tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149824342012-01-22T10:44:18.920-08:00shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.comBlogger1121100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-19322925704978670392011-12-30T02:00:00.000-08:002011-12-30T02:07:57.952-08:00

First thing first, I would stop blaming my parents. It’s embarrassing how I can go on and on about the scars of my childhood, usually after two drinks. Talking of drinking, I would give it up too, “No , I am not turning moral or something”, its just the way I hate how glass turns  my anger to a foolish grin by the night. Few other promises I make to myself are expected of a middle

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-18564975715507285642011-10-23T00:46:00.000-07:002011-10-23T09:06:46.585-07:00

Deewali makes me melancholic. I try to do away with it. I try and pack my deewali desires in a duffle bag and leave town. I buy clothes that scream bling. I change my hairstyle. Burgundy red streaks that dare the dark outside. Yet the gloom of the amavasya manages to slither hideously in my bones, the dark slimy creature permeates my life. I can see it sitting in my cupboard with my bling

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-19683727879122171892010-02-07T10:08:00.000-08:002010-02-07T10:14:35.019-08:00

Ghazal for Bal & Raj Thackerey I have a little piece of my sky in the skies of the city Leave it alone, as you redden, the skies of the city My sand house by the beach, a lonely migrant’s home No more the sea welcomes in the rise of the city A train goes to my town everyday, full of disillusions I try to untangle my heart from the ties of the city The city looks for blood, she is crazy, hate

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-49536579736796167102010-02-02T07:16:00.000-08:002010-02-03T08:20:18.866-08:00

I hide behind the poet’s block The muse is constipated today I proclaim. I crouch behind her. I know. I know one quirky day that will start somewhere else and lead me somewhere else like a nice poem, one such day I will pick up the pen to write about the red of luscious lips I will instead write about you. In the poem, titled “.you” I’d Tell about the stars. Not how They lend their silver to

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-9999125607721940932010-01-31T07:05:00.001-08:002010-01-31T07:05:19.607-08:00

writer's bloc

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-13632106563926213342010-01-26T18:52:00.000-08:002010-01-26T18:54:40.756-08:00

My mother called me Rekha A line, crooked line. A kohl black line in deep eyes A Line, I crossed To know my limit I am the last courtesan Singing ruefully In a court, Sans patrons, My husky voice made men leave their fortunes and sit at my feet I am the other woman Always the sucker, Clung to you, leech-like The perfect antidote to a dutiful wife who sang devotional She fought me Till the

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-26268526757684762202010-01-21T11:24:00.001-08:002010-01-21T11:24:30.666-08:00

I search for my childhood skies nowadays, your skies are stark, lonely; give me the starry nights of childhood The trees have blurred, mountains are beaten everyday Rivers shrink here; I miss the lovely sights of childhood My many maneuvers, I navigate through the layers To the adult mutinies, I prefer the little fights of childhood My homespun happiness traded for a locked door, foil packed

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-77375710929454613642010-01-11T07:36:00.001-08:002010-01-11T07:36:54.867-08:00

Vegans shouldnt read this poem at all. Its very drafty but I just felt like sharing. This white cap is the Real irony You dress up, clown like To undress me solemnly This they call dressing The way you hold me by the neck My body, fat and juice All my feathers plucked I hate my nudity Don’t rub the black pepper so rudely, clown I have only just undergone lime treatment. Your idea of a wash

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-74508150908639002432010-01-06T03:22:00.000-08:002010-01-06T03:22:55.517-08:00

Wanted to start the blogging in the new year with this beautiful poem by Elizabeth Alexander who was selected to read it out for Obama's Presidential Inaugration. Praise Song for the Day Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each other's eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-44959728976290116192009-12-30T23:44:00.000-08:002010-01-01T01:36:36.142-08:00

(Written on 31st Dec’2009)Another year slips into nothingnessThe disco lights festoon the shopsThe retail reward points enticegullible shoppers, shopping for strawberries, plum cakes, frozen food.The New Year plans are cloggedin Saki Naka traffic.The sultry seductress on the billboardinvites the teenager in the auto rickshawto her year end cleavage show.I am sublime. Last night’s caprioskaDrunk

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-36617151662983375322009-12-26T23:46:00.001-08:002009-12-26T23:50:05.174-08:00

I want to fly.The autumn sky,Blue sheet of peace.I feel fearLike the eaglet Feet stuck to the groundSecured with harnessOn the brown cliff’s edgeI stand.Voices fadeI walk without groundBeneath my feetI am clumsyI run in the light breezeScared of vacuumWith open armsI take the windMy orange wings flapI stop my trudgeWading in the skyA majestic eagleSoar highAbove the sahyadri The queen of sky.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-76248104914624883202009-12-25T22:28:00.000-08:002009-12-26T01:44:00.478-08:00

Why is Paa not what it seems? C'mon guys, I mean what are we celebrating in Paa? Balki the ad guy turned filmmaker or the greatest ever Big B ?I love Big B, ever since I have known (OF) him, I have loved him even when movies were forbidden, i fell in love with him in the posters, never had to go to a theatre too.too bad.But he is not my idea of a progeria ridden "Auro". The role should have gone

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-89115556340623649912009-12-21T00:44:00.000-08:002009-12-21T00:46:39.191-08:00

I just think this is unstoppably brilliant. I have been shameless to upoload this here withoit regards to copyright rules. But for good or bad, the links were not working and what the heck, I mean at the end of the day the world knows that this has been written by Aidan Andrew Dun. Ode to a Postbox by Aidan Andrew DunOf you, humble postbox, positioned between people, halfway house in the affairs

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-11803137905709616502009-12-11T22:45:00.000-08:002009-12-11T22:51:16.131-08:00

The cops inform her promptly wheneverthere is new body at the morgueShe rushes all alone to see if it is himHer heart filled with fear and hopeEvery new year, she makes roasted meatHis favorite, and waits for him to returnShe wonders what would give her closure.Will his dead body answer all her questions?Daughters, two of them held her handsTime, though, heals sore wounds, sharp painsAnger

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-45177040144281879112009-12-10T11:10:00.000-08:002009-12-21T00:20:19.181-08:00

Dark clouds curl at the mouth of skyDust rises, invades and blinds the eyesThe wind howls in rage, throws itself atwindow panes and doors like bad intentThrown empty plastic bottles scuttle awayPieces of paper sway in the fury of natureA silver streak of anger darts across the skyThe rains come abruptly, without warningMatching the storm’s fury, step by stepAnd then changes to a drizzle, like a

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-42382940048439175112009-12-10T03:20:00.000-08:002009-12-10T03:25:47.846-08:00

Hear the distant drum of globalization Take heart, children of hungry nights The new dawn will change the nation Wipe off the face of consternation Jobs will pour, they wax lyrical, whohear the distant drum of globalization Your life will change beyond recognitionFields would be ploughed in cyber spaceThe new dawn will change the nationEnthusiasts laud the end of long hibernationCornucopia

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-50389399719741182472009-12-05T01:32:00.000-08:002009-12-05T01:35:44.177-08:00

( abba, abba, cdecde)They stood in a neat row, seven brides to be,Nice eyes, chiseled nose, full lips, black hair A sherwani clad groom surveyed with an air,The seven brides, done up like Christmas tree.The first one spoke, dressed in a sapphire blueA hush descended over, and many hearts tore,Vote for me, prince, I am nice, pretty and pureI will cook and clean, marry me without any rueThe prince

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-80696405640167268822009-12-04T22:43:00.000-08:002009-12-05T01:44:49.638-08:00

Pangs of Love(ababcdcdefefgg)I stirred in the bed, you lay asleep. I would be gone before you woke up.The alarm shook my bitter sweet dreamsI got up and filled warm water in the tub,I took a quiet bath, and peered over youYou still slept, like a stranger, in the darkI felt a stab, sipping my morning brewAnother work week for us, living apartI changed, noiseless, under a dim lightYou nodded

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-78814390330642608232009-12-03T04:17:00.000-08:002009-12-22T06:59:39.435-08:00

On the banks of the pious Gangesstands an old consecrated Kali templeSymbol of my faith, the she- godlast refuge of dropouts and derelictsThe road to the temple is paved withcobblestones, beggars and lepersOn another side, rows of shops standentice seekers with the smell of flowersThe staircase that leads to the precinct,is weary, trampled over ages, by sinsThe precinct is dark and dreary,

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-49129950281378690022009-12-01T09:05:00.000-08:002009-12-01T09:17:35.640-08:00

We said it with blossoms, and your slightest touchTickled my core, I long for that touch tonightWhen we watched the rain, or wrote love notes On a scrabble board, I long for those words tonightThe fret for bread, the mundane life consumed usWe drifted aimless, I long for the old rush tonightA pain nags at me forever, like ice cold bitternessYou sleep dreamless, I long for your turn tonightI fear

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-19043366201146250812009-10-27T02:28:00.001-07:002009-10-27T02:28:54.764-07:00

We both stood there, divided by the black conveyer belt,Unclaimed baggage, our divorces, the septic pain we felt.We remained distant, as though our pains would reactto each other, and char our recently drawn pact.Pact that defined pain, its extent detailedPermissible hurt was defined, clear and dry.To cross these, would mean, “we failed.”Our caution typical of once bitten, twice shy!

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-19696324629779723992009-10-19T01:31:00.000-07:002009-10-19T01:39:29.063-07:00

In this assignment, we had to read up Aidan Andrew Dunn's workshop and write a poem on a mundane object. I, ofcourse, cant reproduce the entire workshop here but I can provide the link of an extremely powerful poetry by Aidan Andrew Dunn.My own attempt is a feeble one, but my tutor Mac,says keep writing and keep re drafting.So this is the first draftThis chair, made of the finest Burma wood,

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-7136288959453126922009-10-19T01:14:00.000-07:002009-10-19T01:31:13.845-07:00

Potrait of HelenaMy face is a monument.Tourists visit me, seekingcheap relief. Scholars, tounravel the layers beneath.Do you see where the browsmeet? The asymmetricalcrookedness came aboutthrough deep conflicts.This charcoal grey aroundme, is no stroke of artistry,It is the chaos, the mayhemthat is my ash - grey historyThe contours of my faceAre undefined geographiesPlundered by races for greedI

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-64146852844239136002009-10-13T22:27:00.000-07:002009-10-13T22:32:17.256-07:00

As part of my poetry course with Oxford University I am supposed to produce a line from where I was sitting. I was forbidden to use imagery, rhymes or any other poetic form.I was sitting on the sofa, with my chocolate colored bean bag in front of me, my laundry for the last 2 weeks lying on it and my domestic help in the hospital. ( for all you essential humanists, she is doing fine now.)so this

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-22341813756015115352009-10-04T09:25:00.000-07:002009-10-04T10:08:16.721-07:00

Today somebody wrote to me across the time zones. It must have been really late in the night for her.I knew her from work, we had shared spaces in a 200 sq ft bench in an MNC office for over a year. Heard each other's professional and personal conversations over the phone, read official e- mails and did spell checks for each other.She is a lot younger and I am quite fond of her, I see a lot of

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-36449680879083453532009-08-17T02:38:00.000-07:002009-08-17T02:40:41.149-07:00

I remember Bangalore, and a lovely dessert we used to have in Corner House. Death by chocolate something closer to Chocolate Avalanche in Mocha.If I were to die know , I would die young and my epitaph would read Death by Boredom.Please please somebody please save me.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-14501825916919901822009-08-15T22:31:00.000-07:002009-12-22T06:44:59.555-08:00

This is Sunday morning fodder.This time our very own SRK, our collective pride, has undergone over an hour of detention at New York airport sans cellphone and sans dignity.SRK Detained.We are undergoing indignation, anger even humiliation depending on our surnames. The whole incident has exposed the seamier side of security measures in US of A,another one for Obama administration which is doing

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-46926293644992330702009-08-05T05:17:00.000-07:002009-08-05T05:22:32.346-07:00

Well, I should have written this when I was 16, but at 16 I was busy building by vocabulary and doing my calculations, so at 32, I use my vocabulary to write this.It seems a little juvenile but I will post it.I have been there and done thatAnd thus I write this for youMy grey strands, I dyeon this page , in ink blueWho one dates defines themAnd the shape of things to comeAvoid the music later,

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-16850199543459684042009-07-19T09:30:00.000-07:002009-07-19T09:31:31.103-07:00

I dont know what triggers itI just know this treason of the brain, a severe headache and the loss of reasonI become a stranger to myselfThe feeling possesses my soulAll I want is to hate you, lashyou, before I become wholeFew minutes ago, I served you teaand worried about your knee painwas it that smirk on your face, a privatehatred for me, that caused the strain ?I stormed out of the room, I

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-69307607524220631602009-07-12T01:11:00.000-07:002009-07-12T01:17:53.306-07:00

I am the middle managementCaught in a strange curious cuspI am cheese stained soggy lettuce Flanked by dry toast, sitting smugMy juniors find me conceited From their little gossips excluded I am friendless and insecure in theCorporate ascent, its ladder eludedI am top management's parakeetwho sings paeans for their visionto a group of suspecting juniorsAnd live forever with their derisionWhole

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-5795896405331248822009-07-08T01:19:00.001-07:002009-07-08T01:19:53.856-07:00

This contempt of familiarityThe thing about marriageEbbing love, hiatus of "us"This domestic barrageOh! Courtship, the rush of adrenalThe urgency, the living on edge,The wanton ways, I prefer,To this life of predictable drudge.This daily fret for beer and bread,Waking up to each other's breath.The dinner jacket is for others,And the boxers bore me to death.Since you asked for the troth,No point

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-43191753525816433732009-07-04T02:52:00.003-07:002009-07-04T02:57:39.013-07:00

This acquaintance of mineDidn’t date, didn’t loveHer virginity intactLike the smell of cloveThis man, she marriedHas other plan for herHe wants her to beWordless, quiet, demureCook, clean, payWarm the bed, loveWithout a whimper, a say!This acquaintance of mineVirgin, clove, dew, petalShe is waiting right nowquiet, proving her mettleHer lord turns awayIn the nuptial bed, like iceShe is doing her

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-7930142355341240402009-07-01T11:40:00.000-07:002009-07-01T11:43:58.500-07:00

They live on their termsThey are women like me as such.They don’t fret over their past They don’t obsess with future much.They drive their cars and theirview points, with the same alacrity.From Mumbai to ManhattanTheir stories weaved in one tapestry.They loved their men ruthlessly,To each one they were true.Fear and biological clocks apartThey shrug the going aways with little rue.Lunch can be

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-91721845510899601732009-06-21T11:21:00.000-07:002009-06-21T11:37:51.904-07:00

Please go to Pravin's blog to see my poem for the Beautiful Mind Contestwww.pravintalan.blogspot.comI am happy to know that I could contain what Pravin shot in a poem. Thank you for your piece Pravin.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-50001308792496783092009-06-07T02:20:00.000-07:002009-07-04T02:27:16.565-07:00

The little things in my bag that construct megradually, bit, by bit, shards of my everyday lifeMy bank statements, the forms and bills, a notebookthat reads “Things to do”, cards of my everyday lifeA pepper spray, a Swiss knife, my security card for thatstalker, who may lurk behind, guards of my everyday life A lip liner, compact, a kohl pencil, a hurried smudgingto face the made –up- world,

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-19323307076080742662009-05-23T00:14:00.000-07:002009-05-23T00:18:01.857-07:00

Dear Mr. Singh, at the outset,We still believe you.Across party lines.Despite your spineDespite your embarrassing awe,At the G20, that we saw.Despite the dismay, you lack,At Mumbai’s terror attack.But now, you have returnedWith majority.And you are people’s choice,There’s clarity.Votes have stung the waspDemocracy is out of Laloo’s claspOut of Parliament’s crustLeft is biting the dustWe have

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-81771910645955428602009-05-17T01:50:00.000-07:002009-05-17T22:34:05.018-07:00

A woman of thirtyIs at once, so many,Things. But mainlyShe is content withWho she is.Her body that defiedso far, learns the law of gravity.And the slither of silver In her hair, is actuallyA marked punctuality.Her bills and taxes are paidHer friends are measured, Her plans are drawnShe is set in her waysMusic, food, movies.She dresses her ageAnd yet she may leave all for a whimOr a whim for all.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-24001805365440340082009-05-09T02:31:00.000-07:002009-12-22T07:02:36.047-08:00

I made freshStrawberry cheese cake.Easy and nice to bake.Coz, I did notGive you a pieceHere’s the recipeIf, you please.Take a bitOf margarine.Break fewCookies into shards.Mix them wellWith the lard.Throw in,Castor sugar.And of course,While at it,Lick your finger.To make the crust,Press this flatIn the bake tin.Meanwhile Pour yourself A gin.And as you get Giddy,In a mixerMake the cheese Go

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-19721262730367138962009-04-23T00:18:00.000-07:002009-04-23T04:12:48.419-07:00

I read a very old mail in my mailbox... and i was disturbed. It was a trivial matter , in hindsight ofcourse.As I read the mail, I relived the conflict. Its anxiety clouded me all over again. And once more, I wanted to run away from the heaviness of it. Hide my self, duck from the unpleasantness of a situation.I figure I am not able to get started on my book because of this.Needless to say, most

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-22448734800195834092009-04-18T10:02:00.000-07:002009-04-18T10:03:50.953-07:00

I heard from you after a long timeYou live across the coast nowYou are living it bigMaking money and You remember nothing of itAll those talk of revolutionThe big words, the small stepsWe promised to walkTill light shone, thoughYou remember nothing of itIts not the same anymoreI know it in your voiceSometimes there’s a sparkthe fire’s gone, thoughYou remember nothing of itOur brothers called from

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-62564273788554165722009-04-15T03:05:00.001-07:002009-04-15T03:07:13.894-07:00

My brother calledAnd we gotTalking.I told himDuring ourBrother- SisterBabble,OfOne moreFriendWhoseMarriageWent berserk.(It was never Right to begin with)A very badStory. My brother Heard meAs usual ( Must haveTilted his headDropped itLike a schoolbagOn one sideLikeHe didWhen he wasA boy.Now, he is aMan.He paysThe bills.Runs the kitchen.)My brotherHad aquestionLike all brothersHave.(They havea

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-39868056239258761482009-04-12T00:29:00.000-07:002009-12-22T07:03:52.313-08:00

Really, I thought, sometimes I would like to have a child. A very wise and witty little girl who'd grow up to be the woman I could never be. A very independent little girl with no scars on the brain or the psyche. With no toadying servility and no ingratiating seductiveness. A little girl who said what she meant and meant what she said. A little girl who was neither bitchy nor mealy-mouthed

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-84191196823327816472009-04-09T03:57:00.000-07:002009-04-09T04:03:22.303-07:00

Your blogIs a goodWayTo get a heads-upNo real reasonJust virtual tabsIt saves me the Ignominy of sendingA text or a mailAnd I don’tHave to pretendTo be all Good friendsWith yourBuddiesGood- for- nothingLousy fellowsThe reasonsFor the firstCracksIn our garden Of EdenDon’t presumeAnything.Things like I miss you.I do. ButI am done with it.Not the missing.The self loathing.Anyways weWere on your

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-30560731157631526292009-04-06T09:15:00.000-07:002009-04-06T09:21:04.032-07:00

The doctor suspectsI have low sugar levels.Though he does not say itI believe, he suspectsI lack sweetness too.I can’t rememberPrecisely whendid I run out of my natural reservesThe drying upstartedThe first timemy mother sat me downand chatted meabout an unbalanced worldThe historyof differentiationAnd its scopeI was hurtMy adulthood beganFlagged offBy bitternessCharacteristicOf

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-51488807509017704742009-04-06T08:16:00.000-07:002009-04-06T09:16:29.151-07:00

One makes weekend plansPainstakinglyMeet friends for a movieOr have dinner probably.A rushed trip to the gymIs all it takesTo seal a responsibleBalanced week. Exercise. Massage.And a thud in the shower.A heavily gymmedOver steamedDry heat sluicedbody fellon the floorI missed few anxiousSeconds.Of my life.When I lay sprawled On the floorParts of my lifePlayed by others(or was it theirs ?)I was

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-55133533294357595322009-03-31T03:31:00.000-07:002009-03-31T07:54:07.585-07:00

Its a little late to review Gulaal but the amount everyone is raving about the movie, I could not be a bystander anymore. And it is one of those movies that confuses the best of us.Of course, it is a genre of cinema that has found its audience in people-like-us who would not be caught watchingsaas bhee kabhi bahu thee or reading pulp fiction. An urbane population that's had its

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-46791746875574967272009-03-28T10:31:00.000-07:002009-03-28T10:38:11.833-07:00

To Parbhavitya, who never got a chance or a way out.Parbhavatiya livedIn the neighborhoodNo one knew and Where she came fromOr for that matterWhere was she headed?There were theseSmall storiesDoing the roundsAbout her whereaboutsThat we whisperedTo each otherDuring load shedding,Pitch darkGhost story time.Some saidParbhavatiya Came from Far EastHalf woman, half beastHer husbandSent her awayshe

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-80062795067432899212009-03-27T01:42:00.000-07:002009-04-12T01:24:14.231-07:00

As a girlI ate parathas for breakfastTriangular shapedjust like sinSimmering hot,Off a tawaFluffy like cottonBeige parathasdark brownPimples in betweenI ate them With Aloo bhunjiyaCrispy, redOil soakedNow sold asPotato wedgesBy Mac Donald’sIn thinpaper bagsStrangelyI felt fedGood, healthyReady to workI never put onweightI didn’t gymDreamt a lotWalked some bitGorged food all dayMa’s aloo

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-4918534795380418632009-03-22T08:38:00.000-07:002009-03-22T11:27:15.958-07:00

( The views represented in this blog are my own and do not represent the views of my firm or owe allegiance to any other firm I worked for.)I am not into Women's day.This paper approach to assuage International guilt for the “supposedly second gender” held professional significance for me last year. As diversity head for Lehman’s India office, had to think through economical gifts for 700 odd

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-22837281965346921462009-03-19T22:48:00.002-07:002009-03-19T23:06:46.848-07:00

I am not suicidal.Nor do I endorse deathOf any kind.Not the oneThat happened in The ICU.And left behindThe perfect widowA dutiful sonAnd two deviant daughters.But that death was simpleAlso hurried,Not one for goodbyes,Not one for nicetiesHe left, without guidelinesOn how to mourn.So it is confusingAnd we do our own thing.Every time,Death in the ICUHaunts us.We keep the good memoriesLike an old

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-68348043633431308642009-02-19T21:35:00.000-08:002009-12-22T07:03:26.269-08:00

I am reading this book, right now. In between flights, held up in the air, rough landings and waiting at the airports.Rujuta Diwekar, best remembered for Kareena Kappor's size 0, is a nutritionist and if she is to be believed, I am going to be losing a lot of weight very soon. That too with exercise restricted to only 3 days a week. That's doable. And if she is to be believed further ( when it

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-26491115061511896722008-12-31T00:02:00.000-08:002009-01-30T22:50:33.127-08:00

I celebrated the New Year with very close friends in my living room away from the crowding outside discs and pubs. Probably the first New Year eve, where I chose to be at home over dancing on soggy dance floors with near strangers.I am finding it hard to sum 2008.A constant nagging feeling to every moment last year was the continued absence of my father from my life. Sometimes, some people wield

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-91753741524999473632008-11-29T23:00:00.000-08:002008-11-30T01:16:51.335-08:00

We are still counting the bodies. Sunday morning newspaper doled out fresh stories of horror & pain. Also rage. But most importantly, a helplessness.Helplessness at our collective vulnerability of being ordinary. Yes, we are ordinary people. People who cant kill, who cant kill even to save their lives. We take everyone sitting in a restaurant at face value. When we step over some one's toes in a

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-54452123600209864502008-11-21T00:29:00.000-08:002008-11-21T00:41:24.073-08:00

I achieved several milestonesLost 10 kgs twice over.Put back 10 kgs twice over.Obsessed with work.Ate Sushi on 12th Nov '08.More later

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-59368410023465894912008-09-29T07:29:00.000-07:002008-12-08T23:21:44.805-08:00

I again dreamt of my dead father,only this time,it was a happy dream.or so i thought, because he wasinvolved in worldly things.the window had come off its hingesfather stood there, fixing it, with a hammer and handful of nails.he hammered each nail ruthlessly, all this while telling mehow important it was to keep us safehe told me , the sesame donwould not leave the nice piece ofwood with usi

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-54031017439838196812008-09-28T01:14:00.000-07:002008-09-28T23:57:29.211-07:00

Wall Street fell apart like a house of cards. I was out of the firm a day before it filed for bankruptcy.My escape was eerily narrow. In any case I am back to my hiring and firing job, the next few months are going to be real hectic but I am not complaining.What I love about an Indian firm is being able to connect to the big picture , the lunancy it brings with itself and the chaos of making it

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-63128430314932622222008-08-31T23:30:00.000-07:002008-08-31T23:38:23.300-07:00

Kosi river changed its course and brought is mass scale destruction in Bihar. People have been displaced, rendered homeless, their only source of livelihood engulfed by the very river that irrigated their fields. It’s a blow to the economy of the state.Give relief a chance. Like minded people have started relief operations. You can contribute too. Here's you chance to make a real difference to

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-83460253653758513602008-07-21T23:08:00.000-07:002008-08-17T22:22:28.325-07:00

We will survive the nation.The onslaught of globalisation.You remember the night ?When we began this.With our hopes intact,The night we made a pact,To leave behindAll such thingsThat count now.That night,We burnt with ambition.To be part of globalisation.We will survive the nation.The onslaught of globalisation.I heard you did all right,You got everything,You dreamt of ,The night we lost our

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-44351223246435237632008-06-26T10:02:00.000-07:002008-06-26T13:34:23.555-07:00

Everyone has a soul song. I have a soul book. I have never connected with any piece of literature,music or movie the way I have connected with "The God of Small Things".I love the book.The first time I read this book was in 1998, I think. I could not get prints of the book at Patna, so I picked up a friend's copy and photocopied it shamelessly.Arundhati Roy had happened to the literary scene.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-31238748768965945192008-06-25T06:12:00.000-07:002008-08-17T22:22:55.974-07:00

Is somebody aware of this large scale mindless production ?Mysterious death makes so much sense for media, the frenzy to dish out"lack of information" to an extremely perverted audience, which watches this and and makes depravity in media a vicious circle.I want to remember the 14 year old girl who died. Her life unlived.Here's to the memory of Arushi TalwarA 14 year old girl had diedPretty and

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-31184340342683913162008-06-12T06:44:00.000-07:002008-08-17T22:24:12.701-07:00

You never call,When I was yourage, I wroteyellow postcards,to my momevery weekend.She kept them safein arickety brown Cupboardand I took themAllBefore she died(She wondered if They still make anypostcards anymoreShe made a mental noteto Google it.)I like what you wearFashion, you know is a strange animalIt prowls At fixed intervalsThis cut was a rage In my time too( She wonderedWhat she meant by

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-14401466952766525972008-06-10T07:25:00.000-07:002008-06-10T08:49:33.848-07:00

It had started raining. Bombay looked washed from my balcony. The air was misty, and the excuse of a tree outside my balcony looked green and lush. I was reminded of Bangalore. I cant live in Bangalore for probably the same reasons as any where else in the country except Bombay. And though Raj Thackarey thinks he can change that, he can't, because it is difficult to kill the core of a city. The

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-7678885619706646842008-06-09T02:48:00.000-07:002008-06-10T07:29:00.836-07:00

You were dying in an ICUIn a 5 ft wide bed With another old manDying beside youHe came before youWas much older alsoBut you overtook himTrue to your habitI remember the daysWhen you would wake up firstAnd read the paper firstSo you over tookThis slow rickety bullockOf a manWho was 90 years of ageHe was waiting to dieHis relatives tired of his speedLeft his bedsideTo rest enoughTo come back When

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-60097088681654194422008-06-03T09:11:00.000-07:002008-06-03T09:34:24.099-07:00

    

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-70251157835046186592008-06-02T01:50:00.000-07:002008-06-02T02:05:16.317-07:00

I have started a new food blogDo check outwww.aromainthewok.blogspot.com

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-32159901576050794942008-05-30T23:07:00.000-07:002008-05-31T00:00:39.486-07:00

I have fallen in love. And this is the guy in question.I believe he knows he is this cute. They are friends. She writes well, has done theatre, works hard at work and is basking in motherhood.I have known her for a year now and she looks very beautiful and peaceful Thanks to this addition in her life.Ashok, her husband cooks very well. He inspired me to cook continental food. It is to this

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-62207787587061855192008-04-08T09:13:00.000-07:002009-04-12T02:18:03.546-07:00

Strange name for the post. But it better be told. You are fighting the red water bottle. Small, cute plastic bottle in the shape of a grape, with a green cap.I cant help it, its your deal, you wanted it, I didn’t pretend that you will fight Al Pacino, though in some perverse way I would want that too.Well, my mind is full of them. Not the Al pacino but the red water bottles with green caps and

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-75134226408144648172008-03-25T01:30:00.000-07:002008-03-25T01:33:20.911-07:00

They sat in silenceShe like the earth rotating on her axisShe like the orbit Trampled by a self absorbed rotating earthWhat do you know about anything?Hmm… she murmuredThinking, I bet you knew everything about everythingI bet you rehearsed it allLiving & LovingLoving & livingAnd said “cut”And “retakes”When you thought you didn’t live rightAnd shot it all in a“To do & not to do”A celluloid on “

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-74378015171709110422008-03-15T02:02:00.000-07:002008-03-17T08:25:10.981-07:00

Last week, when I got a chance to be in New York I was thrilled at the prospect of having to spend my weekend there. It would give me a chance to see New York.It was biting cold when I reached NY. But the adrenaline rush braved it all. The cold wind, rains that obscured visibility from most observation decks, the fatigue of the 14 hr flight, even the reversed body clock.I was there to make the

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-77704939613426944882008-02-20T09:34:00.000-08:002008-02-25T08:22:47.497-08:00

This is the second in the series of specific. Last night, I tried my hand at crabs. It was the first time I was cooking crabs and I was told it was very good for a first timer.IngredientsCrabs (without the shells)Lime juice (1 lime for 250 gms)Chopped garlic (10-12)Pepper powder (To taste)Butter (To taste)Salt ( To taste)Wash the crabs well and set aside. Heat the butter in a pan or kadai. Add

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-66930225128846482982008-02-16T00:07:00.000-08:002008-02-16T02:17:25.556-08:00

Yes. I know its been some time I haven’t blogged. Too much water has flown under the bridge. It almost feels like the other end of the sea, the bridge a distant imaginary dot.I know being erratic has lost favor. The needle is moving towards the structured, disciplined types.So.... the New Year resolution is to be specific. So I am not going to get carried away with words. I am going to get into

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-34995748059538120072007-07-02T06:12:00.000-07:002007-07-02T06:16:15.965-07:00

At times the drizzle, the soft caressing of the skin, blowing into the hair. Like love.At times the heavy pouring that clings to the kurta. soaks every strand of you and trickles from the nose. Invasive and personal.At times the howling storm that throws itself on the French window like bad intent.Demanding and angry.Drizzle or deluge, rains in this city permeate you.And its here again. It soaks

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-73373719151294934422007-06-13T23:25:00.001-07:002007-06-14T06:18:09.531-07:00

After ages I feel like blogging on an organisational reality. I have always liked to keep my blog a medium of my self expression. I compare this to the Gulzaar song from the TV serial "Thoda sa asman" ( of doordarshan days ) which goes ...."mein bichao ya oodhu, mera thoda sa asman de do." On Borrowed time is my piece of sky. I have tried to keep it away from the "commonly discussed topics" or

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-45770460430389378832007-05-29T05:42:00.000-07:002007-05-29T05:51:33.233-07:00

Life in a Metro is the latest in the string of multi story dished out for an urbane audience that flocks to multiplex for feel good cinema. The movie explores the underbelly of a city caught in a 9 to 9 existence, lure of retail economy and its implications on human equations.Well, for one the subject definitely has potential. But what goes terribly wrong with this movie is its lack of ambition.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-13089677239146353912007-05-15T02:29:00.000-07:002007-05-15T02:49:36.241-07:00

I stirred the thin paste of mustard & tomatoes in the frying pan. She stood in front of me. part of a world lost. I had walked away from it. Built my life. Changed. She had walked away too. Built her own life. She hadn’t changed..She still tied her hair neatly in a small ponytail. With one stroke of brush. still wore her specs. she still wore loose khadi kurta with white churidars. still didn’t

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-29898941553348232712007-05-07T01:32:00.000-07:002009-12-22T07:00:40.138-08:00

ShredderI think about the shredder of the white sheafs of paperThat goes inand the thin stripes ofpulp perfectionthat comes outhiding withinall the stories that were never toldToothpasteIts toughbeing bornwith a perfect bodyand to be filled withsalt and geland freshnessand then to be squeezed aroundevery morningto nothingnessI only feel betterwhen I seethe toothbrushhaggard to deathlike that

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-40642084533294693352007-05-03T04:28:00.000-07:002007-05-03T23:54:07.054-07:00

his plastic punishment

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-50994879864558681782007-04-13T06:42:00.000-07:002007-05-03T23:34:04.323-07:00

It has taken me almost a month to write this. And I still dont think it captures all that I feel and want to say to the man who meant everything to me.I lost him on 6th March'07.When I wrote this several images flashed by. Of a 40 year old father who peeped into my nursery school with a brown paper bag that was to be my tiffin. Of my father who gave me some hurried points on why proliferation of

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-12303720482743508142007-02-18T22:04:00.001-08:002007-04-21T10:32:52.795-07:00

Yesterday, I reread "Hot Water" by P G Woodehouse...and I was honestly rolling over. Its one of my favourites.And I have decided,I am going to buy the whole PG Woodehouse collection, if it makes me so happy. His humor is so subtle, the play of words so tenuous, the moment of laughter so fragile, that one can miss it and never laugh.Almost lifelike.The moments of truth are so few and far in

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1171024462749591342007-02-09T04:27:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:33:49.124-07:00

phir aaj ek naye havan mein jalna hogaDilon ke beechee bisate, baazi wafa kee,phir kisi pyade ko marna hogaband khidkee,band darwaje,jhoka baarish ka aye to kahan se?aaj phir tang surakhon se risna hoga.chalti rahe raftaar zindagi keeun armano ko pahiyo tale kuchalna hoga.woh ruka to hoga ekbaar jaroor jane se pehleparchaee ka ehsaas aaj bhee hota hein,aab umr bhar inke saath hee chalna hoga.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1170489014821383552007-02-02T23:41:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:35:44.816-07:00

I have surprised myself this time. This is my 2nd post within 2 days.Is it being 30? Is it catharsis? Doesn't matter...I had an interesting thought today, writing a story or a poem must be like having a child.The moment its out, you rush to count if it has all ten fingers & toes.The waitThe Universe between usstands unlived…an angrily read bookgroans in painAt a distanceA black fishsearches for

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1170389949379717072007-02-01T19:58:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:36:13.903-07:00

Last night I was drained.Fatigue. Stress. And the weight of going through a tomorrow in the next few hours.It was one of those rare nights when I did want to sleep early.I was woken up at aound 1:00 p.m. by a friend who is known for his rather profund ways. Fate had it, he was heading home after the last of the pubs was shutting down when he saw a couple fighting on the raod.Usual stuff. You -

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1167403739236241582006-12-29T06:43:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:52:39.436-07:00

This needs expression …. Also an audience.I was reading Chasing the Good Life: On being Single. Edited by Bhaichand Patel it is a must for all confirmed singletons (I am told bachelors is way too sexy and spinsters way too sexist).Chasing the good life is an anthology of successful singles from various spheres of life. It boasts of a rather “Who’s Who list” of contributors ranging from Grand old

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1165852401934513942006-12-11T07:33:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:37:02.256-07:00

A chance encounter.(A baby python crossing the road on Kollad - Mumbai Road)On a smooth roaddraped in kohl black darknessInterrupted by two rotatingblobs of halogen light. the flash of digital.And its precise noise.A gone bad attempt tocapture a chance encounter4 feet away fromthe secured wheezing of engineYou slithered with the burdenof a venomened destiny.a weight you carried throughthe

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1162185992140953272006-10-29T21:21:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:37:36.655-07:00

The One has tagged me again. Almost out of habit this time.This time its 8 things about me, he might as well have written it himself. But then it would read like - She got drunk, she got very drunk; she got a high again and danced like a maniac to Ganesh Chaturthi music….well she got drunk again….Also blogging turns out to be self congratulatory most of the times, so here I go…..I am truly

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1161078859607090332006-10-17T02:52:00.000-07:002007-04-21T10:38:18.488-07:00

I find it difficult to blog these days. One reason is nothing I write seems beautiful anymore. It all feels very melancholic.Fellow blogger Shikha says – It doesn’t matter as long as you have something to say.Anon (doing the rounds of my blog) feels I need to see a shrink.May be. But would that lead to happy words pouring from my fatigued fingers furiously typing on my dusty laptop.I doubt.I have

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1160483540169421812006-10-10T05:23:00.000-07:002007-04-21T10:38:48.981-07:00

How far would you go to save someone you love?Well… you have Nagesh Kukoonor’s Dor trying to find an answer, in a two hour celluloid journey of Zeenat that leads her to the parched life of child widow Meera.Cinematographer Sudeep Chatterjee creates a breathtaking kaleidoscope as Nagesh takes us through the lives of two women on opposite sides of the same world. The splendour of Himachal and the

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1156945481959475242006-08-30T06:38:00.000-07:002007-04-21T10:39:18.138-07:00

The One has tagged me… so here I go.I am thinking about...The movie I wanted to make…The conversation that didn’t happen…And those thousand questions that hung in air….I said...I have moved on…I want to...get washed on the shores….Soak in the rain….Read a book….I wish...I didn’t have to see the writing on the wall.I hear...The sound of the unspoken….I wonder...If I’ll ever be thin…..I regret...

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1150708675268514802006-06-19T01:53:00.000-07:002007-04-21T10:39:58.233-07:00

Early today morningas i woke up to the languid slowness of a daythat promised to be half cloudy, half sunny.The hushed lovemaking of the pigeons,the noise of a broom sweeping a coarse floor,the simmer of milk on the kitchen slab,life around me.And then all of a suddenthe idea of my death amused me.a silent going away of 3 decades of lifestillness of hopes & desiresalso sweat and grimefailings &

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1149512954649035612006-06-05T06:06:00.000-07:002007-04-21T10:40:28.782-07:00

The Orange Wall is a love story of our lives and times that could become statistics The Orange Wall. I saw the color of the sky change from black to a light blue. The pigeons started squabbling against a closed window. Like passengers negotiating with the reticent conductor to let them in an overcrowded bus.An effort to find a home. To nestle. Love. Lay eggs. Live. Happily ever after.I felt a

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1146146338977022312006-04-27T06:27:00.000-07:002007-04-21T10:40:57.186-07:00

i wanted to blog today, write about the turns & twist ... my life is taking. or not taking.about the 9 open Sales Manager positions that i had to fill and have not.9 dreams. 1 peddlar. no takers.went peddling all the way to ahmedabad yesterday.the day was marked by microvaed breakfast , foresaken lunch, bad socialising, missed flights and peddling.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1145540413674968392006-04-20T06:21:00.000-07:002007-04-21T10:41:42.478-07:00

Goa....breathtaking... last weekend.still there.... sun soaking.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1142858870881740252006-03-20T03:52:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:42:10.250-07:00

I left the frenzied arrogant afternoons of my here - and - now and went home to what Erich Segal would say “retrieve my childhood tricycle". Yes, my childhood was littered all over the place. In half written old diaries and musty stacks of India today dated 1990. A moth eaten cover, a clammy face of a half - man- half- boy in flames.He was the manifestation of an axe through a nation's undivided

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1139814217538366872006-02-12T21:50:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:42:36.379-07:00

Last night I sat basking in the yellow red patch of my living room it struck me. I had lived my 29th year. Twenty eight of them. passed by. like a train chugging on the tracks through a sluggish town. When I was 19 I couldn’t imagine being 29. I thought it will not happen to me. somehowI would escape the clawing talons of age. of receed. of decay. Somehow I would turn the clock backwards.At 19, I

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1137743192021052782006-01-19T23:44:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:43:01.176-07:00

Between us a life waitsto be livedwaking up lazily towaiting tea turned coldthe deceit of togethernessin an already worn T shirthot running waterdripping with anticipationa tired remote copingwith squabbling channelsyawning chandler withsideways glanceswaiting to endthose thousand whispersto start a morningwith a folded newspaperlying on the floorspurned off. unread.rushed baths.overworked

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1137045469352712782006-01-11T21:50:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:43:23.291-07:00

The sand in the proverbial hour- glass announced the going away. Decided to celebrate the going away like any one else. Mostly.Loud Music. Booze. Bad dancing. Mad friends. Revelry.But just before the clock struck 12 and the world at INS Hamla waited to wade into the New Year by the high tide I was thrown into my default state.Alone.I saw the year 2005 dissolving into a new year as fireworks

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1136178522782243642006-01-01T21:02:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:43:50.831-07:00

I woke up to the smell of cooking oil; I knew Maa was making Parathas. The kitchen and the passage were filled with nostalgic of the cooking oil.The pigeons in the kitchen, witness to my toasted mornings watched Maa in surprise, rolling out the dough with one hand and turning the paratha to a crispy brown on the simmering tawa. For the morning intruders in my kitchen the tawa spectacle was an

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1133448235532603502005-12-01T06:42:00.000-08:002009-12-22T07:01:17.110-08:00

When life was finding its way through sinuous alleys, it sat in a perverse corner of a musty linking road shop. Like the yellow orange of sun before it embraces its dark black lover of night.The yellow bag, keeper of my secrets.Pieces of jewelry bought in a girlish excitement, the black wallet that buys my retail happiness, already read books with arrows that guide through the pages.My yellow red

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1132117483246095062005-11-15T21:00:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:44:46.932-07:00

From the window of my everyday life,I saw you going away.Like the sea receeding from the forbidden shore,The wet shore maddened with possibilities.A part of shore swept with the sea,Swept. Vulnerable. possible.A part of shore left behind,Wet. Victim. Guarded.

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14982434.post-1131011852296283652005-11-03T01:46:00.000-08:002007-04-21T10:45:31.280-07:00

A tired but not swollen throatA 4 day holidayPromise lurking on a mythical horizonDeewali.Trains wheeze bye. Memories of another Deewali. Washed earthen lamps in a washed phenyled courtyard. a dollop of ghee in the lamps, cotton wicks. The man sitting on an uncomfortable pheeda fidgeting with his socks, the dampness of the courtyard irritates him less, the nagging of his wife on a now thoroughly

shuchikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05742544194679320009noreply@blogger.com5