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LPG, Charkha, and the Spider...

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' The gas cylinder'- that is how I commonly refer to the  natural gas/LPG container stored in a locked cabinet outside the house. A pipe connects it to the two-burner stove in the kitchen. It is the lifeline of the culinary excursions I launch myself on, on a daily basis for both sustenance and gastronomical purposes; myself and millions of middle-class populace in this part of the world. While 54 percent of India still uses firewood/charcoal/ c owdung for cooking, the urban middle class India relies mainly on LPG, with 60 percent of it being hauled in from Qatar and 40 percent generated locally. In fact,  80,000 tons of LPG, loaded on two freight ships, escorted by 6 navy ships, risked the perils of a raging war to reach India on 17th of March. It was just enough to meet the country's one-day demand! The import of such a basic commodity as that of cooking fuel vis-à-vis the numbers, statistics and geographical constraints it entails is mind-boggling. And, this was brought ...
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Why do i write...?

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It seems unjustified to be writing about anything but the state of the world at a juncture when it lies embroiled in unprecedented conflict and turmoil.  Wars being waged with the sole objective to paralyze economies and gain control are devoid of ideologies,  principles and therefore duplicity. Thankfully, 'Diplomacy for the sake of diplomacy' has  been extradited from the international arena. Instead, unscrupulous attitudes epitomizing the age-old euphemism 'my way or the highway' have taken the centre stage, which is regrettable, but at least not beguiling.  Ali Khameni, the Supreme leader of Iran is killed along with 42 others of his entourage. There is jubilation on the streets, and there is also a sea of people advancing like a pillar of strength even as they mourn the death of their leader by foreign powers with vested interests.  Claims are being made vis-à-vis the number of war casualties from all fronts. Videos of  U.S. soldiers solemnly carrying ...
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Here's to...

When nothing makes sense, when all that reaches the ear is the buzz of political jabberwocky or the static of AI voices sounding unnaturally confident, a walk through the village of Chinna Mudaliyar Chawadi in our neighborhood always feels calmingly surreal. Children laughing down the road,  women huddled up over a conversation, a stew of rice and lentils cooking in charred pots placed over wood-fire outside homes.  ...aroma of sputtering spices, a hint of tamarind escaping into the dusky air. Effortlessly do flashes of scenes slip in alongside a collage of memories buried under a dusty layer of time: Here's to cranes furrowing aerial trails and to irises gorging on blue  to shadows skipping on pebbles and to violets shaking off the fall'n snow and here's to the naked pigtailed boy  with anklets and kohled eyes, tittering  twiddling a twig, womenfolk gossip and gurgle; here's to the crow  diving into the setting sun, catching the gold, the silence and the s...
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aurora borealis

write me a poem write it without rhyme or reason   create a galaxy within it swirls of phantom hues amorphing like a giant amoeba the raven is at its centre   there is a snowflake suspended  somewhere; it is what you will dream of brushing past your eyelashes: its fire burns a hole    now, add silence, the slow march  of winter shadows. Add darkness  filled with light which shatters the illusion, slices it like  ulu  through  king salmon   imagine something vital has been left out: perhaps the memory of a late evening snowshoeing past cabins with curtainless windows: eyes adrift, skipping pebbles   think of desire: kettle whistling through a frigid morning a scatter of blueberries over whipped seal fat; girl in red parka sledding  down the hill, leaping flames  of green a nd purple engulf her   The Iñupiaq call them  kiubiyaq:  spirits of ancestors playing kickball in the sky  
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"It is the journey that matters..."

Wherever we went, we carried Auroville in our hearts. We travelled the world with  memories of our life in the keet house stowed away like some precious treasure within a secret corner of our being, sometimes sharing them with friends we made along the way. We never presented it as the most perfect place, for that it wasn't. But, it was always a place of possibilities...the hurdles were there, and so was their acknowledgement, and the search for solutions. We all knew that Auroville is an ongoing experiment with its ups and downs and its own organic evolution. All that changed a  few years ago when the Centre government decided to hijack the journey called Auroville, and turn it into a `project', where Aurovillians were expected to be 'team members' on a leash, coerced  to walk a straight line, obey...and submit. This implied scrutinizing every movement of its 3000 some residents who have congregated here from around the world pursuing a dream. Stricter budgeting and...
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the fall and rise of Venus

  1. Venus in her shiny cestus leans over reaching out for the cherry  blossoms afloat  on the backyard pond... a stir of breeze, a gentle splash and lo, it has fallen too: the star and the blossoms co-travellers now 2. excited, they unleash their burden of bliss upon us mortals: lo a murmur rising from the congregation of leaves, a roar mounting from the haunches of waves, slumberous seeds riding on the lianas of desires thirsty for ambrosia and light; impatient pinions bead verses as they plunge deeper into the Unknown
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monsoons

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'rain' in watercolors   humid weight of stillness accompanies me  as i sit on the porch; trumpeting of faraway peacocks makes its way across the scattered shadows of floating clouds. A sudden gust of wind rushes through the iron gate, toppling over a few cashew branches, and jangling the house into discomposition. It carries with it a whiff of petrichor and the promise of rains...however, one cannot rely on its over-zealousness anymore. For lately, many an impassioned storms have passed us by...teasingly Determined, I sit through the destructive squall, my eyes closed tight to shut out the dust.  Prepared to be hit by a loosed branch or a an airborne pebble, today, the being is resolved to abandon itself to the auguries of Nature... may be to invoke the blessings of the downpour that red earth in all its auric entity seeks and seeks some more. 'Rain', a poem by Jack Gilbert swerves onto the memory lane and sets an indolent mind on 'cruise' mode. While rain for G...
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