Memoirs of an Ardent Particularist: September 2007

About Me

Suffice it to say that I am an ardent particularist. What this means is that I like to look at the particulars (Duh!). So for example, I like the deep furrows on a withered tree trunk, the jet black curly hair of a woman walking past me, the swing of a very short skirt on the behind of a girl in front of me, the sunflower like irises in my husband's blue pupils, the soft and gentle curves of his body, the shape of a pebble that skirts off the tyres of a truck at a construction site, the toc-toc-toc of the table tennis ball on the table, the feel of a full mango fruit in the palm of your hand, a bowl of translucent, red, pomegranate seeds, the speckled sunlight on a patch of grass under a tree, the deep yearning for someone you care about and love, the deep sense of grief when you have to forget someone you love, the mixture of white steamed rice and pink oleander petals strewn on the cold dark stone tile of the temple, the smell of a decaying banana leaf, the pungent smell of a raw mango just fallen from the tree, the clang of utensils and the clamour of sundry voices and stray dogs infused with the smell of boiling tea as India wakes to life every morning, and so on...

Thursday, September 13, 2007

The Storm

Billowing, dark, rumbling clouds,
Rush on like a mob of passengers
Chasing the last train for the day.
Brisk wind picks up,
Evolves into a strong, steady gust.
Clash of thunder.
Lightening streaks down the dark sky,
Ripping it apart.

Bent trees strain against the storm.
Fallen leaves romp and tumble
Gleefully along the gravel path
As if to race the chasing storm.
Torrent of rain comes down
Aiming to hit the ground at one place,
But shoved along by the wind to another.
Raindrops dance a merry jig as they meet the road.

The lone neem tree stands in the distance,
Young and slender.
Branches weighed down by leaves,
Swaying in the wind.
I see its misty form through the torrent
Beckoning me to join it.
To soak in the storm.
To feel the wind whistling through my hair.
To be drenched to my skin,
Yet be aware of every tickling, naughty drop
Of water trickling down my back.

People scurry into shelters.
Bright, colourful sarees cling
Limply to beautiful, sinous bodies.
Little puddles of water in little potholes
Join large puddles in large potholes.
Children jump with mirth from one to another,
Vying to make the biggest splash.

Nature's catharsis subsides into a gentle melody.
Hawkers reopen their stalls.
Children float white paper boats
Down the flowing rivulets
Where they find their way into storm drains.

The storm washes into my soul, mellows it.
My unsettled, raging mind calmed by the torrent,
I turn back home.
Mother wraps me in fresh-out-of-the-sun, warm towels.
Sets a plate of crisp, fried pakodas before me.
A long, hot cup of chaya to wash them down with.
Dries my hair; envelops me in a warm, soothing embrace.
All is well.

---GST

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

LOOK AT ME!

I dream that you would look at me
That with your eyes
You will caress every curve of my self
That you will gently probe
Every nook and corner and alley of my person.

That you will know the fabric of my existence
So intimately that it becomes your blanket
That you will hear my sighs before they are sighed,
And drink my tears before they are wept,
And be intoxicated in this drink.

And then, I dream
That you will not drop my hand,
Which in a moment of playfulness
You had clasped in yours.

That your gaze comes to rest on my face,
Spell-bound by what is loveliness to you.
That they penetrate my soul through my eyes,
And all my words are ropes with which
You climb into my mind.

I open my eyes. Where are you?
Look at me, my dear!

--GST