Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Friday, November 7, 2014
Driving
Driving home one night this week, late, the usual route, I saw a man standing perfectly still on the divider of the Chirag Dilli flyover, silhouetted in the dust and high beams, looming over the left lane like a dead tree in a desert.
Tonight, the same place, around the same time, frowning against the frazzle of another social evening and those big truck headlights, I saw him again, perhaps not the same man but the same figure, a dark shape walking along the divider.
This morning, a naked man walked evenly across the width of the India Gate circle—all six lanes—with the air of a man going into the shower. Everything from his forehead to his penis to his feet was the same brown; his heels dark, his buttocks dusty.
Tonight, two different sets of street dogs in two different neighbourhoods followed me to my car. Others, strays, watched me approach, pupils wide in my headlights, and gave chase as I passed. They are barking now, here, as they were then, there.
Men are everywhere: lone loiterers ambling across intersections at an angle or waving their cellphones in the middle of some sidestreet. One is huddled in a watchman’s cabin outside a house in a nice neighbourhood, muttering; another waits outside Siri Fort auditorium with a bag on the ground at his side.
Earlier, at a traffic light, a man in a Mercedes shook his fist at me.
Later, in a house, I jerked away from a sudden flush of breath on my cheek.
Tonight, the same place, around the same time, frowning against the frazzle of another social evening and those big truck headlights, I saw him again, perhaps not the same man but the same figure, a dark shape walking along the divider.
This morning, a naked man walked evenly across the width of the India Gate circle—all six lanes—with the air of a man going into the shower. Everything from his forehead to his penis to his feet was the same brown; his heels dark, his buttocks dusty.
Tonight, two different sets of street dogs in two different neighbourhoods followed me to my car. Others, strays, watched me approach, pupils wide in my headlights, and gave chase as I passed. They are barking now, here, as they were then, there.
Men are everywhere: lone loiterers ambling across intersections at an angle or waving their cellphones in the middle of some sidestreet. One is huddled in a watchman’s cabin outside a house in a nice neighbourhood, muttering; another waits outside Siri Fort auditorium with a bag on the ground at his side.
Earlier, at a traffic light, a man in a Mercedes shook his fist at me.
Later, in a house, I jerked away from a sudden flush of breath on my cheek.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Where I am
I am in the kitchen making coffee. I am in the mirror feeling pleased. I am in a taxi leaking words. I am in a sari inviting attention. I am on the floor getting down. I am in conversation dispensing sass. I am at the bar requesting gin, water, gin. I am at a table twisting naan into mutton. I am on a couch leaning in. I am in a room on a lark. I am out the door with a shrug. I am in a garden answering questions. I am in a singalong at dawn. I am in a cab with my patience wearing thin. I am in the door with a sigh of relief. I am in a quilt on a high bachelor bed. I am reading cross-legged on an overnight train. I am in a blindfold with my heart in my mouth. I am in a pit with a bullet in my back. I am squatting under a sheet of corrugated tin. I am in a country with a passport. I am in the wild with a wound. I am in a fog with a flag. I am in a balloon with a pin. I am moving so that nothing is certain. I am on the road with the wind. I am using my tongue so I don't turn numb. I am opening up for whiskey and thrill. I am merry in a polka dotted spin. I am walking down an alley with a crick in my neck. I am sifting through lettuce with an arch in my back. I am asleep with my nose in the crook of an elbow. I am waking with a hand on my hip. I am speeding through the street with a grin on my face. I am jumping on a bus with an inflated heart. I am in a place I've never been. I am muddy in the field and damp in the grass and brown like the ground in my skin.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
ALONE
Sunset on a cold day.
Gloves on hands in pockets.
The only way to keep warm is to keep walking.
Gloves on hands in pockets.
The only way to keep warm is to keep walking.
What has happened
As I pass through the ambit of a street light back into the dark of night, I am suddenly clouded. What has happened? Have I damaged something? Have I implied something? Have I ruined have I shocked have I lied? What has happened is I have transgressed. And things have shifted. And so, it seems, have I.