1st Anniversary

Been 1 year since I started blogging, so here we go again…reprint of one of my oldest favourites.

• This was in response to a British Council competition where one had to create a poem with the following words:


• Paint/ hue/ Chi-chi/ riff-raff/lava/ jasmine/ dolourous/ gorilla/ sinuous/ whorl/ avant-garde/ mish-mash/ cubicle.


• Came out better than I thought it would in the half an hour that I took to write it. I hope they appreciate such bursts of creativity at Tuck or Harvard or Wharton ;-)

LAB REPORT 312: SPILT QUICKSILVER.
She was just that type,
Who did not paint her toenails,
Hue her lips,
Shadow her eyes,
But dared you to imagine them
Painted.She was just that type
Who kissed all dogs on the mouth,
All the Jimmys,Chi-Chis,Babus,
Blackies,Manis,Brunos.
All veteran riff-raffs,
Of the mongrel world.
And it was thus that,
An initially enchanted Dr.Seetharaman-Very famous veterinarian,
Her fiancee of 2 months
18 hand-holdings,
3 kisses-2 full,2 halfs(Kisses being what they are,
she was quite precise)
5 hushed dinners,And one Solitaire ring,
Broke off the engagement,
Citing hygienic reasons.

She was just that type,
Who lets you burn
In dark green envy,And then dips in the lava
That you pour forth,
Burns herself,
And so diffusesA smouldering scent so
Unlike the fresh smell of jasmine,or the slightly wet lily after rain.
This was that burnt,sandalwood incense-smell
That promised hidden Garba-grihas
The sanctum sanctorums
Inside her Sanskrit mind,
For those who dared to stroll
Those nether regions,
She offered dark Chidambaram temples With small lamps in damp corners
Where the stone sculptures
Cannot be seen, only felt.
Such were the perceptual promises of
Her sinuous mind.

She was just that type,
Pretended to murmur secret invitations
To your best male friends,
Chaiwallahs, melon-sellers,
And the traffic policemen.
Just to see
That red rage of a matador's muleta
Wave so well on your windy cheeks
Just to hear
That angry Wagner refrain
Dancing in your lighted eyes,
And then when you start to
Silently trade sound for frozen fury,
She would coyly become
Amy,the amazing African gorilla
Who could speak
Over 2000 words
With only her fingertips.
And dolourous eyes.


She was just that type,
Who could and did in a moments glance,
Make mish-mash of your
Carefully rehearsed proposal,
Gleefully unaware that you had
ractised it for 4 hours


In front of the toothpaste stained bathroom mirror.
And so would make you slightly crush that
The outermost-whorl of that
Hidden red rose in your jeans pocket.
Slightly.
And suddenly all the soft pink words
On ribboned paper,
Start sounding silly
For avant-garde Athena,
Who proceeds to explain
The Fibonacci sequence
On a paper napkin,
With vague arrangements of peanuts,
For analogy.


She was just the type,
Who hungrily devours,
All the arguments that
You had carefully stored
In your mind's cubicles.
And proceeds to fill those shelves
With bottled kerosene
Which she can at will
Set afire
By shooting and so shattering.

She was just the type,
That 25 mercuric years
And 30 inches of Levis
Could barely contain with quiet restraint.
And so she jumped
Out of the 6th floor window
On a clear, sunny,
Sky-blue evening of Darjeeling's sunshine,
Twelve months after she said Yes,
Nine months after her father punched me,
Six months after we walked down
A flowery-arched aisle,
She in snowy white, me in Armani blue.
The day those giggly piggy-tailed flower girls
Almost lost our ring.


But in passing mention, I must say that
She was just the type who
Could and did carefully remove that ring,
Posted it,
From a 6th floor room,
On a clear, sunny,
Sky-blue evening of Darjeeling's sunshine.


I am bored; therefore I tag – Silverine/ Alexis/ Tyler Durden/ Mind Curry – to try this out.