Monday, January 11, 2010

I grow as a cabbage


I grow as a cabbage

There is a vegetable odour in my green veins

I grow as a cabbage

No kernel lurking inside my leafy self

Clear my foliage to find lips without tongues

Ernest with green skin-flesh-bone

I grow as a cabbage

Contained in my countless folds,

Content with my vegetative abundance.

Arms embracing arms, fingers entwined in fingers

I grow as a cabbage

And spread out like festoons when ripped.


Creative Commons License Craving for Creativity by Shweta Rao is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License. Based on a work at www.devishankari.blogspot.com.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

The Lotos Eater

I had the most uneventful New Year ever.

Last year I remember I decided on a 10 'To Do's' list for 2009, which ultimately ran down to 13. Interestingly, most of them came true barring two. Neither I did not learn salsa nor could I go to Italy to meet my best friend.

Whilst people were celebrating the arrival of yet another New Year, I thought hard of what I want with my life. This time it was indeed special because there wasn't anything specific that I wanted. All my dreams have come true. I am living in the 'happy ever after' mode of your conventional fairy tales. And funny enough, I have even lost all the enthusiasm to live through my dream life. To-have-it-all is also the most confounding state in life, where you are too saturated to do anything worthwhile. I guess this is what the ancient warriors must have felt after returning victorious from the battlefield; lethargic in the spill over of their martial glory. We do know of the lotos eaters, Odysseus' men, who were so content with the intoxicating flower that all their desires disappeared. I am not implying that an induced feeling from some external chemical on our nervous system is appreciable. However, I have a strong feeling that these agents could take you to that momentary state of self fulfilment, where you want not anything else, but only wish for that state to continue. You feel that the time just fleets as you let the events pass by. I was high just once and I had found every thing cheerful. Now I also understand why success or any form of extreme happiness is compared to getting intoxicated.

But along with this intoxication comes the inevitable result, the realization that all that had to be done is over. The much awaited, and much desired high becomes a pas-se in a moment. What is to be done next? Gather the fruits from the tallest trees, bleed your skin, bruise your elbows - eat the fruits. But what next? Belch. Next?

Thank God, our desires are continual, they crop up cyclically, like hunger and, at times, erratically, like cravings. And we spend our lives satiating the ones we can and feeling morose for those we can't. But if you happen to take care of all the major wants of your life, you just pray that you quickly grow up a new want in time. Your whole new project, a reason behind your existence. But pray that you aren't in the Lotos eater state.

I learned today that my best friend has given birth to a beautiful baby girl. I was happy. Happier than I was in days. No, not the intoxicating high which ensures a dip in spirits as a guaranteed aftermath, but truly happy. News of births are the most life affirming things. And for once, I was sure that atleast my friend would have incessant wants of this tiny creature to fulfill, even if she were to exhaust hers.

No lotos for her, not this year, nor any of the years to come.

Joy to all moms!

Creative Commons License
Craving for Creativity by Shweta Rao is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at
www.devishankari.blogspot.com.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

As Vegetarian as a Salad


Once upon a place

In my curried insularity

I would claim proudly about my

Hand made identity

No meat, or chicks, or fish

No bakes with eggs

As I guzzled my milky tea, I am

As vegetarian, I would say

As a salad.


Till my gastronomical expedition

Landed me on Caesar salad

With meat.


Creative Commons License
Craving for Creativity by Shweta Rao is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at
www.devishankari.blogspot.com.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

On the First Frost


The dew drops may freeze into tiny white stones
Does blood freeze when people bleed?
Into rubies red adorning
The skin like pimples.
Does blood throw a pattern on face
Indicating emotions quantitatively?
Dew drops are the night dreams of trees
Hardened by cold, evaporated by heat
Do blood clots dye the body
When boxed out of a day dream?

Creative Commons License
Craving for Creativity by Shweta Rao is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at www.devishankari.blogspot.com.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

RAMBLINGS

Today I was bought face to face with an escapable question – what is my voice, what is my language. The best comparison is my painting skills – if I have bottles of primary poster colors and a paint brush I could paint objects in the remote likeliness. I would color things with my own strokes – the knowledge of creating universe with colors was never fully revealed to me. I am no different than a child given a crayon box to color a book. That is me. Uncouth, unrefined, bold and just me. My writings never have the finishing that a fine piece should have; at their best they reflect my thoughts, though strewn with cliches. My writings smell of my vaginal fluids, they are erratic liquid spells. They remind me how inadequate I am in expressing myself because I am not at home with this language. If not, which language am I at home with?
I had a mother tongue, then a regional tongue, a national tongue then an international. I am a goddess with multiple tongues, multiple mouths to be fucked by peoples and cultures. I did not even make a conscious choice while writing in English – I could think in several languages but could write in only one. English was a privilege and a limitation. English was mine and yet never mine. I could never master the intricacies of the language – the nouns and the verbs make me go crazy, I can never understand how things are pronounced ‘right’. And to make the matters worse, I take English Literature as my specialization – as if I was eagerly waiting for the theories to make me realize that I am a huge postcolonial joke. Articulating my inadequacies in a language which is inherently alien, and thus appropriating my alien-ness doesnt fall short of a joke. Considering the fact that alien-ness is not even a word, my defense is this - I am made to believe that this language is a living organism and is not particularly allergic to new coinages. But will this language accept the humble gift of a bumbling speaker? Will my mistakes be elevated to new words and concepts? Will Oxford ever include my word, as it has included 'jungle', 'shampoo', 'dekho', 'curry'? Ah, talking of curry, I just realized how I smell of it. But you have ever smelt beef as you smack it? You are no more nauseous of it as I am of curry.
Yes, I too, Caesar, suffer from the Holy Cow syndrome. I might die of malnutrition just above the IMF drawn poverty line, but won’t butcher the Mother with four legs and a tail for my selfish nourishment. I utilize her excreta and her urine. I am content to boil her milk and sieve off the cream for my sons to eat. Can ‘cow dung’ ever sound sacred in English? Or can ‘cow pee’ acquire the serenity to purify your house of negative vibes and replace the perfumed bottles of Domex?

Creative Commons License
Craving for Creativity by Shweta Rao is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at
www.devishankari.blogspot.com.

Friday, May 29, 2009

AUNTY

My fascination with gold
Does not end with stodgy jewelry.
The tinkling sound of my
kadas while I drive,
The men who stare and women who sigh
Give me a day long high.
I ignore prickly heat
As my neckpiece puts sun to shame,
Rollick with the steeping rates
As I invest plastic money on the metal.
And the parlour lady uses gold bleach
For the skin that carries countless carats.


Wednesday, April 22, 2009

TEA


Every morning, when sun decides to brew
The aroma in the air and spread his shiny hue
A tea thought comes scampering to my bed
Up, she says, peep out from your blanket
‘I am called tea
And you can’t do without me…’
When I push it out, it is quick to say,
‘I facilitate the first ritual of your day’
And I jump out to make
The potion that keeps me awake