Here comes November …

Two days left ~November will come again with same gloom and sweet feverish pain. Here comes November~here comes memories ~here you come back again. Here comes November at the door and it knocks. Can you hear the knocking of the November? I can feel it and I can hear it because November revives you in me when it rains. It is so original and so live. It moves in circle and it never ends, yes I am talking about the months and seasons ~ they move all the time. Sometimes you are December ~ you are so cold, sometimes you are April ~ so live…and sometimes you are June-July ~ so wet and sometimes you are November ~ so mine.

You remember the rain in April ~ when we met for the first time and do you remember the cold November rain when you crossed the Rubicon. You went away with a promise~ while we were having bitter espresso~your promise was bitter than espresso that day ~ you were never coming back.  And, it rained that day outside and inside. I did not show water in the eyes you loved most ~ it would have made your departure painful.

Sometimes you are November ~ so mine…

A Grain

A Grain...

You are so tiny little thing

So strong to you hold our life in you

You grow yourself up into many like you

We fill us with you every time

We chew you, swallow your presence

We then release you as a dirt

Yet you continue to grow yourself for “US”

Eternally as you grow

We grow too

We grow old and die

But you grow for eternity…

( Written to mark BlogActionDay 2011, Happy World Food Day, Don’t waste a grain ..it means a lot to a lot of people)

The Spider

Jealous, I am

With you Spider,

For being mightier than me

To create beautiful silky world.

You have been gifted

With the spinnerets,

Poor Me — I lack them.

I envy your artistic-ness

By which you draw your silky world,

With the fizz of your invisible tongue,

How strong the silk threads are, I imagine!

To hold the precious diamond- dews, till they vanish!

Your web glows with the diamond windows,

That spells me

An orb of yours,

A World of yours,

A home of yours,

That always spells me!

Balloons and Dreams

Published in “The Kathmandu Post” on OCT 02 –
Ama did daddy beat you again,” asks my ten year old son. I have no answer. I keep quiet. He asks again, “Ama did daddy came home drinking?” I say, “I am preparing your omelet honey.”

My tears come faster than his. I hide them, but he sees the bruise under my eye.

I shall break my silence

*Yes, the father of this child had punched me in my eye yesterday night.*

Sanu touches my bruise and cries yet again. “Sanu, I will take you and Munu out for ice-cream today,” I console him.

*I’ve told him many times that the baby we just aborted was “his”; he does not believe this.  It was painful for me, killing my life for him. He did not care; for him, that life wasn’t his.*

“Whore, you go away with the one you slept with,” he says this; always.

* I have been married for seventeen years now. Yet, my husband beats me and asks me who the man I “slept with” is. It had always been him. Had I not slept with you over your desires? Had I not slept with you on days I was peeing blood? When after all when, had I disagreed over your desire of making love?  I had felt raped almost every time.