Like Mosaic Tiles

Shards of glass,
Scratchy and unsmooth
Fragmented into asymmetrical shapes
Smashed without an obvious purpose
Lying still on the ground
A huge array of varying materials
Diverse hues in all possible colours
Small, large, long, thin,
Like broken marble and uncut diamonds
They stay silently, unaware
What a mess it seems, no direction
No reason, meaningless
Individually insignificant like a pile of broken parts
Yet one of the most
Beautiful types of art
Found in the museums, palaces and sky ceilings
Are precisely made with these
Fractions of a whole
Taken from everywhere
Incomplete and fractured
Randomly chosen and found in the same situation
Somehow placed side by side
In the large canvas
Unsure of how they fit in
Yet they all do somehow
Because there is no single spotlight
But a common theme spun with a single thread
Of unity and delicate homogeneity of differences
Curious angles different sizes
Wavering degrees of positioning
Placed adjacent, one next to the other
Whole in their incompleteness
Fitting in where otherwise they did not
Like broken bits of a jigsaw
Overlapping where the other lacks
Up close it makes hard work
To understand their meaning
Their purpose uncertain in the myopia
Of short-lived vision
Yet tilted back
Pushed a little further away
Viewed like the earth from the moon
The sum of the parts
Make an equation fall into place
The sea of fabricated materials
Follow a pattern
Of their own
Their beauty lies in their imperfections
Breathtakingly captivating
The ultimate result is theirs to own

Chennai – Old yet new

Sifting through my old emails, I found one forwarded by my ex-boss just before my maiden journey to Chennai, once called Madras and where British Influence in South Asia made its baby steps.

This is written by a lady from Chennai, who loves it for what it was, is and is becoming. Reading it now, it strikes a chord; India has changed my idea of so many things.
_______________________________________________________
Subject: The New Chennai by Shoba Narayan

The new, edgier Chennai hasn’t lost its past
Chennai is now edgier, sexier, grittier but tradition
has not given away completely in this traverse of time

By Shoba Narayan, Mint, July 24, 2009

What can I tell you about my beloved Chennai? People from other metros
will argue that Chennai has little to recommend it. They complain
about the heat and the orthodoxy. They complain about the nightlife or
lack thereof. They complain about wily, rude autorickshaw drivers who
fleece unsuspecting tourists. Yes, I know.

But what can I tell you in defence? Abnormal as it seems, I am
happiest in Chennai. This irrational love that most of us have for one
place has mostly to do with childhood. I know several people—my
husband included—who have no ties to any one city, having grown up in
several.

My friend, Arun, for instance, who now lives in Berlin, can
objectively take Indian cities apart, sifting them into pros and cons
that say everything but mean nothing. Mumbai for enterprise, Delhi for
power, Kolkata for Bongs who aspire only to get out of Kolkata,
Bangalore for the weather and entrepreneurship and Chennai for its
culture.

All true, but it does little to capture the essence of this coastal
city that welcomed St Thomas and does the jalsa (illicit
gratification, for example, liquor) and jilpa (gratuitous holding
forth on topics that one knows nothing about), as blogger Krish Ashok
says.

Chennai is waking up at 4am to have lunch at 7. It is going to tiny
Murphy Electronics in Adyar and having the proprietor dig out from the
dark recesses every gadget and20gizmo that you never thought to have.
It is drinking “Kumbakonam degree coffee” at, well, Kumbakonam Degree
Coffee in Anna Nagar. It is eating chop suey and hakka noodles at
Waldorf with the IIT guy you have a crush on.

It is watching grizzled old men cover themselves in monkey caps when
the temperature drops from unbelievable to bearable. It is watching
pretty maidens with turmeric yellow faces and dripping wet hair walk
to the temples in the month that is called Margazhi in Tamil. It is
describing yourself as a “thayir saadam” (curd rice) or a “Mylapore
girl” and knowing instantly what it means; about every nuance of that
person. It is knowing that music connoisseurs go to Mylapore Fine Arts
or the TriplicaneAcademy during the December season, while the people
who want to see and be seen go to the Music Academy.

Chennai is Grand Sweets, Ambika Appalam and Saravana Bhavan. It is the
pleasure of speaking in Tamil using a shorthand that only other
Chennai-ites will understand and relish: swear words such as savu
gracki, or the disdainful “veetila sollittu vandirukaya?”, which is
what an auto driver will yell when you cut him off, causing him to
nearly bang into you. Your fault, lady. Have you told people at home
(that you are going to die)? That’s what it means but like most
translations, this does little to capture the pithy essence of that
insult.

Change comes slowly to Chennai. Go there today, and you will still see
the vendors on the beach selling “thenga, manga, pattani, sundal” or
coconut, mango, and a variety of fried lentils. Couples still sit in
the moonlight at Elliot’s Beach, looking around furtively for known
faces. Mamis (matrons) still duck into Nalli’s or G.R. Thanga Maligai
(GRT) for silk saris and gold, respectively, and haggle hard for the
“compliment” or a Rs5 purse that is given free after they spend a few
lakhs. The free purse seems to give them more pleasure than their
purchases.

Chennai is going to Pondy Bazaar and finding everything except your
mother and father. It is parties where people still quote the “Manjal
Araithayaa” speech from the Tamil movie Veera Pandiya Katta Bhomman
after sufficient quantities of liquor have been quaffed. It is eating
spongy idlis at Murugan Idli Shop and wondering if ordering every type
of dosa on the menu is gluttony or good taste. It is the scent of
jasmine at sunset.

Chennai is steeped in Tamil culture. “No ifs, ands and buts about it”,
as a Madrasi would say, and no, please don’t use that word to describe
anyone south of the Vindhyas. M.S. Subbulakshmi epitomized what, for
many women, is Tamil culture. She was deferential to her husband who
managed all her affairs; almost childlike in her simplicity; had
regular oil baths and then scented her hair with sambrani (a type of
incense for sweet-smelling hair); circled the tulsi plant for the
well-being of her family; and inspired thoughts of the divine.

Today’s Chennai is edgier, sexier, grittier. Radio announcers (many of
them female) regale listeners with a snappy Tamil that is equal parts
slang and slander. Girls in Chennai no longer wear salwar kameez like
I used to. They ride motorbikes in tight jeans and halter tops. Few
oil their hair but many still wear the bindi. They prefer lattes to
filter coffee and pizzas to pongal. And you know what? That’s fine.
Because Chennai hasn’t lost its essence.

The same babe who speaks in Tanglish (Tamil-English) will go home and
address her grandmother as “Paati”. The same boy who sports spiky hair
and sunglasses will submit to a Ganga Snanam with loads of hot sesame
oil come Deepavali day.

Chennai—my Chennai, the city that I love—still exists. You just need
to know where to find it. Come with me. I’ll show you.

When in Chennai, Shoba Narayan dines at Karpagambal Mess in Mylapore
and Beyond Indus at the Taj Mount Road.

A part of India

India is warm hot air hitting you right in the face, lingering with the smell of gee, jasmine flowers, and curries long after you have moved away from its origin.
India is smiling friendly people always ready to help you, but sometimes not for free, a tip will be good.
India is vehicles honking at other vehicles just for the fun of saying hello, and sometimes honking even when no other car is in sight.
India is the sight of people sitting on any piece of land possible, lying at the bus stop, with dirty fingernails long overdue for a wash.
India is men wearing some sarong-like cloth as underpants or pants (im not sure) and whenever they feel like it, loosening the cloth and tying it again right in front of strangers.
India is pedestrians walking right in the middle of the road, unaware and uncaring that they were that close to death.
India is girls clad in beautiful saris sitting pillion behind their husbands or boyfriends, both legs at one side in a pretty lady-like manner.
India is garlands of jasmine flowers for sale in the market, on the necks of ladies, scattered on the dirty roads.
India is the the sand on the beach, coarse under your feet, and horses parading with guardmen in dirty green uniforms.
India is smiling attendants, shaking their heads while saying yes, never about to say they can’t do something even if they really can’t.
India is cheap but good books, a pleasantly high level of English, and hotel chauffeurs in stunning white navy looking uniforms.
India is taking tea breaks whenever you want to, drinking on the roadside, oblivious to the developed world around.
India is little boys made to work their ways of our slumish poverty by dragging huge containers of tea and selling them in cups by the beach.
India is the kites in the sky, soaring through the delight of those who play with them, their companion and their happiness.
India is the selling of sugarcane juice at a roadside stall puffing much more exhaust then money made.
India is the huge income disparity between locals and foreignors, and amongst castes and religions.
India is the swamps stinking with sewage and rubbish right next to the slums in the city centre.
India is women balancing heavy sacks of rice on the top of their heads, with just one hand for help, while their men walk beside them.
India is arranged marriages that result in unhappy lives, of women and children born into a caste they have no option to refuse.
India is tv channel after channel of men and women seducing each other, before a forty second dance outbreak from forty other people that suddenly apprear in the scene.
India is polluted skies and dirty grounds, filthy with years of non-maintanance.
India is buses with people hanging off them, swerving and blasting their horns.

India grabs you from wherever you are from, and shocks you with its stark characteristics. There isn’t any one thing that doesn’t quite amaze me. India osmoses into you whether you like it or not. India is hugely fascinating, and it makes me more aware of everything.

A Mother’s Heart

She yearns and she pines for her daughter’s return
Her safety and her love
A mother gives her all to her little daughter
Dresses her up and cuddles her
When her daughter is a baby,
All she wishes is for her to grow up
So they can talk about life and love and girly stuff
And as the little girl grows up and finds
Her friends among them and boys as well
A mother there she in the back seat dwell
Girlfriends and movie nights and sleepovers too
A daughter is caught up with all in school
The mail in the post she waited for
A shadow of the car trailing away as she goes for a date
Her mother watches from the window pane
‘My little girl has grown’, then says her name
Little whispers of shy words now said but
No longer to her mother
The girl is grown and delights in another
The baby daughter who used to twirl in front
Of the mirror showing mother and daughter
Now stands tall and upright in her gown
As she walks down the isle to her other
The crowd is watching as the father guides her down the path
Happy yet sad to release his daughter
Into the hands of another man
Yet while the father eventually lets go
Her mother is the one whose tears fall silently
A smile breaking into crystal beads
Of love, of memories and of silent joy
She sits in the pew as her daughter glances
Into the eyes of her new found partner
Into the life she will now own, no longer attached to her mother
And as the church bells chime their blessed union,
The bride gathers her train and turns around
She blows her mother a butterfly kiss
Dear mummy you I will dearly miss
But a mother-daughter bond will not fall apart
Nor break because of an added son
But their unity becomes stronger because very soon,
Her daughter becomes a mother too.

Happy Mother’s Day! to all mothers & mothers-to-be : )

The office

So many people leaving
Even more coming
Makes you wonder as you sit
If reality has really hit

Farewells and goodbyes
Niceties and hi-s
Just a normal BAU
People forming in a queue

Corridor talk in hushed small whispers
Worried glances and uneasy candor
A chance encounter
About a concealed matter

Invisible walls forming
Barriers up and storming
A war with two ends
Never knowing where it bends

Uncertain courtesies
Insincere banter
Questions lurking around
The eyes they don’t leak a sound

Coordinated planning
Around the floor scanning
Watch out they say
Watch your back even in the day

The relationships between
Bosses and subs and peers and neighbors
This isn’t school anymore
No one to catch you if you fall

But once in a while you find
A precious gem among the blinds
An honest spark of light and spirit
Brightening the long work week

A little question a little smile
Helps you run the unending mile
These little things they warm your heart
That’s all you need to start

Celebrating You : )

Celebrating you, because you are so beautiful.
Celebrating you, because you made my life beautiful by being you.
Celebrating you, because of everything you do, the things you say to make me smile, the love you have to give.
Celebrating your success, your joys and your triumphs.

Happy Birthday Cuqui : )

Las Pequenos Cosas

It’s the little things I start to realise,
that define the word we sometimes cannot conceptualize
The pen on the table, put away without a second thought;
Scanned documents sent via email;
acknowledged merely with a hasty ‘thanks’
Its the increase in the account;
And the breakfast of pancakes with dulce de leche.

The call in the morning to wake me up
A question, an application
The extended trip, the greater insurance
The walk to the money changer
The smile when seeing me
Hugs and prayers each morning for my safety
It’s the little things, that shout out your steadfast unwavering conviction.

TE QUIERO Mama

Discovery

Staring out of the window

Into the cloudy skies above the ledge

I think and pause, the anxiety coming into waves of peace.

A stretch of road I see before me, long and still.

I’m running, jogging slowly at first, then faster faster faster

I find myself running straight into the Judea desert again

A sight that’s always been with me since I first stepped into Israel 4 years ago.

 

I’m walking through the sand dunes, dust covering my bare feet

Sifting through my toes as I tread carefully, trying to grip the sand for fear of falling.

 

I had been looking down, my eyes downcast and overshadowed

By the dust that flicks in my hair, swirling in the wind.

I lift my eyes to the skies, and

For one moment, a really long moment, my heart is caught in my throat; I clench my fists and I gasp in awe

The view that just spread itself out before me had caught me completely unaware,

Swept me off my blistered feet, and for that long pause,

I forget the weariness that I had been carrying with me

I lay it down, like a bag of stones I had been dragging along unknowingly

 

Right above me is a long flow of dark, so dark that it’s gleaming and shining so bright it stings my eyes

I find myself trying to tear away from the magnetic pull of the unraveled velvet sky, and realize that it is impossible.

I search the dark, and then, as my eyes adjust to its glow,

What I see touches my heart so much I cry.

 

I thought I was alone, then I saw a flicker.

Then another glimmer, then another spark that I didn’t see before.

Shiny metal and diamonds start making their guest appearances.

 

I am caught off guard, wide-eyed, stunned.

All my worries and my burdens suddenly seemed miniscule,

Upon the scale of heavens that had been suddenly and so majestically laid before me for my appreciation.

 

I see the world like never before. My eyes are opened to the possibilities there are, the much life that I had never noticed prior to that, prior to the time of being downcast and focusing on myself.

 

I find myself suddenly lifted like in Physics, because the pressure from below is so much stronger than the pressure from above. I am pushed upwards and I am soaring beyond my highest imagination.

I feel lighter, like helium, shooting past the sand dunes, looking down at the desert, my solace. I can’t stop flying; I can’t even if I tried. And I stop trying to stop, and let the wind keep me afloat, where I know I’ve found my peace.

 

Mannheim, Germany. 061207

 

Fall in fabrication

A spool of light forming at the keel of the trees,
The mixing of olive and brilliant greens
So interwined the glow of sparkling stillness
As colour spills from palatte to canvas.

The slow enveloping of the morning dew
With the first sparks of the peeking sunrise
Sizzling across the gentle breeze
That sways with the incomprehensible pull of life

Auburn necessity and crimson brown
Strewn across the floor of nature
Effortlessly unaware, so totally bare
Still yet lulling in undisturbed sleep

Arriving in beguiling style
Taking in, drinking with such unquenchable thirst
The world is a stage
And Autumn has come to take her rightful place.

– Inspired in a spur, by The Satorialist, and dreams of something yet to come

Picture book

Snapshots, captions, a flash of the camera.
A smile, a tear, that little smirk.
Raydrops, the drizzling rain,
And the rainbow spread out through the prism.

The book turns to life
Many places different faces
Yet all encased the same life
Different props, but the same stage.

The dazzling skyline
That sparkling shining tower
The diamond studded street
The cars little ornaments of viewing pleasure.

A piece of lake,
A drove of seagulls
The thick glass of ice
Beneath the skating children

Sunbeams across their faces
Bouncing off with seamless energy
The misty landscape behind
Eluding the strangers in shrouded mystery

The glasses full of hot steaming wine
The market alive with festivity
Endless tourist streams
Flow through the stones of man

Lines of trees that outlined the walkway
The pyramid, the warriors, the golden arch.
The big lighted wheel,
And finally the triumph.

Woven together, in a cross stitch of commas
A story still being written
Many more chapters to go
Just many of many pictures
In the picture book.