Boundaries and quandaries
Created | Updated Jan 3, 2009
Subway bulbs, Disco lights, flashy neon, brighten not illumine.
The spread of the candle glow, the hypnotising buzz of mosquitoes,
the still of the night lost to the huggermugger network of
crickets and automobiles,
freezing spines unwares that the prankster upstairs made those ghostly sounds,
lighting was brightest when electricity failed in Ashok Nagar.
Golden California waves, green shadows on still lakes - encalming. But,
the mighty seas of Chennai stay quiet not for a moment.
Brownish-yellow corn under a layer of red and white, the lustre of Onion bajjis under the Petromax,
the pestering chap will sell you thirty peanuts for a rupee, you still bargain;
the fortune-teller assures you, again, that your path to the stars is clear of obstacles (how can you not believe her?),
the Ferris wheel has longing eyes, thirsty for little boys and girls that want to touch the sky (but I hear children of the geist know too much -
Russian fairy tales? Ghosts walking through doors? Mermaids? Haha. You must be old.),
the young couple under the veil of the ruined, white, sand-stone church.
Run, the police is here!
The sea shore of action, delicacies, dreams, and promises.
Modular kitchens, exhaust fans, contraptions, you bewilder me but you have not seen
Grandma's sparkling silver, bronze, and steel, containers of rice and lentils, engravings of ownership, pained separation, trust, and a new beginning,
the myriad circles of Idiappam, anxious faces crowding around the dripping filter with a mind of its own - O, hurry up, will ye? The guests are waiting.
the brazen appalams, idlis that bring the full moon to the table, only more delicious,
the sea of Yogurt that leaves stomachs and hearts full.
Tamarind, Chilly, Coriander; Cinnamon, Cardamom, Badam; Ghee, Coconut, Caramel;
wholesome smells of spice, pulling chords in your gut and soul.
Tall pine canopies, stars of Palm, withering Peach trees, ye adorn the cityscape, but,
the gentle breeze and the yellow shower of Neem leaves,
the subsequent sweep of the broom, the camouflaging chameleon and the bodiless Cuckoo,
balls of rice for the Saturn God, Sire Crow, cotton balls that have not a goal or worry,
soft, spherical, blue eyes of a kitten saddened by the unreciprocated friendliness from the squirrel,
under the Neem tree, Eastman colours come to life. Have ye heard?
Sprawling malls, mannequins threatening to come alive, commodities shelved and packaged, have ye haggled in a market?
Sparkling wares - glass bangles of feminineness, flirtatiousness, contact, and a million suns,
metal pans reflecting like one thousand mirrors,
cotton robes defying rainbow colours,
Spring flowers of Jasmine (the original No.5),
and the little girl scooping a handful of these and turning them into a garland of sparsest flowers and smallest lengths in shortest times (her blades scratch a streak of nervousness in me),
Markets of dawn to dusk, green cow-feed carpets, red beetel-leaf spitoons, gold-chain-wearing, pot-bellied merchants, and overflowing shopping bags.
panedmonium, broken rules, colours, spices, thrift, bargains, stares, and shoves.
The compass points eastward.
The spread of the candle glow, the hypnotising buzz of mosquitoes,
the still of the night lost to the huggermugger network of
crickets and automobiles,
freezing spines unwares that the prankster upstairs made those ghostly sounds,
lighting was brightest when electricity failed in Ashok Nagar.
Golden California waves, green shadows on still lakes - encalming. But,
the mighty seas of Chennai stay quiet not for a moment.
Brownish-yellow corn under a layer of red and white, the lustre of Onion bajjis under the Petromax,
the pestering chap will sell you thirty peanuts for a rupee, you still bargain;
the fortune-teller assures you, again, that your path to the stars is clear of obstacles (how can you not believe her?),
the Ferris wheel has longing eyes, thirsty for little boys and girls that want to touch the sky (but I hear children of the geist know too much -
Russian fairy tales? Ghosts walking through doors? Mermaids? Haha. You must be old.),
the young couple under the veil of the ruined, white, sand-stone church.
Run, the police is here!
The sea shore of action, delicacies, dreams, and promises.
Modular kitchens, exhaust fans, contraptions, you bewilder me but you have not seen
Grandma's sparkling silver, bronze, and steel, containers of rice and lentils, engravings of ownership, pained separation, trust, and a new beginning,
the myriad circles of Idiappam, anxious faces crowding around the dripping filter with a mind of its own - O, hurry up, will ye? The guests are waiting.
the brazen appalams, idlis that bring the full moon to the table, only more delicious,
the sea of Yogurt that leaves stomachs and hearts full.
Tamarind, Chilly, Coriander; Cinnamon, Cardamom, Badam; Ghee, Coconut, Caramel;
wholesome smells of spice, pulling chords in your gut and soul.
Tall pine canopies, stars of Palm, withering Peach trees, ye adorn the cityscape, but,
the gentle breeze and the yellow shower of Neem leaves,
the subsequent sweep of the broom, the camouflaging chameleon and the bodiless Cuckoo,
balls of rice for the Saturn God, Sire Crow, cotton balls that have not a goal or worry,
soft, spherical, blue eyes of a kitten saddened by the unreciprocated friendliness from the squirrel,
under the Neem tree, Eastman colours come to life. Have ye heard?
Sprawling malls, mannequins threatening to come alive, commodities shelved and packaged, have ye haggled in a market?
Sparkling wares - glass bangles of feminineness, flirtatiousness, contact, and a million suns,
metal pans reflecting like one thousand mirrors,
cotton robes defying rainbow colours,
Spring flowers of Jasmine (the original No.5),
and the little girl scooping a handful of these and turning them into a garland of sparsest flowers and smallest lengths in shortest times (her blades scratch a streak of nervousness in me),
Markets of dawn to dusk, green cow-feed carpets, red beetel-leaf spitoons, gold-chain-wearing, pot-bellied merchants, and overflowing shopping bags.
panedmonium, broken rules, colours, spices, thrift, bargains, stares, and shoves.
The compass points eastward.
