Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Rains' Daughter [poetry]

Her skin,
Happy as a toad hopping amongst silver pearls in wet grass,
Bided adieu to its clothing:
The oily layers of filth and dust.

Rain drops slapped her face
Like icy shooting stars hitting the ocean.
Cold enveloped her body,
A blanket of ice, she thought,
Mummification in snow!

Muddy water inundated her shoes.
Coffee powder added to milk,
White socks turned brown,
Sticking to her skin,
Like jelly fish on a fisherman’s foot.

The sky’s shower dampened her hair,
Made every inch of her face wet.
The lusty tongue licked her thin lips,
Her pointed nose, grey eyes, emaciated eyebrows…
Smudged black lines flowed down her marble eyes.
She gave in to the rain and kissed it back:

Her tongue traveled over the edge of her upper lip.
It tasted of diluted apple juice-
Pink gloss dissolving in water.
Small pearls formed down the lobe of her ears;
She changed ear rings every eight seconds.
Then they fell,
And disappeared within the cotton of her grey kurti.

The deluge raided every inch of her self:
Thunder beat its drums in her ears,
Spider drops weaved a watery net round her legs,
Thighs, breasts, neck: her whole body;

Like horse leeches refusing to let go,
Black jeans agglutinated themselves to
Her calves, legs, knees and buttocks:
She walked in her new denim skin.

The Drop of Red [fiction]

She listens to the static on the radio and assumes that there’s nothing left to explore. There’s a bitter taste in her mouth. A gale of haze runs through her nostrils down to her lungs and reaches her blood stream: the half-smoked joint makes her heartbeats slow down. The room projects a rainbow of smells: camphor, burnt leaves, wet earth… The yellow light of the lampshade is adulterated by the circles and waves of white smoke that fly around till they thaw in the air.

She lies naked in her bed. Her dark skin against the white. She is the drop of black that fell onto the veil of the bride. The sheets are contaminated with warmth. Heat that her own body (and somebody else’s?) transferred onto the bed. She feels the moist of the cotton pillow cover against her cheek. Her whole body is still covered with beads of perspiration that came unto her like tiny spiders cornering a mosquito.

She realizes that it was not only her own body that gave birth to that thin layer of pearly water that lends a glow to her skin. There, on her tainted skin, also lies the sweat, the saliva, the toxic chemicals of another one. She wonders whether his excrements and hers will make love and give birth to a monster. Not the same monster that was under her bed when she was a child: she sees her bronze skin covered with pestilence and pandemic boils. Gloomy craters vomiting blackened purple liquids. Dry skin being ripped off like iron foils in stormy weather exposing the shame of her charcoal blood.

She sits up, her arms around her legs, chin on her knees, black curls falling on her face. She hugs herself in the fetus-like position listening to the clock ticking thirty times or so.

She finally gets out of bed. The tip of her toes touches the cold white marble- her first touch with the earth! Goosebumps, like small snowy hills suddenly cropping up on a desert, assault her legs. And it’s tip-toed that she makes her way through the paints, brushes, books, papers, canvasses lying on the ground. Her hand reaches the tap, and she lets herself drown in the boiling drops excreted by the shower. They wrap each part of her body- her face, her hair, her tongue, her lips and even her most private parts.

In the room, alone, amongst the snow of the bed sheets... remains the drop of red.

Mother India [poetry]

Orange Pills.
White Pills.
Green Pills.

Mother India, I'll die for you.

The Blank Page [poetry]

Old rag picker leaning on a stick,
She bends over the desk.
Her spine curves itself:
Reed giving in to the wind,
She bows to a new Deity-
The White Page.

Black curls cover her face.
Crimson tip of her slim fingers
Push back the silken net.

Her diamond pendant touches the desk,
(Like flowers at the feet of a Goddess)
And as the reed again stands straight,
The gleaming ornament flutters back
To the black of her blouse,
Like a fire-fly in the midst of dark night.

Globe revolving around the sun,
She turns her head, looks around.
Kajal-butterfly eyes search for nectar,
And settle down on the white Goddess.

She stares at the blank page in front of her:
A portrait that ran away from its frame.

Fifteen eye-blinks later,
Whispers amble in her ears.
She grabs her pen
With the zeal of a young man
Throwing himself over his lover.

Like ants ravaging a lump of sugar,
Blue alphabets violate the virginity of the page;
Like Arachne weaving a new attire,
A new work of art is stitched upon the page.