Silence runs in my family.

Silence,
like the kind my grandfather possessed,
always drowned out
everything else,
bouncing off the carpets
and seeping
through the walls,
the silence.

There in his chair
I still see him
sometimes,
watching his offspring,
little replicas of him,
scattered all over the floor
like from a Matryoshka.
Words would not come,
they had gone long ago, taken
in one fell stroke.

Still, he would watch
as they played
out scenes from his youth,
smiling all the while.
yet seeing nothing
but transience.

Silence,
of the kind that roared
in my ears like the sea,
like a million unsaid words,
while I lay sprawled
on the road,
beside my father
his white robe stained
with dirt.
My fake sheep-skin cap
offered little protection
against fear,
but I felt no pain.

“Son, are you hurt?”
was what I heard
from behind the visor
of his shiny red helmet,
the echo
both deep and hollow
at the same time,
rendering the voice
unrecognisable.

What I didn't see was
the face,
folding into grimace, as rock
pierced skin
and connected with bone,
forming a hole that we would watch
spout blood for weeks
to follow.

“Son, are you hurt?”
was all my father asked
from behind his red helmet
to the lamb
in sheepskin,
while all the while he bled
in silence.

It was a strange feeling, being a guest inside my own house. Visiting for a few days and then returning. 'Feel at home', they said jokingly- but I'm not sure I did.

Sure, it was beautiful- a little slice of heaven, set in the woods, with a brook and large screen tv. My new permanent address.
Except there was nothing permanent about it.

While my sisters pretended to sleep, I sat out in the back and sipped orange coke. Soon it would be time to hit the road again.

Those who travel are always guests. And everywhere is home.

A Fresh Start

Last night's promises
lie in splinters near the door;
Each one glinting
in the morning sun.
Step quietly over them,
And start afresh.

Last night's kisses
have attached themselves to the wall
in single file;
Each one folding
into an upturned smile.
Step slowly around them,
And start afresh.

Last night's dreams
lie strewn across the floor;
Each one like old clothing
devoid of meaning.
Step gently through them,
And start afresh.

Last night's emptiness
filled you up,
Despair dripped from out of a paper cup
and formed pools of loathing
that gathered by your bed.
Step softly beside them,
And start afresh.

Outside the window
a new day awaits-
like virgin snow.

Step lightly into it,
And start afresh.

Singleton Park

I cross from the light into the dark
to this place where I come to drown
out the sounds, alone in Singleton Park.

Outside, the evening rituals of the town
take place without a thought
for those who wander on their own.

I was a child when I first brought
myself here and stopped to nuzzle
the moon and all ambition came to naught.

Returning since then like a dog on a muzzle
to watch countless mysteries unfold
and search for pieces of the puzzle.

Words, like memories, mean nothing I am told
But here the silence is something to behold.

LADYBIRD

A thought arrives like a ladybird,
From out of nowhere, without a word
Softly landing on an unfurled palm,
Crawling up an outstretched arm
The slightest movement will scare it away-
Instead, let it stay and watch it play.
When tiny feet brush against collar bone,
Do not claim it as your own.
Just sit still and marvel at the way
It chose to spend part of its day.
And whether it stays or leaves matters not much
If you are subtly changed for having felt its touch.

SPRING / spriη / noun, verb


The season between winter and summer
As in, ‘The spring flowers are in bloom.’

A thing for which you would ring a plumber
Not as in, ‘Hello, yes, could you spring a leak in my room?’

Someone who is full of annoyingly good cheer
As in, ‘She’s always got a spring in her step.’

To suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, appear
(Used for dramatic/poetic effect)
As in, ‘Oh, the tears would spring to her eyes as he slept.’

A place where water is bottled and sold
(The mountain spring)
As in, ‘Full of vitamins, Sir, and even cures a cold.’

Something you weren’t expecting to be told
As in, ‘I’m sorry to spring this on you, but this just isn’t real gold.’

A quick sudden jump, upwards or straight ahead
As in, ‘With a spring, the cat got the cream.’

To free a prisoner, before he’s actually dead
(He’s going to spring me, he said.)
Not as in, ‘No Sir, you’re in for life, you’ve just had a bad dream.’


Spring clean / Spring for beer / Spring green / Spring is here.

Chocolate Santa

For nearly a month now you've stood
silently overlooking
my desk,
with a crinkled smile
that never left your face.

You watched as I unearthed
stories of birth
and death,
slaved over
endless drafts of haibun and englyn,
and when they were done you seemed to nod
in mute appreciation,
giving me the non-critical approval
that I so craved.

For three months you stood on the shelf in Tesco
somehow surviving
the Christmas frenzy.

And then enduring the shame
of being marked down
ten per cent each week,
until the final humiliation:
‘Clearance!’ it said, in big dismissive letters
when they had no more use for you.

That's where I found you.
Or did you find me?

Did you think you would still be here,
past the New Year
approaching Easter,
long after the trees came down,
and the fairly lights were packed away,
finding a new life
as a reluctant muse?

A strange turn of fate it was
that brought us together.

You, chocolate santa; and me,
with nothing in common,
save an expiry date.

In faded black and white photos we first saw you, a little boy in shorts and curls, blissfully unaware of your own genius.

And then eighteen years ago, older but with the same unruly mop, looking like a slightly skinnier Maradona, you walked onto the ground and into our imagination and we embraced you as one.

We winced when you were hit on the head in that first match against Pakistan, our hearts soared higher with each six in Sharjah, we wept with you at the World Cup when you raised your bat to the memory of your late father.

We put up posters of you on our walls; we built shrines in your name. We prayed in turn for your shoulder, elbow, and back.

And above all, we watched.

We watched as a boy became a man and a man became a legend. We watched like it was a dream that we hoped would never end. But of course we knew it would have to, eventually.

And last week it did, as we watched you walk away while a group of Bangladeshi players danced in your wake. They were just boys, those players who danced. Like you were, eighteen years ago.

You began on zero and ended on zero. What happened in between changed our lives and made us believe we could be so much greater than ourselves. But it’s time to let it go.

Those old pictures of you with a bat in your hand and a smile on your face seem like a distant memory for us, as they must do for you.

The posters have come off the walls now, and in time the shrines will have new resident deities. But before that, perhaps one last prayer will be offered up:

Walk on, Sachin. Walk On.

Team India

Even before it has properly begun, Team India finds itself out of the World Cup. Predictably, stones have been thrown, posters have been burnt and some of us have sworn never to watch again. But once the tournament is over and our feelings of anger and frustration have blown over, life will soon return to normal.

The Indian Cricket Fan is not one to lose hope so easily. So ok are we with losing, and yet so desperate for something to be proud about, that we will once again sit glued to our television sets the next time the team takes the field, be it against Bermuda or Bosnia.

For some unfathomable reason, for a majority of us Indians (myself included) it is eleven men in blue who truly represent us, who carry our collective hopes and dreams on their shoulders, who define us, even. And so we watch; game after game, expecting everything and nothing at the same time. What to do, we are like this only.

Too many articles by far more knowledgeable people have been written for me to even attempt another one. You can read one of these about the fascinating ‘Desi Fan’ here.

PS: A class of fifth graders were discussing their father’s jobs. Each one took turns to say ‘Doctor’, ‘Engineer’, and so on until finally it was Vivek’s turn. ‘My father works in a gay club’, said the little boy. ‘He takes his clothes off in front of strangers and dances for money.’ Shocked but slightly curious, the teacher took him aside and asked if this was true. ‘No Miss’, went Vivek, ‘he plays for the Indian cricket team but I was too embarrassed to say that.’

Goodbye Uncle George

When I first met Uncle George in Belfast about five years ago, I could not have known then what an important part of my life he would become.

That evening, having heard of my fear of flying from my parents, he took me aside and proceeded to explain how a few simple relaxation techniques would no doubt cure my completely. Although initially sceptical, I decided to go along with it. There was something about his gentle voice and calm demeanour that appealed to me and put me instantly at ease. But what struck me the most was his confidence, his almost child-like conviction that I would overcome my phobia, and fly without fear.

One week later I flew to London and Uncle was overjoyed to hear that I had had a good flight. A couple of months later I flew back to Belfast and he was at the airport, running through the crowded terminal and hugging me as I arrived. It was a moment I will never forget.

Since then, there have been good flights and bad flights, but it was Uncle George’s voice that has always been in the background, pushing and prodding me on. At Chicago airport two years ago, he spoke, prayed, and even sang into the phone as I prepared for take-off. When I finally landed at Mumbai twenty hours later, I wept not because of my air-sickness but because I felt I had let him down.

But Uncle George never gave up hope. Finally last year as I prepared to come to London, he decided it was time to settle the issue once and for all. He went on to call me every night for three weeks, and on the final night before my flight he prayed and after a few moments of silence said “I will wait to see you here, mone”

The flight the next day was the best one of my life.

Perhaps it was the thought of Uncle waiting at the airport, like he did five years ago, when he hugged me and made me believe that everything was possible once more. Perhaps. And even now though he is gone, for me he will always be waiting at the end of every flight, waiting with a wide smile on his face.

Ever since I met him, I was always unsure about whether to call him Doctor George or Uncle George; to me he was always both, providing me with the advice of a physician and the affection of a family member.

While trying to make me relax, he would often ask me to go to my ‘happy place’ and then ask me to describe it to him. It was all a bit amusing back then, but at this time of deep sorrow perhaps we can draw some comfort in the knowledge that he is now in his happy place, united at last with the one whom he loved and served so well.

Thank You Uncle.

It's been an eventful Cricket World Cup so far.
India loses to a bunch of Bangladeshi teenagers, Pakistan get thrashed by an Irish pub side.
And the 58-year-old coach of the Pakistani team is found dead in his hotel room.

A few of the big teams may soon be on early flights home but surely the first to leave was Perspective.

An Indian passenger named Anantharaman Subbaraman arrived at Jeddah airport. At immigration he waited for nearly two hours for the authorities to call him. Finally running out of patience, the man confronted the officer and demanded to know why they hadn't called his name.

The officer replied that they had been calling him for the last hour and a half and were wondering why he hadn't responded. All was clear when a voice announced his name again over the microphone: 'Anotherman Superman' to counter number five please.

........and we're back!

After a couple of months of being frustratingly locked out of Blogger (apparantly something to do with the New and Improved version: Is it New or is it Improved?) I am finally back to regular posting (of course, here that means once every two weeks but I'm working on that) The promised Ad Absurdum Make-Over is underway, and even though I am tempted to stick with the name, if someone suggests a better one I might just change it. A couple of suggestions did arrive for which I am grateful but I must politely decline, at least for now.

And so moving on...The story goes that Julius Caesar was warned by a seer to be wary of some great peril on the 15th day of March which the Romans called the Ides. When the day had come Caesar happened to meet the seer on his way to the Senate and greeted him with a sneer (sneered at the seer, you might say) and said: "Well, the Ides of March are come," to which the seer replied softly: "Ay, they are come, but they are not gone." Minutes later Caesar was dead, killed by his own senators.

So now that the Ides Of March are behind us, it is time to march on. And with bright sunshine streaming through my window, a month-long Easter vacation approaching and a Cricket World Cup in progress, what possible cause could there be for complaint?

So, friends,(and Romans and countrymen) onwards and upwards!

Ladies and Gentlemen

Eight months ago a little blog arrived kicking and screaming into the world. For the first two months it was cute and cuddly, it cooed in its sleep and smelt nice. Every time it got a little restless I’d feed it a couple of words and it would go back to bed, content in its own little way. However, the blog has, as it should I suppose, grown up. Now it stays up half the night and throws its food around on the floor. It screams from time to time. And it is teething. I realised with some dismay that a couple of words now and then were no longer enough; it had turned into a hungry little monster and was demanding to be fed. I panicked, like any reluctant parent would, when the thing they have created takes on a life of its own.

But what's done is done. I cannot ask it to go back to where it came from, that would be stupid. I considered putting it up for adoption, but that would be inhumane. For better or worse, this blog is mine; it is a part of me. For all its faults I know it is merely trying to make something of itself. Often with little ones it can get so exasperating that you wish they would die, but when you see them later, asleep alone in their beds looking like little angels you feel more love than you thought you were capable of feeling. And you hate yourself for having felt the way you did. Of course, I cannot know for sure if this is true with real children but I imagine so.

And so, my little blog will from now on be showered with a little more affection. I intend to buy it some new clothes and a rocking horse. I may even change its name. Ad Absurdum sounded cute in a pretentious sort of way when it was smaller, but now I fear that other blogs with cleverer names will pick on it. (Ideas for names will be welcome.) I will occasionally take it for walks and we might take pictures. I will attempt to pass on my meagre knowledge about the way things are. I will talk to it about music, movies and sports and will tell it some good jokes when I think of them. I will introduce it to other little blogs and big sites that we happen to meet along the way. And most of all I will watch it grow because we can never really know how they will turn out, can we? I suspect it will make me proud some day but even if it doesn't I will love it all the same.

To those who have been its friends over the past few months, thank you. Thanks especially to my cousin Rachel for being its bestest friend. And as for you, if you by chance see it on the street, please smile and wave if you can. It’s a bit shy, my little blog, and not very good with real people, but it's not its fault. I am told it's a spitting image of me.

That is all for now. It’s time for its nap.

Woof!

All I heard were shuffling feet,
As I stood beside the bar,
I was sliding into an empty seat,
When I spied her from afar:
My eyes were rooted to the floor,
As she bought her rum and coke;
She was close enough to know the score,
But I waited till she spoke.
'This seat taken?' she softly posed,
With lips of reddest red,
Down she sat but then arose,
To pat me on the head:
And now you’re going ‘Shut it please, wouldja?’
Bet you didn’t guess ’twas a dog though, didja?

Going Home

This was written by one of my classmates. I thought it was beautiful.

Homesickness has little to do with home and everything to do with love.
When I am not happily in love I long for home where love waits hanging
on tree branches outside the house, and seeped into furniture fabric and the fuzz and fur of old blankets and missed pets. Sitting silently in memory and invisible to eyes that behold it in person, the home love is ideal.
It does not hurt or ask questions and it is forever steadfast; held eternally, and holding you back, in the mind’s eye. That’s why it’s so easy to leave it for the tangible brand of love, the kind you can touch without a twinge of sadness,
because you’re not sick for the old love
and the new love won’t make you sick, yet.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1833

Ode to the Pod

plugged in, he turns into one of those he till recently despised.
white wires protrude from shirt collar, leading out from the soul,
sucking it dry of all emotion.
He walks on, doesn’t look back
music on max, the world on mute,
He pretends he can’t hear her
homo habilis with opposable thumb, scrolling to the edge of the world.
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
jaded, battle-weary faces,
Seems embarrassed to be there
unblinking eyes, staring into nothingness,
Oh think twice, it’s another day for
You and me in paradise
an alien on life support

In the Park

It's deceptively bright today. I had set out wearing just a light jacket; you'd think I would have known better. Still, the brightness makes up for the lack of feeling in my fingers. On other days the park has been sour and depressed, the tower slides looking like the ancient ruins of an older, more playful civilisation. A park is a disappointed playground, Joyce might have said. Today it looks a lot happier. I make my way past the swings and see-saws, shining yellow and red in the sun. Two children dangle from the monkey bars. Just beyond them a group of eager boys take turns trying to dunk a basketball. A frisbee hovers over the grass for a few moments before touching down.

On the lake, ducks clamour for the breadcrumbs that an old woman lobs at them. Sunshine glints off their beaks. A little girl squeals in delight, asks her mother whether she can have a go. I remember the ducks we used to have in the park near our home. One of them got slightly carried away on one occasion and had picked off, along with the slice of bread on offer, a sizeable chunk of a child's hand. They were all gone the next day, we never found out where.

scurrying to safety
two squirrels
I retreat, defeated

The shadows lengthen. In an hour the curtain will come down on another day. The old woman tosses the last of the crumbs into the lake, heads home while she still can. The streetlights come on, burning orange at first, like the setting sun. I dust my pants and watch it disappear. Overhead, a plane unzips the sky.

string of fairy lights
in a window
christmas hangover

Year of the Pig

And so it was that in all the celebration, in all the hubbub of noise and excitement, there were two figures who stood silent and still...

And though every single human in the stands or in the commentary boxes was at a complete loss for words, the man who in his life had uttered fewer words than any of them knew exactly what to say.

"That'll do, Pig.
That'll do."

Does anyone else really really like this film?

India- Tales from the Hinterland

Rustic transcript of speech by local Member of Parliament (c. 2004)
On a whistle-stop tour of the world’s largest democracy:

Namaste, bhaiyo aur behno[1]!

Please to be giving your vote to me,
I will be much obliged;
Roti, kapdaa aur makaan[2], tho-
I will personally provide.

Roads to your home will be best quality,
24 hours light will be there;
Excess of water for every person,
No need even to share.

Best schools for all the bachaas[3],
Medicine will be all free,
To all who be voting, I will give-
Fully new colour teevee.

I know I’m promising all this before,
But, really, erm…what to say?
See, five years seem long time to you,
In politiks, is like a day.

No fear; I be making your village,
Whole total duniya ki shaan[4];
So press down those thumbs, bhaiyo aur behno,
Mera Bharat Mahaan[5]!

Thanking You.


[1] Greetings, brothers and sisters! (a standard opening line)
[2] Food, clothing and shelter; three words with which many an Indian election is won and lost.
[3] children
[4] Pride of the whole world, a largely elusive concept
[5] My India is great!

Two hours to Kottayam

I stare out the window
as we cross the border.
Brown earth slowly turns to green.

I reach for my notebook;
This is what being ‘moved to poetry’ is like.

For so long she’s hoped for my return,
She’s waited patiently,
The wait’s over, and she’s preparing now-
To warmly welcome me.

Wind-blown and wide-eyed,
Sticking out like driftwood,
A tourist in the land of his birth.

But this is a land of a billion sons,
And each minute more are born,
How will she possibly welcome me back,
When she doesn’t know I’ve been gone?

I breathe in the smells,
Coffee, cocoa, a hint of pepper,
Boats float like dead fish on water.

Coconut palms line the tracks.
Beauty, too heavy to be contained,
Falls like invisible rain.

A child waves from beside the lake.
I wave back-
He grins and tells his brother.

A tiny leaf lands on my palm.
Fragile and so full of promise,
Like the land itself.

No, no red carpet awaits me,
I’m just a face in the teeming crowd;
But she will hear about me somehow,
And for a fleeting moment she’ll be proud.

I close my eyes.
It smells like home.