Fish Out of Water

between
sky
and
water
is a place
I like to be

fringes
are spaces
between
impending struggle
and tarried freedom,

a tight-rope dance,
where a fish
learns to be
not a fish
out of water,
but a bird with gills
who can surf and dive
into sky and sea.

A Living Frontier

at the cusp
of something
I can feel
in my bones,
is it a living frontier
of a becoming
and a dying?
or a simple feeling
of what is, and
what could be?

I wake up quivering,
and let the vastness
and depths
of the firmament
pierce my eyes,
its feelers sinking
into my tender pores,
groping with tentacles
into the void
within, and
touching everything
with a gentle presence,

ah! how it makes me
come alive
to everything
within and without -
one feeding
and digesting
the other,
all the time,
exchanging
secret recipes

what it takes
to make
a stone,
a snowflake,
a seashell,
a leaf,
a bird,
a critter,
a flower,
the darkness,
a smile,
a loss,

and,
a human teardrop
poised
on the edge
of a flood
just waiting to happen.

Stories

and we cling to our stories
like leeches
sucking out
every ounce of life,
to live and outlive
the lies we tell ourselves,
the warm blankets we need
on cold, dark nights,
the fires that we light
over and over again
with different travellers
each time,
conversation starters
and sometimes enders,
avatars we incarnate into,
to become the gods
we already are,
even without them;

yes, of course
we need our stories,
to sing our songs,
to dance, to rise,
to fall, to chime in,
to let out
our long-trapped voices
in cracks of stone;

but let's not be bound
by those chains
that slit our wrists,
let's not breathe
their stale, heavy air,
let's not make them
our flesh and bones;
let them live
in the warmth of our skin,
until it's time
to shed their outlived lives,
let's celebrate their death
like the skin of happy bubbles
popping every now and then;
for they are not raging gods
and goddesses
out of incredible myths;
they are but specks of dust
gathering together,
to dance awhile
in a slanting sunbeam
resting upon
the dark
of another unborn morn.

Somewhere, Everywhere, Anywhere

somewhere
in a distant forest,
a leaf twirls on tip toe
to the yawning ground;
somewhere
up in a mountain,
the first raindrop smudges
the dust off a weary stone;
somewhere
in the haunting darkness,
a firefly lights up herself
to blaze a trail without a trace;
somewhere
up in a passing cloud,
a puff of air grows silently
into a thundering storm;
somewhere
which could be in the middle
of everywhere, anywhere,
silence becomes the swell
of a new wordless song
waiting to be sung.

Being Child, Becoming Woman

and I slipped into her robes
for a while,
so I could feel
what she would feel,
and I saw Joy -
a little child
rediscovering
her eyes, her hands,
her voice, her feet,
and the tune
of her own heart
drumming with mine -
both growing,
being children,
becoming the women
they were always meant to be.

Ardhanari

I walked down
the same stairs
you walked that night
into sweet oblivion,
red and white
draped over
the teeming brown,
a quiet readying-
not for a fight,
but to give
and receive you
through the sacred fire
that I walked through,
with you

and I walked that day
like never before,
a majestic stillness
draping me, carrying me
through dead voices
trapped in coffins -
those redundant stories
of right and wrong,
flimsy threads
that just couldn't hold
new chants, new songs
coming alive

voices drowned forever
in the visionary anger
that cleansed my sight
in one instant;
who was I, you asked,
too scared to shout,
and I walked on
as if in a trance;
silent mudras
of sight and sound,
dancing, whirling
in an explosion of light

swallowing forms
familiar and strange,
where man and woman
fused seamlessly
into one,
drawing the nameless
in the pupils of eyes
and warm cells of a heart
still being formed.

Hungry

grey clouds
over misty eyes,
looking for that
insipid line
where earth meets sky,
pandering rain
falls away
like old quills,
the icy wind
howls and bites
into broken skin,
a long-doused fire
rekindled
and stoked,
melts
vagrant thoughts,
like lemon drops
held for long
on a warm tongue;
while fuming rotis
and
baingan bhartha,
beckon
a cocooned soul,
now hungry
for more,
of life.

Metamorphosis

I am not
the tiny creature
that once crawled
the barren earth,
looking to
new leaves
for succor,
and a cocoon
to hide
from the glare
of a harsh world;

I am a butterfly -
angelic,
ephemeral,
perched
on the edge
of an imminent
tomorrow, with
love and freedom
tattooed on wings
that itch to
take on the sky;

the world is my home,
I don't need to hide.

Bloom

you smell
my sweet fragrance
today,
doors of thin skin
open to the wind,
turned inside out

I have no need
for capes
now,
only wings
to carry
a sweetness

born from
deep stirrings
in the ancient dust,
a quiet rush
of love
for life,
and a sun dance
upon
the altar
where
earth meets sky -

things
that remain
unseen
to forms
that seek
not the roots,
but only
the fragrance.

Transformation

The milk sits in the same old pot on the kitchen counter.
The same place, the same pot, everyday.
I boil the milk every morning, for my husband likes it and my son and I love curd.
I don't like the smell and taste of milk.
I haven't since my childhood. It makes me want to throw up.
And yet, I boil it everyday, because I have to if I want to make curd.
I wait for it to cool down, for that is when the curd will set well, the way I like it.
So I add a drop of old curd preserved to it and wait.
It is important how much I add of this and when.
Too little is not enough for the milk to change to curd.
If I add it when the milk is still hot, it curdles.
Too much will make the curd sour.
It takes time for it to set to the correct consistency and taste.
I have to know when to add the culture, to precipitate the change.
And yet, strangely, looking from outside, I don't quite know when exactly the transformation happens.
It happens in its own time, in its own way.
Just like life.
If only we give every thing the time it needs....
If only we can wait enough....