Crystal Tear Drop

Posted by Morticia of Mirth
You’d want my ‘tear-drop’ pendent To lie right on the pit of my neck, Right above the collar bones, “your prominent collar bones” you’d tease. when I swallow, you say, “the ‘crystal tear drop’ ripples down the hollow of softest skin.” When I tie my hair into a high bun, Strands would fall down my nape, You’d ruffle them, run your fingers through them, entangle them and say “baby’s hair, so soft”. Late at night, while driving back home, When the car windows are embossed with tiny rain droplets, You’d smile and say “your ‘crystal tear drop’ splintering down from above” One hand holding the steering wheel, The other resting on mine, Fingers intertwined, hands click into a lock, Right in place, a perfect fit. Though you'd say, “My God, your hands are tiny, I am afraid I’ll squish them!” And I wouldn’t take off my eye make up till next morning, Smudged khol, black eye-shadow smeared, teary eyes peering behind mascara thick lashes, And you’d laugh hard… I’d listen, listen to your laughter become a cackle while black tears from sleepy eyes, roll down my cheeks youd’ tuck my dampen hair behind my ears, kiss my forehead and whisper “black ‘crystal tear drop’ slithering down field of gold’
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Posted by Morticia of Mirth



Was listening to some oldies today...
"Would you know my nameif I saw you in heaven?Would it be the sameif I saw you in heaven?"
scribbled alongg...

He would polish his shoes on Sundays. He would sit in front of his little black cabinet and polish them; a frown creasing his fore head, a line of sweat glistening above his nicotine stained lips, delicate hands caressing footwear, time ticking away, not a care in the world, clean white cloth running over black leather, brown suede, veins bulging in and out, strong dark arms stroking the pumps, gentle touch, intimacy with “Cherry Blossom” black polish….
Each shoe box was labeled, the first letter always a curlicue. He would also methodically label the bottles of all his auyurvedic medicine-I don’t remember if he also had a day for labeling.

If anyone at home was looking for anything at any time of the day, they would go to him. He had it all, under labels: boxes of paper Clips, different sizes of scissors, band aid boxes, various kinds of ointments; my favorite one was the magic syrup that would melt a bone stuck in the throat. The handy man was always equipped for the ceremonial healing of old and new pains.

I remember running to him even for the tiniest of scratches. I would jump on him, show him the place I claimed was hurt and say “now I need a band aid’. He would say, ‘were you fighting with the tiger, on the secret tunnel, on your way to save the princess held hostage by the naughty pirates?” I added aliens and giants and pixies to the story. And he too helped me with the details. I went back to my room, healed and proud.

He would oil his hair right after taking a shower. He parted it with the thin comb like chiseling a sculpture. He buttoned the cuffs and collars of his shirt, wore the trendiest of pants and carried his fashionable umbrella that he bought back from England during his college days. Then he would knock on my door and say, “would you like to go and look for the Aladdin’s lamp? We would then go to places which I don’t remember and he knew so well. He would buy fabrics, tools and shoes with the cheapest of deals. We would walk for hours and then he would smile and ask me on our way back, “we got some very good deals today, did you notice, my little princess?” I would still nag about the Aladdin’s lamp till I got what I wanted. How could I have not? My genie was right next to me…

I still remember his morning chores….his ritualistic ‘shave’ “Sokinaaa, the water is not warm enough. I told you I want Luke warm water.” “Did I ask you for boiling water, I said LUKE WARM, L-U-K-E-W-A-R-M. Don’t you get it? Why does it have to be like this every morning? Can’t you do something right for once?” Poor Sokina would run to and fro with the bowl of warm water, until it was perfect according to the standards of the perfectionist.
Then he would bellow and scream for a little while because of the disarrangement of his shaving tools; the razor had to be on the left hand side of the sink, followed by the shaving foam and the brush. His tooth paste and brush had to be on the right hand side. If anything was different from the way he wanted, Sokina had a rough morning, and a rough morning is what she had on most days. But she never seemed to learn, she was in some ways, a bigot and as rigid as him.

He would then have his regular breakfast like he did since he was in college, dress accordingly and go out in the streets of Dhaka looking fashionably crazy.

At night before going to bed, he would rhythmically move his Rolex watch from left to right and tell me “you know what its like with good chronometers, that don’t run on batteries, right? They have to be treated right.” He would treat his right by moving it from left to right thirty six times. I grew up watching him move his watch thirty six times, while I waited helplessly for my bed time story. But who could rush him? He would do what he had been doing all his life. He would keep his spectacles on the bed side table, beside the glass of water. Then he would set the alarm clock without which he could just as well wake up.
I fell asleep while he read about the far, far lands that he believed I'll one day see and the vast ocean he knew I'll cross. He had a sac full of stories that lasted till the day I finally grew up. But first things first; first he would have to move his watch thirty six times while I waited impatiently for my story...one, two, three, four, five, six...”once upon a time....”...I could see Sinbad being lashed by the princess because he smelled like garlic....the smell of garlic lingered the next morning...

He was my father’s father, with his nicely parted hair, stylish umbrella, arrogance and polished shoes, who lived in his time when the time was actually ours.
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Posted by Morticia of Mirth

"And it rained all night and washed the filfth away Down New York airconditioned drains The click click clack of the heavy black trains A million engines in neutral ......"



People scurry down the dark chute that will eventually suck them in and devour their energy. There is a bright glint of light coming in through the grille-teeth and the gaping mouth up the stairs. Bank of two escalators and a very sunken staircase in the middle vein down. The staircase makes midgets out of people when you look at them from the elevated escalators. I have a $76, monthly, unlimited pass that I swipe in the multiple-hand turnstile and with a metallic beep, it gestures me to go inside it.
Several exits, too many entrances too, yet the jostling. They won’t let you walk in your time. They want you to hurry, to rush, to move-it or they’ll find their ways through you, push you down/away, trip you and when you fall, they will crush you with their high heeled Manolo Blahnik, flat soled Nikes or Payless slippers, nonetheless batter you till you succumb. And sometimes offer you hand after they make you crumble….

NY subway: 63rd ST, Lexington Avenue, Manhattan.

People pocketed portions of the scorching sun, hovering like a bad omen outside and dumped it haphazardly in this underground tunnel. Passengers awaiting the last train sat at the plywood seats and left them warm from human-contact; now the bench bolsters four people, two hours prior to the evening Rush, the high of getting home, marking the end of another work day and calling it quits till the next morning...

The woman next to me has this upper-east side air about her with her pearls, beaver hat, French manicure, and elongated fingers fanning with a hand-painted fan…. The fall air has no way of getting down here, yet the woman exudes the fragrance of autumn flowers, probably the tinge of maple yellow. The sweaty man on my left reads the NY Globe…Sweat and Sweet talc merge.

The monster sized rats bustle in between the tracks, nibbling on the scraps, wrappers and plastic bags. One can’t figure them out if they don’t look long enough; they are camouflaged by the dark underground earth. Silhouetted against the blackness of the black iron tracks breed the mutated subway mice that dont know natural light. Right before rush hour, when the local trains run slow, sits beside me a woman who smells of autumn, a sweaty man who causes a ripple in that diffusion of scent and right ahead of me, in burrows and in between the track are, mice; dashing past one another, knocking each other down, some bleeding and others feeding on that blood.
Man and Beast coexist below ground level in striking resemblance and harmony….
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A Nightingale Takes Flight

Posted by Morticia of Mirth

When faceless fears dwelt a father's heart
She arrived, as bright rays of light that rend
Dark clouds covering the sky in whole or in part,
Glad tidings, dissipating darkness as a start
Of promises, of hope renewed at despair's end.

A joyful child was she, a bundle of pure delight,
That gladdened every heart by her sparkling eyes:
Softly did she grow, a slender sapling out of sight,
Till the day came for her to say goodbyes
To the nest, where for long she was the living light
As the Nightingale took flight to the boundless skies.

She pursues beauty and truth that's inscribed
On timeless parchments hewed by great minds
Of ages old and new, that are thus described
All that is noble, and the glory that she finds
In her art, in wondrous words so subscribed
To lift her aloft, sans the earthly grinds.







I pray, my sweet Nightingale sings on as ever and ever so sweet
Long gone since, yet shall I hear the melodies,
though we no longer can meet.



ABBU
15th July 2007

note: A welcome home present from my dad this summer.
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The Little Girl's Hymn

Posted by Morticia of Mirth
He conjures up miracles and magic, While I sort out reason and align logic; he clutches me tight incase I fall from this high, while I sit back and this rotten life passes me by... I see fairies, cupids, haloes, I walk chocolate mountains, dive lemonade fountains, bask in moonlight pouring mellow. In the distance of our star, magnetism of the sun so far; in the wind’s swirl, in our daughters' dresses when they twirl; in scarlet, claret red, in the ivory sheet of our bed; in the contours of faces that smile, in that extra mile; in everything I feel lost without you what do I do with this feeling now? it's so blue? And while poets congregate, as we walk the mazes of our fate; while lovers bleed steadfast, as the story teller sighs that breath, his very last; while Cezanne on the wall plays with my perspective, as our beasts continue to live: I love you- even when I curse, die, live, hurt and sore, I love you, a bit more, everyday more. For the sake of passing years filthy fights, silent nights, irrational fears; Just wanted to drop a line, to tell you what, I can't quite define. Stay well, that's all I can say, Will love you always, forever and a day...
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which artist would paint you best!

Posted by Morticia of Mirth
Who Should Paint You: Alfred Gockel

All American yet funky, you inspire an artist's imagination
And while not everyone will understand your portrait, you will!
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This site is crazy! it gives you your celebrity look-alikes! (myheritage.com)

Posted by Morticia of Mirth
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Posted by Morticia of Mirth

Inscription....
I had a notebook for as long as I could remember. A notebook where I used to write down words that had a little edge to them, words that I liked to play with, whose rhythms and connotations evoked something deep inside. As a person who claimed to write, dared to make that claim, I remember always loving to play with words, listen to their overtones, dance to their rhythms, crack them open and stick my thoughts into its core. In there I mustered jolly good words I picked up from somewhere, some book, some billboard, advertisement, journal, life as it passed by.
I remember writing down paragraphs from books that spoke to me, magnified my ambiguities, made me ruminate, made me the most intense shade of blue, sent sensory impulses to the brain which opted to rush adrenaline to my being. One of those few things that remained with me for a very very long time.
I leafed through that 2000 paged notebook with my empire of outpours since the time I concluded that I grew up. I leafed through those pages with different phases of handwriting, with different tastes for authors, genres, that marked my childhood, adolescence, time periods in my life that has no name and to some extent no significance either. It was chiseled with care and details which canvassed my ‘nows and thens’, spasms, denials, relapses..... I would record events; rearrange them, have control over them; have them my way; and on the process rearrange what I had: my life, my reality in being. It wasn’t a private journal, where I recorded daily chores and events, that would be a different impulse all together. It was a testament for a chronic re-arranger who was afflicted by some pre-sentiment of impairment....it had stapled pages where I had written something and found it relevant enough to go in that scrap book, it had pages from notepads with airway’s letterheads I had written on when waiting for planes at airports or just plain notepad pages jotted down on when just plain waiting for plain nothings, it had napkins I had shed ink on, in cafes, parks, classes, and places with no names...some of it made no sense at all when I later read them, thus found a way in that book, my book of my very own non-sense...
It was my consultant when in need to re-find myself, when writing , to amaze and amuse myself, to be awed by the beauty of the shades of words, to leisure, to produce, to fight something, to fight ‘the nothing’....
Today....
When I was in need to do all that today, I realized I lost it. I realized a few minutes back that I have it no more...while preparing and getting ready to lunch, I realized I HAD LOST IT. Seconds back life just changed in the instant....
" Life changes fast,
life changes in the instant,
you sit at the dinner table and life as you know it ends"
...thsts' all that is coming to mind....
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"Don't sell me short"

Posted by Morticia of Mirth














I stare at the streak of undulating ray of sunshine seeping in through my window and making a spectrum of patterns on the floor. I put my big toe on the many-hued pattern, it breaks into splinters and gradually makes my big toe a part of the jolly good show … all seem pertinent at the moment.I have become so accustomed with taking these little offerings that life unconditionally showers on me for granted, that I unconsciously overlook them. And sometimes, in a lazy Sunday afternoon, when I feel artsy and wax poetic, life's own little miracles and treats amaze me. I am overwhelmed with sudden realizations and find myself stuck in one of those fleeting moments of baffled gratitude....

In retrospect, I start to mull and ruminate, my conscious takes me to a joy ride !

We are always looking for ways to learn and charm and grasp, that the ordinary seem distant and the out-of-reach alluring. Perhaps, we will reap the rewards of our 'hard-work' someday. After reaching this impending, much awaited "success"…will that gypsy fortuneteller be still mysterious? That cool tranquil lake still tempting? Those dew drops on the overgrown grass still heavenly? The palmist still fascinating by saying things that we desperately want to hear? Or have we read every line of our palms, as we are the makers of our fate. Do they all lose charm?We know our future, every road, path and alley of it; we preplan what we will do ten years from now, what we will be. How we will walk through the smoke rings of time is already decided, the curse is cast.Some people die only to live again; to make angels of themselves. But no matter how many times we die we live only once and want to embellish our "only" life, as this life is so small and death so painful.

Decisions are already made; anguishes, depressions and desperation overcome. Our victory is inevitable...Half-life gone planning and the other half scheming to make our plans successful. Not a day wasted, neither a night slept, gathering dots and bits like the ant awaiting the winter. We indeed are successful people leading prosperous lives that fit into the mushy hallmark card passages......but then again...

I walk by the manhattan beach area in a sultry evening...Amidst the chaos, weekend delights, the appeal of a rainy weekend afternoon recess, I notice an old cranky man who quite don't fit into the scene but without whom the scene won't quite be complete either. I am baffled by his nonchalance towards his imperfection; his invisibility. He had the calmness about him that only comes with letting go....

I don’t envy him, no, not at all!

He gently taps his ragged Nike sneakers clad toes on the pavement of the sidewalk and chants:

"I might not be who you thought
We don't need any more fables
because the writers have passedand left us lesson less
And we must find our own way
We don't need any more privilege
There is vivid desperationthat is powerless
That no surplus can repay
Like the fix of rapture in a trance
Oh, fates are sealed by circumstance
So you've got to take a chance
Don't sell me short!"

I walk past him, I notice he smiles a dry, high, smile at me, that tells you stories of a thousand battles fought and lost..I smile back, and with those smiles, we make a pact, that we will never let anyone or anything "sell us short".....
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"Psyche at the throne of Venus"

Posted by Morticia of Mirth



"My world is a prison. Are you locked behind doors of iron ? Love and freedom are the twin birds that fly in a fiery sky; waxy effigies melting down silently, unheard, down the candle of this day.The expanse of void freezes in icicles of crystaline moonlight.The walls of the silent night are painted in many hued, frescos of men, of mammoths, of cherubs, of circles and ellipses of a spent space-time.Death is but a right given, dire, but not to be surrendered in a demise. The clapping of the heart in my rib cage applaud in admiration of the last breath.As vistas widen, a star is seen, molten, misshapen I listen, raptly attendant. Foot steps beat in rhythm with drum beats of the ragas of the spring. Earth is covered in machined blights. The lighthouse still burns bright.You enter, resplendent, on this dawn. I am but a nightly penitent."
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Sonnet--by dad

Posted by Morticia of Mirth

A setting sun, a reflected beam, an extinguished fire
Such that what is past - a yesterday to be reborn
In today's light - on a passing shadow lost on forlorndesire That is to reappear by a conjurer's trick - a piece of
mended fabric re-torn.
Words spoken in repetition as set pieces, a gameplayed
Countless times such that the known is the only outcome. Yet the tired rhetoric is declaimed as players on the stage stayed
Till the appointed hour, as passions spent are re-enacted -- tiresome.
On the holy parchment drawn are the sketches taken from the stonewall
That is built high and strong, penning the wide bluesky,
Where rafts of clouds float, as snowy peaks beyond the boundary re-call
The glimpses of a world yet to be seen from a loftyhigh.
Yet the act must be staged, for, that too is in thescript re- writ With bated fears and by drops of tears.
Now dreams untie, and go adrift
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