tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76902812011-10-25T14:25:12.452+05:30Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.comBlogger1411100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-12104818649123158412008-05-24T15:36:00.003+05:302008-05-24T17:34:21.951+05:30

The tomes (yours & mine!) in my bookshelfwith their spines to me-I rearrange, in wild fantasy,sometimes in mad embrace-other times,lover's tiff maybe!

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-50994750030727164392008-05-24T14:06:00.009+05:302008-05-24T15:29:28.719+05:30

The sun playing hide & seek with tree leaves, spins dark ribbons on the narrow road. The world around me slows down at the flash of the red circle. Inertia, Impatience, Ilayaraja's solitary violin - Inside my head. I can still taste the coffee of five minutes ago. Autos in the opposite direction, draped in yellow and black, fart gloriously and move on. I close my eyes to avoid the dust, swirling

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-19050589348106518032007-08-20T20:11:00.000+05:302007-08-21T12:20:47.061+05:30

The language of this country is vulgar & coarse, like the people. They beat against each other, sounds clashing with the violence of war. Along with senseless words, I hear their saliva, their tongues writhing and lashing against the roofs of their mouths. Empty space fills their mouths and throats and they open their mouths wide and spit syllables, gulping in air, to fill the now soundless

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-9378699527167052652007-08-01T11:38:00.000+05:302007-08-01T11:39:55.378+05:30

This blog needs dusting...

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-77010774940455091992007-05-30T12:20:00.000+05:302007-05-30T12:24:26.230+05:30

No willto swim thesecareless whitesheets betweenspentyou and me.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-33986121847403784242007-05-16T18:36:00.000+05:302007-05-16T18:38:07.071+05:30

Hush!Be still,let me savourthis here,you me -let me wearyour skinto feel goodin mine.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-11054496861172922742007-05-14T18:39:00.001+05:302007-05-14T18:39:26.157+05:30

His soft kisseson herelastic-creasedhip.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-46969730699845559612007-05-14T18:00:00.000+05:302007-05-14T18:04:51.328+05:30

Every morning, I sit religiously to write to you, about you. The wooden table is hard and rough. It has a few books that I read these days - some detective, fantasy and erotic novels, a haphazard desultory collection. You would not have heard of them, another sign of my decay. Blank sheets of paper held together by a red paper clip, the one I bought in a souvenier store, when you weren't there

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-77000425923156213452007-03-06T15:50:00.000+05:302007-03-06T16:28:00.007+05:30

rankingraging desirespristine pure(few & far in number)from spamless spinelesscorners of my mind,fast furious first stands this.1) to be had:under a megalomaniacal moon,soan papdi featherswith white wine.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-36915986398972990122007-01-22T12:24:00.001+05:302007-01-22T12:24:48.140+05:30

Steal not your way to my fingertips,Spill not into my words,Hide not in thought-crevices,Stay no more,Go away!

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-54688915812441955932007-01-06T18:51:00.000+05:302007-01-06T19:12:28.588+05:30

The waves hear and know every sound that reaches them, from the shore and across. They know you by your first kiss, from the uncertain sounds of spontaneity, your arms entwined around that lover's neck, and the ring tone of your mobile phone that cut through. They hear the sound of your startle and your feet crashing the sand, your hurried landing onto reality. Sometimes they borrow glitter from

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1163268567022089442006-11-12T00:01:00.000+05:302006-12-10T17:41:08.686+05:30

When Autumn comes, it doesn't askIt just walks in where it left you lastYou never know when it startsUntil there's fog inside the glass around your summer heart...Back and forth. Back and forth. After the length of the dark terrace has been measured a hundred times, with a broken walkman barely breathing John Mayer into my ears, I have reached here, now, forgetfulness in you. Where do I go from

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1163250486408393992006-11-11T18:33:00.000+05:302006-12-10T00:45:26.256+05:30

Two curly headsof eight and nineX & Y, say,huddle undera blanket shroudand a circle of light.On creased newspapers,they inspect cornercondom ads.Furtively gleeful,their insides turn out.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1162883539870955432006-11-07T12:38:00.000+05:302006-12-07T22:53:57.276+05:30

Can I haveyour face and voice,a place of our own,footsteps,afternoon sun drawing lines between us,music and wine,colour of some sort,the skin behind your ear,a shape to hold.If its too much to ask -a yellowing letterto trace the dot of your i,an old shirt oreven a forgotten promise,a folded pictureof a younger you and mesmiling or no,would do as well -Anything more thanthis pang and missed beatto

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1162536598548341582006-11-03T12:18:00.000+05:302007-01-22T12:25:32.543+05:30

I only remember that he wore red, that day. Was it a jacket, a shirt or a kurta? Only that his neck seemed to be held by something red. On his head was a mass of thick unruly curls, not to be held together. He had combed them straight back from his forehead with the same firmness and deliberation that he lent to his words. Instead of making him look older, it lent a curious sensuality to his face

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1160551121753841582006-10-07T00:46:00.000+05:302006-12-12T20:54:42.600+05:30

I have told this before and I will say it again. Every idea that is out there, has already tread these streets, these running roads, has waded through the stinking sewer. Every word, there ever has been, has been spoken, many thousand times, beaten to a pulp over and over again. We twist, expand and curl our lips as infants watch in mute imitation. We wait for the sound that sounds like ours, yet

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1159188667411760152006-09-25T18:15:00.000+05:302006-09-25T18:26:44.640+05:30

She had an authoritative forehead and a square jaw. When she tied her hair back, the right side of her hairline seemed to be pulled backwards by some invisible force. Small tufts of hair that rebelled against the band would fall on her forehead making it look curiously barren. When she left her hair free, entire heaps of it fell on her forehead comfortably hiding the small bald spot. She had

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1158219590938059082006-09-14T13:03:00.000+05:302006-09-14T13:09:50.956+05:30

Sometimes...I stay indoors on rainy days(showerless)lest the noises inthe hidden crevicesof my headare washed away.Sometimes...I feign poetryby breakinga single sentenceinto many lines -They look like they might rhymeif written by a differenthand.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1158218771700498672006-09-14T12:43:00.000+05:302006-09-14T12:56:11.720+05:30

Sometimes, not always,the virile grey caressesthe fertile greenheavy with lust.I watch, indecently,from my window.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1157102175783796572006-09-01T14:26:00.000+05:302006-09-01T14:46:15.806+05:30

Vettaiyadu Vilaiyadu is like a geometry problem of straight lines and flawless points of intersection - neat, precise and formulaic. You know the problem, you know the solution. Yet you watch it for the way it is told. Slickness and technical virtuosity almost mask the triteness, but the story telling that could have catapulted this one-liner, flounders in the latter half, that loses the

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1155670176029209622006-08-16T00:27:00.000+05:302006-08-16T00:59:36.546+05:30

People On Paper(Noodle Bar. High Street Phoenix. Circa August 2006.)

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1153757123621844562006-07-24T21:34:00.000+05:302006-07-25T01:48:39.263+05:30

On the way to work this morning, the i-pod coughed up more than a song. Memories of dawn and a love long lost before I ever found it...Kiss me Out of the bearded barleyNightly, beside the green, green grassSwing, swing, swing the spinning stepYou wear those shoes and I will wear that dress.I fell in love for the first time, to an epiphany - if I had been more imaginative then I would have heard

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1153405922177471332006-07-20T19:52:00.001+05:302006-07-20T20:02:02.176+05:30

thought-pebbles of you rains ripples on my silent surface--receiving no answer, they dissolveinto nothingness.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1153311235095985292006-07-19T17:42:00.000+05:302006-07-20T11:52:25.403+05:30

Like most things I have never tried, I think photographing in the rain, wrapped in a rain coat and muddy shoes, would be fun. These days, it rains in sudden surprise spurts, like a stranger's smile, at once warm and suspicious. I wish I had a camera to frame and freeze, to capture the hiss and the kiss of smoky skies - dusty drizzle, a cart pile of wet shining tomatoes in the traffic signal - the

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1153117349165507222006-07-17T11:51:00.000+05:302006-07-17T11:52:29.173+05:30

On highways, lorries swing their wide hips - they usually carry sand or bulging sacks, the ones with oil/water are silent. Clinking noises aside, the horns play tunes on repeat, pattern music, joyful whistles. Within city limits, here in Bombay, they whimper, often times howl tragic impatience, much like how I feel, unwelcomed and intrusive.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1152874314986013432006-07-14T16:20:00.000+05:302006-07-14T16:26:57.773+05:30

are the old passwordI typeout of habit -Lock-out.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1152866139536525092006-07-14T13:30:00.000+05:302006-07-14T16:28:38.330+05:30

From my ipod, most played -Song: NinnukoriMovie: Agninakshatram.Composer: Ilayaraaja.(Disclaimer: My knowledge of music: Zilch. But I have ears, I can close my eyes, I can listen, I can feel. Sometimes I am moved. Sometimes I recognise patterns. And then I write about them. The Musically-Educated-Reader may feel free to holler back, in case of glaring errors. Much thanks. )Have you seen the video

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1152691559384897832006-07-12T13:34:00.000+05:302006-07-12T13:43:01.303+05:30

When I heard the news last evening, I sat down for a moment. Just one. I swam with the thoughts that seem to stream seamlessly in and out. Everything seems inconsequential at a time like this except blurred images of your monologues, your jokes, your funny faces, your shining eyes, the spectacles that slide down the bridge of your nose, the melifluous music of your voice, every intonation in

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1152645898501113092006-07-12T00:51:00.000+05:302006-07-12T00:54:58.513+05:30

What happens when the faces and places that define our lives, go up in smoke?

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1152606965991433992006-07-11T13:56:00.000+05:302006-12-02T17:52:18.933+05:30

[I write to music on repeat. This was written to 'O Butterfly' by Ilayaraaja. More about this wonderful piece of music some other time.]0) I love reading. Call me an avid reader, a book snob, a bibliophile, or what you will. The first thing you will notice about me is that I carry a book in my hands. Almost always.1) I read when I eat, in the toilet and before sleeping. I read atleast an hour

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1151909588458015082006-07-03T12:04:00.000+05:302006-07-03T12:23:08.506+05:30

Half, some well thumbed, and awaiting their turn, strewn haphazardly on tables, shelves and some on the floor (mostly in the living room), some packed into a duffel bag and stuffed under the couch. Tintin, Conan Doyle and then some do not make it to the honour roll, for now.Sophie's Choice by William StrytonFarewell To The Arms by Ernest HemmingwayThis Side of Paradise by F. Scott

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1150118620896195782006-06-12T18:47:00.000+05:302006-06-12T20:51:53.343+05:30

Scars write easy stories of their own, on me. Every miniscule irrelevant event of my life, from bruise to bite, is written all over my body. I deftly conceal it, wrapping it up with a glossy gnawing complex, tying it up with a 'defensive' ribbon. Then I carefully fan over it, nurturing the embers to ravaging flames, till the very mention of it would makes my heart palpitate, and my head reel.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1150096986975608742006-06-12T12:43:00.000+05:302006-06-12T12:53:09.876+05:30

How I wishI could bea line in your poem,instead...

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1149575021607484212006-06-06T11:52:00.000+05:302006-06-06T11:57:45.240+05:30

Last heard and smiled...Woman: Ah, I hate myself. Man: (mimicking) Ah I hate myself.Woman: Don't make fun of me. You have no idea how self loathing can feel.Man: (smiles and sips his coffee)Woman: You are too simple to feel what I feel. Thanks to you, our kids will never be psychopaths.Man: And thanks to you, our kids will never be boring.(Note: I really need to elaborate on this most interesting

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1149516231202650762006-06-05T19:19:00.000+05:302006-06-05T19:33:51.286+05:30

Soothing, it strikes delight at the very root of my heart and out bursts, from my eyes, a hint of a smile. Every time I listen to it.F5 disappointed fingers will tell you sad hyperlink stories. Hence the lyrics here, for the interested, the bored and the mildy curious.Ladies and gentlemen, Sting in all his glory...I looked out acrossThe river todayI saw a city in the fog and an old church

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1148869846231176312006-05-29T07:49:00.000+05:302006-05-29T19:01:38.220+05:30

A night ofpiano and stardrops -a near tearpeeking involuntaryreminds me of the other,when satin dancedto our rhythm,wafts and notes,and i was drunkon you. Now, never to be...

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1148636708366879312006-05-26T15:13:00.000+05:302006-05-26T15:21:20.486+05:30

Marine Drive Promenade is our habit and like most habits, has creeped in on us unknown. It is a curious lack of ideas, comfort zone and hence an obvious choice. "So what do we do now? " we ask ourselves of any given weekend evening and promptly end up sauntering on the sidewalks of Marine Drive. We look at the crowd of people sitting on the parapet watching the distant skyline. We shake our

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1147853259617691042006-05-17T13:35:00.000+05:302006-05-18T20:24:39.976+05:30

Few days earlier I broke bread with Robin Sharma's Guide to Greatness. After much thought the only take aways from the book were a) drink more water b) figure out what I was put on this earth for. Biology could have told me both.This morning, traversing the beaten track from home to work, on the breezy desolate local, I realised that the running sewer, like me, is hardly photogenic. Like

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1147424623886670922006-05-12T14:30:00.000+05:302006-05-12T14:36:20.363+05:30

Suffering from constipation? Fear not! Let the contents of your bowels listen to Himesh Reshamiya's voice croon 'Jhalak Diklaaja, Ek Baar Aa Jaa'. Can there be a better invitation to come out? Bleh.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1146505946155539382006-05-01T22:56:00.000+05:302006-05-01T23:44:01.086+05:30

Madras sings heat and sweat. I spend the oppressive nights in my old corner, scouring through files of yore, now relegated as 'back-up'. My own writing of then amuses me. A letter singing the woes of unrequitted love. Composed and unsent tragi-comedy. Circa 2001. One of my earlier autobiographical attempts, perhaps. :-)Summer meant Thatha’s place, the abandoned school, ........Most of my summer

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1145540380975671882006-04-20T19:02:00.000+05:302006-04-20T19:11:17.656+05:30

"Alicia Youngji Delgado was born on April 8, 2006 at 3:54 a.m. at Long Beach Memorial Hospital. She is 12 inches long, and weighs 1 pound, 4 ounces. She is 24-weeks old.She is our precious gift from God, and this blog will document our new journey with her. We appreciate your prayers and encouragement.May God be glorified in all things."-- Mike Delgado, proud father of Alicia.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1145363780180083132006-04-18T18:05:00.000+05:302006-04-18T18:27:48.140+05:30

These days, I measure distance with music. Worli Sea Face is 'Sotta Sotta Nanayidhu Taj Mahal' thrice on repeat from home. I find myself looking up in search of rain laden clouds. This morning, while the shades greyed out the bright blue sky, I met the cool breeze with a "Rain" playlist - sensous and slow. My nose searched for the wet hot smell of the passionate embrace of clay and rain. All that

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1144246627200340152006-04-05T19:41:00.000+05:302006-04-07T09:57:42.136+05:30

Music has been flowing continuously into me, though words have not into this blog. Honour Roll, most played this past week, randomly, in no particular order, from my i-pod:It all comes down to this - Oru NaalilFilm: PudhupettaiComposer: Yuvan Shankar RajaGem. Don't let Yuvan's dragging voice pull you out of this one. Close your eyes and listen to the violin that speaks a language of its own. As

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1138809356641717222006-02-01T21:24:00.000+05:302006-02-01T21:26:28.283+05:30

When I was younger, and pencil strokes interested me, I was in love with faces, shadows and vague shapes. Most faces are geometrical, some more symmetrical than the others. Here I find a hexagon and there a square, an ellipse and sometimes even a perfect circle. Cherub peaks in from time to time. Outlines of faces are easier to copy, to transplant onto paper. But eyebrows are elusive. They change

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1138284895827945672006-01-26T19:36:00.000+05:302006-01-26T19:51:30.313+05:30

Bombay, the lovely mermaid, spews warmth and stupor in the afternoons, this time of the year. The lullaby of her trains is an invitation to close the eyes and think Comfort. Sometimes them fingers twirl toes, carelessly yet consciously, while perched on a bean bag, a book hugging the chest - close and secure - the gentle incoherent buzz of the telly providing apposite background, waiting for the

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1137740454678724232006-01-20T12:28:00.000+05:302006-01-20T12:30:54.690+05:30

Conversations with long lost colleagues are peppered with third person pronouns. They are relationships anchored on stories of more long lost colleagues, now estranged. It would be interesting to find an adjective that would qualify a life that welcomes formal gossip on IM windows as a welcome intrusion. Mundane? Bl-e-h sounds more appropriate, if you ask me. Raja is being transfered. Yes, I

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1132921686384373362005-11-25T17:56:00.000+05:302005-11-25T17:58:06.396+05:30

I woke up this morning wrapped in blues and felt like making a bundle of the day and flinging it away. When impatience flirts with laziness, it feels like lying tucked under the covers staring at the ceiling waiting for sleep, like willing your hair to grow faster, like reading lyrics without music, like an overwhelmingly cluttered life, dull, futile, annoying... like a list of meaningless

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1132745231569411952005-11-23T16:51:00.000+05:302005-11-23T16:57:11.583+05:30

I want to write so much more and yet I am unable to find the words. So here is one more of my incomplete exhausting attempts. *** Reading One Hundred Years Of Solitude is like chasing a blinding beam of light to its source. It hurts the eye at first, so painful that I wanted to fling the book away and never look at it again. Isolation is what Marquez achieves in the first few pages. Languidly,

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1131345615795474132005-11-07T12:07:00.000+05:302005-11-21T17:53:01.646+05:30

Last evening found me sitting huddled in one corner of the bed with Ryokan. A pillow propped vertically against the wall held my back, neck and discomfort at bay. A glimpse out of the window disappointed me - buildings, and if I craned my neck until the top of my head touched my back I could steal a speck of the sky blue. Ryokan needs wind swept terrace on an evening, grey clouds holding the

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1131001543471947102005-11-03T12:31:00.000+05:302005-11-03T12:43:33.713+05:30

On 'Have You Ever Loved A Woman?' The idea is to present an intellectually compatible couple struggling to communicate emotionally. "Relationship based on mutual respect." What exactly does one mean by that term? Respect for what? I wonder if the premise of an disillusioned married life of a 'successful' (toast of the town?) couple is an ideal setting to probe this question. Intelligent, talented

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1131001851536541142005-11-03T12:30:00.000+05:302005-11-03T12:45:57.323+05:30

From thisAt the clinic, he had been looking at her as she listened attentively to the doctor. They could not have children. It had to be either adoption or surrogacy. She had listened calmly to the details of her anatomical inadequacies that made motherhood biologically impossible. Her heart had wept. But she was not the one given to outbursts. So she had been clinical and incisive on herself.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1130915460646132122005-11-02T00:42:00.000+05:302005-11-02T16:15:33.236+05:30

Exercise #2 (Reworked)Do you see that couple walking in the corridor? They have been married for six years now. Do you think she looks sad? We think he looks puzzled. Are you wondering why? Well, we want to tell you their story but we don't know where to begin, as is usually the case with mundane stories, especially those with happy endings. At the clinic, he had been looking at her as she

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1130754009726751152005-10-31T15:48:00.000+05:302005-10-31T16:29:30.010+05:30

For the past few weeks, I was having difficulty writing. Everything that flowed from pen to paper seems exagerrated or understated. Words froze half way, the moment I re-read what I have already written. All I could think of was 'Aww Crap.' Not a pretty state to be scorning one's own writing. With a folder full of incomplete text files, I chewed my nails and stopped writing. Let it come to me, I

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1130751060914560442005-10-31T15:01:00.000+05:302005-10-31T16:28:05.523+05:30

I did not notice him at first. I was busy with the papers I was reading. Later, when I jogged my memory, I would see the darkened conference room and the light from the projector that divided us as we sat diagonally opposite on a round table. We were each cocooned in our dark corners, oblivious and blissful. It was a technical training on some esoteric programming technique and like anything

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1130754143131681942005-10-31T14:50:00.000+05:302005-10-31T16:28:41.756+05:30

They had met, while still fledglings, mind full of ideals, eyes full of dreams. It was intellectual chemistry of the purest kind. They could talk for hours about philosophy, books, the sciences, politics and history. And then they fell in love, or rather he did. He asked her to marry him. She looked at him in the eye and nodded. The deal was sealed. She would have told you matter of factly, if

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1130754251665257502005-10-31T14:49:00.000+05:302005-10-31T15:54:11.666+05:30

Over cups of steaming coffee and the pouring rain, we decided to discover the meaning of life. Three emptied cups, word plays and many dead ends later we sat back, exhausted, vanquished and silent. Now, life took the shape of the world opening up from within the glass window of the over-priced coffee shop.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1130754536438413202005-10-31T14:48:00.000+05:302005-10-31T16:09:05.546+05:30

He was the catch of the county. He gently folded his inadequacies into a carefully crafted box of theories, reducing abstract concepts into word plays. Over simplification was his forte. He had a theory for everything. Analogies came as a free addition. It was a package deal.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1130755433616207242005-10-31T14:13:00.000+05:302005-10-31T16:13:53.616+05:30

She treated life as she would a caricature, laughing and then shrugging it off. She was a successful writer, "who writes about life, people and experiences" - as a leading biographer had claimed in an article. The article had left a smug smile on her face. Every person she met, was just another character in her works of 'fiction'. That is all they meant to her.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1129794615450963102005-10-20T13:14:00.000+05:302005-10-20T14:22:59.560+05:30

Paths we tracedin fields afar,Now uncared for...Overgrown grasscalling for the pressureof our feet to tame them.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1129805264587451602005-10-20T12:06:00.000+05:302005-10-20T16:30:21.033+05:30

He thought it would be an ordinary journey. Standing behind the pillar he watched the train snort arrogantly into the station. With each snort he was reminded of his grandfather's words "You will fail in the city and return penniless"; with every heavenward whistle, he heard his cousin, "Don't worry. Come here and I will get you a job at the construction site." Now he had a 34-hour journey to

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1129787590985968822005-10-20T10:50:00.000+05:302005-10-20T11:29:52.440+05:30

Paragraphs coloured by digression, exagerrated emotions, tears that seem wasted on paper, verbose panegyrics, cynical extrapolations, half hearted smiles, cheap imitations, myriad incomplete text files, pretentious, unreachable, pauses in mid sentence, desperation, the agony of expression. If only... if only... if only...Straight from Kaaju Katli's Clavicle. What I cannot write, I will rejoice

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1125406740488793762005-08-30T17:30:00.000+05:302005-08-31T10:21:20.546+05:30

Sheila (She for short) had been married for less than a year. The first few months had been blissful. Her husband was handsome, had all the right credentials, degrees from top universities and was fast climbing the corporate ladder. He was also a man of diverse interests, with progressive ideas. He was witty, with impeccable manners and a great dresser. In short, he had been the catch of the

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1125319787232377422005-08-29T18:18:00.000+05:302005-08-30T10:02:05.123+05:30

It was love at first sight. He walked into the shop and bought the shirt. It was an impulsive move on his part, in his otherwise stringently planned life. But he could not help himself. He did not even stop to try it on before the purchase. He loved the colour and the feel of the cloth. The patterns seemed to cry out novelty at him. Instinctively he felt it would look good on him. He rushed home

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1125306138403817862005-08-29T14:15:00.000+05:302005-08-29T16:29:50.983+05:30

She had been looking forward to it, quite unconsciously, for a long time. Whenever a fleeting thought of the big day had run through her mind, she had felt an aching eagerness. Finally the day arrived. All through the morning, whenever she caught her passing reflection on a mirror, she smiled to herself. Her plain friend received insults gift wrapped to sound like wistful compliments. 'Oh she is

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1125033824814400172005-08-26T10:49:00.000+05:302005-08-26T10:54:50.483+05:30

These days, the sentences that burst forth when they actually do, are those that I have heard a thousand times before, hackneyed, wasted, meaningless. I have no inclination to sift through the debris in my head to unearth what lies beneath (if at all). It is easier to just not be.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1124344805649214542005-08-18T11:23:00.000+05:302005-08-18T11:30:05.656+05:30

This morning Keane broke my concentration, and soak in beauty, for a few minutes... I walked across an empty land,I knew the pathway like the back of my hand.I felt the earth beneath my feet,Sat by the river and it made me complete.Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1123509749309390902005-08-08T19:27:00.000+05:302005-08-08T19:35:07.446+05:30

Life has been packed neatly into days and days into hours, each allotted its specific task, these past few weeks. Compartmentalising life has its own benefits. Thought-numbing life patterns induce activity of a different kind. Mind games are stilled but moments at hand are magnified. And yet, during the interim minutes, when I walk from one compartment into another, I pause for a moment. When I

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1123065444305089872005-08-03T16:00:00.000+05:302005-08-03T17:41:14.313+05:30

Cutting through the translucent daggersunleashed from the heavens,I saw tears--on a defiant blade of grassstanding in supplication.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1122009349365778262005-07-22T10:28:00.000+05:302005-07-22T10:45:49.376+05:30

Poetry is open to interpretation, as is any work of art. We do not always have to rigidly follow the rules or second guess what the poet had in mind while creating the same. How can art pale or lose its value when compared to the poet's personal idiosyncrasies? When I see Keats, I can only see the beauty that was born out of his tragic life (if you call his life tragic at all) and the fact that

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1121938513453642692005-07-21T15:02:00.000+05:302005-07-21T15:05:13.460+05:30

For the past couple of days, a song that replays in my head, speaks of love - unconfessed and unrequitted.Kumari - Kumari - En kaadhal sikki mukki thikki vikkudhuKumari - En nenju vimmi vimmi pammi nikkudhuKumari - En varthai kadal vatri vittadhe...The cynic in me wants the love never to be reciprocated. For after all, I agree with Keats.Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy song

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1121678319293781852005-07-18T14:35:00.000+05:302005-07-18T17:26:29.566+05:30

It seems that flourishes choreographed by nimble fingers and preserved on paper can tell stories. A languid post-dinner conversation brought out the graphologist amongst us, incognito hitherto. And then it followed, from the Oracle - first few pages of a green notebook filled with my long hand written patiently nay neatly - that I am "Interfering but withdrawn, focussed but unruffled by

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1121430317661032002005-07-15T18:00:00.000+05:302005-07-15T18:10:45.380+05:30

Last night, tucked inside the cozy confines of a blanket, with only the glow of the screen to keep me company, I watched Good Will Hunting and occasionally, the lazy drizzle outside my tinted windows. I also realised, quite suddenly, that it has been aeons since I enjoyed this simple pleasure of watching a good movie alone and without interruptions. I want to freeze a particular conversation

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1120025151863358082005-06-29T11:32:00.000+05:302005-06-29T11:35:51.870+05:30

usually the sound of passing roads, sudden brakes, interrupted dialoguesnight before last the sound of knife chopping Aaluevenings when it pours the sparkling dome of my blue umbrella, the cool of the rain on my facealways the urgency and comfort of comraderie, weightlessness, simplicity, warmththank you.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1119876033351347982005-06-27T18:09:00.000+05:302005-06-27T18:16:48.703+05:30

Work-flow instructor, team-mate, partner of a weekend brain-storming session, mentor, "Birthday-coffee" companion of last week, man of the sparkling shirts and twinkling eyes,One drive, One accident and One death later,Subject of hushed up cafeteria reminiscences,One of the "Highlights" of the weekly meeting,Spurring a blog-post.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1119517168329664222005-06-23T14:25:00.000+05:302005-06-23T18:47:14.373+05:30

Flowing sunlight, merciless rainAdversaries in the heavens,Holding, teasing, letting go,Descending, coming togetherIn one frenzied joust of love...?Then,Diamonds are bornOn my gleaming skin.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1118667392409577992005-06-13T16:34:00.000+05:302005-06-13T18:26:32.446+05:30

Last evening, while we sat on the parapet wall over the gleaming ocean, I watched the sunset being coloured by your humming that underscored the imperceptible silence. And when we spoke, we held words between us, like only strangers can, impersonally, carefully measuring each syllable, shaping into a caricatured life-story.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1118394179561145482005-06-10T14:10:00.000+05:302005-06-10T14:37:24.136+05:30

I have no idea what a tag means. Nevertheless, since it is about books, I thought I would give it a shot. Thank you, AG of Siphar.Total books I own:A little more than 100 hundred maybe, none of them academic or related to computers. :-) Some of the significant ones that I own are listed on the left under "Life, Lessons and Some More."Last book I bought:Its Not About The Bike - My Journey Back to

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1118222889099518802005-06-08T14:52:00.000+05:302005-06-08T15:25:31.036+05:30

Premonition is music and I am dancing to it. Doubts, like a blister peeled too early, when paid excessive attention to, leave a disfigured surface. I am learning you like the switches of a new apartment, looking up to see what I have given life to. Today I decide not to qualify life with abstract nouns. My back is heavy with expectations and I need to feel weightless, if only for a moment. So I

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1117684969474106092005-06-02T09:29:00.000+05:302005-06-02T09:32:49.473+05:30

Is mediocrity born when the fear of embarrassment is more than the thirst for admiration?

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1117684406025134342005-06-02T09:04:00.000+05:302005-06-02T09:34:24.913+05:30

An Experiment, carried out with finesse, one that I thoroughly enjoyed reading.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1117627737169564482005-06-01T17:29:00.000+05:302005-06-01T17:38:57.176+05:30

Does concretising abstractions - little post-it notes to be kind, thoughtful, to smile always and to always have hope - help? Mills & Boons and chick flicks proclaim that romance is right round the corner and to never lose hope. Really? Feel-good-gifts are the order of the day - inspirational quotes, anecdotes, self-help books, chicken soup for the soul. But I do think this is a good 'gift-idea'.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1117520775763637192005-05-31T11:56:00.000+05:302005-06-01T14:06:38.866+05:30

Insistent phonecalls lead to incessant walking. Legs need some rest, so do the ears. New friendships are like unopened mystery gifts, with glossy wrapping. Undressing in layers, hometowns, families, friends, school life, college escapades, common interests lead to 10-reasons-why-I-am-fun. Come again? Where were we? Conversations are muted, the brain scripts its own screenplay, versions are born,

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1117515751475799322005-05-31T10:29:00.000+05:302005-06-01T11:48:43.906+05:30

Overcast skies, like budding friendships, hold the untold promise of rain, a relief from the mundane, expectations that grow like a balloon feeding on empty space, one more gulp or a small prick could kill it if I hold it too long. Today I let go, at the right instant, watch it lift weightlessly, effortlessly, making insane patterns against the grey sky.When I stand near the doorway of the train,

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1117534975778985662005-05-31T10:10:00.000+05:302005-05-31T15:52:55.780+05:30

For the words below, don't thank me. Thank John.1)You know I used to be the back porch poet with a book of rhymesAlways open knowing all the time I'm probablyNever gonna find the perfect rhyme...2)Songs can be Trojan Horses, taking charged ideas and sneaking past the ego's defenses and into the open mind.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1117375071925904132005-05-29T19:30:00.000+05:302005-06-01T14:08:53.126+05:30

A house that is being emptied takes one through tears and fears of yester-years, now alchemised into nostalgic smiles. Is life always amusing on hindsight? Sometimes trivial caricatures of the past brightens the eye. Rooms built of bricks that hold lives cemented by understanding have to be quit when the time comes. Cupboards and folders hold memory-movies on yellowing inland letters of

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1117114720973846822005-05-26T19:15:00.000+05:302005-05-27T10:21:10.573+05:30

During late evenings, when the number of people in the train is less, I indulge in the luxury of standing near the doorway, refusing myself the indolence that a seat has to offer. Hands holding the bar carelessly, backpack in front so that my back can rest on the wall comfortably, I read the breeze. Like the touch of a lover, the wind holds my face with a resounding urgency that makes me close my

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1117007944534205562005-05-25T13:20:00.000+05:302005-05-25T16:17:51.513+05:30

A colleague uses double past tense verbs in sentences, so convincingly, that I am almost re-writing grammar. Self-assuredness that blanks his mind and others' too, confidence being synonymous with blindness these days. Impulsive correction is stopped by indifference. Energy is too precious to be lost over Auxiliary Verbs. God knows I lose enough sleep over it.Folk rock and country music colour my

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1116925844486035342005-05-24T14:34:00.000+05:302005-05-24T14:47:48.546+05:30

Just when I think that the day has been pretty uneventful, this song comes along on my Online Playlist -I know that when I say thisI may be stepping on pins and needles.But I don’t like all these peopleSlagging her for breaking up the beatles.If I was john and you were yoko,I would gladly give up musical genius,Just to have you as my very own, personal venus. You can be my yoko onoYou can follow

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1116846192368144882005-05-23T16:30:00.000+05:302005-05-23T16:40:13.596+05:30

I say I have grown upAnd am impervious to your criticism.I glow with pleasure at your praise.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1116851895620590772005-05-23T15:04:00.000+05:302005-05-23T18:08:15.650+05:30

From Melancholetta, yet another priceless gem.And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children." And he said:Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts.For they have

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1116394841710445402005-05-18T10:14:00.000+05:302005-05-18T11:33:51.856+05:30

This morning, at 8:20, TheWorkingWife sits opposite me in the train. She wears a navy blue kameez and sandal salwar, a chiffon sandal dupatta cradling her neck along with the black beaded mangal-sutra. Kumkum on the forehead, dark lipstick, hurried makeup, the round plump countenance, and physical features disappearing into folds of skin, suggest that she is a comfortable wife, to whom wedding

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1116244538134196592005-05-16T16:38:00.000+05:302005-05-16T18:20:22.556+05:30

A R Rahman, Ilayaraaja, Yuvan, Jatin Lalit, Shankar Ehsaan Loy. Songs come. Songs go. I hardly notice. I have become strangely immune to mellifluous voices. My mind is caught up with blue lines of code. And in wafts one number, that takes me by surprise. Like the sound of soft drizzling early in the morning that makes me aware of my cheek on the pillow, the curve of my knee, palms tucked deep

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1116173002316304882005-05-15T21:30:00.000+05:302005-05-16T09:34:25.350+05:30

In the uneventful life of an AnonymousSoftwareEngineer in an AnonymousCity, missing one's station can be an incident of reckoning, a moment when there is a flash of thunder between two gray clouds, and a booming voice answers questions hitherto unanswered. I would advise the reader to close his/her eyes for a bit and imagine the spectacle, to understand the effect it could have had on the poor

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1115284588271149292005-05-07T13:09:00.000+05:302005-05-07T13:21:13.850+05:30

At half past two in the afternoon, the cafeteria is almost empty. I walk up to the counter, scan the menu board perfunctorily and before I can even decide, the man behind the counter, complete with the chef's cardboard hat, mouths, "Cheese Sandwich and Watermelon juice, ma'm?" He is so in tune with my daily fare. I have no escape now. "Yeah", I nod with a smile. He is amused at my amusement. Its

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1115190103540045892005-05-04T00:48:00.000+05:302005-05-04T12:47:18.523+05:30

The lady's face in reposeResting on the window of the speeding trainDeep set eyes, contours, soft and flowingFramed by the halo of careless wisps of hairMustering ebullience after a long day of labourPerchance homeward bound to her child.Down memory sieve runsIn one swift motionThe countless hours you spentMoulding the pliant clay called me.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1115116057352282772005-05-03T16:01:00.000+05:302005-05-03T16:06:13.496+05:30

The shadow of your smileOn a stranger's faceFloods me with reliefLike the first fan breezeAfter a prolonged power-cutOn a Madras summer night...

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1115021617678511432005-05-02T14:16:00.000+05:302005-05-02T17:27:40.663+05:30

You told me I was very close to your heart.I didn't realise how right you were until...It took me just one word and ten secondsTo walk out of your life.

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1113736943519830542005-04-17T16:50:00.000+05:302005-04-18T09:52:44.066+05:30

Summer of '89 brings back memories of Nattu and twilight hours spent with him in the neighbouring HauntedHouse, white bedspreads over heads, held tightly near the chin by fingers too small to hold the folds of the sheet and cemetry jokes punctuated by wailing 'Oooooo...' terminating with the then famous ad-line "Naan Ujala-vukku maariten." [I have changed to Ujala] The HauntedHouse or "Pei Veedu"

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1112600476114938082005-04-04T17:36:00.000+05:302005-04-06T09:40:48.553+05:30

Dear _____,This morning, as I bought my train ticket and pocketed the change, I saw, caught in between two notes, the train ticket of my last visit to your place. It brought the thought of you to my mind and a smile to my face. So here I am writing to you. I distinctly remember the first time we met. I had not been really keen on meeting you but I had promised to be there and so I was. You were

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7690281.post-1112026454613446122005-03-28T21:57:00.000+05:302005-03-29T09:27:57.313+05:30

I am fifteen and she is twenty six. We are third cousins, curiously separated by decades of mundanities. It is her wedding day. She sits in her dressing room, strangely nervous, hidden in a bundle of silk saree, jewels, flowers and tears in the corner of her eyes. Her head is bowed and she is nervously playing with her fingers. She looks up. I am transfixed by her face - hair pulled back tightly,

Meerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12071364623578237334noreply@blogger.com24