Toto Funds The Arts has its own blog now, thanks to Nisha. :)

http://totofundsthearts.blogspot.com

Check it out.

So,
If you are in Bangalore on September 4th, please do swing by Crossword Bookstore on Residency Road at 7 p.m.

I figured I should probably have a blog purely for poetry because I don't have much to say otherwise. More poetry comes -

This poem is not about
Feet: mismatched in every way –
colour, size, arch, quickness,
walking about a wet city with glee.
How they found ways to touch,
when people spoke to our faces,
not knowing that our toes were talking.

This poem is not about
Ears: how they kept me company
while you were asleep.
I played with your earlobes
twisted them like play-dough
and let my fingers whisper
secrets that would never reach your brain.

This poem is not about
Necks: Necks marked like territory,
necks aching for pillows and
aching as they hung out of single-beds
and bus-windows, and over classroom chairs,
and necks that noses dived into
for a fix of musk, of soap.

This poem is not about
Limbs: four into two, that is eight,
not counting the tendrils
that grew out of unimaginable places
to hold what limbs couldn’t hold tight enough
Limbs that were rained-on, sweat-on,
darting limbs that anticipated morning light and lay still.

This poem is not about
Palms: Quiet, quiet palms,
that went cold, dry, and smelt like food,
but couldn’t tell a lie
when their lines sensed
a faltering imprint and
changing texture

This poem is only about
That fleeting second:
when the most-remembered
parts of your body, left the room,
the house and the city.
In mirrors in dimly-lit pubs
And puddles under blackened trees,
I now smell them out like ghost-flavours.

The story of the riot, it seems,
began when i was born.
"Mongolian child," joked extended family -
In their heads
a locked away suspicion
that I actually might have been.
Mum and dad were glad -
"She doesn't look Sikh enough;
Let's name her something innocuous..."

Then came the probing questions.
"Were you caught in the riot papa?
Did they burn your maroon turban?"
"No. No. No.
"But Mr. Mangat and Mr. Sethi
They have horror stories to tell.
The mob said - Saale Sardar!
Burned down Chacha's bakery,
the cloth-shop, butchered their girls."

I was certain somehow,
We would meet the mob
as we came out of the Gurudwara
after we had eaten more than our fill.
They would hold us by the throat,
Slash, rape, kill and
leave us to rot near Ulsoor Lake.
But see, I would be alive,
alive enough to beg at traffic signals,
and begin all over.
Orphaned Sikh child with small eyes,
waiting for some kind family
to adopt my unusual, heroic story.

But stories of such terror
are still only told by distant relatives,
and as we came out of the Gurudawara
every fated Sunday afternoon,
I would drop my coins
into a child's begging bowl
and ask if we could take him home.

This poem didn't go down too well at the workshop or with a few people who read it.

Banaras is

where the filth of the gods lie in secret
where the residue of the everyday communal riot
goes dry.
where the clogs of sadhus
leave a trail of hashish
on the Upper Ghats.

Banaras is
where I can smell Beeji's dry-fruit platter and
Banaras is
where you can smell your family's sweat;
they traveled by sleeper class to burn your grandmother.
We just used the neighbour's car.

Banaras is
paan-stained everybody and everything.
railway platforms, white kurtas
pale feet,
and the odd paan-squirted wide eye.
yet Banaras is
where sins transform into lather, into greasy froth.
after which men step onto rickshaws
and watch girls breasts bounce
on Banaras' broken roads.

Banaras is
where we are all Hindu
because we buy milk from Hindu stores,
study at Banaras Hindu University,
and dine with the Hindujas
pretending we're vegetaraian.

Banaras is
Darji's vice, his only advice -
for domestic problems, chronic ailments, and career dilemmas,
"Come to Banaras", he says -
"Banaras is
where my dusty living room
and my dusty wife
will offer you tea
and a dry-fruit platter."

Banaras is
where sun, moon and power-cuts
formulate a divine, cosmic plan
and where margiolds swim about the Ganga
endlessly, decaying,
while Banaras is
breathing, burping and burning.

(For Dundee - I updated, see?)

A poem that came out of the workshop. Have some doodles to go along with it, but the scanner gave me grief.