What my pen wrote

   Beyond the Lakshmana Rekha A haze is covering my vision, the haze that is peculiar to authors who are searching for the stories to show up and conjure themselves.    I am feeling boxed in, limited by the despondent and desolate news that is popping up around me. It is laughable, the titanic world is being held for ransom by the limitations of the extremely small-minded people. I even laugh a little, but the appreciation of the metaphor in my thoughts disappear in the haze. Is safety nonexistent today? I turn the wheels of space and time in search of my story. A person in a black long coat swims through the haze and becomes clearer. A young 17-year-old boy plods into the boundaries of my story. I follow my muse into his domain…… Ahmed pulls his coat tighter around his neck and holds on to it, a gesture of nervousness?    But it is cold, a very cold December day. The snow is falling in blotches onto the unkempt pavement conveniently. Conveniently? Yes, conveniently. When the local pol

  This poem is part of a movement performance, mirror, mirror, scripted by me and performed by Janvi Ananth and me. And more than anything else, her lipstick is what she uses to define them, It began on a valentine’s day, her love story with the lipstick, Leave it on her friend said, they will add life to your lips. Not the deep  dancer hues, but a dash of suggestive red. “Drop dead gorgeous” said the dropped mouths of the boys. She blushed a deep beet red at this unknown attention, bent her head Bravo, her heart said within though, you are blossoming my dear. The attention caught her attention, made her aware of her power As a girl, as a woman, as a  source and destination of passion. Passion, the word unknown had created a chasm between her childhood and now Standing on the other side, she tried several shades, Fushcia, hot pink, plum And this time, she did not blush, but met the  message in their eyes with a frisson The shades transformed her lips, her lips defined her face  And he

   A not so great Holiday- a story poem for 6 to 10 Hello Mummy, Hurray, It’s a holiday! I woke up like a good kid, I brushed my teeth and ate my cereal, And I have a lot of time till my next meal. I am bored and I called you to ask, what can I play today?   I think I will ride the cycle, The one given to me by Shamu Uncle? I will press the horn and make it go pom pom! Everyone will surely hear the sound!   No, you say… Daddy at home has a concall! Just the day I get to be at home after all! I have to play somewhere outdoors? Ok sure, after all I am four!             But mummy, what can I play today?   I know, I will run up and down the stairs, It is a little dusty but who cares! I will count each step and shout “Boo” Every time, I jump 2 steps in a row!   No, you say… it is against the building rules? Why are these grownups so cruel? I have to play something that’s allowed Ok fine, I will listen to you, I will not pout!                    But mummy, what can I play today?   I know, th

  The Burnt Shackles A short story by Meera Venkatesan Sumi felt the unpleasantly familiar heave of bile from inside. She quickly got up for the fifth time in so many hours and rushed to the restroom. It was as if, something in her interiors was waiting to gush out of her being and expel itself from her.   She wished it would happen and provide her relief.   But just like the other characters in her life, who controlled her from outside, this inner enemy held her captive from within and refused   her freedom.   Sumi quickly locked the toilet door. As she leaned over, she closed her eyes to suppress the images that always rose up with her upheaving.   But she could not. As a student of psychology, she should have been quite curious at this inseparable bond between her physiological distress and the images that rose in her mind.      They both seemed to draw from one another, exist because of the other. Maybe even this curiosity would have helped to lessen the impact of the torturo

    Title: The Loving Traffic Signal Age: 4 to 8 years         I wake with a start, at the sound of the truck, I can’t believe that I have overslept! I quickly shake the sleep out of my head,   This will not do, a traffic signal cannot go to bed.              I love my job and everyone loves me too, It is actually simple, what I have to do. I have to wink at all the vehicles passing me, In green, red, and orange- the colours three.                The cars wait for me to turn green, I oblige everyone, I am not mean. The pedestrians wait for red to pass through, I love my job and everyone loves me too.               Every morning, I stand, alert and ready to start, With a song on my lips and smile in my heart. I make sure that the city moves smoothly, So that everyone will love me profusely.       I blink the green light cheerfully, The drivers smile and are happy. Making people smile is what I like to do, You see, I love my j

 The curse of Gandhari- a poem This poem was performed by me in Maanini a story performance. Oh the stench! The stench most vile!  The cries of unceasing sorrow rile The minds eye springs pictures hideous Annihilating the hiding places, ruthless I Gandhari, the queen of Hastinapur,  The mother of  a hundred sons, Stand amidst the blood strewn war ground Of each of my hundred ones I hear my maids gasp in horror, Its all red and a putrid brown Queen  fortunate you are for  You can blind it down I stop her with a  queens wave Why should it matter, the colour Surely a Kshatriya’s grave Would be a picture of valour Describe it to me , I command my maid How does it look, the battlefield of the warriors Are my brave sons still  blaring their contempt From beneath the shuttered eyelids? Is  the halo of  the brave hearts Hovering around my own hundred? But then, A tremble of fear infused my being I pleaded, A queen  turned to a mother aching Sugandha, tell me,  I beseech you, Tell me not what i