I am dlunk

I am dlunk with the colours of life. With the flavours of the setting sun’s acid bite.

I pull out my li’l glass. Pour into it a li’l dlink. Thlick purple clushed fluit pulp turned into red red wine. Swirls like a dance in my li’l glass.

The music in my ears goes plink plunk plonk. I loll in the cool-lool blue bleeze. And lick the dew drops of my plink plink life.

I kiss my li’l glass half filled with the red red wine. It swirls. It whirls. It twirls. Around my pulsing tongue. I taste the heady saliva of being alive.

Alive. On this dlunk earth. Under the dlunk sky. Where the dlunk stars weave and wander. And the happy moon staggers and lurches in the dlunk night.

-by Rita Putatunda

A Moment of Adieu

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

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

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

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

A Conversation With A Stranger

After Oh, how lovely this is … to see you! And How long has it been?
Comes the first sip of wine, and after that a clash of cutlery,
The shuffling shoes of the receding waiter, then the silence – brief.
So brief, you almost don’t hear it. What are the smallest objects you have lost?
What sudden smells make you stop and think back? Oh, that song, isn’t this the one we…?
And the squinting into a past. He interrupts, and between forking morsels of food in his mouth,
Talks about the news of the day – a theory, a speculation, an interpretation.
Asks for a story about an old friend, About your mother and father and brother and sister –
How are they, by the way?
Old friend … How many old friends have died, and where do you think they’ve gone?
And your mind is slowly opening, becoming a hollow cavity, a cavern, a grotto
In which what had been hidden from you by the din, hitherto,
Now darts around like winged creatures with their insistent, intimate, supersonic squeaking.
My eyes begin listening in black and white. Did your mother like you?
How do you construct a conversation with an old stranger?
But by now the answers come easier, more flowing, a zone, a spigot, a well.
What parts of yourself have you given up since leaving your home town?
Did your father know you existed? Have you asked your brother and sister and friends
What they thought of you, back then? You can tell me anything and I will believe you.
Look at me! Have you ever wandered into breakdown? Did you witness the demise
Of the old cracked teapot? There are lizards lurking in the corners of his eyes.
The dinner is done. He folds his used napkin in a neat square. I crumple mine.
The wine glass is empty, except for dregs. The bill is paid.
He straightens up, his face a vacant dinner plate, the fork and knife neatly laid, side by side.
And when he enters the taxi and waves goodbye, you are left standing at the entrance
Of the temple of lost conversations, wearing that ridiculous dress you had bought to please.
Your hands hanging limp, you stand sniffing the ancient air
For clues, for distillations, for forgotten perfumes. The crow on the tension wire,
Suspended between the sky and earth, steadies itself in the fitful breeze.
Smoothing its ruffled feathers with its beak, it caws plaintively –
Have you ever? Have you ever?

-by Rita Putatunda

Someone Near, Someone Dear

The night was pitch dark. The road disappearing into the gloom was lit every now and then by streetlights, which formed pools of ochre wherever they stood. Except for an occasional truck thundering by, the road was empty. It was late, about 2 o’clock.

In the distance I heard the roar of an approaching motorbike. It was coming fast. Too fast. Then I saw the powerful single beam of its light slicing through the dark of the night. As it drew closer I saw a young man hunched over the handles of the bike. I could not see his face. But something told me that I knew him. That he was someone near. Someone dear.

Even as I watched, I heard him rev up his bike to a faster speed. You’re driving too fast, I wanted to warn him. I tried again to see who he was, but to no avail. His face was shrouded in darkness. Yet, I knew that I knew him. He was a part of me – as tender to me as my own heart. Closer to me than my own soul. But who was it? His body, the way he held it, was so familiar. His name was on the tip of my tongue – and yet, try as I might, I could not bring his name to mind.

Suddenly, with a shiver of dread, I heard the growl of a truck approaching from the opposite side. And it too was coming fast, driven with the abandon of a big powerful machine having the freedom of an empty road. It had only one light on, and from a distance it looked like another two-wheeler. My eyes, for some reason, had taken on the power of seeing great lengths of distances. And I could see the both – the young man on his bike and the enormous truck – hurtling towards each other in an inexorable rush.

I wanted to shout out. I wanted to scream and tell the young man to stop. To please at least slow down. I opened my mouth, but no sound could I emit through my throat. Hand clutching my voiceless throat, I watched helplessly, as they came closer. And still closer. I wanted to run out into the middle of the road, outstretched hands waving to catch his attention – to stop somehow, anyhow, this dreadful drama from unfolding. But my body was immobile. My muscles caught in a dead freeze. And all I could do was watch with stricken eyes. The nameless sense of dread pervading my being.

And they drew closer. Ever closer. The still night waiting and watching. The street lights standing aloof and unperturbed. I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart beating in frantic thuddings and juddings. I tried to break out of my petrified immobility. Sweat poured and drenched me with the effort. I had turned into stone. Paralysed, with horror in my eyes, I watched powerlessly, and saw what I knew I could have stopped from happening, happen.

The motorbike hit the colossal truck front-on with its engine going at full throttle. The night was splintered by the sound of the tremendous crash . . . metal upon metal . . . screeching brakes . . . calamitous clank-clank!

The motorbike, glancing off the face of the truck, and with the force of the impact, flew into the air. Turning slowly, almost lazily, almost for an eternity, in mid air. As if time did not matter anymore now. As if speed was superfluous now. It hit the ground, the force still dragging it, metal tearing and screaming against tarmac, coming at last to a halt some distance away, the broken, inert body of the young man lying by its side. I tried again to look into his face. It was still masked in darkness.

But I knew in my heart, with the wisdom of the ages, that a great loss had befallen me. Someone near, someone dear, was lost to me forever. Someone I could not replace ever. Someone I would not replace ever. Someone who had crossed the great divide and gone. Gone over to the other side, into the void. Leaving me here – alone – bereft – forever.

I turned my face to the unfeeling night and wanted to cry out – Oh, Weep, Weep, Lament for one gone forever! I turned to the unseeing streetlights and wanted to say – Oh, Shed a tear for a beloved, departed! But, no matter how much I struggled, not a single word could I utter. A relentless force held me in its dark grip.

When I awoke from my dream my body was drenched in sweat. My heart still thudding and judding. And I was still filled with the nameless feeling of fear. I looked at my watch, it was 2 in the night. Staggering, I made my way to the bathroom and allowed myself to feel the sting of the cold water that I splashed on my face. I then walked slowly – a little unsteady – to the kitchen and made myself a hot cup of tea. I took my tea out into the balcony where I sat and felt the sips of the hot liquid course comfortingly through me. Slowly, I started breathing normally again. An uneasy calm descended on me.

It was only a nightmare I told myself. Probably indigestion. It was really silly to get so worked up about a dream, however vivid it may have been. But I had had nightmares before – none of them had been quite so lucid as this. And the feeling of foreboding would not leave me. I felt alone. I paced up and down breathing in the slightly chill night air deeply. That made me feel better. I breathed in deeply once or twice more. Then feeling much better I decided to try and go back to sleep.

The muffled brrinng-brrinng of the phone woke me up. It was early, just five, my bedside clock told me. I ignored the phone. It persisted. Groaning, cursing, I picked it up.

“Hello!” said a voice. It was Sanjay, an old friend. My sleep filled mouth refused to speak.

“Hello? Amita? Are you awake? It’s Sanjay here.” His insistent voice pierced through my consciousness. Why was he so insistent, I wondered irritably, still half asleep.

“Yeah, now I am. No thanks to you,” I said, trying to put sarcasm into my sleep thick voice. But then, his next words sent a charge of electricity through me, bringing me fully awake instantly.

“It’s bad news Amita. I’m coming over now. In about 10 minutes.”

My mind jumped sharply alive. The dread of the night swamped me. Somehow I knew what the bad news was going to be. I insisted that he tell me whatever it was on the phone, but he told me in a grave voice that he had to say it personally. When the doorbell rang, and I let him in, I resisted listening to his next words. I wanted to scream – I don’t want to know – Oh please, please, I don’t want to know – I wanted to shut my ears.

When he spoke, he used a gentle tone. “It’s about Ajay, Amita. He died in a motorbike accident last night.”

We had planned. We had plotted. Ajay and I. I and Ajay. Amita and Ajay. Ajay and Amita – To be wed. To be locked together forever in life. Nothing – No power – On earth – Or heaven – Would tear us asunder. To keep us apart. We had promised each other.

The wedding cards had already been sent. Death rendered them annulled.

-by Rita Putatunda

This story is based on a true incident which occurred in my life when I was about 20 yrs old. I later read up about lucid dreaming and precognition, which I found was quite common and experienced by many people.