via The Curse of the Extraordinary / Dee


Tribute to a Dream / Dee

RIC Journal

How does one discern between the dream and reality? Do we ever need to? Us … the dreamers who voyage on the surface of water and then slip into the coolness and the stillness … then the flowing … thus the rapture … the subconscious …  the place where we retreat to meet our dreams … but then again on the surface one sees the residents of one’s dream walk alongside the day … and dusk is littered with the remains … that bench in the park is still there …   where we sat and spoke for the longest hour of our lives … dreams are more dependable than reality … always there … always tangible … I found the nazm I wrote on the first page of the miniature copy of Ghalib’s complete works … it was the only thing I ever gave you … a copy of it…

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After Scent / Dee

RIC Journal

Next time you walk past the motiya you will see them: climbing up voraciously along the inner limbs of the bougainvillea, tracing its sensuous entrapment … the jhumka bail is finding its way into the main … it has neither the ambition of the motiya nor the robust beauty of the bougainvillea but it has a dripping sultry after sense that will linger in your mouth and your body will remember it like the body remembers the secrets of a lover … every inch of you aches to be held by the one who cannot be named … and your hands remember being held by a grasp bordering on a gasp … jhumka bail … the lover’s hidden secrets … subtly lying there between the motiya and the bougainvillea … the lover who lives in between the chores the picks and drops the family dinners and long walks … and…

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The Topography of Absences / Dee

RIC Journal

the koyal lost her way
myriads of bricks
the one she had marked
north-east and homeward bound
was replaced by iron girdles
to erect an attractive young
with its circus and water park
shopping all you can under one roof
circular your walk shall be
getting heavier with the laden bags

the koyal  lost her way today
not a headliner
but she lost her home
she is often seen at the rooftop
of the Galleria
crying out for home

the woodpecker’s left the garden
you miss its pecking the earth
leaving its mark all over-
in patches of presence

a child kissing your warm cheek
before leaving for school
the skin misses that one moment
filling your being
in completeness unmatched

the flowers wither
the vase sits empty
first on the counter
and then
you tuck it away at the back of                                           a cupboard
               where  nanos

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Quasicinis / Dee

RIC Journal

He used to tuck her in … and sleep would come like a prayer does to the lips… but of late she began to turn the lights out earlier, knowing he won’t call, or call out. She moved from one room to the next, tucking the children into their wonderfully simple worlds; and as she went from bed to bed, she secretly tucked him into her veins; slowly, cautiously, preciously weaving him into her skin and then her blood… this would go too.. the indescribable intensity…
one can’t tell loss from a fall… both happen abruptly, without a warning and leave your journey changed entirely. It felt like she was carrying the weight of too many lives in one. The return to one’s old world feels like coming home to a house where someone has rearranged your furniture. It’s a disorienting feeling. The only comfort in a sad place is…

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