What my pen wrote

 A light little kiss on your cheek when you are asleep,  not seeing, A request to hug whispered into another s ears,  when you are engrossed, not listening , A hand that surrounds you to comfort  when the tears are in your throat, you are not crying, A thoughtful gift, just what you needed bought for you when you have not been wanting, A call on your phone that comforts you and holds you together,  when you have not been crumbling,  Fleeting gestures of love and care given when they know, you are not acknowledging, Aren't they just the right medicines to make you allright, when you are not ailing?

                      A thought is but a dot in the fabric of time, How powerful can a dot be? A thought is but a whisper in the din of space, How loud can a whisper be? But why wont it fade, why wont it get drowned? Why is it an indelible stain that spreads unchecked? Why does in linger in the air long after the sunset?   When the questions galore filled my mind, I looked within to see what I could find. Where does the thought start? What is its path? Its ferocious energy can spark a revolution Yet its deep empathy can light an inspiration As I searched, I found a seed, an egg and a bird.   A thought is a seed waiting to be find its tree, It feeds on the ground left fertile by feelings, Taking its shape and form with what is there, Feelings that fleet away letting the thoughts linger.   A thought is a bird hidden in  its egg, It looks for sustenance within to g...

  Pallavi rummaged through her mother’s sari collection. “I just cannot fathom why someone would collect so many saris in their lifetime,” she muttered. That was a strange comment since her own livelihood depended on people hoarding saris. Pallavi was a designer with one of the famous sari boutiques in Mumbai. A boutique frequented by the crème de la crème of Mumbai including many Bollywood celebrities. She was appreciated and known for her work, meticulous, and creative. “Am I really aiding this madness of hoarding in people?” she wondered wryly for the first time, with her hands on her head, daunted by the sheer magnitude of her work. Her mother Sindhu Shivakumar was a renowned socialite, and social worker, quite like many of Pallavi’s clients. “Actually, ma was just a social menace,” Pallavi said under her breath looking at her mother’s supine form on the bed. Could she hear her? The doctors had said that they were not sure. It could not be ascertained yet. Sindhu had suffered a...

   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, con...

  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 defin...

   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 w...

  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 hav...