Friday, December 30, 2011

Somewhere, here

you raise me up
once more,
to the beginning of my day..

Thursday, October 6, 2011


18 Sept. 2011

There is a greater frequency of visits now. In solitude, taking in ice-cold lemon tea. Every weekend I sit by the corner table..sipping into me this world, in my words. This life in my world. This belief of my being. Often this by choice, my choice. Should i figure out if it is written upon me?

Priorities are sometimes a forced consolation. Thoughts between them, a forgiven lie. It lives in me, forever within. The right to take it way beneath, to a depth within I've never reached. I want to reach that place someday. Not just to build strong walls, but to make a life out of the belief in that depth.


Even the eagle at the highest cliff seemed un-surprisingly predictable.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Moments in Love

This is the nearest I've been so far, to the pleasures of living. And I'm still amazed;
not just at what I've seen, but the mere fact that there is a lifetime more of this kind of depth, where I can  retrieve my moments from.

Like falling in love, everyday, all over again... blushing, at the sight of this life

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Here, behind (II)

i sat there and dreamt last night
hidden beneath the low roof
the sky was dark, and i, unguarded
lay in the wilderness;
breathing in the aura of wind and rain.
the volume swelled, but la isla bonita in my ears
was silenced by words conceived within.
words, like gravity, pulling me down
lined through scars by native tears.

i reached for the morphine, a strand of light.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Here, behind (I)

there was an invitation. to slip into a space, where i held my breath of angst. and then i fell..within.

Bridging rage

it was better in the dark
when i could see through thoughts;
curse the vultures that failed;
tear apart what tears regard
veins of bloodless sanity;
when endless echoes of fateful rage
bridge, alongside life.


concrete walls crushed the space
of breath;
death redeemed, within again.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Closer, the sky

i live like a river up a hill.

i try to..

 i try to reach; move diaphanously within the perimeter of self;
slide over the precipice of displaced stones, infrequently in displaced course; 
find a way in the deep, dark woods while the moonlight traces my braided path;  
to trust to wish upon a star;
i try to live.. to flow;
 whisper in lover's accent, silently from the heart;
let it through, the light and shower;
to believe the brief of the night;
to know i can never remain, clad in reflections of a cloudy sky;
to flow your breadth, read your depth;
to remain the mirror of the sky till the day, i flow...from your sight.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Slipping through

a moment isn't for long.
from one, i couldn't one i couldn't let go.
it's like broken walls that breathe void, with instances of light passing through.

uselessly the starlight ignites a wish of
growing with time in constance.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

At a distance

there is this distance. sometimes, it's a happy stride. living through a cycle, of ends
and beginnings. at the ends,
each time, it only seems like we are almost there.


to my left, i noticed a glass bowl of walnuts. full of them, and in the distance, each alike.
in the course of my waiting this is
the sight i chose. and in my sight they remained, for long seconds.
each in its own way, hard, whole, contained and at ease in its own skin.


i am finding my view towards a beginning.

at view

Monday, June 20, 2011

The Dads

I learned to make a snowman out of cotton. I learned to make a windmill; eventually the first I had ever seen.  It started in those days, and it has been going on, ever since..

But among the lot ( of best moments ),
I look back to the days when we both went for long rides in our hometown.
We spent many such evenings, sometimes he
would ride by his
old school, tell me stories of his childhood and teachers.
Somehow, deep within, I have always felt living there was best when there was dad around,
it made the place feel more like home, for everything in and about
it has been a part of his life. And he talks more about his life ( something he rarely does ) when
he is in our hometown.

I continue to admire and love his simple heart. And yes, he has always been there for me.
. . . . . . . .

" Commodore Kundankali once called me and said, "Chief, what wonderful handwriting you have !". Such comments to have come from him, oh it felt so good. Now, see my hands?...."

He held out his right hand; aged to a near 90, with visible tremor.

" I can barely write letters now."

Grandfather has never been idle. From the day I have known him till
recently, he has been busy making walking sticks, clocks, polishing furniture,
remodelling things, writing letters, all out of the leisure time in his life. Today, there are a few things he can't do by himself, unlike his mind, which somehow hasn't aged.
He has a wonderful life story. And every moment of his life's past is now almost an occassion
in his memory. He still talks of the car he drove in Germany,
of how he lost his way in Rome,
the farm he went to, the milkcan he bought ( all of these, nearly 60 years ago )... he remembers every detail;
he's the best narrator I've listened
to in my life.

One thing he has often stressed, " Always be happy. " 

Saturday, June 18, 2011

the sight

i wasn't reminded. neither of time, nor life itself. it's a kind of freedom, from the pace of age. essentially, that's the reason i love.

there have been dreams. and i've walked in the barley fields. i saw it all, a little more clearly today. strong winds carried the harvest, like a swirl of pixie dust mid-air.

we climbed the altitudes, in the peak of summer. within a few dreams of beauty, becoming. 

Thursday, June 16, 2011

leather bound

there were pictures. newspaper-cuts on ruled, dated sheets. the glue left a stain behind every page..stains in little squares of brown. it was a heavy mass of palm size, leather binds barely closing, with much overloaded clippings in-between.

a four letter word was stuck on the backside.. Kiwi.

fantasies were never opened to, for a long, long time. it never took flight, either, together with time.

Monday, June 13, 2011

At my core

 The tastebuds felt the smooth seed, searching for tiny remnants of sweet lychee.
I sat on the footseps in my garden, moist lips on cold breeze.

There is a silver curve on the outside. And behind this shine, I lived in the silence
 of sunset. I want to hold them on my fingertips, let them bounce in joy,
like beads of pearl. The moment prolonged. In the dew, I saw the orange ball, sink into the sea.
There was an urge,
at my core to belong to that moment; an urge to
connect in the core of all my dreams.

 I made my wish.

Photography - Weekend collection II

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Gooseberry Pickle

I learnt this recipe from my grandmother. She's been cooking this for nearly three generations. Here is a very spicy gooseberry pickle recipe. Best when had with curd rice.


20 medium sized gooseberries
1 tbsp fenugreek seeds
60 red chillies
1 1/2 tbsp powdered asofoetida
2 1/2 tbsp salt
6 tbsp gingely oil


Fry the fenugreek seeds till golden brown. Fry the chillies and asofoetida ( till golden brown ) in a tablespoon of gingely oil, seperately.

Allow these to cool to room temperature. In the same wok, fry the gooseberries in a tablespoon of oil, till soft and cooked. This might take about 15 or 20 minutes, on a medium flame. If the gooseberries are too big, cut them into smaller pieces ( do not cut before cooking ).

When the spices are at room temperature, grind them together as finely as possible. Mix this spice mixture, rest of the oil and salt with the cooked gooseberries.

One alternative of this recipe is to steam the gooseberries instead of frying. However this is tastier.

Monday, June 6, 2011

It is hidden everywhere

Beauty, in a way, is an essense of ecstacy. The best part is, to
recognise within, that it can indeed bring a tingle
of happiness and freedom, to
breathe in that silence of admiration. I have always wanted to seal them, between
my palms, and put them in a little glass jar. So I can go back to them,
live them, many times more.

When I was young I used to go around catching dragonflies.
There were quite a lot, some flying in pairs,
some on tips of wild grass, their wings glittering under the summer afternoon sun.
 I barely caught three or four, collected them in a jar
of twigs and leaves. I still remember admiring their tiny legs holding stones.
I let them out a few hours later.

And weekends in summer were spent in the backyard. Walking about within the compound,
sitting under mango trees. I loved to collect things
and make my own games with it. 
Anything from twigs, pebbles and tender leaves; it seems lame now, but
 back then, those were my treasures. 

I remembered those days when I was in my courtyard yesterday afternoon.
And I am figuring out that the only way to look back at such simple sources of happiness
would be to photograph them.
I love it. To find the best of what I see and capture them
as just as possible, it takes time, in the beginning.

I am learning the fact that there is beauty in everything around.
The whole process has become an inspiration
in many different ways.
 I find my personal moments in them. And all I want
is to breathe in the moment.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Photography - Weekend collection I

Facing irresistible...literally. A few of the many sights captured this week.  To never forget..   

Looking out for pigeons..She loves to chase them.

 My grandmother, 85, insists on gardening no matter what.


Friday, June 3, 2011

In Course

There is this stream, lost in a dark, dense forest. Flowing somewhere, into the depths of uncertainity. Whispers engraved on pebbles, echoed along the gentle waters. Fading to the distance, in the passage of time.


I don't want to turn around. Not immediately after..

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Close to Sea

"The voice of the sea is seductive;
 never ceasing, whispering, clearing, murmuring, inviting the soul to
wander for a spell
in the abysses of solitude;
 to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.
The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body
 in its soft, close embrace."


Marina, Chennai (taken on 19 Sept. 2010)

Tuesday, May 31, 2011


There is so much out there waiting to be seen, felt, loved. 

I walk out of the headroom, to the terrace. I climb the iron ladder, to the roof top. This space is my favorite little corner. It's my personal space. I go there to think, or to simply clear my mind. To stand face to face, with a view.

This is where I slow down. This is where I learn to see. Standing against the breeze from a distant shore, thoughts mellow to realism. From a larger perspective, everything seems so small. I wait for the moment when this realization strikes, deep within me. And when the moment arrives, I let my mind take flight.

I stop thinking. I stop analysing, finding a reason. I stop judging...even trying. That is when I feel alive. When I let it all away; when I let life remain as is, simple. I remember dad telling me, " What we know is only little ".  When there is courage to believe that, a realization follows : No matter what, it isn't the end of the world.

Life teaches a lot. It gives the will to live free. To not be anchored forever. Because there is always a permanence of change. It is just a matter of time.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

In a Garden

There is a long queue. With their thin legs, black ants hustled ahead, like frenzied shoppers in a busy street. Beside these groups of foragers, I lived my moments of vivid enthrallment. With dirt between finger-nails, I dug palm deep, into wet ground. We both ( mother and I ) held our breath while I delicately transferred a plant from its pot.

I loved it. Carefully holding the naked plant, taking a moment to admire the passel of mud coated roots and handsome little dirty bulbs; in the end there is a sense of contentment to get as dirty as the ground. 

I recently surrendered to my liking for gardening. I realised how well it works, for the mind and general being. These are a few pictures I took this week. Of memories where both the plants and I learned to smile and grow.

" No two gardens are the same. No two days are the same in one garden. "

~Hugh Johnson