Nargis

Written on- 20th May 2008

Cyclone Nargis struck Myanmar earlier this year. Of Cyclones, there are many. They will be forgotten. But the way in which the military junta in Myanmar acted, for reasons only they can live with, was more memorable.

So sweet a name.
So vicious a temper
Like a schizophrenic possessor.
When a gentle breeze,
Turned into an all overpowering storm.
Nargis. Oh Nargis.
Why do we name you?
Why do we call you a name
So dear and soft.
As if with pride,
Like new parents,
Would call their future?

Because you came.
And because you went.
Because you are now,
A part of our fragile lives.
Because we can never deny,
That we did not know you.
That our paths didn’t cross.
And that you were stronger than I.
I know you Nargis.
And I'm humbled by your acquaintance.

Water

Here’s what I want you to do.

Pour yourself a glass of water, in a glass MADE of glass. As in, not in a steel tumbler, or a ceramic mug, or your best silver ware. A real glass-glass!

Go already! (Don’t peek at the rest.)

Now that we’ve got that settled.
Hold it up to the light.
Appreciate it.
Swirl it.
Sniff it.
Appreciate!

Okay, this is not meant to be gross or icky. I want you to hear me out.

See, I was doing the same thing today, when it struck me. That little sip that just went down my pipes has slipped between so many lips before mine. So many (and they didn’t all have to be human.). But really. My water’s been to more places, seen more things and experienced more than I ever have and will ever be able to. Its seeped into the tiniest of cracks, and probably been one among the many thousand little quantities of itself, that washed out the earth, when Noah was afloat.

Right. That’s all I have to say. No, there’s no moral, profound thought, inner truth or deep insight to be inferred from this.

Orange Days

I love the sky when its speckled with clouds.
When it looks like one big tub of ice cream.
With swirls of vanilla,
And a blob of orange sun.
Sometimes, like its interspersed with
Splashes of strawberry,
And a wash of blackcurrants.

When the clouds spiral
In wafty, flimsy, cotton candy-y, thready wisps
Like the puffs from my daddy’s pipe
When he takes an occasional smoke.
Or the smoke from a huffy chimney,
In a white winter scape.

Or when the sun’s about to
Play hide and seek,
And dip below the horizon.
And the sky around it gets ablaze
On what I call my Orange Days.
Like neon paints, with that unearthly glow.
When everything around is tinted in its radiance,
Making me feel I’m looking
Through cheap children’s toy glasses.

I live for those days.