hung the frame on the wall opposite her fireplace. She would sit on her rocking chair and look at it. The designs would tell a story some day.

(With inputs from Satish Lakshman @tishman and Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devill22 )

Another time for love

   'It's been a hell of a long while,' he thought, as he lay under the cooling shade of the tree. 'How much longer?' It felt like hours. Maybe it was hours. Maybe minutes. The cool shade didn't feel so cool now. The waiting was burning his insides. Yet he could not leave. She had a promise to keep.
   A promise that she had made back when they had planted this very tree. Not exactly planted it. Spat out the seeds rather. They had been feasting on sweet tangerines that day, under an orange sky. It seemed like yesterday... As a

matter of fact, it WAS yesterday. 'This tree has grown rather fast... in a day. A few more hours for the tree to start bearing fruit,' chugged his train of thought. 

   His reverie broke with a flash of something. WHAT WAS THAT? A torch? A strong, almost cruel white ray shone into his eyes. She was here. Again, after years. Again, after yesterday. Time seemed warped.

   'I hope she's brought sandwiches,' he thought to himself, as she switched off what seemed like fog lights. 'Why would she use them in the day?' he wondered. Actually he didn't. She was never like the other women he knew. "What's life without a little drama?" she'd say. Even now, as she walked toward him with the picnic basket, she seemed to be performing. A surreal stage; her feet one, perhaps two feet above the ground.

   She hadn't aged a day since yesterday, or from a few years ago. With her quick, light steps she walked over to him, and held out the basket. He could see the Chardonnay wrapped in a towel. Wine there had to be. They needed it to lose themselves, to find each other. The real world wasn't for them. He whipped out his Burmese army knife and expertly popped the cork. Some birds took wing, protesting loudly at the sudden sound. She could hear music even in the angry chirping of the birds. His presence made everything beautiful. They raised a toast, drank and nibbled at the sandwiches. It would be a lovely day...

   They sat content for a while, then she leaned over and kissed his cheek. The smell of his sweat mildly intoxicating her. A kiss, a touch, a caress, an embrace. The summer morning would ripen their bodies again with heat and lust. Love would have to wait. A gentle breeze blew, tousling strands of his long, raven black hair across his face. "The markets open in an hour" she said. The urgency hit him in the gut. She had these gentle-cruel reminders of forevers that end.

   They made fast, furious love, squeezing in a million pleasures every moment. Time was little. Tomorrow might come years later. Bodies entwined in a slow serpentine dance under the double suns. Sweat poured as they rolled in the throes of manic ecstasy. Time stood still. Time flew. The clock tower in the market warned them ten times. The lovers would have to go. Wait for interminable centuries... until tomorrow.

   "Reports say Earth will be habitable again in a less than a year," she said, as she slipped into her little, lacy red panties. Then she dissolved into the light, as dramatically as she had arrived. They weren't fog lights. He walked to the market, basket in hand; the leftover Chardonnay still cold. He reached the market, sat in his little curio shop - the quaint little spaceship model always by his side. 'Wonder if she'll bring sandwiches tomorrow,' he thought, as he slipped back into a patient slumber.

(Co-authored with Satish Lakshman - @tishman) 

   

 

   

   

Snatches of a dream

She probably sounded a little too happy.
   "I'd like a shot of whatever it is you are drinking," he says, mischievously. "I'm drinking joy," she says equally playfully and passes him the cup.
    He accepts it, and takes a deep gulp of the viscous fluid. It runs down his throat, engulfing it in its warm embrace, and despite himself, he begins to feel 'nice'. The warmth of the liquid spreads its tentacles around his body...a gentle tingling at first. The tingle soon spread to his extremities. Hands, feet, then brain. Pushing him towards who knew where.

   The window... a gentle breeze enticing him towards it. He stepped up, leaned forth and drew draughts of air that seemed intoxicating in their freshness. Suddenly something caught his eye...
   "It couldn't be!" Could it??? After nearly 2 decades... "Could it be her?" he says to himself. His heart skipped a beat. Maybe two. Her hair was the same, if a little thinner. Her gait was the same, if a little heavier. Then he noticed that derrière... Oh! That derrière... He could never forget it. It HAD to be her!
   The headiness of the liquid was now being replaced by another. Of a distant time. Of passionate memories. Should he turn back time?
   But here he was with the woman, who had given him the drink, the one person he would be slave to, in the entire world.
   The woman in the room smiled; blushed. She was still holding the cup. She let it drop. It was time to break the dream.
   Shattering into a 1000 pieces, the earthen cup spilled its contents on the floor. He looked up at the face of the woman...
   The woman started to fade; an apparition all along. Her lips curled in a smile, disappeared slowly. His heart felt heavy and light.

  But the shattered earthen pot on the floor... the fluid splashed across his Guccis.
  Evidences of a parallel universe, perhaps. Today had been a confluence of her world and his. Something had opened the portal...   
   He could still smell her around him. That strange odour, that he could only explain as HER! He smiled to himself, thinking how strange it would be if someone walked into the room and saw him buck naked in just his Guccis.
   He had chased his dream indeed. He missed her already. But there were important things to get done.

(A dream sequence co-authored by @tishman)