show cause notice

dare i flail in the maddening storms
dare i let the tide take me
dare i drown

dare i find my wings in a hurricane
dare i listen to my heart
dare i try

dare i play
a child's game like this

dare i ask
for your forgiveness

dare i live



i only just want to post angsty, angry things that carry the word fuck in multiple forms and variations. instead, i roll my eyes and move on with life.


8 1/2

him. "changes the way you look at your own art - be it your writing, your poetry, the way you doodle..."

me. "changes the way i look at my lies."



i quite liked my uninteresting times. damn you, chinese curse.


myth (ii)

What makes a story a myth? What makes a hero a god? What makes one version of the story the true one, the first telling of the story the only one? Can black characters not be grey at the same time, and white characters be empty? If one grandmother makes Sita the daughter of Mandodhari, is she wrong? If one village sings Urmila's story instead of Sita's, do they become less legitimate? If I tell of Ravana the conqueror, the benevolent emperor of the Ten Heads, would I be evil? If, for me, the traitor is Vibheeshana and the loyal is Kumbhakarna, the righteous is Angada and the wronged is Vali, is my story not a story about the good and the worse? If Valmiki etched his story in stone, and I only tell mine to my niece in the dead of the night, would my story not be solid, could his not be forgotten?

I was going to ask these questions a week ago, in a context completely different from this one. But in light of what has happened with Ramanujan's essay, I ask these questions again.

If history can carry a story, if communities distort it, and our politics shape its morals, is black black and white white? Can Sita not be Ravana's daughter and the one that he is consumed by, at the same time? Is Ravana the terrible, the enemy of the gods not Ravana the terrific, of a thousand years of penance and Shiva's own boons? If Rama is righteous, and Rama is perfect, and Rama is God, is he still not a man, consumed by the need for vengeance, above all else? Can a hero be a man? Why should the true telling of the story be only the one that is first heard? Can a myth not be just a story?


myth (i)


this night is long.

i miss the sound of your voice:
soft, quiet, humming the song in your head.
i miss the rhythm of your breath:
regular, deep, except when you smell my hair.
i miss the taste of your fingers:
soap, ink, whatever you ate for lunch.

in sum, i miss you.


you wrinkle my brain, man.

ps. boy, i really wish i hadn't quit facebook (for the second time).



i'd rather keep
my dreams

safe in boxes
padlock them
and throw the keys

if i give them
wings, what if
they fly



they're good most especially at 3 am for bitching about jerkfaces, periods, politics and the weather. and for knowing exactly what you're going through when you tell them about that earring that fell off. or that you have to buy a new pair of jeans. sigh.


better things will surely come your way

listening to massive attack again after all these long years reminds me of many of my firsts - first field visit, first boyfriend, first tsunami (i wasn't in it, but my two srilankan companions were from tsunami hit places in srilanka), first time i peed in an open field in the dark. for a lot of people, it was listening to teardrop that did it in for them. me, it was unfinished sympathy. on a bus to adilabad, i woke up mid-nap to turn off my ipod when i heard her singing - like a soul without a mind, like a body without a heart, i'm missing every part. i was in love.

every song on that album (blue lines), i have memories of being on the road in adilabad or mahboobnagar. safe from harm is my favorite memory - i was on a bridge over a river, the sun was setting and the sky was reflected in the water - the whole world was purple, orange and pink*. i was looking back to see if you were looking back at me to see me looking back at you. blue lines only reminds me of chickoo and me singing alternate lines because we only remembered the song that way. i still only sing half the lines and imagine her singing the other half.

with mezzanine, i still excitedly tell people that i first listened to that album because my room for the longest time was a mezzanine floor. dissolved girl has got to be one of my most favorite massive attack songs. feels like i've been, i've been here before - you're not my savior but i still don't go. and angel, reminds me of the first time i watched snatch. that afternoon when we all got drunk in my house, drinking vanilla vodka and baking the best quiche and apple crumble i have ever eaten.

so now i listen to massive attack again, thinking to myself that growing up hasn't been what i thought it would be at 17. i might think i know better, that the years have worn my optimism down, but i'll still sing it - i'll sing it in the shower and sing it in the car and i'll sing it loudly when i'm all alone.

they say the magic's gone
well i'm not a magician
they say the spark's gone
well get an electrician

you want
freedom, without love
magic, without love

here we're safe
better things will surely come my way.


*it just struck me - i actually have a picture!


winter needs to just get here already.



i just don't know, okay?


there's this bit in preludes and nocturnes where morpheus is looking for john constantine. every song constantine listens to, everything on the radio, every conversation he has with an old friend or a stranger, it seems to be nagging at him about something. we've all been through it, when everything we encounter reminds us of someone. every joke you hear, everything you've read that day, everywhere you've been - the particular kind of unfunny the joke is, the turn of phrase, the article you read in the guardian, the waiter at the restaurant.

in this town, something is always trying to tell me somebody.