Friday, April 19, 2013

Sounds of a Morning House

The morning is not a cock's crow
it rings a bell in your head
the alarm is arrogant
it shrieks to make you deaf
as she shivers to teethe a ritual
one that earns her bread and butter
the pots and pans clamor
and the kitchen
turns to a concert hall
water scrubs
like a river to burst soap bubbles
hibernated by a hymn
offered as a token of thanksgiving.

Tanks empty their bellies
through taps, filling the thirst
of empty buckets waiting
to get drowned with dirt
as the maid imitates
the three monkeys of Gandhi.

Oil hisses to lacerate eggs
sold by its shells
on a pan baking
at boiling point
with a tea sip, the crust
of the brown bread breaks
to be chewed like grass
molars bite in vain
a few minutes later
the door closes
with a thump
as the lock copulates
with the key
to seal a house
from the sounds of a home,
ready to sleep again.


First published in the Second issue "Sound" in the Kalyani Magazine.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Behind the Silicon Mask By Eshwar Sundaresan







Title: Behind the Silicon Mask

Author: Eshwar Sundaresan
Publisher : Westland Books
Genre : Fiction
ISBN : 978-93-82618-39-3



The book cover and the title attracted my attention and I expected a roving thriller in store. But as I started reading, tens of characters and places and events were strewn all over the book with none making sense any or which way I tried to skim through the pages. I read and re-read and got lost with most of my enthusiasm dying down with each page. Until about page 175, I felt I was kicking in the muck until finally things started showing up. The events described and the places that initially read like a travelogue to me became a tale after that. Each character in the story then started showing their significance. 


Wednesday, April 3, 2013

The Boy who Learned to Forgive


He typed hastily into the body of the e-mail, with the subject that read “Uncle Gupta harassed me when I was all of seven.” 
He typed and retyped into the subject line, while his eyes were fixated upon the picture of the lady who had considered cooking for him, her sole ambition in life. She placed the stuffed paranthas on his table and said “Eat them before they get cold and stale.”
He closed the lid of the laptop and went over to the seating area, holding the stuffed brown paranathas his mom had made for him. 
He stared at the tiny scratch on his left forearm. And remembered the kiss she had planted on it, the last time they met. He had forgiven him.



First published in Six Minute Magazine here.