A moment of closings, endings, finales. A moment of leave taking. A moment of what has been, what could have been, what would have been.
A moment, a fraction in the river of time, a brief heartbeat, a pause - 365 more days of your life gone!
A moment when the silent canvas turns blank. To be painted anew with fresh colours, with tints of new memories, new life stories.
A moment to catch a sun drop, hold it tight in your fist. A moment to let go. Let it slip through your fingers. A moment of yesterdays. A moment of new tomorrows.
I’m a boat floating in this flow of time. A moment to tether myself to a ghat, and watch a sun set. A moment to glance back, at the landscape I’ve traversed. A moment of adieu.
A moment of purple skies, the moons of yesteryears lingering over the hill, the howling winds of time lamenting, dying. A moment of time being reborn with the lusty song of the newborn.
And the river, as old as time, flows on. The music of the waters beckons me. Untie yourself. The ghat is not your destination. Traveller, your journey carries on.
A moment of new beginnings. A moment of continuations. A moment of new suns, new moons, new skies. And the river, as old as time, flows on. The journey carries on.
-by Rita Putatunda
Friday, December 30, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Husshhh … Listen!
Husshhh … Listen!
Can you hear it?
Can you hear
The sound of the wings
Of a bird
Soaring high
In the shimmering sky
Plummeting
Down … down … to the ground?
Can you hear
The butterfly lingering
In the chill sun
Flitting from flower to flower
Sipping the sweet nectar
Of life
Dying
With a silent scream
Its iridescent wings fading
In a smothered dream?
Can you hear
The sound of the verdant earth
Drinking the green of life
Turning into bone white
Dry dust?
The sound of a teardrop
Trembling on the tender tip
Of another day, another sun
Choked
In a winter’s grief?
The sound of the stars
Blazing in the night sky
Extinguished
One by one by one?
You’d think the sky would rant and rage
All it does is watch mute and dumb
Like a trapped scream
In a gilt cage
And a shooting star streaks
Across the face
Of the sobbing moon
While the sound of the footsteps
Of Night approaches
Like toxic fumes
Softly, stealthily
Sly as death
Listen …
Listen to the sound
Of a flower curling
Slowly
Back into a twisted bud
Can you hear it?
The sound of poems
Never to be written
As I walk along
The razor edge
Of life?
Husshhh … Listen
Listen to the butterfly’s dying scream
Its glittering wings
Quivering in a bloodstained dream
-by Rita Putatunda
Can you hear it?
Can you hear
The sound of the wings
Of a bird
Soaring high
In the shimmering sky
Plummeting
Down … down … to the ground?
Can you hear
The butterfly lingering
In the chill sun
Flitting from flower to flower
Sipping the sweet nectar
Of life
Dying
With a silent scream
Its iridescent wings fading
In a smothered dream?
Can you hear
The sound of the verdant earth
Drinking the green of life
Turning into bone white
Dry dust?
The sound of a teardrop
Trembling on the tender tip
Of another day, another sun
Choked
In a winter’s grief?
The sound of the stars
Blazing in the night sky
Extinguished
One by one by one?
You’d think the sky would rant and rage
All it does is watch mute and dumb
Like a trapped scream
In a gilt cage
And a shooting star streaks
Across the face
Of the sobbing moon
While the sound of the footsteps
Of Night approaches
Like toxic fumes
Softly, stealthily
Sly as death
Listen …
Listen to the sound
Of a flower curling
Slowly
Back into a twisted bud
Can you hear it?
The sound of poems
Never to be written
As I walk along
The razor edge
Of life?
Husshhh … Listen
Listen to the butterfly’s dying scream
Its glittering wings
Quivering in a bloodstained dream
-by Rita Putatunda
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Drinking Coffee on a Bangalore Balcony
We’ve got a flat in Bangalore – lying empty now because we don’t live there anymore. I plan on going back there some time, to live, or, failing that, to sell it. Which will be a little sad. No, it’s not a particularly fancy flat or anything like that. In fact, it’s a pretty ordinary one, in one of those govt development housing plots, which are usually shoddily built. The flat, situated on the topmost floor in a five storey building, has its share of shoddiness, poor quality of doors and windows and other fittings, lousy finishing, and stuff. And yet, it has something about it, a certain cheerful character, which is unusual in mass produced blocks of government built flats.
A little away from the main city, bang in the middle of lush greenery (Bangalore is the most green city of all Indian cites I’ve been to), the blocks of flats are spread over a fairly large area, hence, not the usual cramped feeling you get in the usual housing plots. The interiors are roomy and airy, especially now without a stick of furniture, the ceilings uncharacteristically high, which gives a more spacious ambience. Most flats of this kind have a low-ceilinged shoebox feel about them. The flat has two bedrooms, accompanied by their bathrooms, a long sitting-cum-dining area which leads directly into a kitchen. Also, a long, fairly wide passage which connects the sit-cum-dine with the rest of the rooms, and leads out at one end into the balcony.
The balcony of that flat is especially lovely. There is a Krishnamachura tree on one side, the branches of which sort of cradle the balcony. The tree has broad luxuriant leaves and blood red fist sized blooms. On the other side stands a tall badam tree, which also has lovely lush leaves, some of which turn a delightful fiery orangeish-red. Out on the balcony, you feel as if you’re a bird perched on a tree. There are whole bunches of birds who keep you company, passing their time on the branches. They don’t fly away once they realise you’re not going to bother them. The koel being the most profuse, rending the air with their joyous koo-koo. But there are pigeons too that constantly go mumble-mumble, and the ubiquitous crows with their caw-caw, the occasional bulbul, and the sudden screech of parrots in their periodic migrations. And scampering squirrels with their bright little eyes, which stop suddenly when they spot you sitting on their territory, pulling up stock still, watchful, then carrying on, chasing each other, hopping from branch to branch, their bushy tails bobbing up and down, erupting in their rapid high pitched call – kik-kik-kik-kik.
I go to the Bangalore flat sometimes when I want to be by myself. I am that kind of a person – I get occasional bouts of I-want-to-be-left-alone-to-be-by-myself fits. And I sit on that balcony for hours, sipping South Indian filter coffee. I hardly ever drink tea when I go to Bangalore, though tea is really my beverage since I am a Bengali and tea is what has always been made at home. But, in Bangalore, I just feel like coffee. Every home, every street, every roadside coffee stall is infused with its aroma, which my senses eagerly savour. It is the flavour and the uniqueness of Bangalore. And nothing defines this city more than its savoury filter coffee.
Now, I can’t make the coffee myself, at least, not like the Bangaloreans do. Like tea, coffee needs practice and familiarity, to be able to extract its soul from within its dark brown ground beans. So, when I go to Bangalore, about the first thing I do in the morning is trudge down to my favourite street side eatery, Udupas – a 45 minute walk – whose coffee is unrivalled, according to me, even in Bangalore – with a flask swinging on my shoulder. And the first thing I do when I reach Udupas is of course drink a quick cup there – nothing like piping hot fresh coffee straight from the constantly gurgling coffee pot. Then, tanking up the flask I trudge back home, to sit in my balcony where the sun pierces through the leaves and makes patterns on the mosaic floor. And, letting my mind drift along with a gentle breeze, I drink cup after cup, letting the aroma of the brown liquid filter through every pore of my being, as the day wears on and dies in the dusk, listening to the constant chatter of the birds.
Drinking coffee and dreaming. Drinking coffee and writing. Drinking coffee and feeling at one with the universe in which I exist as a speck of life in a leaf enclosed, sun spattered, bird-song filled balcony in Bangalore.
-by Rita Putatunda
A little away from the main city, bang in the middle of lush greenery (Bangalore is the most green city of all Indian cites I’ve been to), the blocks of flats are spread over a fairly large area, hence, not the usual cramped feeling you get in the usual housing plots. The interiors are roomy and airy, especially now without a stick of furniture, the ceilings uncharacteristically high, which gives a more spacious ambience. Most flats of this kind have a low-ceilinged shoebox feel about them. The flat has two bedrooms, accompanied by their bathrooms, a long sitting-cum-dining area which leads directly into a kitchen. Also, a long, fairly wide passage which connects the sit-cum-dine with the rest of the rooms, and leads out at one end into the balcony.
The balcony of that flat is especially lovely. There is a Krishnamachura tree on one side, the branches of which sort of cradle the balcony. The tree has broad luxuriant leaves and blood red fist sized blooms. On the other side stands a tall badam tree, which also has lovely lush leaves, some of which turn a delightful fiery orangeish-red. Out on the balcony, you feel as if you’re a bird perched on a tree. There are whole bunches of birds who keep you company, passing their time on the branches. They don’t fly away once they realise you’re not going to bother them. The koel being the most profuse, rending the air with their joyous koo-koo. But there are pigeons too that constantly go mumble-mumble, and the ubiquitous crows with their caw-caw, the occasional bulbul, and the sudden screech of parrots in their periodic migrations. And scampering squirrels with their bright little eyes, which stop suddenly when they spot you sitting on their territory, pulling up stock still, watchful, then carrying on, chasing each other, hopping from branch to branch, their bushy tails bobbing up and down, erupting in their rapid high pitched call – kik-kik-kik-kik.
I go to the Bangalore flat sometimes when I want to be by myself. I am that kind of a person – I get occasional bouts of I-want-to-be-left-alone-to-be-by-myself fits. And I sit on that balcony for hours, sipping South Indian filter coffee. I hardly ever drink tea when I go to Bangalore, though tea is really my beverage since I am a Bengali and tea is what has always been made at home. But, in Bangalore, I just feel like coffee. Every home, every street, every roadside coffee stall is infused with its aroma, which my senses eagerly savour. It is the flavour and the uniqueness of Bangalore. And nothing defines this city more than its savoury filter coffee.
Now, I can’t make the coffee myself, at least, not like the Bangaloreans do. Like tea, coffee needs practice and familiarity, to be able to extract its soul from within its dark brown ground beans. So, when I go to Bangalore, about the first thing I do in the morning is trudge down to my favourite street side eatery, Udupas – a 45 minute walk – whose coffee is unrivalled, according to me, even in Bangalore – with a flask swinging on my shoulder. And the first thing I do when I reach Udupas is of course drink a quick cup there – nothing like piping hot fresh coffee straight from the constantly gurgling coffee pot. Then, tanking up the flask I trudge back home, to sit in my balcony where the sun pierces through the leaves and makes patterns on the mosaic floor. And, letting my mind drift along with a gentle breeze, I drink cup after cup, letting the aroma of the brown liquid filter through every pore of my being, as the day wears on and dies in the dusk, listening to the constant chatter of the birds.
Drinking coffee and dreaming. Drinking coffee and writing. Drinking coffee and feeling at one with the universe in which I exist as a speck of life in a leaf enclosed, sun spattered, bird-song filled balcony in Bangalore.
-by Rita Putatunda
Monday, December 5, 2011
I Thought I Saw You
(This has been inspired by a chat I'm having with E.S. Shridhar @esshridhar, my friend on twitter)
I thought I saw you behind the fire face of the sun; Behind the cold face of the moon.
I thought I saw you looking at me from behind that blue mask you wear on your face.
Is that you in the billowing clouds swollen with rain? Are you the rain? Are you the storm you unleash?
Is that your voice I hear in your thunder and lightning? In the destructions you wreak?
Is that you I perceive in the Cosmos of infinite creations?
Are you that river that meanders across the earth like eternity?
Are you that ocean that exists like time without end?
Is that you being born as new grass, new fruit, new star, new life?
Is that you who died in the funeral pyre last night?
I thought I heard you in the entreaty of a prayer; In the supplication of the clanging temple bell.
In the chants, in the intonations, in the pleas, in the flower offerings, in the curling fumes of burning incense, in the blowing of conch shells, in the beseechings of unshakeable devotions.
Are you that deity with the face of stone that stands so mute, so aloof?
I look for you in my yesterdays, In my todays, In my tomorrows; In my past lives, In my future deaths. I look for you in the skeins of dreams you have woven around me in all my existences; In all my extinctions. I look for you in every lamp you ignite; In every flame you extinguish.
I look for you within me; I look for you outside of me.
I thought I saw you everywhere; I see you nowhere.
I see you nowhere!
-by Rita Putatunda
I thought I saw you behind the fire face of the sun; Behind the cold face of the moon.
I thought I saw you looking at me from behind that blue mask you wear on your face.
Is that you in the billowing clouds swollen with rain? Are you the rain? Are you the storm you unleash?
Is that your voice I hear in your thunder and lightning? In the destructions you wreak?
Is that you I perceive in the Cosmos of infinite creations?
Are you that river that meanders across the earth like eternity?
Are you that ocean that exists like time without end?
Is that you being born as new grass, new fruit, new star, new life?
Is that you who died in the funeral pyre last night?
I thought I heard you in the entreaty of a prayer; In the supplication of the clanging temple bell.
In the chants, in the intonations, in the pleas, in the flower offerings, in the curling fumes of burning incense, in the blowing of conch shells, in the beseechings of unshakeable devotions.
Are you that deity with the face of stone that stands so mute, so aloof?
I look for you in my yesterdays, In my todays, In my tomorrows; In my past lives, In my future deaths. I look for you in the skeins of dreams you have woven around me in all my existences; In all my extinctions. I look for you in every lamp you ignite; In every flame you extinguish.
I look for you within me; I look for you outside of me.
I thought I saw you everywhere; I see you nowhere.
I see you nowhere!
-by Rita Putatunda
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