New Blogs

I've blogged about my scuba diving adventures in the Andamans here: https://seadancer2013.wordpress.com/

I currently blog about living and working in Bangalore here: http://indumanohar.wordpress.com/

The Gate

Parvathi watched the grapes in her hand fall to the ground. She mistakenly imagined them flutter around from too much freedom, like the bloated purple cockroaches bursting out of furniture sunning in the courtyard on a hot day. Instead, they lay there, oozing dispiritedly on the warm stone wishing they could just die. One intrepid grape had flown into the flowers that grew in the solitary quadrilateral of earth where someone had contrived to remove a concrete tile. She wondered if the bombardment had forever changed the life of a small ant population or if it had assailed the spot where she had laid a bee to rest or if the noble flight was resolved in some dog kakka.

The cow behind the red gate looked at her, its liquid brown eyes asking her what it was doing there on a sunday afternoon. Only plastic bags filled with old upma and dead rats blossomed out of the yellow dirt there. She wondered idly what she might accomplish if she lobbed a grape or two at it. Then she wondered where the path outside that gate crawled to. “What is behind the jackfruit tree, cow?” she asked. The cow stared back at her, unmoved. Perhaps it didn’t speak English. Perhaps it was offended that she hadn’t addressed it in proper Kannada. It walked away, presenting its behind, tail swinging at flies dancing around the caked dung.

Reed Ski Cabin Poem

Ye Olde Ski Cabin,

Ye meditation on life perched

on a hillside of snow and splinter;

Between the windowed ice plains outside
unwritten by future snowball fights,

rising to the distant blue mountain peaks

of yet undemonstrated potential;

And the antique rose fire in the stove

drying childhood's mismatched socks,
burning the logs of lessons learned
into orange coals of last year's love;

Is the gentle nudge of present perfection in

the warmth of old books, dogs, marshmallows,

blankets, poker, out-of-tune guitars,

friends, and a room full of laughter.

jan 14th updated oct 25

Creepin'

Today I creeped on a bunch of blogs. Mostly connected to this particular blog which I very much enjoy reading. So much good writing floating about in cyberspace.
This Information Age is creepy. I can sit in my house in the uncharted backwaters of Bangalore (around Lottegollahalli to be more precise) at a little past midnight in my most unflattering ten year old t-shirt and reach into the minds of people half way around the planet. That kind of connectivity should be illegal or heretical or something.

Dear Reader,

I wonder at who you are, where you're from and whatever curious and unexpected string of incidents, incompetencies and inspirations led you to encounter this blog at this particular moment in your life and mine. I started this blog in a burst of youthful enthusiasm, full of confidence, at the age when most teenagers fancy themselves soulful poets and stirring tellers of the universal truths of life, love and death. Unfortunately, four years in a small expensive American liberal arts college known for its academic rigour and low retention rate due to the tendency of its inmates, much like its most famous alumni, a not unknown Mr. Jobs, to regularly drop out, left my confidence in intellectual articulation rather in shambles. After an intense and sordid year long love-hate affair with my senior thesis I emerged with divorce papers and the alimony they call a diploma. I spent the summer rooming with a couple of fellow college inmates, playing the role of the broke and mostly sober recent grad remembering the good times and as time usually has its way, allowing the bad times to be left behind with mismatched socks, rental bills, bookends, notes from a nearly failed class, broken tango shoes, phone numbers of people I'm likely never to see again, and a half-eaten cup of banana yogurt when I moved out to fly twenty four hours back to Bangalore to be reminded by my also recently graduated siblings that I'm one of triplets and must once again, against all evolutionary instinct amicably co-inhabit the parental abode.

So here I am, feeding my sensual appetite on amma's lemon rice and potato fries and xkcd, breaking it down to Ek Tha Tiger music, reading unknown and inspiring Indian bloggers, laughing uncontrollably to Wodehouse and creeping on the neighbors with a gigantic phallic dslr in attempts to capture Real India, and satiating my spiritual cravings on that which I admittedly mostly ignored before I went off to The Foreign; meditation, classical dance, regional languages and all else connected with The Fabled Most Ancient and Wonderous Indian Culture. I'm taking a breather after college to chill briefly with the family before going where the proverbial winds take me. Preferably in a well constructed flying machine. I'll trust the universe to throw me a manual, extra fuel and a co-pilot en route.
  And here you are. Perhaps you're a passing cumulonimbus or nimbostratus, or a distant dormant volcano, or an SR-71 flight manual, or a burst of unseasonal hail, or a flock of sociable magpie geese, or a pit-stop efficient Siberian refueling station or a blue helium balloon lost from a spring wedding or that darn absconding co-pilot. Whatever you are I welcome you to this here my blog. I look forward to making your acquaintance and reading yo' shit.

Love,
 Indialuna

Brigade Road Fancy Shop

Y: Show me that one.

O: Simply looking or going to buy?

Y: You talk to all your customers like this?

O: Don’t get angry at me sir, I’m just asking, no?

Y: Of course I’m buying; now show me that one.

O: Best quality, you won’t find this design anywhere.

Y: I’m sure in Commercial street–

O: Commercial street, ah, as if you people from upper class will go buying from there and all.

Y: Ok, upper class means you’ll ask me fifty rupees for something not worth fifteen.

O: Here, come back sir, I’m simply making fun, you are all such serious people.

Y: Do you have something that is dark metal and heavy?

O: Like this? or this type?

Y: No bigger and… you know, “chunky”?

O: Chunky jewelry; why you didn’t say before only?

Y: Show me one with bells.

O: Earring necklace set or only earrings or–?

Y: Only earrings.

O: Buying for… girlfriend, ah?

Y: How much?

O: Sir is so shy.

Y: Just tell me how much.

O: Ok sir, don’t take tension; sixty, twenty five, then ten rupees for that plus charges… sir only hundred and seventy-five sir.

Y: But that’s too much!

O: Sir, what is this, I’m giving you special discount for your girlfriend—

Y: It’s not for my girlfriend—

O: Oh, but she is going to be, afterwards— sir come back sir, give me hundred and fifty, that’s enough.

Y: Eighty-five, final price.

O: Sir, what is this sir, we are poor hardworking people, I have a wife and three children, I’m sitting in this shop everyday for ten years, now I’m having back problems and have to get operation and my mother is dying— but, sir! give me hundred, round number.

Y: I’m going to look somewhere else.

O: What is this sir, you wasted my time like this, I asked you that time itself: simply looking or buying?

Y: But—

O: I didn’t know you rich people were such liars; and what is twenty-five rupees for you, you will throw it away with your unwashed left hand—

Y: Here just take this and let me go.

O: Thank you thank you sir, you are a very good man sir, god bless you and your girlfriend with a long and happy marriage!

oct 2010

That Time

Shallow moonlight streams strangle afoot the crunch of gravel bone low
the row, beast, beat by the time triangles weave blue crisp affinity
splintered nerve endings of autumn placate the leathery sky
the lie, what of cold cotton cereal when you find froth with tea
Umbrella pops yellow raindrops in my ear in a wash of dry bristles
fills the story of your life in a page, the rage, you need flames on the side
You hide, sincerely it seems afternoon cries not spear nor fight
the light in your room burns but my eyes alight a window nearby

I, Picturesque

Late August surfing at San Clemente

Sea chases blue shadows in sand

from castled shore to ruddying clouds

Setting sun sparkles off parked cars

on a golden eastern hill

Surfers bob like black beach birds

tasting the salt in sweeping curves

Wind catches yellow dream shapes

battling my hair out of my eyes

and a beautiful man shifts his board

looks back once more and smiles.

Snake

The whitewashed walls sparkled in the late evening sun, kitchen exhaust fans announced dinners in progress and the shrill voices of young cricketers echoed through the tenement. 
They did not always infest the corridors, but ran for cover when their feet disturbed the careful rangoli at that Srinivas’s fearsome mother’s doorstep, or when their flailing arms brought down clothes drying on Upstairs-auntie’s line and she threw her dough covered rolling pin at them, or worse when the ball bounced loudly off Sathya-auntie’s plexiglass front door and she told their parents she had caught them using her progressively browning wall as wickets. 
This evening they had abandoned their game and were gathered in a circle on the bald summer parched playground next to the garbage dump. 
As the sun set behind the water-tank, the boys and their cricket bats cast pitchfork shadows on Watchman uncle’s gray uniform. They watched with awe and morbid fascination, a mist of red sand rising in their faces, as it danced under Watchman uncle’s dog-beating stick. 
It was a cobra, a king cobra, even, Shashank said, and Murali reported that it had apparently hided in the D-complex staircase mailbox and attacked Sneha-aunty when she was taking out her mails. One of RJ’s older brothers whispered that she had died off and that everyone was keeping quiet about it and that if any of them blabbed about it a cobra would jump out from under their bed at night and kill them off too. My brother grew sickened at the beating and left before the very very poisonous venom in the carcass reportedly turned the fire purple and green. 
I and my sister and Shanthi and her annoying younger sister, who always played with us even when we didn’t want her to but couldn’t say anything because we liked Shanthi, were high up in Rani-paati’s gooseberry tree pocketing handfuls of her not-yet-ripe berries. Killing swollen mosquitoes against each other’s legs and careful to stay just out of sight of paati’s bathroom window, we watched the spectacle from a distance. As the street lamps flickered noisily on, we momentarily forgot to keep a sharp eye and ear out for her to hope that the snake was fully dead before it burned.

Memory

That day

The curtains were sunflower and white checks against the dark grain of the bed and the sun came in through a yellow window and blinded the freshly mopped floors a river of light

Before I noticed her foot held up to me like a helpless water bird her toes curled in around the ball with pain, or the growing ring of red around a blue pimple, I heard her wail and the pigeons just outside take flight in alarm

On that glorious afternoon

That day my sister stepped on a push-pin.

Pooja Room

The gods smile down at me
Fixed benevolent molded forgiving painted divine printed loving
The dry caked bloody copper kum kum disfiguring Lakshmi the Goddess of Wealth and Prosperity
The fragile brown spider suspension of old jasmine strings worn proudly around Ganesha, Remover of Obstacles
the dispersed ash and unburied stumps of deceased incense sticks burying the veena of Saraswathi the goddess of Art and Learning
And still
The gods smile.

Rain Song

I fell in love that afternoon
When the monsoon touched the earth so powerful in its passion
that the stone compound wall keeping vagrants out
came under siege by an exiled lake returning to the drained bed of our houses
and rolled like a prolonged crash of thunder into a drowning grey rubble
We held hands under the umbrella,
marveling at newspaper imaginings and TV hearsay
the high excitement of a modest flood in our neighbourhood
with the inclement wind in our faces
slate water, up to ankles, that washed the human dung from the shelters in with our flower beds and bicycles
and the Raag Megh unnecessarily keeping tune in my head

Reed Canyon Run

I run
the earth is gentle here
meeting my feet with a lover's kiss
even the sharpest retort is only in jest
for the path is carpeted in nought
worse for bare skin than sodden wood
I run
with the breathless wind in my face
the trees raining leaves of golden brown love
and the rhythm I play as I fly over the earth
beats with the thudding of my heart
I run

Unpacking

A breathless wind hurried past my window

enlisting with it droplets of rain fresh on the sill

It whispered of a foreign land

a desert perhaps, wet with a camel's spit

 the song on the lips of a prayer 

hurled to it from a temple

or the blood of a birthing mother

and the first wail of her child

and maybe the dust from the shoes 

of runner bringing news of fire 

the swirl like cigarette smoke kissing the stars

or the salt of a sea swollen with cruise ships

carrying the rare perfume of a flower 

brought, perhaps, from halfway across the planet

A breathless wind hurried past

leaving me behind

Travelogue

I shall watch a foreign sunset, alien trees waving an unfamiliar wind by we will look at each other in the eyes for a moment, in a blaze of recognition I shall read in your face what you will in mine
Read the story of living in a human world and see the same plot in a widely different genre
I shall write verse in your name
your name, which I know nothing of
Pages will be turned and you shall pass out of my life and I out of yours and the world shall be a better place for it.

The sound of a phantom's shadow in the dark

The voice of the breeze
unspoken whispers
the secret language of the trees
conversations in dreams
what unwritten poetry sounds like
the scream of sleeping cars
lyrics in a silent mike
the song of unstrung guitars
breath of the planet's dark side
the swishing winds past talks send
the hidden tune you have inside 
 words of an imaginary friend

The touch of the sun

 soft stuff of clouds

 the cold steel of the on-screen gun

 crush of yesterday's crowds

 the warmth of a flying kiss

feel of a vacuum 

 the pang of a near miss

 comfort of the womb

 a hug shared over the phone

 lingering fingers of someone gone

and someone yet to come.

The daylight stars

faces in exposed photos

 images through broken binoculars

the ancient sculpture's lost nose

 shapes on an untouched sheet

the unseen night rainbow 

 springtime footprints left by winter feet

the dead light-bulb's glow

mirror people on the other side

the smile of the maker of the universe

 the painting you have inside

 conjured-up character's features

At First Sight, Or.

They walked past each other on the street

opposite directions, separate lives

They shared one glance

something in his eyes

made her look back, just to make sure

and she saw

that he had done the same, just a moment before

and nothing more.

she wondered what might have happened

had they both looked back together,

glimpsed what they were looking for at first glance

and saw that it was there at the second?

And then they walked in opposite directions to their different lives.

Prospect

Sky
there is sky, and burning sun
And road
road trod below and shop crouched beside,
Woman drinking tea
nice-looking woman, alone
on lazy, late afternoon street.
And man
man across, doing something else
Well suited to the atmosphere,
light dances through his hair.
Landscape,
to each the other
mild detail in unfocused
landscape.
Not sentient more than that three legged chair
The odd grey wood
or the trimmed wildflower framing right foreground
And left.

Then they drop their eyes in sudden kinship
Startled at catching their painting staring back.

Aug 23 2009

Can't

(Another attempt at song lyrics [co-authored])


You can't
climb a tree when you're riding a horse
sing when you have icecream in your mouth
rock her to sleep wheb you're painting a desert lake

You can't see the stars when you're laying in the sun

You can't
wear a crown when you're in your bubble bath
kiss when you're looking into his eyes
feel the wind through your hair when you're reading by the fire

You can't see the stars when you're laying in the sun

You can't
smell coffee when your dog kisses you awake
travel the world when the world is you
blow out birthday candles when you're out watching fireworks

You can't see the stars when you're laying in the sun

I Am You

I am in the voice of the breeze
unspoken whispers
I am the secret language of the trees
conversations in dreams
I am what unwritten poetry sounds like
the scream of sleeping cars
I am lyrics in a silent mike
the song of unstrung guitars
I am the breath of the planet's dark side
the swishing winds past talks send
I am the hidden tune you have inside
the words of an imaginary friend
Hear me
I am you

I am in the daylight stars
faces in exposed photos
I am images through broken binoculars
the ancient sculpture's lost nose
I am shapes on an untouched sheet
the unseen night rainbow
I am springtime footprints left by winter feet
the dead light-bulb's glow
I am the mirror people on the other side
the smile of the maker of the universe
I am the painting you have inside
the conjured-up character's features
See me
I am you

I am in the touch of the sun
the soft stuff of clouds
I am the cold steel of a videogame gun
the crush of yesterday's crowds
I am the warmth of a flying kiss
the feel of a vaccuum
I am the pang of a near miss
the comfort of the womb
I am a hug shared over the phone
I am the lingering fingers of someone gone
and someone yet to come
Feel me
I am you