The Magic Man

It was one of those days when you find yourself in the middle of nowhere, looking for water. Just one of those days. They had fountains of Coke and Long Islands. And all you wanted was plain water. Hold the glass against the sky and the sun would shine through.

It was one of those days when it rained. He ran like they did back in Bedlam. A tongue waggling in the air. It rained all day. He sat down happy when the drizzle had died down. More thirsty than ever. Smiling.

For years he would play in the sand. Suddenly looking up from his games at the sky. Then, sometimes, he would break into smiles. Clear streams of diamonds would shine like tears in the sun.

Question : What do you gift a Tramp?

When I walk in to that old bar in New Orleans some day, I'll love to say-

-Just, the regulars.

There's something about things that are mundanely regular that overpowers the seductive and somewhat intellectual call of Novelty.

Give me things that are usual. Give me things that smell of the old poetry book under the geography text in the summer afternoons. Of John Denver and Scarborough Fair. Of Sunday piano lessons and 'You and I'. Of Norah Jones.

Because I am sick of all things that are surreal and transcending. Don't give me something too divine and rare. I never know what to do with them.

Give me something I can touch. Feel. Something that will break when it falls. So I will be careful when I hold it. Something that needs to be watered to make it grow. Something that dies when taken out of water. Something I can cling to when I'm lonely and down.

And for heaven's sake don't give me things I'm never sure I possess.

Got through to TCS today :)

Loved. A Little Less.

They threw away the last bowl of payesh she'd ever cook. The soft sarees neatly hung on the wooden aalna smelled of winter afternoons in the sun. Of dried mango pickles. Of jowan and paan. Of crispy Lobongo lotikas.

As she burned on the banks of Ajay, a gaping darkness stared into the eyes of an old man. The couple on the wall smiled. He smiled back. She did too. (Like they had, fifty years back to the hooded camera.)

Only her smile bellowed in whiskers of smoke that drifted across the river.

The little goat she fed every afternoon stood motionless at the bamboo gate. Its head tilted. Searching eyes. Long after, it went its way.

It's difficult to sleep when the person who loved you the most burns brightly in the cold. In the drizzling rain.

For a friend

A poem by Veronica Shoffstall:


After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't mean security.
You begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises.
And you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today.
because tomorrow's ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
So you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers
And you learn you really can endure
You really are strong.
You really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn...