Eat, React…

Picture 139


CREATE : eat, ate, react, tea,treat,cat,rat,tar,tear, tree…all  encrypted within.

Some women create with pain.

Toss in chilly, two spoon fulls for the blazing heat within,

Stir with astofaieda’s pungent brownish bitterness,

Manage to pour in a sly drop of burnt oil

Turmeric for yellow emotions-that include envy and helplessness;

Mustard crackling like the unexpressed violence within,

Three pieces of tomatoes crushed and pulped like the favourite

An evil smile spreading secretly across the pan-

Pretend nonchalance and rue:

Oh, I do not know what went wrong..

Deep inside she is glad that it has gone right as planned.

She throws it to the dogs and crows, grinning to herself,

Catharsis completed,

Begins creation, again.

Some women create with pain.

Some women create with paint.

Mix and match hues and turbulence.

Blue and green, magenta and rose-

All churned into a violent unknown,

Splash it across the canvas and watch

Quietly, all-knowingly, as the paint drips down like

Her heart’s torn liquids,

And then when someone asks,

What is it that she is making, smiling sweetly

With no trace of anything, anything at all,

Shrugs and paints more.

Some women create with paint.

Some women create with words.

Take an ‘a”, adds an ‘an”, pinches in a ‘the”,

When they all yelp like puppies in a dirty manger

Tears them away and starts with consonants

That do not rebel under her touch.

Rhymes pain with rain and lane with bane

Toasts bread with bitter butter and makes Betty sad

Chains together sea shells that she sells and goes mad

Then laughing uproariously, like the woman in the attic,

Dissolves into essays, poems and small limericks.

Some women create with words.

But most women create with silence.

Dark silence, bright silence, laughing silence.

Brown silence that can mean anything, blue silence

That almost surely causes rain and sleet against the window panes.

Violet silence, that ushers in a calm twilight but blasts through the night

For it comes wrapped with freezing shades of unspoken reddish burst

Sometimes as morning approaches she will resort to a tender lavender,

An occasional hesitant tube rose too.

All white and blanched shades often abound

Shallow and deep as the waters flow-

For most women create with silences.


My daughter asks me about Cloud Bursts.

This mother wonders on the options available:

Option One : Philosophy

Dear daughter,

Cloud bursts occur at unexpected times

In childhood when a girl is told not to speak up

To look down, to dance less, to sing no more.

When rebellion is crushed with furious gestures.

Such Cloud bursts occur in many lives in our land;

And many let the child within, die forever.

Amongst those lucky to survive are the ones

Who had mothers who laughed when

The entire neighbourhood pointed

At the tree top, her little daughter had scrambled up.

And merely shouted, ‘Take care not to scrap that knee”.

Cloud bursts in all forms turn timid-

Before such furious, protective mother shelters.

(I pray, I become one for you, like mine was for me.

God bless your little knee.)

Option Two: Psychology

Dear Daughter

Cloudbursts occur in nasty, unexpected snubs

Usually comes from green eyed creatures

Can be dear, near, far, along side, by the side,

Crowing that you cannot dream high, run far,

Wing it up, make it past the hidden obstacles

Shall whisper about the dangers to your complexion

Of nights spent inhaling the smoke of the study lamp.

Cloud bursts create dangerous squalls of make-believe

That your destiny is bound by beauty and skin colour

That to be accepted in your future,

Be a perfect mean-median-mode

Of skinniness of the day;

That your hair extensions decide your extended future.

My daughter, beware of the marketer’s cloudbursts-

Such delicious meat is often attractive in pink traps.

But when your feet get clamped,

It hurts damn bad and you limp forever.

Your study lamp’s light is worth watching over,

Your dreams , worth toiling over-

Success checks your soul-coefficient and toughness meter

And gives a damn about the shape of your nose.

Option Three: Geography

Cloud Burst: An intense catastrophic rainfall, which occurs for a short duration, over a limited geographical area. Can kill often times. The lucky just get drenched and lives.

My little girl ponders on all three options and says,” I will write down the third.”


The husk of the raw rice from the fields,



Tossed around

Filtered, dusty brown and fragrant.

Burn it for hours, slowly in embers,

The sages used to attain God

In that smoldering heat.

Mother said, life was often like

Burnt ashes of rice husks.

Black has many hues,

I noted then, and many textures.

Laughing and crying faces

Could be scrawled on the kitchen walls with ease.

And then the ashes were heaped

Into a cold, orangish red fat, pot.

The potter made it specially-

And it hung from the old kitchen shed

Supported by three bruised ropes

As if burnt life needed some spines too.

The kids brushed teeth with the treasure stored

Burnt dry and black and mixed with salt.

Black powder created white brush strokes.

Forgotten history lessons, huh?

Life is like rice husks getting slowly burnt,

Blackened pitch black, but hey, mix it

With the salt of your being..add taste

And maybe, for a few growing molars

Your life can have white messages.


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