curtain,

you visualize the air's intentions,
in that graceful manner you speak.

like shoes you hide the world
of light, dust and storm.

when I take you down to wash,
a brighter, whiter room is revealed.

A Papa blogger

All the parks near our house in Yelahanka have been dug up since weeks. This is proving very costly for me and the environment in my house.

The kids now play cricket on a terrace. And the great batsmen they are, every evening, balls come flying down and disappear in the shrubs.

'Ai can I have ten bucks for a new ball, please, please, please. We are in the middle of a match and I am batting, Ai.' 

If Papa is not around, I give him the money. But papa has been home the last few days, and my hands are tied.  

'You cannot have a new ball every single day. Go find your old balls.' he says, quite rightly.

So Pavan's imagination comes to his rescue.

'Ai, my freind is having a birthday party today.' 

'Thats nice. You should buy a present for him.'

'Can I take a ball?'

'Sure you can. Here is ten bucks.'

'Thank you Ai. Another freind is having a birthday party tomorow also.'

Papa looks up from his comp. 'Is your freind having a birthday party for the ball or is the ball for the birthday party?' he asks. Pavan is too confused to answer.

'Its ok, Prayas. Lying is also an art. Let him go.' I say.

'Let him go, but you go and check.' 

So I check and I realize that it is we parents who have lied so much to our parents that we cant imagine an innocence who wants to buy balls for a birthday party.

I would maybe like to say that fathers dont love their kids as much as us mommas, but then I found a poem that melted me to tears, written by myPapa.  

A post card to the full moon

Brimming and bright,
on a mid-summer night,
You take me to a paradise,
Oh Full Moon of the Guru.

I stroll on my terrace,
and bathe in your grace,
and keep moving my head,
to look at you in bed.

You steal my sleep,
you attention seeker,
You pull the strings
that flutter my wings.

I am sure you are mine
in a parallel universe,
O, reflector of light,
O, dispeller of darkness.

Where you are not light,
and neither am I dark,
an abode of utter grey,
where the seeker is the sought.

Parting

When you stood outside the temple
looking towards the beloved's house,
why did the deity bless you?

When you left the city
without meeting the beloved,
how come your eyes were dry?

Your strings are softer than ash,
Be still, my friend, when it rains within,
let the water wash the ash away.

This is what the deity told me to tell you,
when you stood outside the temple,
looking towards the beloved's house.

Which chapter are you on?

AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN FIVE CHAPTERS

By

Portia Nelson

1/ I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I fall in.

I am lost.... I am hopeless.

It isn't my fault.

It takes forever to find a way out.

2/ I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I pretend I don`t see it.

I fall in again.

I can`t believe I`m in the same place.

But it isn`t my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.

3/ I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it is there.

I still fall in... it`s a habit.

My eyes are open.

I know where I am.

It is my fault.

I get out immediately.

4/ I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

5/ I walk down another street.


I think I am between two and three. Wonder if I will mange to walk down another street in this life.

Be yourself

An old friend had come home for lunch.

'Leave your child alone a lot,' he advised me.

'Talk to him less.
Let him become aware of the inner space.
He will enjoy it, trust me.

Don't bother about his education.
Let him learn things by himself.
He will make it, trust me.

Don't force feed him,
Let his stomach decide how much food it wants to digest.
He will grow, trust me.

Remember you are you.
Let him see you as you, not just his mother.
He will still love you, trust me.'

From across the street

As I sat eating an ice cream, my eyes
followed her from the first step.
The old lady bent down and touched
the floor then held the pole and started
to climb. One, two, three, she walked
like my grandmother, one step at a time.

On the seventeenth step she paused, or
maybe the step was rather wide. I will
have to check the next time I go up there.
After the final step, she crossed the altar
and started to shrink.

Above her disappearing head was a faint
light, slightly pink. Maybe the gods
were dressed in red tonight. As I stared from
across the street, the old lady sunk out of my sight.
Her head must have touched the temple floor,
But I was the one, in seventh heaven.