"I am... "

I'm the air that blows on your back on a sticky summer night,
I'm the skip of a heartbeat on your first frightened flight,
That comforting warmth of a sip of whisky in the winter cold,
When you thought life was but hopelessness, I'm that flicker of hope,
I'm the tease of a smile in your child that is 3 days old,
I'm the wind that's blowing you towards unfound gold,
I'm the last strand of strength when you thought you can no longer hold,
I'm the best kept whispered secret that no one has ever told,
In the corner of a heart dying in disbelief and hate,
I'm the birth and survival of that hint of faith,
When the roof is caving in and the walls are closing,
I'm the earthquake that swallows you and saves you from within,
I'm the hand on your back when you need to go on with your fight,
The firefly next to you till you reach the end of a tunnel without light,
I'm the vision of your mother who no longer tucks you in to sleep tight,
And the twinkle in the angel's eyes that take away your bad dreams at night,
I'm the very last sip of water after your spiciest bite,
That voice in your head that's screaming not to lose sight,
I'm the miracle cure of your every lil' unwell cell,
And the magic in the first love that you couldn't tell,
I'm the sound of the first thunder when you are caught in a forest fire,
I'm the tune of the rushing river when you're weak with thirst and hunger,
I am not unseen yet not visible, though I do not hide or die,
You don't see me, you did not look, no... you didn't even try,
Recognise me for who I am... for I am greater than all that you can imagine,
I am that last force that has been with you from your very beginning......

It's you that I fall for....

-there's a gleam in your eyes when you are cooking. you seem to be equally comfortable with a ladle in your hand in front of the stove... as you are with a mouse in your hand in front of a computer. Computer whizz or Indian chef....? I cannot decide.

-your eyes keep darting to my plate as soon as you finish your food. your fingers are waiting for my "want some..?". are you a food stealer or my personal weight watcher? I cannot decide.

-a smile breaks across your face at the mention of cricket. you sometimes bowl an invisible ball in our living room. I can imagine you as a red-mud covered 10 year old boy, fielding like a pro. A child that never grew out of the game or a religious cricket fanatic? I cannot decide.

-with a worried look after finding a single strand of white hair, you stand and stare at the mirror, troubled. Should I tell you to laugh it off or tell you about the other 10 white strands at the back that you can't see? I cannot decide.

-the destitute look on your face when you have to iron a shirt. you can wash the car, do the dishes and clean our house, all in a blink of an eye, yet cry to iron a shirt?? is it a new undocumented phobia or some kind of selective laziness? I cannot decide.

-an amaaaaa.....zing voice. And amazing speed at which you create your own lyrics (as you sing along) when you forget the words of a song. An undiscovered lyricist or an amnesic singer? I cannot decide.

-the loud laughter I hear when you are watching a silly comedy. Yet you did not see the "funny" in our accident, when our newly serviced Civic was "accidentally" parked upside down on the hill. That was a funny "crash"! Narrow sense of humour or natural defence mechanism? I cannot decide.... lol

-stubborn, splenetic, stoic silence when in hunger.... loud, cuckoo, maniacal when with cousins... comical, philosophical and multilingual when sloshed. Multiple personality or manipulative? I cannot decide.


so many things yet to discover.
tiny details of another september that I'd remember forever.

a man of principles, complex contradictions, a shy smile and great hair. :-)
you made it so easy for me to fall in love with you....
my floor has been slippery from the day I met you....
..... you make me fall... again... and again.... and again.....

happy anniversary, D.

A letter from.....

Hey there missus, may I ask you "how do you do?",

Here I am writing a letter that wouldn't reach you,

In a place where the skies are always light blue,

But no telephone, no postbox, no communication tool.

60 odd years that I had to spend with you,

Those last 60 days that I had to put you through.

I heard every single word, felt your every light touch,

Though my dear blur one, you hadn't the faintest clue.

The morning paper always found its way to my breakfast table,

You somehow knew that without it, I just couldn't do,

For 60 mornings when my body had refused to move,

I heard your voice reading me every page of news, 

Silly woman, you read even the weather forecast too.

Your voice was the balm to all my aching wound,

I hated the sound and smell of my hospital room,

But the moment you walk in even before sunrise, I knew,

I'll be comforted till twilight by the smell of your perfume,

& listening to the soft sounds you make when you gently move,

I looked forward to the caresses of your callused palms,

How they were simply made to perfectly fit mine,

Through our slippery path and rough rides through time,

You were my unseen strength, my hidden source of calm.

You apologized, that our Alan ain't smart like the rest,

Well, he has always been the dullest in our little nest.

He takes after your father, I realized later, no fault of yours nor mine,

It's random gene selection, probability was a little unkind.

I see you now, walking around our house looking for things to do,

Is your knee troubling you? You have 3 legs now, not 2...

Stop checking the doors again and again... like you always do!

I sit on our porch at night, no harm will come upon you.

When the time comes for you to say your last goodbye,

Don't hold back, don't try to breathe and please don't cry.

Trust me on this, this one time you'll love to lose the fight,

It's the  answer to the wish you made to the stars last night,

I'm coming to take you with me in about a fortnight,

To a place where the moonlight shines through daylight,

Once again we'll laugh till we cry, we'll fight, we reunite,

Our new life begins, my dear, the minute after you die,

Come here... love me just the way you had loved me till my death,

Come here.... let me love you the way I had till my very last breath.

paranoia......

"Ok, boss. See you tomorrow...... ;-) "

The short message had given her a tiny jolt last night.

Friendly wink? Cheeky wink?

She did the next sensible thing. She checked his other folders.

SENT ITEMS : EMPTY

OUTBOX : EMPTY

DRAFTS : EMPTY

There's something that she was missing. It was woman's instinct. 

Reading between the lines was exhausting. And now, 19 hours post-message-reading, she was drained....after another day with Trish, listening to her complain about her apparently cheating husband. A husband whom she had no intentions of confronting. It was difficult to lend a shoulder to cry on to a friend who doesn't cry. Tears that are shed within are but wasted water, a weapon that could have easily been used against a man. Yet dangerous... like internal hemorrhage. The damage can never be easily assessed, until it is too late for a save.

The 5 worded message was like an ant-bite on her cortex. Small and stinging, persistently and painfully itchy, inconveniently unreachable.

Tiny things that were overlooked were acquiring new meanings.

His "staying back at work" for an hour or two.

His conversation 2 days back that consisted only of "ok", "ok" and "ok. Don't worry. No one will know."

The deleted sent items folder on his phone.

She recognized the girl's name, it was his new colleague. At least she deserves a point for remembering.

Any woman of today would do this, she thought to herself and logged into Facebook.

She was in his friend-list alright.  Score: 2/0

Her photos were not for public viewing. She logged into his account and clicked on the witch's "album". Score: 3/0

(somewhere along the way, the "she" had become a "witch")

She inhaled sharply, hands turned cold and her feelings were hot coal.

Screw the score, this was war.

148 photos. Witch was a cross-breed, Chinese mother and an Indian father.

Good complexion. Nice figure.

Her own plans of making dinner flew out the window and swam under the door. If she skipped dinner, she can save herself the much un-needed calories.

The mercury level of her temper-meter was rising like there was no ceiling. Heart thumped against her chest, head pounded with an unbound fury and curses that she hadn't voiced out, being alone at home.

She felt a desperate need to punch the witch, and him, or at least the wall. She slammed shut the laptop instead. After all, it was his laptop.

The fact that the witch had amazing hair did not help one bit. Anger that was previously directed towards the witch had now turned to him. Targeted and locked. It was consuming her as she sat staring at the tv that she wasn't watching, waiting for him.

HIM......

Driving through this hell after work is like.... well, HELL!! Every Tom, Dick & Harriett has a car now and has decided to flood the highway today. All at the same time! Gotta leave early tomorrow morning.... Have to run through the presentation once. Hope Eric has reviewed and mailed the final copy.... Damn! Internet bill!! F*CK! Forgot to cash in the rent! Ah, hell! Will make an online transaction. If those idiots have not disconnected my line, that is. Have to call Leena and remind about the remaining scripts. *sigh* or maybe I'll just complete it myself tomorrow. MY GOD! How can someone with Indian AND Chinese genes be so slow and dense. Ok, not that bad, maybe semi-permeable. Doesn't understand anything assigned to her, what she is doing and why she is doing it. But is very good at complaining about her boyfriend and his mother and his dog. Argh! Women!

Why the f*ck is this lane so damn slow?! Great, traffic light is fucked. Excellent timing....

My neck is killing me. Is there aspirin at home? Have to stop by at 7'eleven. 7...er.... oh yeah,7th is her brother's b'day. Must call. Remember... remember... Don't want another my-family-is-important lecture. Did I leave my external hard-drive at work? Nah... don't think so. Bloody c*ck!!! hey, hero....!!! Overtaking from the left, no signal, no nothing!!! tere maa ki...... ? shit man... Oh, female driver. Stupid creature. Is my blue shirt ironed..... The presentation.... Eric... Have to give Eric that money. Poor guy. Hope there's chicken for dinner at home. Hope she's back already. Just need to get home. *SIGH* Oh thank god for home.....

"There are some books that refuse to be written. They stand their ground year after year and will not be persuaded. It isn't because the book is not there and worth being written -- it is only because the right form of the story does not present itself. There is only one right form for a story and if you fail to find that form, the story will not tell itself...."

A tiny lens in a machine....

I saw her standing there, trying hard not to cry,
Today there's a purple shadow around her right eye,
She comes on monday afternoons and friday nights,
There's always something new to mark the new fight.

He looks more than twelve and less than fifteen,
Straight hair, fair skinned and unmistakably feminine,
Comes in a group of ten, everyday at around one,
They push him around, grab his cash and run.

Thursday nights - a tanned guy with a silver nose ring,
Broad shoulders, long hair, a cuter version of Dhoni,
Smiles like he has a personal joke that he aint sharing,
Looks right at me, blows flying kisses just before leaving.

Chinky old uncle with his 3 inches specs,
Has bout 10 strands of hair on his shiny bald head,
Something is definitely very wrong with his sight,
Punches his numbers ten times before he gets it right.

You must have visited an ATM machine,
What you don't see is the tiny camera within,
I'm the one behind the surveillence device and screen,
I know some of you a little, even though I'm unseen.

7 floors down.....

Sitting on the floor in front of the closet,
Looking at your shirts, many shades of russet,
Never did notice that your were so partial to brown,
Next to you I must have looked like a colourful clown,
I can almost feel you here as I hold ur soft cotton pants,
Remembering you wearing them during our last dance,
I'm folding your socks, the blacks with the blue,
Knowing if they're mismatched, it irritates you,
An intoxicating scent was brought in by this wind,
Your cologne was made to make women sin,
I see our bed at the corner of my eye,
A towel lies there, by now it must be dry,
Your Robert Ludlum's "The matarese countdown",
Is left at our nightstand, folded at page 121,
I'm still living with you in this room for two,
How I miss your constant instructions on what to do,
People think I'm crazy, sinking in suppressed sorrow,
I really am not that upset we didn't have our tomorrow,
You left me here with a roomful of memories,
I thought I could go on living like this for centuries,
Sometimes I can still feel you hugging me tight,
And those careless and clumsy, sleepy kisses at night,
Just coz I love you, it doesn't mean you're off the hook,
I'm still angry that you didn't teach me how to fish and to cook,
What am I doing alone, answer me if you can,
What now mr perfectionist, what happen to your fool-proof plan,
Our account book is not done, but the bills are paid,
You know I hate numbers, oh! and I've sacked the maid,
Living like this, surrounded by everything that's you,
The temptation to come to you is killing me too,
One day in this room when your scent is not found,
I'll put my feet at the balcony railing to make my final jump.