Monday, March 31, 2014

Bipolar


From sorrow and sadness
I move into gladness
Then right onto madness I ride
I am a plain disaster
I am my own master
Anyone  would think I have  pride
I love it  in  traces
I wear many faces
the quintessential runaway bride
I have been places
Sunk in  bad messes
Spat sin with grace on the side
I have lost faces
Merged lonelinesses
And taken it all in my stride
I have feasted on dark days
Fasted on birthdays
I only seek that which you hide
I am satiated
I am titillated
One life time as an aside
From pole to pole
Bipolar
From sour saint to sweet sinner
From soul to soul splinter
From clay pot to  spinner
From suicide to dreamer
From  lover to liar
I am the  coveted craven lobster
Broiling alive
I am the  monster, the witch you want crucified
I am monk and merchant
I am the insurgent
I am the license you want denied.

I am the hard unforgiving crucifix, built for a Relix
As lusting for torture  he cried
I am the holy harp played
By soft seraphim
I am the prayer of  the
Cherubim
But heaven heavy in sleep forgets to guide.
I am still retching
I could be fetching
If I could just ride at my speed
But I seat the white mare
saddled  nightmare
And a blinkered lord disdains to heed.

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Cowardice BCR



I will go away now
I will be gone before
You can even hear my goodbye.
I can see you now
Tall and loose limbed
Relaxed against the door

I can hear your deep voice
Your kind grin

I know it was meant to have been
And not meant for my tomorrows
What if I cross a desert now
With a scanty canteen of water
What if the sun burns me to tallow
Why should you care

We went our ways at the gates of fate
Your tyres screeched the pain
We both felt then
Yours momentary born
Of warm heart
Mine  for a lifetime
Of cold reflection
What ever might have been
Wouldn't it have been mighty sweet
To capture the sun
In your unchecked gaze
To have found the
Camera
To record my life
in your sun flecked face?
Harder then  ego virtue true or false pride
Crueler than chastity Saddest of lies
Is cowardice.

Eternal Firmament BCR


His soul belongs to infinity now
For he has passed the limen
Of life cellular
And belongs now to
Life luminous
Now forevermore he shall live
My entire span of life
I shall see him
In the bloodied skies of setting sun
In the cool afternoon's rain on
Monsoon days and nights
When the rich soft whispers
Of coconut breeze embalm our souls in sleep.
My kite flying terrace days are over
And mother I am but your timetorn careworn shadow
In the kitchen
When suddenly the cawing crow makes me start
And staring through the wind
I am lost again
There they play
Street urchins in still motion
Their frozen kites in stasis
In pale blue skies
Centuries and aeons float by
I inhale a balloon of breath
In sweet surmise
He stays! he stays! He Stays!
In my cottonwool hopes up in space
In my soft heartbeat and the
Crashing waves
In my failure to breath and my wordless daze
In Time's never ending days
My god in so many places
in so many ways
The bird and the seed the very
Stones  say
Praise! Praise! Only  masters of  the  maze
Only maker or makers
Have access
Heirs of heights and blessedness
Everywhere and here
And to nowhereness
From mountain peaks from caverns from silver bays
The last cascading fast fading
rays

Through blood and mist and over the pale
Fading faraway beyond the veil
Of painful mistakes and nonsense tales and onto fervent mysterious trails.
He goes his leavetaking was this life
Dearly missed he goes triumphant over rainbows and
Firmaments and yet-
And yet, lost never
Eternally in composing it,
He stays.

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(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Obscurity BCR


All my poems are sad I am a sad person damned by devil or devils unknown
The deep blue bowl sends thought signals thousands of glittery light years
Away
Yearning for yesterday's tomorrows
and I fall for them  like an ignoble cats paw everytime
I am the acute angle of agony
Formed by delusion and depth
Endless demand and dearth
Every nightmare has me wreathed in smiles at its core
And my breathed air is fiery
pollution.
I have not seen
Even a clown smile
As stiff and sad a corpse like me
I have entered
But not centered my corner of life' s  stage
I have been kept in obscured wings
Waiting
My cue east of Eden
In a forgotten universe
Unused by the Gods.

The Brown Door BCR


My parents sweet living angels of understanding and assistance
My parents fragile old  frail from resistance
Providing us wings to fly away
And crying softly over our flight
Brooding over  us tired with bent angel wings
Never breaking never missing a step or smile
Shelter and shadow sun and rain
My parents will never be here again
And my sad sad heart beats it's dull refrain
The  same old chilling still refrain
Still will I remember
Father thy grace mother your love
Is lovely beyond all pain...
My parents will soon be a memory
Of soft sunlit hours  of dawn beginnings
The wooden door implacable
Swings on   its hinges creaking
Smiling it's soft   bland chocolate smile

My dead father in law
A tall man  fond of his child my husband
The   grave is lonely for him these dozen years
Death is serious business
Dissolving past ownerships
of tenderness

I watch my husband's frolicsome smile
I shiver to think how adored he was
Held up in father' s arms and made much of
The way he now dotes upon my children.
Crossroads of life navigated carefully
My babies  little hands safe in father' s grasp
And all this was  done once
long ago
By a  beloved dead  father in a tomb.
Beat beat beat my dead heart beat
Hurt hurt hurt
My nightmare chest of memories
I sit upon your  lid
Or else
The dead ancestors shall toll out
Stumble and tumble  too lovingly.
The past hush! Not dead never dead
The past is crawling alive with people
Their loves their fears their shame their tears
Their hopes hates their thoughts
In our minds their heirs
And ever growing an eternal sphere
Continuity drawing them near
To Full Stop
Death.
It's a forget me not fest
How will I say I shall remember?
Dear daddy mommy
My entire life should I spend kneeling
To our undying past in dormancy?
Too beautiful mother
Too tormentsome father
remembrance and oblivion
Both
To remember is to forget your memory
Too truly beautiful to ever relive

your cool hands upon my forehead
Your lovely worn hands
The faded glaze
Time's  peeling layers of
Youthful beauty and  sleepy
Fadedness
Your bent bangles attached to glowing bones
Finally my mother your hands that held
With wrinkles your forehead flayed
I have started falling in love with  displacement
I envision you fading even more
I can see you shrinking
Like the man next door
bending scraping
Bowing to tyrant time
Father I feel my heart will burst
with love
Full either the foolish wish to prolong time
My god you glow
Life is a neon sign
A star spangled banner in a black hole sky
Crazy universe put on a show
Dead grandfather
Your scribbles lights up my mind
Written one year before you died
An year before he passed the  soft brown door
My grandfather' s words rings with ardor unquenchable
Time the cannibal cannot dim
That ring of love
His words ring like elegies
Upon my forgetting -gate
So gently
So swiftly swinging open the door
"Dear son take care. .of my little grandson.hope your wife and the little baby are well.
I cannot sleep at night knowing he is ill.
Take care son and keep them well."
And finally the final dearest line
The costliest line in this cheap universe metered by time..
"...and let me know soon,  my dearest son."
We love our fathers
We love our dead
We love them so
They play in our heads
Till time cuts and creases and spoils the spool the thread
Their words dimmed and drowned forever
Their lives wilting in our rotting heads
O drown the dead
Let us take our kids to the park instead.

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014







The Sisterhood


O.K. If You Are!

Tread carefully.We are all eating our hearts out watching you for one fatal misstep. Don't break your stride sister, because if you fall, I fall.
We all fall down.
Like dominoes unfairly weighted unequal valuations given to our qualities, more stringent measures of certifications applied. We are not meant to meet standard specifications.We embody gold standard bluechip powerhouses, self regenerating never expected to fail.
So dear, drape your pleats carefully, with one hand and serve your man breakfast with the other.
Feed the baby because he is your beloved doll. Bathe and dress him and hand him over to his proper owners your in-laws.
He is your heart and soul but he is not your namebearer.
(You have no name.Just a dog tag identifying whose property you currently are)
So leave him be and board your bus.Make sure you have stepped out with all the essential "trappings." Are we wearing bangles on both wrists honey, honestly who wants to see unclaimed hands unshackled in bondage?
Not them.Not us.
A role model never forgets tradition... blood red powder on your parting.Now tell me doesn't it look like blood?
Now for a small round vermilion dot to indicate the circle of your life is complete.As a belonging.
Property handover established.
But you are modern.So run love and bring home some bacon too.After running your household of course.Just make sure you are first to come home. And get his armchair ready newspaper rolled on the side.
And remember child we will cheer you from the stands.
We will stare in petrified terror lest you fail. To swing it in your multitudinous roles, as supremo homemaker, savvy supermom, humble handmaiden, palliative caregiver, goddess and bedroom diva.
We will root for you.We will.
That's a promise. Watch you in shock and awe.
But only if you succeed love.
Because our darling girl, if you fail...you take us all down with you.
And that we won't forgive
For we are the fallen ones forevermore down on our knees.Heads bent down.Another degree more of supplication and submission would break us.
And that we can't allow.
(That is why we bend and bow and scrape you see. To be rigid and righteous is to invite breakage.)
So don't.Fail us by failing.
If you go down we will be down there waiting...
And piece by painful  piece we will tear your flesh apart like piranhas, for being weak; gouge out thone daring eyeballs for dazzling with dreams and stuff your unworthy spirit like dirty trashy laundry in a bag.
For we are women.We are the enemy.We are women.Cruelly treated, dominated defecated upon.The unforgiven.The unforgiving.
We are your kind.Eternally mistreated.
Terribly unkind.

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Peddler of Dreams BCR


Oh! This was tough! My first sestina. Algorithmic Rhyming sequence but thank you Jack Huber I am really learning to respect the craft in poetry...thank you.

The Peddler

I am but a peddler of broken dreams
I preach not from the pulpits but the streets
I sell hearts ware that your attics won't store
I am the teacher of treacherous thoughts
Your  heart is my abattoir my dear
And my word is  good, for lies I refund

Blaming me will not get you any refunds
Understand that  and blame your brokeback dreams
I 'll lay my hand upon your head my dear
I shall absolve your pain it's two way  street
You shall sink below my slimy thoughts
My glib words remaining your precious store

Hoarded like gold your cheesy store
In the market has no currency for refunds
When hearts are broken into incoherent thoughts
Night terrors gallop in and destroy dreams
Learn to  live like me cheap  on easy streets
And this peddling conman shall call you dear

I swear your faith in me could touch me dear
But I too need to lay gold in my store
Long back I learnt life's hard on easy streets
If you waste your gold you get no refunds
I made my career of whispering dreams
Sought your lonely dead and desperate thoughts

So I sold my penny potions of thoughts
And now I laugh to think you bought so dear
I made my killing fields of your dead dreams
And watched you live upon my lying store
This I cashed in to get your fresh refunds
So soon I forced you out to life on streets

It's brilliant tonight on the lamp lit streets
Where you have sunk drunk on my grimy thoughts
My bills you've met in copious refunds
From peddler of dreams have I risen dear
And  I have misled you rifled your store
But still you crave your daily dose of dreams

Be smart street smart let go the lies my dear
My worth in your thoughts should not hold much store
Peddlers cannot refund  your shattered dreams.

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Inseparably Yours


Inseparables. Mother and son.The year is 2014. The mother let us say will never see 35 again.The son is still some way away from a decade.
Daily routines monotonous unchanging like the holy sacrament. The child is fast asleep when the mother tiptoes out of bed.ties her dressing  gown yawns reluctant to leave the blanket and its warmth.Sullenly tidies her hair and house.Washes up the tea cups wishing for the hundredth time for a magical household genie to help.Sends her spouse off to work with tea and breakfast.
Then the morning ritual drink for her son is prepared. Milk with chocolate or cocoa.
Son is lifted slowly out of his cocoon of sleep and arranged lovingly on her lap where he laps up the milk.Eyes closed in  sweet slumbering innocence.
And time is slow and soft and languorously golden.
The  day is young the hours aplenty.
The  child cradles in   his mother's arms nestles for some more love and affection.
She folds the bed clothes draws back the curtains rhythmically bringing the boy to alertness to the daytime wakey world from the nighttime fuzzy one.
In a few minutes he is padding about demanding biscuits then a drink.She is cajoling him to brush then to complete breakfast.
Playfully encouraging him to count color and identify shapes.
It takes up centuries till bathtime.
That followed by lunch followed by tired efforts to hum his favorite lullabies. As the mother cranks out a jaded faded version of hush little baby her child is magically hushed,
sleep arriving to envelope the active mind and limber body.
The mother is stilled in devotion. Her voice rises an  octave higher in gratitude and she sounds like a choir of angels. The music flows and flows like a timeless river.She cannot stop singing  her memories out till she is drowning in the love in her heart.Melting in melodic expression of both her longings and her satiety. 
Till the tired voice cracks a little and she has to stop for breath.
Tick tock..
Time 's clock..sounds louder.
The body of evidence grows to show that  very nothingness is in universal flux.
Bones lengthen and strengthen hair and nails  rigidly grow, new baby flesh layers supinely upon the old flesh and envelopes it, till old is crushed to nothingness and the new is matured and come to fruition.. The stuff of life dynamic evolving.Revolving. Devolving. Erasing pasts. Raising the frameworks of futures upon  old edifices.
The weft and warp of each nanosecond. From primal urge to fusion.From moment of conception to seed of creation. From gestation to generation.Nativity to dead man 's natation .
And then the calender shape shifts zooms past.Time s clock blurs...
The year is 2060.
Time 's theatre has taken the mother off the stage.
The son is middle aged and has donned rimless glasses, acquired a wife and two little children.
His face is rotund his eyes anxious, owl like . He loses sleep every night . Wakes  up another hour nearer to dawn every day..
His wife leaves a flask of warm milk by his bed side table. He has begun getting up at 3 a.m and the doctor  has warned lack of uninterrupted sleep ensures early health breakdowns.
The boy is long gone.The slim youthful limbs thickened into ungainly trunks  silken hair depleted but as he sips the milk at 3 a.m he is hushed awash in quiet memories. Tick tock..
Time 'clock..Mother no more..no more... merely arty photos on the mantlepiece.
Hush! The living essence was erased  out of existence a decade ago. The pain is not fresh. Or festering.Withered agonies now. Though she was bade goodbye in a daze.
The last few years of his mother's life a husk of her former vibrant presence, of her  captain courageous brand of intimidating leadership.
There remained her son.After deadening his pains nightly  on wet pillows one fateful afternoon there remained finally the memories.
Those final markers.Of Time.There they were-The memories. Of bygone eras bygone people bygone times.
With the son's approaching ill health intimating old age and mortality the memories of his mother stood resurrected. As if fearing death and dimunition.
Like colossal sentinels at time portals, like defiant flag bearers of the posterns of our mortal fate they were crying and shrieking to avoid shrinkage. .
Look out son We will be gone!
For as you remember me so will your children you...
But who will remember. ...
Me?
The son hears in his heart echoes of incomplete journeys,of his own self enforced closure: Dear mother indeed, who will remember you ?
When  I am only a memory ?
Indeed is that all there is to it then? The cup of life drunk who shall testify to long gone love? when our spaces have been long  vacated and  a short clipped "To -Let" sign been hung over the entrance gates. . old familar  homes denuded even of ghosts.
Denied entrance.
There is somewhere an answer that can think and speak for itself.The  answer eludes him.  Denied entrance. Crying you come Muted you go.Thinks the son.
To that final destination without a return ticket.
The dates and numbers all match up as every dozen years or so the cycling years repeat the same pattern of days and dates.
This year mother's birth and death anniversaries will fall once again on Tuesday and Thursday like they did that first morning she breathed in and the dark night she took her last breath.
Oh! The timeless careless years.How they return but never to repeat the same story nevermore to replay the same sweet drama of our individual lives...
The son's glasses are wet and reflect the quiet unearthly light of breaking dawn...He is spent. .His life ebbs as for the last time in his life he looks in love at the dead eyes in the photograph.
His once upon a living loving  mother mounted upon a wall.

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Flowers by the Road BCR

My inaugural villanelle!

Wildflowers by the side of the barren road
In a lonesome forgotten place of their own
Sky their roof and  earth  their one abode.

Wilting besides the road in pain they live
Eyes glisten in bag of skin and bones
Wildflowers by the side of the barren road.

Waving in clusters the dusty breeze they breathe
Mad and merry they live in twilight zone
Sky their roof and earth their one  abode.

Reds and greens and blues their motley dress
In harlequin posies they gaily stand alone
Wildflowers by the side of the barren road.

Their fecund mother of many pregnancies
Gathers her clan of so many Jacks and Joans
Sky their roof and earth their one abode

For bread they lack for water must they whine
Yet they cannot melt our hearts of stone
Wildflowers by the side of the barren road
Sky their roof and earth their one abode.

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Hamlet States BCR

My inaugural cleave!

In a Hamlet State of Mind

Too soon to act  - Much too late I fear
Accept my fate I must-  there's no point in grief
There's no reason-  I believe in no reprieve
To act in haste-   far better to make no waves
Time’s hands point it's tale  -   throw your cards upon the table
A poor hand you've been dealt  - look your rival in the face
Keep a nonchalent poker face-   you will not be any less
One cannot do more than this-
C'est la vie..exit with grace.

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Truth BCR


Diamonds drop in a meteor shower
Of cold audacity
Dazzling crystalline cutthroat
Cruel words cutting the heart
For your cheap thrills.
Guardedly gilding half truths and lies into dangerous necklaces of deception.

Silence  the only safeguard
Shining solitaire of vigilance
That knows to guard the truth
By never letting it go..
Mind once spoken
The truth  is already a travesty
Traveling out of the power of  protection
Open to any man's interpretation
Into no man's land
and Mordoch..
Once uttered it
Clinks in the pocket of another's purse
Small talk and loose change.

From meaningless meandering banter
Grows hideous meaning then murderous motives
The beast awakens...
As religion deadly
As word  of  God 
It becomes
A  thrust a parry a cut
In deadly duels st first defensive
Then acrimonious
Finally deathly
Showering the blood of millions
Upon the   ground greedy for it...drenching it.
The mirthful beast rising in mockery.

Once knowledge
A self enriching thought
Once salvation
For personal liberation
Once diligence
As  the  only religion
Once sacred
Because held in   the heart of one. ..
Propagation  putrid
Then destroys that peace..
Too full for one soul
That gorged on  it
Letting it be  shared  with all
Leading to perilous
pitfalls

Now  truth is a mortal wound on the tip of your  sword and a tasty  morsel for a cruel  thrust of my tongue..

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Moon Song


Moon beam moon trine
Moonstone moon shine
Oozing silvery rays
your pale orb laces
brilliant faces
Into dreams of mine
Moonlighting at night
on my old terrace
I am moondrenched
in diaphanous lace
silvery slate blue
serenest of  hue
Gorgeous azure dress.

 moonbeam and moonshine,
moon ray and moonlight
I am taken in your trance
Menacingly you dance
the night sky your ballroom
clouds around you prance.
Your endless romance
madness in my glance transports far away
have forgotten all
Cinderella at your ball 
Forever to the dance!

I have met you icemaiden a courting the stars
ten thousand light years past
still night's white orb
you spin in your splendor
the stars lose their sheen
In rust

Take me with you
Nothing to return to 
when an angel beckons you
in silver and sapphire robes.

Moonlight and moon rhyme
moon rise and moon wine
I fell in love with your face 
on my old terrace
On the hills of heartbreak
Fold me in your cold embrace

fold me in dreams
Silence my last scream
I want to immerse in
Your beautiful unearthliness. .
My brain is your  blue bowl
Of moondust and moonsparks
A basin my blue soul
Moonlit in the empty park

Take care o take care
those who I care for
For I shall see you no more
moondust on my eyes
moon on the high rise
has uncoiled my mortal life.
God keep my near ones
Safeguard my dear ones

for by dawn I will be folklore
I will have left on a strange  lunar mission
And my face will be  carved on  moonstone. 
Moonbeam and moonshine,
Moon ray and moon light
into the thin air
tonight
for
once and evermore  I stand at the door
Of a different tunnel of light.
Moon rays and moonshine
Shine on me one time
I will be soon no more
Struck by your beauty
forsaken duty
You will  haunt me no more
Those who I hurt so
My friend and my foe
Melting in beauty I die
Moon shining madness
Moonlighting sadness
Spellbing gladness
Betrothed
to you am I...

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Thursday, March 27, 2014

2014 looking back on 2006-08


Akshara
I am akshara -The written letter - and i believe that the pen is mightier
Dear friend
This is my post au courante.
All the others were written long back 2006 through 2008. The last one was probably written in January 2008.
I have just got back my blog frozen in time, a gift from my dear Anto.
Each blog through the process of some editing and rewriting has 2 date6s;its original date of creation and my second rewrite as of March 2014. I was joking to Anto that a decade down the line I would probably want to rewrite them again! But on second thoughts I won't. These are an integral part of who I was and am and deserve to be preserved that way.
Mainly what I have corrected is a certain e.e.cummings like tendency to avoid punctuation and the usage of small instead of capitalized I.Some did not need rewrites at all.Like Mother of Pearl.Digital Demon Doll.Dirty Aesthetic Pigs.
However in some I had to cull bits and pieces that were too self revealing, tone down the bitterness and accusatory tone.Lost the revolutionary bare-all dare-all edge with age I guess. Mellowed to a more forgiving understanding person hopefully.
These were started on roughly July - August 2006 and I wrote sporadically right upto January 2008.
Do I like what I wrote then ? Yes if I leave  out some childish bits. I wasn't a mommy then but a spoiled pampered wife and a daughter.It makes a difference. Caring for lives other than your own makes a difference. Specially if they are helpless artless babies.
Being a parent so teaches you to curb the judgement on your own parents.Seeing them love your kids as grandparents makes everything  else recede into the background except love happiness and a sense of continuity.
Oh yes! Sorrow makes a difference. And acceptance. These ingredients are not always to be found in my earlier impetuous blogs.But they are mine and I wish to resurrect and preserve a part of me that's in them.
This is my introduction to some early style rapid fire gun shot like candid writing.
Cheerio! If you like it settle down with a cuppa and read some.And raise it  to me as a friend when you're done.
;)
   

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(c) Amrita Valan 2014

Dirty Aesthetic Pigs

7Akshara
I am akshara -The written letter - and i believe that the pen is mightier than the sword..
Friday, September 08, 2006

The dirty aesthetic pigs have turned the gleaming tiled, American style open kitchen chummery, into a “slummery.” Or not to be nasty – a “slumbery.”

Piles of bedding, bed sheets, bedcovers and pillows denuded of their cases lie on the 2 otherwise decent single beds. The solitary chair in the room has several curtains covered by another bedspread on it. Up on top of the wardrobe are scores more curtains. In fact, curtains are everywhere excepting on the doors and windows.

One favored window has been partially draped with a white tasseled tablecloth.

The study table has a name, “Khushi,” or Joy. I know this is the name of the owner’s
daughter. A cute child, who I remember as barely reaching the height of our dining table when I last saw her, but who indomitably, still stretched her hand strenuously for cucumber slices from the tabletop. In fact cucumber and cashew nuts was mostly all she ate for lunch that day.

Khushi / Joy has a brother, named “Nirman” or Construction, who is now about 8, while she I think is about 3. Construction with joy makes a sweet pair, with a wonderful mother and father…(whose names are a little more difficult to play with, or I would.)

Nirman used to be called his father, sourabh’s latest “laptop,” when he was born, by Upal and Probir. I used to be  part of AestheticTechnologies back then, though never a dirty pig, and I remember he was born on 14 April 1998, the same year Poonam’s little girl, “Vinny,” was born.

And that was also the year when Upal married Gargi, (an impressive lissome girl with lovely eyes.) That was on 3rd February 1998, which  coincidentally was my first day of work at Aesthetic.
I was a Production Executive hopeful of graduating to programming but my husband-to-be who was the head programmer told me politely that I was “limited as a programmer.”

I had big plans and mortified that I was at best good for copying, cutting and pasting for
Programmers and designers, I did not tarry but I fled…though now I wish sometimes
I had not left, as slow though I was I could steadily have learnt to make myself useful;
Sourabh is that kind of a boss, with a space for everyone.

Though here the husband, who I call The ant, begs to differ. He thinks that while Aesthetic does have tolerance and space for people like me, unpredictable daydreamers,
People who really have an edge, and can be smart, original go-getters are the only ones who succeed in its environs.

Well past history, and rehashed to death many times, so let me move on.

It is far pleasanter to stick with the chummery. I am fairly sure someone has thrown up in the bedroom in the honor of my arrival, the room reeks and so does the bathroom. Then there is that big damp patch on the small mat by the bed.

I venture to the main room, there is a big dining table but it has a waxy unclean look. The kitchen’s clean, but once again the 2 kitchen rags draped over the gas oven are like small sized curtains. The floors are a shiny white.

I have not yet ventured to the third room. Curious though. Have peeked inside. It is empty and unfurnished, filled with strange gadgets, and broken machine parts, and dim and shadowy.
And here at this point I mark my departure from real life and my flight into fantasy.
“What if the 3rd room is a portal to an alternate universe, a doorway to a different dimension, where pink bubblegum blossoms on treetops, apples and Kangaroos
are mass-produced in factories, and fishes marry birds and rule over water and sky.
Frogs rule over the land and remain forever upset at the birds, (mistresses of the skies), for intermarrying with fishes.

“Look at me, what was wrong with me as your suitor, you could have helped me rule over water, sky and land – but no, you had to go and marry with a little fish…Don’t tell me you never heard the adage, a fish and a bird can marry, but where will they build their nest?

Now, you and I, we could have booked a nice condo on land, a penthouse suite from which you could fly off on your heavenly missions, while I took to the water tanks and the downward slide by pipes to the nearest water body, lake, river or sea. And every now and then we could have touched base in our “castle in the air” condominium.

So the frog croaked cattily.

Meanwhile what was the cat doing?
Well, what they always do, in any given dimension.
“Miaow, Miaow, Miaow, - Milk is wow, - I want some now, - but miaow, miaow, How?”

“Miaow” is actually an attempt to say “Ciaow” which is a cat word for “cow>”

And the Purr –Prrrrr…actually.
Purring is how they describe their appreciation of fish products. So when they come up and purr against humans, all they mean is – “Thanks frrrr the fish I stole today, Yourrrr kitchen window was open, The fish was frrrreshh—It’s an open and shut case!”

So when you bend down to pat kitty, give her a smack instead.

On our way to Aesthetic, in its latest incarnation, (No disrespect intended, but like the Durga Puja pandal, the Aesthetic is dismantled every year and relocated to a newer more impressive location with great fanfare), a small wiry dog crossed our path. As it was a canine crossover and not a feline one I did not beg the ant to stop.

The dog gave us a filthy sideways look, as if to say, “ I know, I know, I don’t pull any weight and no heavy superstition has been hitched to my tail. I know, bow, wow, woe…
I don’t cut any ice, find no fear in your eyes, I know I cannot scare the pants of an ant and his wife! – Tcchah! What can I say? This is a dog’s life!”

Mr. And Mrs. Ant, oblivious speeded away, and the dog was, well doggone.

The ant revved up even more, which scared me into anti-ant screeches- which made moi ant positively zoom…moral of the story in mangled French, - “ Don’t mess with your ant, Ma tante!”

An anthem for my ant:

An ant is from antiquity
No antidote is there
For ant bite
And no tenzing has ever
Planted a flag
On an anthill.

Anteaters are
Confused by their antics
And serve them right.
I suppose once an intrepid ant had
Eloped
With a darling deer
And henceforth their children were known as
Antelopes

Antimony is a strong poison, and Antennae are what we need to know what
These devilish ants are up to.

…An ant coveted the arctic, so he founded Antarctica as the arctic region was already taken.

Ever seen an ant caught in a time warp?
Visit Antwerp,
An ant never turns his back on you,
Hence the term, “anterior,”
As opposed to posterior.

Here ends my anthem, and no this does not mean
An ant letting down the hemline of his skirt…
My dictionary definition of “Anthem”-“ant them – or those of us who live with
Ants, become ants like them….
Amy Valan at 8:00 PM

All rights reserved
(c) Amrita Valan 2014

2014 looking back on 2006-07

Dear friend
This is my post au courante.
All the others were written long back 2006 thru 2007.
I have just got back my blog frozen in time a gift from  dear Anto.
Each blog thru the process of some editing and rewriting has list its original date. They were started on roughly November 4th 2006 and I wrote right upto August September 2007.
Do I like what I wrote then ? Yes if I leave  out some childish bits. I wasn't a mommy then but a spoiled pampered wife.It makes a difference. Caring for lives other than your own makes a difference. Specially if they are helpless artless babies.
Oh yes! Sorrow makes a difference. And acceptance. These ingredients are not always to be found in my earlier blogs.But they are mine and I wish to resurrect and preserve a part of me that's in them.
This is my introduction to some candid writing.
Cheerio! If you like it settle down with a cuppa and read some.And raise it  to me as a friend when you're done.
;)