Memoirs of an Ardent Particularist: July 2008

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, July 31, 2008

My Asuras

Often, late at night
And in the wee hours of the morning
When sleep eludes me,
The demons in my mind
Have free-range over the playing fields.

Sorrow, fear, and anger
Join the ghosts of my childhood and youth
And romp about in my mind,
Playing gleefully with skeins
Of my memory, dreams and thoughts.

I used to hate them.
Fought to banish them.
Drew the dead bolts
Across my mind.

But they are lithe and nimble-
These demons of mine.
They slip back in and watch with innocent glee
As I vent my rage and frustration against them on my own body.

But now,
I let them be.

Now,
In the wee hours of the morning,
When I still wander about the house,
Listening to the gentle rythms of my husband snoring,
I skip and dance and play along
With MY demons in my mind.

Now,
They are demons no more.

---GST

My Father's Gaze

Acchan usually averted his gaze from me.
Refused to look at me.
Deaf to my voice.
Unseeing, unhearing, untouching, unfeeling.

I searched for a glance,
A prisoner in the eyes of the seer,
Enchanted, Entranced, Enlaced
By any gaze that SAW ME.

And so I helplessly love,
All men, women and creatures
That will turn towards me
If only for a moment.

Bewitched, I dance
To the movements of their gaze
Like a cat following an errant
Beam of light on the wall.

--GST