Friday, December 23

Today's word


(silken and otherwise)

Thursday, December 22

Rosemary tea on an orange rocking chair

There's someone else who wants to go for a walk with me.
The boy from the train journey!
I'm not kidding. He happens to live nearby and since I didn't know how to not give him my phone number, he has been calling. He sometimes sends me messages that I must delete rightaway because they're funny and not in a funny way (well, maybe in a funny way, but not that funny. Oh no I'm confused again). Now, the thing is, he asked me to go for a walk sometime and that sounds good. Walking is good, people who walk are good, and people who like to walk are even better. If he'd said, " Maybe we can have coffee sometime..", or somethng like that, it would've been okay and I wouldn't have thought about it. But this really surprised me in a good way (not that good...not again).
So, if I can find some time to, I will go for a walk with the funny boy who was full of questions. What was really funny (without any confusion) was the way he was trying to guess my age and he must be really bad at math. Ha ha!!

Saw some books with awesome covers, today!
They say you shouldn't ever judge a book by its cover but I can't help have it any other way. Lately I've found that I cannot get myself to read a book that has no pictures or illustrations! (It's a good thing i didn't have this conversation with the funny boy; he would've thought I was in kindergarten).

Was browsing through a book of Tom Robbins' poetry that was too expensive to buy, when I came across this..
(these aren't the exact words, I don't have a great memory)

How can she get rid of this ghost?
Wherever she goes, he follows.
Oh! White pantyline...

har har

I saw this book on a shelf. Was intrigued by the title. Didn't have enough time to browse through it. It was called 'Emergency Sex'.

This isn't Elm Street

Those things are back.
I woke up this morning in a cold sweat
it's cold outside.
I don't know what temperature it is.
Horrible nightmares.
They've troubled me before
for months.
I know what it means
and I also know the recurring pattern of these nightmares
and I also know the people who feature in them.
It isn't easy to put it right.

Woke up at 6 this morn
I was asleep on the cushion.
Looked outside the window
no sign of dawn
it was dark with a few
dark blue
Killer headache go away
nightmares, leave me alone.

...and why is it
that the people who say 'the' things are seldom the people you want to hear these 'things' from. And the people you want to hear these 'things' from, seldom say them.


Wednesday, December 21


I'm back
(not for good)
(but yes, for good)
(but no, not that good)
er...I've confused myself now.
I'm feeling great!

(Let's go to Tonka town)

Tuesday, December 20

My yellow friend

It's the wedding season here.
My friend's getting married too.

There's so much to say about her.

Wonderful wonderful friend
with shades of cerulean blue
and all hues of green.
Made me see sense
made me let go
made me treasure what is generally known as trivia.
We discovered poets, artists, designers and filmmakers
Shared them with each other.
We grew
Jack's beanstalk seemed small.
I'm so happy for you now.

What do you say about a friend
who tells you
that the best wedding gift for her
will be a walk before the
a walk to warm those cold feet?

I smile.

Just a walk.

Sunday, December 18


Telephone doodles

A wayfarer

... I remind myself once more....

A wayfarer's advice
is to be kept close.
For he's the one
who's seen the wind
lap up to meet the sun.
He's the one who has carried
a rainbow in his back pocket
for miles on end...
He's the one whose hair
smells of many lands
you have read about in tales.
He's the one whose hands
have held hands of those
you can only hope to meet

He's a wayfarer
and a wayfarer he's been.
Why did he become one?
Was it his destiny?

No, he chose to be it
and it has become him.

Through lands of misfortune
and belting out grime
he's been everywhere...


Saturday, December 17


Those days were different
and multi hued.

I'm frozen in those moments,
frozen, quite blue.

Do me a favour,
will you?

Help me leave them right there,
in the back row.

Frozen's awfully cold in there

(this isn't me; and neither is that, you)


In these narrow suburban corridors
we learn to breathe
in straight lines
and watch sunsets
through matchbox frames...

Thursday, December 15

calling. oh hold. click. zzzz.

Moving on

When things got blue
you asked me to
move on.

When I got stuck
you wished me goodluck
and asked me to
move on.

When there was a jam
the cop said, "Sorry Ma'am,
but you must
move on".

When the lights went out
and I shivered when I heard the shout,
I grabbed the keys
and moved on.

Past pretty Padmas
and zany Zoeys
I have
moved on.

This trick of the trade
came a bit late to me.
I learnt it the hard way
and now I think I can say,
I'm moving on.

Tears have been shed
All the soggy memories are
just a sample.
I've tried to move on.

and ambiguity
hand in hand,
wrote with dexterity,

"move on"...

Wednesday, December 14



This is for Illustration Friday. I don't know if it qualifies as a surprise in a normal manner. But, er...

Tuesday, December 13

Riddle me ree

I'm a bit confused and disoriented this morn. I know what it is, it's the morn itself! I haven't 'woken up' at 5:30 a.m. in a long long time. It feels awesome to have the day ahead, rather than, half the day and the whole night ahead.

Yesterday I realized the the elderly get surprised when a young person steps forward to help them. I was getting back from the hospital nearby. An old man was walking in front of me and was trying to open the door so I opened it for him and smiled. He looked startled! This doesn't even qualify as goodness, it's just normal to open the door for someone. Isn't it sad that the elderly are startled by normal behavior?

To the boy who rose
and stood on his toes
when I neared the seat in the backish rows
next to the doors
in the bus.
I didn't ask him to alight
perhaps the bus conductor gave him a fright.

To the boy who rose,
who doesn't knows,
I'm writing some inane prose
and thanking him again, of course.

One little verse that has stayed in my mind since I was a child is this. I'd read it in an old issue of Reader's Digest.

I've lost some friends
I truly cherished,
whose loss I've greatly sorrowed.
These friends weren't humans
who have perished.
There were books
that humans borrowed.

Isn't is really good? I mean, the verse, of course. And rings true, too.

I fear, I use, too many, commas.
And that, my commas, break up, my sentences, into leetle leetle beetles, cut up into four,
with, each piece, walking away, in a stupor, to the door.

Aye aye! I'm going to read the papers today, after many days. And I shall do the crossword too!

So, I've come to terms with things since yesterday, even though I did not buy myself any flowers. If they want bare backgrounds and nearly bare foregrounds, then that is what I will give them! Of course, I admit, Fred looked much better on the cover than he did in the rest of the 15 spreads. Gosh! Shudder!
I'll survive.

And since I'm such a silly optimist, i will try and draw those bunnies better this time.

I'm listening to Buena Vista Social Club after a long time. It's one of my dreams to one day make an animated music video for one of their tracks. I've envisaged it many times. Should do the storyboard so it doesn't go away. They say, good ideas never go away. But I have such a hopeless memory. I even forget to eat the 5 almonds that my mother leaves in a bowl for me each day. And I've already forgotten that verse I wrote in my mind on the train journey back home.
Looking out the train window is such a trip back to childhood.
I would lie on my back and look out the window, so everything appeared upside down. And I imagined the electricity poles moving alongwith the train as it chugged. My father was in the army and I've heard so much about the awesome army special trains. The ones that pile up everything from tankand trucks to pantry cars and little flower pots, into the same train. So the whole regiment moves together, all the soldiers, officers, and all their families. They move slow and stop often at various railway stations. It sounds so much fun! And I always had a grouse that I'd never had the opportunity to travel on one, unlike my sister whose first birthday was gloriously celebrated in a Special train, amid a coachful of drying nappies.
I learnt recently that I did travel by Special train once. I was too small and didn't even celebrate a birthday in it. So I don't remember a thing! Whine.

~think warm.....think warm......~
Keep warm everyone, get those babushkas out!


I have some very depressing news.
I need to do some more work on those illustrations of frogs and rabbits
turns out
they really liked the cover i made first of all
and they think the illustrations look very diferent
lots of work
and very little money
I know I shouldn't be cribbing about the less money because this ~experience~ is important. But fish!! I got to experience the first time round, since I have to do some more work on some of them, they might as well concentrate on the money.

I swear, I will never draw rabbits after this is done.
Ws having fun drawing frogs towards the end and now I have to go back to my first drawing, on the cover, for reference...that was when I was just getting familiar with those greenies.
I've been told not to sigh so much.
So I won't.

Apart from that, things seem fine. My films's showing up well, I'm back to my nocturnal routine and other things are looking up too.
Just that, it's fuh reezing cold here. Someone's been sprinkling too much 'chilly' pepper.

It's noon and I haven't slept yet. Been awake for nearly 24 hours but it doesn't seem that big a deal anymore. Welcome to Zombieland.

In the dark times
Will there also be singing?
Yes, there will be singing
About the dark times.

Bertolt Brecht

Wonderful wonderful
I'm so full of nothng right now.
Waiting to sleep
but before that,
waiting for a phone call about the drawings
and while I wait,
I'm full of nothing.

Hopefully the day will unfold better hours
I have half a mind to buy myself some flowers
I really do.

Monday, December 12


This postcard from
post a secret says something...

Here's someone who's
reaching out to love,
not just to be loved, like
most others...

It tells a story to me.

Ode to some yellow flowers

Rolling its blues against another blue,
the sea, and against the sky
some yellow flowers.

October is on its way.

And although
the sea may well be important, with its unfolding
myths, its purpose and its risings,
when the gold of a single
yellow plant
in the sand
your eyes
are bound
to the soil.
They flee the wide sea and its heavings.

We are dust and to the dust return.
In the end we're
neither air, nor fire, nor water,
neither more nor less, just dirt,
and maybe
some yellow flowers.

Pablo Neruda

Sunday, December 11

Train journeys...

Just got back from an interesting short trip to attend a distant cousin's wedding.

The train journeys to and fro were the best part of it all.
Here are a few things that stayed in mind.

Train journey to.
It's a five-hour day journey and my co passengers are four strange men and a teenaged girl who looks quite sleepy.
The train is chugging along just fine. There are bits and pieces of conversation floating all around me. Out of the four men, two seem to be friends and one of them is the questioner and the other one, sitting next to me, by the window, is reluctantly giving answers. The question mark man is a typical one of that variety...always asking questions whether to himself or to another doesn't really matter. But he must not indulge in thought; only ask questions all the time. I've noticed, the one that doesn't ask questions is more often than not, also the one who is reluctant to answer. The conversation is doddering.
The train stops at some nondescript station and four Big passengers get on and move towards us. Turns out, out of the four strange men, three were traveling without proper tickets (and I didn't ask him for the window seat thinking it was booked by him!). So finally what we have here is one Big lady sitting by the window on my left (and clearly spilling over to more than half the space for three people, which also means, she is practically sitting on me), the sleepy teenaged girl on my right and the fourth strange man on her right. I do not know at this point, which one of them is traveling unreserved, either the girl or the boy. I am being pushed to the right by the Big lady on my left (she's leaving hardly any distance between left and right). The other Big three new co passengers have pulled out large bags of food and now all four of them are busy gormandizing. Big lady asks me if I want some.
Boy on right decides to try and strike up a conversation with me. Asks me a funny, obvious question ("so, what time does the train reach this place? ") and the bumpkin that I am, answer him nonchalantly. (It always dawns on me too late that the people who ask me these silly questions are doing so not to know the answers, they already know them. I always answer. Whether it's the lech asking me what time it is, or the man on the zebra crossing from the shuddering incident who asked me where Barakhamba road was, when we were crossing the road to get on to the road in question). He asks me another question and by now I know he's only asking to talk, not just to question.
Meanwhile, Big lady has also decided to ask me questions...are you going there for college training? ...then whom are you going to meet?....where will you be staying?...what do you do?...why're you traveling alone?... Boy on right thinks of more questions too.

So, finally we get talking and it's not that bad, really. I mean, normally I hardly ever talk to people around me when I'm traveling alone. And it's such a task for me to think of an alternative name impromptu.

Much later, I cannot resist it anymore and decide to talk to the girl. I ask her silly questions....where're you going? you study in school? (as opposed to??)....have you been on this train before?...which class do you study in? you visit Delhi often?.... And I also realize that I cannot resist asking her more silly questions because I'd really like to know about the life of a thirteen-year-old girl! So...what time do you leave for school in the morning?...what time do you wake up in the morning?...what time do you get back from school?...what time do you sleep at night?...what do you do on Sundays? (she could've turned around at any moment and told me squarely,” It’s none of your business, you freakin woman! Too bad you aren't an adolescent anymore, but it's hardly my fault!" and so on and so forth. But I guess she was enjoying answering my goofy questions.
She was in Delhi for her fifth eye check up, after a surgery in October to amend a slight squint. She was a really friendly girl. I wish I could've hugged her! But, Big lady on my left, left me no choice and space to do so.

I slept for almost an hour after that. Just before we reached, the boy asked for my phone number. I gave it to him (someone please teach me how to say no) but I don't think I'm going to answer his call, if he does call.

So, the wedding was tiring. It was minus twenty degrees Celsius (I'm sure!). We were breathing out smoke. We got no sleep at all. The ceremonies went on till five in the morn. And then it was time to leave.

On the way back, I got the window seat.
Here re some statistics...

I saw

403 cows
59 buffaloes
4 camels
289 dogs
16 donkeys
68 pigs
16 calves
6 squirrels
0 elephants
9 cats
and 43 piglets on the way.

The little boy came in with his old wooden Rawanhatta and sang something not purely melodious. But his voice was mellifluous and I felt like giving him some money. After all, he wasn't begging. He was earning a livelihood by singing to travelers. So I did give him some money for singing that song.

There was a brawl. Someone who wanted to walk to the door got into an argument with someone standing in the aisle. I did not hear most of it but I did hear some words in passing.

" Krrgistlejjjffphh Whafgerstest hristended You Stupid Man!"

"Whaa&*kllltleefff beetkfghrrs You Bastard Guy ngbeeexitestt!".

It was cold. We were tired. It was fun nevertheless.

But what broke my heart was the sight of a little street boy, getting down at a small station with his dirty cloth bag, looking around, lost. I have absolutely no words to describe how I feel when I see a little child in such a state.

One day, I will fulfill my dreams by taking some of these children home for a hot sumptuous meal, a hot water bath and a silly song.
Till then, I will buy them food and talk to them while they eat, drink chai with them and share jokes while doing that.
And if I can't even do that, it will continue to break my heart every time I see a child in such a situation.

Zofo, where's the story? :)

Avalonian, thank you very much for the bucket full of music...

Friday, December 9

Nebula Candlelight

A million candles burned in the light of collective faith.
A ceremony to mark the arrival of a person centuries ago.
The light washed every one in sight.
It was a sight.

So many photographs.
What are you going to do with them, traveller?
How will you use them,
when no one but you can see them?
I know, you know, I know,
they live in your mind.
You know, I know, you know
your mind has memories
and place for other bric a brac too.

How will you use these frozen memories?

You tell me, you can see it clearly,
I know I've heard it before,
I can see it clearly too,
that little village of seven mud huts
you stayed at the feet of,
seven years ago, one dark cold night.
That old woman came shouting
at you
and some others,
for drinking water from their well.
They walked endless miles in the hot desert sun to fill it.
You drank generously
and your ablutions were normal, so urban
it took four mugs to rinse your teeth.
She shouted
her lament was full of pain
and yet, without tears.
I can see the photograph clearly.

You know, I can see it too.
I know you know it.

And how is it
that while asking you my questions,
I arrive at my answers?

This night is all mine,
as I belong wholly to it.
Munchkins have come alive.

I've got some new music. Thank you, Bean.

Cut to..

I just got back from the bookstore nearby.
While getting home, I had to walk a considerable distance to get a rickshaw. The whole place was cordoned off. It was okay by me, I enjoy walking in any case. But the woman walking in front of me furiously, looked terribly irate.

My rickshaw stopped at a red light. There was another rickshaw in front. A little boy sat on the deftly carved out back seat, his legs hanging in the air. He wore dark brown pants. His pants were missing a fly. In its place were several safety pins. Top to bottom, back and forth. Perhaps this will soon become the newest fashion fad?

Cut to... A life study drawing course at college, many years ago. Our faculty got in a youngish fattish boy to pose for us. We sat around on our wooden donkeys. It was a detailed drawing class and he was to sit still for an hour. After about twenty minutes our professor walked out for some fresh air. The boy got up too! He wasn't supposed to move an inch! So we asked him to sit down again. I was seated somewhere in front of him to the right. When my eyes reached the shorts he was wearing, I noticed the fly was somewhat open, stuck, broken...When I looked at his face again, I noticed he was shy and cringing a bit in embarassment.
I remember going back to my room in the hostel that night and writing about it with some questions. So, now every little boy in the slums outside, has to wear proper clothes, lest he be called to pose for Life study and have every mm of his body scrutinised by goofy artistic donkeys sitting atop wooden donkeys?

Cut to... A young woman who walked past me twenty minutes ago. She was wearing (definitely) 4th floor pants.

Cut to... Many years ago. A new batch of students had joined college. S was clad in these mighty tighty pair of jeans. We gaped, trying to unravel the mystery of getting into a piece of attire so terribly tight..and decided, she must've had to jump off the 4th floor to get into those pants.
Thereafter 3rd floor and 2nd floor pants were born too.

A man passed me by while I was walking to find a rickshaw. He seemed to be looking in one diection and talking in another.

Cut to... Many many years ago, the basketball court (also the place for all nocturnal revelry). U.P. stood near the far wall, facing it. His hands drew out vivid pictures in the dark air. We wondered what he was upto! He turned around a while later and we knew he was the first proud owner of a mobile phone on campus...

Shake and stir

Darn! I'm too sleepy to think straight. Yet, I can't sleep!

Read this collection of essays by Woody Allen, once. There was one called, 'What if all the impressionists were dentists?'. It totally cracked me up. The first account was of Lautrec barely managing to hoist himself onto a tall dentists' stool. And his first patient is this fat woman who opens her mouth for him and he finds himself looking at the biggest jaw he has ever seen...says something to the effect of...even her jaw couldn't contain the dentures...
Well, perhaps I don't remember too clearly what it said (too sleepy, remember?).
But this is how I saw it....
Good night, world!

Thursday, December 8

Alt Aye Aye!

I'm so excited about what I'm doing right now! Too bad, I'm a nocturnal worker and everyone else around me is asleep or I would've let out a loud scream of joy.

The details shall be revealed later, perhaps on Monday. But for now, I'll only say that I'm busy fooling Photoshop. The bugger refused to increase the size of an image to a digit I want. So, I'm fooling it and getting my work done. It's fun when you discover the way around nooses.

There are things I like to do. Some, I like to do only past midnight. Like wearing a dash of purple eye make up (snort). I do that sometimes to drive the yawns away. I write, too. I play one silly game over and over again and listen to music. I go stand in the balcony and look around, smelling the fresh air.

And there are things I do when I'm nervous for some reason. I clean up my table and closet and book shelves, knowing fully well that I work best in mess. And then, there are times when I slouch in front of the tele with a jar full of some insane snack, and eat till I fall asleep.

But I'm glad to say now, that I'm happiest when I'm working and my work's showing up well. Ah...what bliss!

When I sit down at my lightbox and draw frame after frame, completely engrossed in the nanosecond movement, and when I put the pencil down and flip the frames, held between my fingers, and the movement is coming out right, the autorickshaw is coming to a halt in the exact liquid, flexible way I wanted it to........WOW!

I get back to my work now.
Actually, I am working alongside writing this.
You see, photoshop is doing it's job well now.
Suddenly, it feels like some pea brained thingamajig that needs to be told in very very simple terms what it needs to do!

Away I go.

Alt Aye Aye!!

(snort snort)

p.s. It is a bad idea to finish the day's crossword before seven in the morning.

And hey...thank you for all those mugshots in my inbox! I'm going to do the chickie brickie thing and put up all of them on this blog!! Har har har har


It's tomorrow already. There's a whole lot of work to be done.

All I want to do is sleep....

Wednesday, December 7

another half past five

All's well now. T'wasn't, a while ago. Well, Professor Twist's missing from the scene and if I'm going to be honest and talk about things, then I might as well write about how horribly upset I was a while ago (ago or back? who knows...Professor's gone...) and I did even shed some tears (yes, I tend to get soppy) and then I sat up straight (still sitting upright) and said o myself, " If he's going to behave this way, I'm going to behave my own way. And I shall not be overtly affected and I shall not shed terrible tears". Somehow, it seems to have worked. I haven't shed a single tear since and I've had my third cup of coffee for the night (night? morning? who knows...the Professor's gone..)

I've had a couple of ideas over the past few days. I'm not absolutely sure about them but for the sake of refreshing honesty (and if I'm going to be honest then I might as well write this here...blah blah ...) I will write about these half formed, seeds of ideas.

~ I'm really curious about the names we give our blogs. So, If you explain why your blog is named so, I will tell my story too (it's not soppy).

That's one.
And the other one is this.

~ I'm's a good idea to try and improve my drawing skills. So, if you're interested, send me a mugshot of yours and I'll make one for you.

Here's the deal. For each caricature I make, you must tell me a fine story. About anything. Without morals/ dotted with nuances and lunacies.
And oh..if you're bothered about sharing your mugshot, I promise to trash it as soon as I'm done with the drawing.
Now, this might take a while (if anyone does send me a mugshot), due to my very busy, topsy turvy, cribbing body clock, nocturnal schedule. But I will send it to you as soon as I can.

Send them to me at nativetourist at gmail dot com.

I hope to hear from you soon!

Detached Floating Girl

Aaron Jasinski


Jim in jammies

I only want to listen to new music,
not face any.

(i know, 'Jim in jammies only makes sense to me. i have my days of being surreal too and i think everyone should try it. today happens to be half an NC day)

~~~~Due to the dirth of actual new music, I have rediscovered Melanie Safka. 'Brand new pair of rollerskates' is wonderful. So is her version of 'Mr. Tambourine man'.~~~~

Tuesday, December 6

Brown day

(If you only draw what you see, do you begin to see only what you draw?)

He rose from the leaf of paper below

The old city, full of warm cloth shops, made me feel at home

Monday, December 5



i want to take it all back
everything i ever said to anyone
anything i ever did
right or wrong
good or bad
neat or messy
gray or green

i will absorb
write in my books
and draw too

i don't want spoken words
and loud noises
take them away

please don't shout
don't scare me
if i'm going to be on the edge, then the edge might as well be grassy

don't be Nash's Purist, always
don' say one thing today and bury it 4 hours later
unless you're professionally challenged to hurt people.

i bang into walls
and corners
in the dark
well lit cubicles
and corridors

leaving notes for cold machines was never my thing
but i did that too

(might be continued)

Sunday, December 4

News update at 5 a.m.

Does anyone know how to revive a dried up old Rotring pen? I've tried everything. It's a .2 nib. I even soaked it in hot water to declog it. Still doesn't work. Please help!

So, looks like the 'high-kick-girl' is back. She's not in full form yet, but almost there. Here goes..

This is an ode to nincompoops and dunderheads. Big swollen heads who think that without their turning in the world won't spin. Sometimes it takes a long time to see that the halo on someone's head is actually an extention of their swollen heads. It takes a while to see the whole picture.I saw it now.I let the cold winter air grab me, as I stood out in the balcony, Without mules. It didn't hit me, this air was gentle and smooth. It grabbed me, nonetheless. I saw the sea. A sea of lights laid out for a nocturnal feast. I saw the trees doing a ballet. I saw the old man clad in white walking briskly. I saw the light. I saw that the halo was an extention of the swollen head.
And so, I send out a proper high kick, carried in all directions by the faithful winter air. It will go to many lands and convey my packaged gift in willowy strings, the high kicks I am sending out to all those nincompoops who think they are the pivot on which everything rotates.
May you turn on your own silly heads.
May the egotistical vertices be with you.

It isn't that everything's bad. It isn't also that nothing's bad. It's just that at this point, the bad is really bad. And it's confounding too. I mean, who can explain the horrible solution, a solution finding pro comes up with? How can anyone applaud such banal efforts?

I'm sick of my music list! I've heard everyhing I got, too many times over. Can anyone be a nice soul and send me some music...I know it isn't Christmas yet....but still....a good deed never hurt anyone too much...I don't know what else to say!

It's past five a.m.
My feet are freezing.
Fred's waiting for me over there. (i've had it with him! 14 and still rolling...hmmppff!)
I've had two cups of coffee tonight.
Yes, I know I'm writing things no one needs to know.
Tomorrow will not be a breakfast day.

I slept for 14 hours today (yesterday? I'm confused)
I'd been working for 24 hours before that.
I need some new midnight snacks.
I've been dreaming of eating jelly and I don't know why I'm craving for it.
I couldn't get past today's crossword.
I love yellow light, specially in winters.

I'm mad at someone for coming up with the worst solution ever.
As I write this, I crave for vegetable noodles with oodles of soya sauce.

Au revoir!

For the sake of a single poem...

Listen, I'm really in an awful mood today. Some people have been behaving so strangely and for the whole wide spectrum of understanding human behaviour that I allow myself to do, I cannot fathom what Marc's motives are!
This is what I want to read. It's a great pickmeup.

Besides, it's the greatest poem ever written.

...Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough) – they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else – ); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars, - and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves – only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.”– Rainer Maria Rilke "For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions… For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. …And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves -- only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.

I forgot to mention the name of this great poet!

Rainer Maria Rilke

Saturday, December 3


This is for Illustration Friday.
A cow that got entangled in wayward barbed wire one afternoon. I was walking by with a friend. We called up Animal Help Foundation. They came and pumped some injections in the cow's neck and left it there because they didn't have the infrastructure t take care of big animals back then. The cow writhed in pain.
In the evening, my friend and I took food for the cow. From the distance we saw the swollen stomach. It had died due to shock and pain.
This is what I made that night.

Fred again

Breakfast (and) days are back again

I had breakfast this morning. This is a piece of news that everyone needs to know today. It would've made the headlines but I was too busy working so I forgot to call the newspapers.

Breakfast was my favourite meal of the day. And then I became a nocturnal thingamajig. I started waking up only past one p.m., leaving no chance for a morning meal. There is a fitting ditty written by a friend, to breakfast. I shall have to ask him if I can put it up here. Of course, it'll have to be signed with a pseudonym, he'd never let it be any other way.

There's also another fitting piece of writing that i'd like to put up here.

Night makes the world another world.
The day's world is crowded with things.
You get lost in it.
Or they push you around.
To keep a hold on yourself
you have to ignore a lot of them.
You have to brush some aside to find your way.
So the more you see, the less you see.

The night rubs these out, or packs them all together.
And puts them on your shoulder like a blanket.
So you move with the owrld on your back, feeling bigger than you are -
one pice with nature.

Night's life is nature's life.

In the night's deep furrow
between two lidded leaves of sleep
like a night-lily opening on the waters.

It is as if all one's likes had joined in one person.
The bracing breaths of air
the coloured orbs of vision
the trees and landscape wrapped in sky's blue foil
the throbbings of the inner row of senses
and drawn one in
between two coagulated shadows
two lobes of intermeshing mystery.
there is no movement.
Just the thrill of pleasure.

No action
just the muted hide and seek
of an image and its shadow
in indecisive lineament
between two lidded leaves of sleep.

The day's light, then, cuts dead open
all life's mystery
sharpens the contours and shrinks
the inner core.
Cuts each limb adrift in autonomous action
the eye sees without knowing
the ear hears without feeling
the body acts without the inner push.
And the wish bud sears within its slender stem.
The lazy acts roll out
like listless coins
from a mechanical mint.

K.G. Subramanyan


This is Jugular Bean's bunny

So I admit, I cannot draw rabbits. They look cute and so simple to draw, perhaps, but for the sake of crawling on all fours without haivng slept in the last 32 hours( a bit of exaggeration is hamrless, right?) , I cannot draw these cuddly wuddly creatures!!
Someone help me! And if you can't help me then atleast pray for me.

Thursday, December 1

Ta daa!

Thought I'd introduce Fred to all of you.

He jumps around and teases other animals, while his brothers laugh...

Wednesday, November 30


The phone


I ran
to pickitup




Tuesday, November 29

who will you be

I will be a girl-woman
living on the fringes
with half dirty brushes
and half written verses.


Things are strange

Monday, November 28


She said


at three
in the morn

maybe she was wrong
wouldn't know,
she said,
unless the silence
another charmed

Sonata 9

Out on the streets today
a little boy with his toy plane crossed my way.

It reminded me to write this down
in my list of things - to - do.
It reminded me when you were cycling home the other night
and that bi-plane was chasing you.

I saw three boys walking with matched steps.
It was getting dark
the eldest must've been eight
the other two, six or seven.

Their knickers were dirty
not from a game of ball.
Dirty, from days of drape.
Their smiles were fresh,
oven fresh.

(Reminded me to ask myself
when was the last time I smiled oven fresh smiles. )

The eldest, tallest one walked in the middle.
His hands rested on the soft malleable shoulders of his mates,
the junior lambs.
They must've been walking home.

I stopped,
still staring at them.
Walked up and asked them
if they knew where shop no. 88 was.
Excited on being asked an important question,
they pranced in three different directions each.
The fourth one was left for me to fill in.

I was guided to a half lit tea shop
with blue faded walls
and yesteryear's red tarpaulin as a facade.
The old kaka looked up
pots of tea boiled
with day old tea leaves, brewing
like faded stars on the stage.

He pointed to the left
and after four minutes
told me to ask the person
sitting on the horizon.
The boys led me again.

I was a lot ping pong ball
bouncing in a narrow alley.
And they
were three flies.

They asked me more questions dressed in importance.
I answered nonchalantly, importantly.
The man on the horizon was a cobbler.
He looked at my shoes
I looked at his hands

(to be continued)

Sunday, November 27


It's easy to be this way, pumpkin.
Why don't you see it my way, dumpling?

Can you see
the half cynical
face in the cloud up there?
The other half is facing backwards.
Let's go further up,
turn around
and see,what the other half is.

Do you read this ode, like I do?
It's lyrical
and tells circular tales.
I'll sit and watch you
smile tomato smiles
while talking to your distant cousin on the phone.
You can watch me
dig out my old sketchbooks
and give them watermelony looks.

We could backpack to the big tree,
cycle in the dark, guided by the moon.
We could survive on juicy oranges, sweet roadside ginger tea,
stale sweet-sour biscuits in big glass jars (and maybe, oily paranthas too).

The days would begin with groggy mornings
in the pitch dark
we can express our love for daybreaks, equally.
The nights would end with you removing yours and I wearing my socks
either clean or smelly.

Do you see,
the view is taking my breath away.
The dark blue starry sky makes me think of trapeze artists swinging,
I can't tell if it's too late in the night or too early in the day.

Saturday, November 26


In need to listen to fresh stories today.
So, c;mon
and write me something,
I can read while sipping on coffee.
Write anything,
an epic from last year,
a memory on a fresh loaf of bread,
tell me a travel tale,
spin me a yarn,
tell me a fantastic fib,
As long as it's not soppy.
As long as I can read it with my coffee.

Friday, November 25


If The Police had sung 'Message in a bottle' in the present day, would it have been.." I send an SMS to you"?


So this is my revelation for the day. The earth is not an orb.
It is a hemispherical bowl.
A salad bowl, to be precise.
And we are mere fruits and vegetables diced and tossed up served with fresh dressing.
Yus, this is true.

And anyone who disagrees, is a garlic (you probably have a lot of good qualities but you still stink!).

Har har!!

Thursday, November 24


I'm going to be busy for the next couple of days with Fred. As it turns out, I must spend the weekend with him, atleast four hours each day. Yes, I've done the calculations right. On Monday, I shall send him across to those people to take a look at him. They'll tell me if he looks alright or if he needs to be taken care of a bit more. Their diagnose is important although for most part, I have to rely on my own senses. That, and a whole lot of images for reference. Fred the frog, on his lily pad...I've never lived a frog's life, how else would I know about a frog's day?

The book cover got approved, I have to do fourteen hand painted illustrations by Monday.
Yikes! I can't complain about having to stare at images of frogs and toads..all gooey and eeky etc..Never had a soft corner for them folks.

I do realise how surreal things are when I talk to my friends and we discuss what we've been doing. So, while a friend sits half way across the world and works on his thesis (management science = rocket science for me), while another friend cooks a great meal with turkey for Thanksgiving, while yet another one works out some user interface dilemma, while another one does some more model tests for yet another ad film, another one takes care of his new born baby boy without a name, another one travels two days to meet her soon-to-be-groom, and yet another one does things I have no idea about, I for my part, sit here and make illustrations of Fred the Frog on his lily pad, hopping, booing, showing off his muscles.

How surreal is this?

Surreal enough to make me see the various hues of life.

While I try and see which colour works best for the lily pad....


Wednesday, November 23


This is for Coyote's poem, 'Topography'.

Tuesday, November 22


Joy is such a wonderful thing, if we accept that like most other things, it isn't going to last forever...

It's 5:30 p.m. and the sky is a dark blue, the moon is peeping out from behind the curtains, preparing for it's show.

Monday, November 21

Aye Aye!

Someone wants to buy my painting!
I won't put it up here.
It is one of my favorites and since I've never sold any of my paintings before, I don't even know whow much I should sell it for.
But hey! Someone wants t o buy my painting!!

I'd made it one night, suddenly waking up from sleep at 4 a.m.

Sunday, November 20

What I really want to do...


~ listen to dire straits
please baby
je suis desole
will you miss me
goodbye windflower
manifold de amour
the next time i'm in town
the way it always starts
one way gal
suicide towers
railroad worksong

~ drink fourteen cups of black coffee, neither too strong nor too sweet

~ forget the ill-mannered boy from last evening. he really does need to grow up. and he needs to stop whining.

~ pull out (and find) twenty three old newspapers with undone crosswords. sit and do each one of them.

~ paint something while listening to the above mentioned music.

~ sit on the floor cushions in the corner with a book (i'll think of which one, later) and fall asleep while reading it.

what i need to do today

  • get work ready to show greg tomorrow
  • finish those three book covers and submit them by tomorrow
  • clean up the work desk
  • darn some things
  • forget the question asked in jest.


i hate this painting i made two years ago.

Saturday, November 19

Friday, November 18

When conversations turn into soliloquies

Simple questions asked in jest
topic changed pronto
I shudder
and utter
white truths
on black nights.

Took a while to reckon
the power of grey,
it beckons
to keep roaring silences meek
the panoramas I seek
slowly but surely, leak.

Let it rest
we'll just talk in jest.

Thursday, November 17

Crash boom, it sang

I want to listen to stories today.

Wednesday, November 16

The second half

My eyes
can see
images written in time
getting blurry.

Words fail me
as I write again.

I miss the sea.
I miss many things.

My past has become
in my present.

Let it grow white
let it get washed
by those very waves,
waterless waves,
that filled up my present
in the past.
let it get bleached out
in an all consuming white.

And then
I will
fade out