Archive | October, 2008

To You. Because Pretension Is All I Can Scrape Together.

31 Oct

On this, the last day of the month, the hottest in the year, I find the word all wrong to use. It scorches: screechingly, searingly, tearing into my flesh with a canine sizzle as I inhale the vapors of the humid bodies standing in weary line and try to muster images of a New York spring behind closed eyes with squiggles of translucence drifting to the boundaries, trapped within my field of vision, in much the same way as my body remains grounded while the spirit readies itself to nose-dive into an achingly green patch in an unbusy corner of Central Park.

# 659 for OJ

29 Oct

A long, long while ago, in what almost seems like another lifetime, I scribbled a desultory little something for the Caferati Quick Tales contest. The days passed, and then weeks and months, and The Story of Little Post slipped out of immediate memory.

Apparently, not everyone is as absent-minded as I. The good judges at Quick Tales found my story worthy of shortlisting and here it is, among other keen contenders for the People’s Choice Prize Poll.

Now here’s where you come in. If you like it enough, act on it. Rate it on a scale of 1 to 10 (with 10 being the highest score). Obviously, the story with the highest (and most) ratings wins the People’s Choice Poll. But first, please take a  brief moment to join Live Journal. Only LJ members can poll. The poll will remain open for at least 2 weeks from October 28, 2008. For more information on how to go about it, click here.

I understand it may be painful to sign up and rate when it’s so much easier to peacefully lurk and then click the browser shut, but flex that wrist a little. Please? It may not be the best 500 word fiction of all time, but I’d really appreciate feedback all the same.


Head over.




Questions, if any, will be answered in the comments section of this post.

#659 thanks you for your time and attention.  Regular programming to resume shortly.

On Diwali

28 Oct

Tomorrow, we shall make the world a better place.

Today, enjoy your mithai.

Warm wishes for peace and progress,


Eli’s Confession

25 Oct

I said your name aloud today.

After weeks and months and years.

It stumbled out stiltedly, the awkward syllables elbowing each other in an upward bound elevator; and as it floated away into the ether, I stared after it like I would a stranger, barely able to recognize the word I had once passionately moaned.

Cuddling Confucius

23 Oct

Little B, 2 years and 4 months old, with cheeks that threaten to fall off his face, is comfortably settled on my lap, a fairly routine location in his busy daily schedule. From this perch, he views his beloved ‘fissees’ on my computer, after which he will toddle off to his classroom to seek higher learning. Since his family is known to me, I usually ask after them:

OJ: How is Mamma?

Little B: Fine *cheek wobble*

OJ: How is Nani?

Little B: Fine *cheek wobble*

OJ: How is [the dog’s name]?

Little B: Fine *cheek wobble*

OJ: How is [uncle’s name]?

Little B: Not fine.

OJ: Why, what happened?

Little B: Mosquito bite

At which point OJ takes over the wobbling.

About Noyonika, Child of His Eyes

21 Oct

“When she first noticed Abhiveer’s gaze on her, she had been shooing pigeons off her potted hydrangeas. When months later, he showed no signs of dropping it, she acquiesced, and hesitantly asked Rina di to arrange a formal meeting. His intense grey corneas were her last memory as her own eyes blurred and sank into silence.”

As the voice trailed off, Noyonika removed her sunglasses, wiped tears that she hadn’t noticed emerge, and thanked her reading assistant for repeating her mother’s biography.

U-Haul, Me Haul

20 Oct

Others bring emotional baggage to their relationship. We’ve got movers and packers.

~The Boy to me.

The World Is A Shrivelled Raisin

18 Oct

And we’re the global generation

With our frequent flyer miles

Our fluency in foreign tongues

And friends across continents.

We fill our hollows with zinfandel

And raise toasts to 18-hour workdays

And rattle off names of all the massages

We need to de-stress, unwind, feel human again.

Strange words we consume,

Rigatoni, kim chi, sake and bagels,

And molten meltdowns in the candle-scented café

At the corner of 7th and 17th.

With our international degrees

And accents from back home

We walk our pedicured feet around cities

With elation, with pride, with joy,

That comes from loving

Securely one’s own.

Relationships are always in the plural,

Commitment necessitates a therapist and much pondering

And babies before 30 is suicide:

Only fools or the very brave would attempt it.

We have memories of snowstorms

And Mardi gras parades

And none of the nights

We stumbled home drunk.

And reunions stir up nostalgia

That only barely settles

At the bottom of our core

Threatening to regurgitate

At a moment’s notice

(And sometimes, not even that.)

We dance the salsa with abandon

Reworking the heavy kathak tread

Learned in a blurred, sepia childhood,

Our bodies unashamed,

Our spirits unfettered

Our lives the way we dreamed them.

And pillows are for soaking

All the broken dreams

That look around quickly

Before gushing forth and flooding

The silent, unjudging night.

P.S. Haaaaalp! How does one add line breaks to this darn thing?!

Ladies, He’s Available

16 Oct

Here I am, trying to call you to make sure you haven’t drunk yourself into a stupor, and there you are, in the headlines, winning the Booker! Congratulations! Now apartments and women should never be a problem again.

~In an email to our latest Booker winner.

P.S. He is not a drunk. I’m just hysterical.

Letters I’ve Written, Meaning To Send

13 Oct

Dear Mr. [Ruskin] Bond,

Apologies for beginning this note on the wrong page, but I expect it will extend beyond the length of only one. I want to thank you for generously sharing your time and anecdotes with us when we visited your home. It has been barely two days since we were there, but already the Bombay grind makes the mists seem like a distant dream.

I am currently trying to locate a postal service that delivers perishable items so I can send more guava jam your way. From my efforts so far, I have learned that either courier delivery boys are terribly greedy or nobody believes in the therapeutic effects of marmalade anymore. I will continue to try, though. Meanwhile, enclosed herewith are some photographs. The Boy and I hope you enjoy them.

Thank you again for meeting us on Friday. I can honestly say that the all-too-brief encounter was a highlight of my life. I look forward to reading your beautiful words for many years to come and will keep my fingers crossed about possible future visits.

Warmest regards,

[meltingly, swooningly, oh-so-adoringly and worshipfully],