poem

I am stupid

to keep forgetting

between us

the fact that in the popular universe

we inhabit

you have a reality, and that is a fact

I live with you in another universe

where, 

I live undisturbed

a cute apartment on the 9th floor

overlooking the city, 

in the ciry but undisturbed, 

no prying eyes… 

here i wait for you

and you dfo arrive… 

we are both comfortable

cook a new recipe for you

make tea for you as you listen to music

read the spicy notes i sent you in the day

speak in soft, intimate and hot exchanges

go to a movie and fall asleep on each other’s shoulder

pack a lunch

say things like, “my boyfriend is incorrigible”

or make a video segment - “what I packed for my boyfirned’s lunch today”

have lover’s quarrels

get jealous mad when you look at another person (happens all the time)

watch buster keaton movies 

but that life is a dream

reality is 

you have a beautiful reality

I dont

let us leave it at that. 

Happiness to you

HY

Still heart

Like a dried well in a drought

words parch in my mind

i cannot scribble love anymore

even if my heart feels it in my subtle consciousness, 

and manifests in stillness

It feels barren openly., 

where vultures hover, peck, 

change forms, 

the eternal love exists 

in the stillness of my mind

Anju's Cafe turned 20

Anju's Cafe turned 20. We went and met up with her, Aru, last night. Bala and Divya were there. Harisha and Nikhil after their recent performance in Italy. Pawan and Sowmya came by as well. Ajit was there as well. We all met up after such a long time! 

What Remains

 What Remains

The voices grew so loud

They could deafen the ears,

blind them into hiding —

stories about me, not from me,

worn like a fog no one thought to question.

But time comes together.

Or maybe it only feels that way

because the seasons pass,

and then you will see.

I never moved.

I never swayed —

not in my love, not in my regard.

Through all that noise,

I stood exactly where I always stood.

When the fog finally lifts,

one thing will still appear,

clear as pristine water,

plain as the bright sun overhead:

I never stopped loving you.

I never stopped holding you

in the quiet regard you deserved.

That is the only thing I can keep.

The rest — the noise, the versions,

what they heard in their own heads —

was never mine to carry.

I never moved.

I saw the mask crumble

 I witnessed it

The mask crumble

When the little people pile on you,

When you laugh

And everyone can see now,

what my heart already knew

A handsome countance

A sexy hot persona

Some images of #27

 Some images of  # 27, as it looks now. 

Was There a Picture Taken?

One day, way back in 2003, when we lived at #27, baby Nachi was just an infant, and Pappa had a ritual with him. Pappa had built #27 in 1991. It had two rooms — Pappa and Amma had one, and Didi and I shared the other. Once Nachi was born, a new ritual was born with him. Didi, who'd taken over Pappa and Amma's bed, would be up with Nachi at odd hours through the night and would catch up on sleep once Pappa took over with him in the morning.

Pappa would lay out bedsheets and quilts on the living room floor, one on top of the other, rolling some into makeshift bolsters along all four sides to create a sort of nest, with Nachi placed right in the centre. Then he'd play music — M.S. Subbulakshmi, Maharajapuram Santhanam, Pandit Jasraj, Bhimsen Joshi, Kumar Gandharva, Hariprasad Chaurasia — and the whole house would fill with it, while Nachi cooed loudly along, deeply engaged in conversation with the ceiling fan.

This particular day, Pappa was sitting at the front of the house sipping his coffee, Didi was catching up on sleep, Amma was in the kitchen, and I was in my room. As usual, the front and back doors — both opening onto the gardens — were wide open. Our backyard had a mango tree, a frangipani, and the neighbour's coconut trees forming a canopy overhead.

A monkey wandered in at some point during all this, and none of us noticed.

When I came out of my room, I gasped and called out, "Amma!" We froze. A monkey scratch means a round of anti-rabies shots, so you can imagine the fear when we saw it sitting right by the baby's head — perfectly relaxed, enjoying the cool fan air and the music. The moment it spotted Amma and me, it darted straight out the front door.

Pappa shouted, "Uma, there was a monkey, there was a monkey!" We rushed to the front gate just in time to see it climbing a tree outside.

"Go close the back door," Amma said urgently. My sister, thankfully, was still asleep — otherwise we'd never have heard the end of it. As a new mom, didi was very vigilant about everything - big and small about the child. She was particular as a mother.  

Amma and Pappa hurried back to check on the baby, terrified of finding a scratch or a bite. But Nachi was cooing and laughing, utterly delighted with his morning. Amma checked him over, then over again, and gave him a bath in a tub of Dettol, just to be safe.

developed with AI

When Didi finally woke up, and we told her what happened, she — probably because she'd finally gotten a proper night's sleep — just said, "Aww, how cute. Was there a picture taken?"

What? What happened to the sister I knew?

Lucky monkey.

How do I write about Amma's dark sides?

It opens up such a can of worms. I only want to remember her good times. But not talking about what happened to her — and what she did to others — only keeps me living in her pain for longer. I think Didi and I both need to write about her openly.

Her story isn't just her mistakes, or her bad choices. It's how she lived, day after day, after everything she went through — the trauma, the pain, the darkness — and still was such sunshine in our lives.

The dark moments were unbearable. More for her than for us, because she had to live through it again the next day. And the day after that. Like the time after Maama.

Amma and the Cobra

I always wondered if Amma was born in the Chinese year of the cat — because she was utterly fearless with animals.

And I mean all kinds, the ones that wandered in from the wild urban landscape around us. When we first moved into #27, there were only two houses on the street — 5th 'A' Cross. Chameleons, snakes, crabs, monkeys, dogs, two bee colonies, and once, a cow that gave birth in the canopy outside our house. One house was ours, the other belonged to Annie and Ananda, who lived opposite us with their parents-in-law.

Amma had maternal instincts when it came to animals. She wouldn't dream of killing anything — she'd simply let them out. I didn't love this when it extended to insects I personally detested. No matter how much I begged her to make an exception, she remained completely unmoved.

One evening, Annie and Ananda — our neighbours across the street — were home with their father-in-law, Keshavmurthy Uncle. Their house faced ours, close enough that we could usually see each other going about our days. Mornings and evenings were marked by the same small ritual on our street: opening the gates at dawn, closing them at night.

That evening was particularly sultry. Our main door was open, and there was music drifting through the air — Shekhar Saab always had something playing, and we'd go about our chores to the sound of Bhimsen Joshi, Kumar Gandharva, or M.S. Subbulakshmi.

Suddenly, screams — one male, one female — followed almost immediately by loud laughter. Annie and Ananda. We ran out to see what had happened.

Uncle had been asleep in his room, door closed, while Annie and Ananda did the evening chores — clearing the table, sorting laundry, hanging clothes to dry. Then, from a shirt they were about to hang, something fell. A cobra. Both of them screamed and leapt back. Ananda bolted to shut his father's door while the snake disappeared under the washing machine, and the two of them fled the house entirely.

Within minutes, they were laughing at their own dramatic exit — and then came the very real task of finding a snake catcher.

The moment Amma heard the word "snake," she tucked her saree up, grabbed a broom, and marched straight into Annie's house, with Annie and Ananda trailing behind her, pointing nervously at the washing machine. They'd already blocked off the passage to the rest of the house, leaving only the back door open. Amma got to work — poking, prodding, rattling the broom against the machine — until the snake finally gave up its hiding spot and slithered out the back door into the empty plot next door.

I remember being amazed by her — that complete absence of fear. I knew, even then, that I didn't have an ounce of it myself.

The snake made a few more appearances in our garden after that, but it kept to itself and never bothered anyone. We humans, on the other hand, were thoroughly rattled every time.

Made using Chatgpt

That evening ended the way most dramas on our street did — everyone gathered in Annie and Ananda's living room, recounting the story over a very late cup of coffee.

Once again, Amma was the hero.