A Cold Companion


Forlorn, solitary, empty.

Staring me down, as I sat there,

All my truths to bare.


Up early, today was the day,

A promise to myself made.

A belief aglow, if only I let it flow.

Doubt at my door, stands steadfast,

Unflinching, unasked.

My aching heart, tears cease not,

The pen calls out, as it aught.

Long awaited this morning slot.

Screen, cursor a-blinking,

an enticing corral,

My ruptured heart, craves its Zen.

Carpe Diem, my mind cries,

Seize the day, says the twitching hand.

Dams shatter, throbbing fingers twinge,

A deluge unhinge.

Processor processed, machine absorbs-

precious outpourings on blank white pages,

heartbeats morph, anguish depletes,

Raw clamors cease, mind now at ease.


Elixir, a book within a book

So I finished Elixir, the debut novel by Sinjini Sengupta. I did not finish it at one go, and I’d like to confess, I was floating away in my first attempt; the writing was languorous and soporific, despite Manisha’s hard trials at work, both inside her being, and outside of it.  Amit’s strange and insensitive conduct also got to me. Lost, are we? Well these are the two main characters in Sengupta’s ELIXIR, an interesting read to boot, and one that cast a spell of sorts on me- however during my second inning.

Is it truly possible to live a life parallely- i.e, can you actually step into another full-blown existence, even as you are trying to do justice to the one that you had been born into? Is it truly even conceivable? Well, Sengupta does a fine job of pushing the suspension-of- belief envelope, that anything is possible once you taste of it-and discard that voice that repeatedly says, nah, not possible! You embrace it head-on. I am a believer of parallel existences, have always been, so I was good from the word go.

The first half of Sinjini’s debut novel is a bit like Bangla poetry, it whets your appetite. You need to put it away to fully savour what she is trying to build your literary and hungry mind up to. Once you’ve gotten over that ‘hump’ , if I may call it that, you are onto something rather magnetic- you inch along, then you are on a ride that has you by the….stirrups. You want to live Manisha’s parallel life with her- it’s beautiful, riddled with watery drops of romance, and perfumes and love and all that makes life a living heaven. But you return to Manisha’s ‘real world’, the one she must tackle, along with interacting with her blameless husband, who knows no better, boil tea in her kitchen, peek into her fridge, and mix with her professional colleagues. Well what do you know, Moni, as her father lovingly calls her, is quite the gal! She takes it all on, begrudgingly, but not all the time. She knows she wants out- she doesn’t want to re-enter the real world, but who’s going to buy her tale, definitely not the very worldly Amit. He’s befuddled, and he strikes out, using psychiatric means too.

What we have here is a novel with a stark message. Is the message obvious? To me it was. And the distinction lies in the fact that I know I am being made aware that I am also living parallel lives perhaps, but not with dissonance, which allows me to survive each day. Sinjini is telling the reader that it’s perfectly natural to live thus- and it’s a possibility, a real one and infinite possibilities of such like exist. I believe her. I also believed Richard Bach in his novel named ONE, when he and his wife travelled through different dimensions of existence. So why can Manisha, creature hacked by Sinjini’s mind, not do likewise? Sure can too.

Sinjini’s flair for poetic prose, her deep relationship with rain-water is superbly harvested in this novel. I could almost hear Robindro Shongeet playing in the background- no, not almost, I did hear it. My parallel life peeps into this one, and vice versa as I put away Elixir, and sip from a glass of cold water, to suppress the rising heat. Also, i might have failed to mention the fact that this was a screenplay, that Sengupta has deftly ‘rewritten’ as a full novel, no mean task this. I, even as i enjoy the art of writing, would not attempt such like. More power to Sinjini Sengupta and her fertile, creative mind!

Alsotft unit new

Out with Lanterns by Alisha Kirpalani (a book review)


This is a beautiful piece of work that, strangely enough, resonated with my own life story- the eternal need to write, and be read. My life, as it were, has caught me by surprise repeatedly, just as Karin’s does in Out with the Lanterns. My internal existence, I believed, rested heavily on my writing, and my dancing feet, believing them to define me. The protagonist of Out with the Lanterns, is also someone who is passionate about writing and dancing, which took the wind out of me for starters. Does she know me?

Alisha’s writing is exquisite- her mastery over the language, tantalizing as she enfolds authenticity of emotion, in every passage, and each email exchange between writer Aksh, and Karin. It is engaging, and keeps you riveted. You are swept up in the labyrinth she creates and lose yourself in this brave world of Karin. The lady is vulnerable, quirky, humourous and bright. The writer Aksh, pitted against Raoul, the hubby are excellently etched characters, complementing Karin’s longing for life itself. Encompassing two distinct worlds, Alisha is able to carry us back and forth, cleverly exploiting the gifts of the modern world- letters on a screen. She nails the bridge that links and brings it all together, with great dexterity. The catch line describes perfectly what this novel aspires to: ‘A discovery of life, love and everything in between’.

It is possible for a tale such as this to transpire- an inexplicable love, that captures your heart, and becomes the trigger for unraveling and unburdening that which may have sat like an Albatross around your neck. Her use of literary references are again, timely, and clever. Once its job is done, it is no longer needed, this relationship which develops and takes on a life of its own.

Alisha manages the complexities of relationships with great maturity and compassion. There is something really quirky and fulfilling about the exchanges between the famous author, and the wannabe author. I fell for these hook, line and sinker, chuckling to myself, even as i realized the dangers of the territory the two were exploring. I suddenly wished to find one such in my own barren land.

I read the book in two sittings, as I turned page after page to delve deeper into the psyche of both Karin and Aksh. Will they, won’t they?

To not present any spoilers, I would like to say that Alisha’s conclusion of the story she has woven is on point, and to my heart and mind there could have been no other. So it’s a winner of a book all the way, because endings are like closures, and if one is left hanging, a strange after-taste disallows the feeling of satisfaction needed after a good read. This one was perfect.



That vast house there,

Why can it not be mine?

Said the besotted dame,

Whose villa stood tall, lawns, and halls,

Admired, esteemed, a complex being,

Housing an eternal need.


Ah that flowerbed!IMG_20180116_073435

Those Dahlias, those daisies,

Those pansies, and

Those pink Lilies,

Why can’t I be thus?

Asked the Desert Rose.



Me, said the Mongrel,

I’m king of this street,

An alley Cat spied he,

Shudder he did then,

With a quiet woof, bowed on all fours,

Envy sneaked down his tail,

Why can’t I be this Cat, he wailed.





I want, I want, I want,

Swaying, sashaying,

That figure, that face, that Line.

She starved, she binged,

Between these two states,

She did swing, lithe Modelina,

Envy ate her every nerve,

Lined her every swerve.


Here she lies,

Envy of every aspirant,

Joy meager, enemies eager,

To slay, to slaughter,

The lamb she was.

Here she lies,

Beyond Envy’s strife,

An epitaph is all

One earns in the after-life.









Throbbing, immense,

That voice thunders,

I quiver, I hide,

From the bane, recoil.

Bent double,

‘Tis Ego that winces, and cringes.

Has me in its hold.

They say, I am no good,

Loud, hammering, relentless,

Yet I rise, march on,

Head held high.

Ego sustains,

The spine, Ego upholds.


The child,

Abandons home, runs away,

Want more, says he,

It hurts, I bleed,

Askance – why me?

‘Tis the ego that moans,

‘Tis the wounded mother’s ego,

A weary, sublime echo.


The child revisits,

Foibles excused,

Humbled, now timorous.

Relieved love embraces.

Shaken, not forsaken,

Ego without its ism.



Friends stay, they go,

Places arrive, disappear,

There’s sea, there’s sand,

Rivers, their beds,

Iridescent valleys, mountains,

I ride them all, Ego rides along,

Stand by, on a night halt.

Rears its head, every once,

Held aloft, I dance.


Quiet when unneeded,

Restrained when unheeded,

When and where,

I learn, it watches,

I watch, it learns.

This Ego, is it me?

Or often, am I, Ego?

Travel Diary : A Quilt for the Cook, Jaipur in Slowmo


We had to do it. It is a tradition whenever my British pal, Mary comes a-visiting. I was doubtful. Did not want to spend any money, as I had nothing over and above my pocket money, helper salaries and petrol. She insisted we go. I dug deep into my pockets and discovered some old, forgotten notes. We flew, and we arrived in a sunny, welcoming environment, the entry point from Delhi, Jaipur, the Pink City. This was the first time I had conceded to flying to Jaipur, after all, it was down the road on our Highway 8, we could drive and be there in four hours. Of course, it’s always been over five, but it does seem possible when we set out in the wee hours of the morning. We’ve never actually managed to set off early enough. Wise decision it was to Air India it. The National Carrier flew on time, landed with a thump, rather hard, but we reached our little Jai Nivas, in less than four hours from the Gurgaon apartment. It doesn’t get faster than that. However, that’s where the speed stops. The rest of our trip was on slowmo.

The air at Jai Nivas bespoke complete lethargy. The garden, green and sunny, called out invitingly, and gently. We were given masala chai, the best ever, after half an hour of our demanding it. The room was large and airy; food, bland but ample; receptionist’s speech, a drawl. We had been welcomed and had nothing to worry about. We weren’t worried at all, why would we be? Well not yet, was how we felt. The service, in general, slow yet painfully cheerful, and later a visit to the Chameli bazaar, across the wide MI Road, was very laidback, wearing an air that breathed, ‘might be busy downtown, but here, it’s time to sit back and reap the fruits of our labour’. When did they labour? Anyhow, we also caught the drift and floated around, admiring the offerings on display in rather dusty panes. The shopkeepers watched us wanderers cheekily, I hasten to add, and barely moved a whisker to draw our attention. Yet our attention was drawn to this very odd and nonchalant display of apathy toward, what we might have well been, wealthy customers. Perhaps our own demeanour belied any signs of wealth. We weren’t dressed glamourously, nor did our rustic bags give off the perfume of well-stocked wallets.

On rushing back armed with beer, we discovered that our fridge was not working. It took all of an hour and a half of much inspection, followed by rigorous movement, followed by an equally dismal looking contraption that replaced its earlier cousin. It worked nevertheless, and we did enjoy chilled beer that night. Dinner was salty.

The following day, we left our abode at 11, since shops are slated to open around then. The traffic was snarly, and our auto driver was angry. He seemed irate to begin with, and then, another auto driver made the fatal mistake of crossing his path. That was it! He stopped bang in the middle of an overcrowded, dusty and misshapen main road to give an earful to this guy. Since I follow the Hindi spoken there, my ears burnt red from embarrassment, the choice of words were such. I don’t know quite understand why I should have been embarrassed, as my English friend understood none of it, though she sensed the rage. I had to command our auto driver to pipe down and carry on to the bazaar, without further delay. He was quivering with rage and dumped us outside a quilt shop. His nostrils flared like a bull’s, and I tried to imagine the real reason for such a display of uncontained temper. We even discussed it later at the shop. Perhaps the guy did not have too many customers, perhaps he was burdened with a housing loan, maybe he had lost money in a gambling spree, his wife’s cooking may be terrible, or that she was pregnant with their fifth child! Who knew what can get someone going, who knew!

The quilt store, a pretty shop, was divided by price tags, quality and designs. There were three men, and not one was a client. We felt special, by default. A wide array of designs were on display. Jaipuri quilts are very popular, and much in demand. Why was the shop empty? It was already around noon. In the meantime, we just had to point to one, and it was spread out in customary fashion, at our feet, to admire and fondle. An hour later, we were still undecided. Would my cook like this one, or that one? I was at a loss. What I liked, subtle pastels, he definitely would not. His instruction was – “Bhabhi, 4 ya 5 hazaar rupye ki moti razai lana meri maa ke liye, zyaada bhi chalega, kam nahin, gaon mey rehti hain” (Sisterinlaw, do buy a thick quilt for 4 or 5 thousand rupees, for my mother in the village, could cost more, but not less.). Now there was more than the dilemma of the pastels and subtleties, there was the element of the price. These were all around 3 thousand rupees, no more.

I whatsapped my mate at home, and asked him to share the designs, but not before I had discovered the velvet-covered quilts. To my vision they were quite ugly, but soft and thick, one of the cook’s demands. They still did not achieve the 4-5 thousand rupee status. Anyway, I got a response pretty quickly, and as suspected, he loved the velvety ones. The deal was made, and I bought a quilt for the cook’s mom!

mom’s Velvety quilt

No customers appeared, during our hour-long visit. We were served hand and foot by three men- one of whom was the owner. He spoke perfect English for the benefit of my friend Mary. The shop had an impressive display of bedcovers and sheets too, and Mary ended up picking up some of those as well. I am certain the shopkeeper was thrilled at having done brisk business. Yet, I kept wondering why the street, a main one at that, very close to Hawa Mahal, was devoid of tourists. Business seemed really, really slow.

As we emerged, we were accosted by many shopkeepers, all at once, asking us where we were from, and if our interest could be evoked by, bangles, jootis (Jaipuri shoes), kurtas, skirts, balloon trousers, harem pants, jewellery and so on and so forth. After the gentle treatment meted out to us at the quilt showroom, we felt assaulted, and ducked for cover in a nearby jeweler’s shop, that was small and where we were offered Italian espresso. The coffee was fabulous, but the shop owners had lured us with a price that did not hold. We left soon thereafter.

The sun had risen to its zenith, and it had turned pretty warm. As we rushed on, while the rest of the Jaipuri world seemed not bothered with the sun’s movements, we observed people drinking chai, chattering, languorous and lazy, discussing politics. Life seemed to follow an even trail here. Everyone was at ease with the slow pace of a small town, but for us.

We wanted to just be, observe and watch, however every once in a while, we would hear a shopkeeper shout out to us, albeit gently, “Only 100 rupees madam, only 200 rupees,” I did venture into a bangle shop and picked up a dozen, after bargaining it down. Again, we were the only customers. Although it was high season, in my understanding of Rajasthan’s tourism, there were too few tourists around us. It all seemed to have waned, or was it the wrong time of day?

Wind View (Hawa Mahal)

IMG_20180201_135930We discovered, quite by chance, a rooftop restaurant, Wind View, rather aptly named. It afforded a wonderful view of the Hawa Mahal, and the ramparts of the Nahargarh fort. We ordered tea in terracotta cups, and joined the slow march of time. The breeze was cool, the tea, piping hot and spicy. We just sat and sipped our tea, quietly observing nibbling monkeys on rooftops, the gorgeous fort and tourists, yes, finally, tourists busy photographing the fort from the terrace of the Hawa Mahal. So there were people, after all, who toured Jaipur, apart from us!


We needed eardrops for Mary, so we stopped by at an Ayurvedic pharmacy.

On asking for these, the gentleman owner kept asking us to repeat our query, “hein, hein, kya chahiye?” Clearly he needed some himself, and we couldn’t keep down our giggles. Finally, we did manage to get across our need, by gesticulating and made ourselves understood.




All the laughing had made us quite hungry, and we undertood the march to the famous Lakshmi Mishthan Bhandar for lunch- which took us all of twenty-five minutes of crawling our way through chaotic traffic- pedestrians were clearly neither favoured nor tended to. There were hawkers, flower-sellers, auto rickshaws, cyclists, motorcyclists, with whom we fought for space on the road to reach a pavement, which was strewn with more vendors. What a crazy town! We had to watch our every step till we arrived at an over-crowded restaurant, but it was well worth it. It was cool, and the waiters were cheerful and served us fast, with excellent Indo-chinese- chilly paneer, veg chowmien and a stuffed onion kulcha for the Britisher! It was delicious, and was wolfed down with gusto! Fresh lime soda washed it all down, and we were two contented women. We did breathe easy indoors, whereas we should’ve been gulping down fresh air outdoors. Needless to say, that was not the case.


Back at Jai Nivas, after a nice shower, we sat out in the green garden, and sipped chilled beer and although we weren’t particularly hungry, we did order some stuffed paranthas for a late dinner, which weren’t half bad.

The quilt for the cook’s mom sat in our room, looking plump and ready to warm the lady up next winter. It had been the prize, and we had definitely had an eventful day, because after lunch, we decided to walk through the gulleys of Jaipur, crisscrossing and meandering along behind the main Johri Bazaar.

The slowness of Jaipur, was not in these gulleys. These were the lanes where business was brisk, yet gentle, and people swarmed. It was bursting with tourists, and locals alike, and we got a real taste of what I would deem the high season that Rajasthan lives during the months of winter. We were amused, yet careful of where we stepped. Pavements are not popular for pedestrians. You just walk. You place your foot where you find place. We were dusty and tired on our return, but the comfy, simple Jai Nivas, is ideal for such evenings. There were many guests, yet we found our place in the garden. Stretching our feet, we read till the natural light faded.

Jaipur is a delightful town, and has gotten busier over the years. One doesn’t tire of it easily, because there is newness in the familiarity of it. I don’t quite know why, but I’ve visited Jaipur a dozen times in the last four, five years, and on every trip, I discover a facet that I hadn’t noticed earlier. People remain warm, and welcoming, which is surprising really. I guess it’s the Rajasthan culture.

I will return again next year, with Mary, or with a bunch of friends, earlier. Another quilt perhaps, for us, or anyone demanding it of me.


The Quarry – a SafeHouse


Return my love, he pleads.

Tis dark and damp, a Safe House.IMG_20171227_154445

O that summon again-

Perfumed mask, unholy armpits,

Bohemian stubble, vagrant deviant,

Heavens explode,

Drizzling light into this chasm.

Must I stumble, forage,

Somehow graze?

This is my safe house,

This sombre quarry.

A stone heart embittered,

Fears love, its myriad forms.

A Safe house, pity disarmed.

Where it rests sans hope,

No notion of a future,

No past, no forecast.

Let me be, I barely am.

Leeching blood, quarried.

Leaven me when a fossil,

A Specimen, a study docile,

A prize unearthed.