Upsilamba

a mother’s heart

the lover’s longing

an aching heart

a wandering mind

an unsettled soul

 

if you gather them

around a pit of fire

under a star lit sky

 

I tell you –

 it will be a dance to remember.

 

and if you were to only dig a little deeper,

you will find them all

within you

 

like embers.

 

and when the fire is out

and the embers are glowing,

it’s time to call it a night.

 

I hope our silence is worth it.

carry your voice to me.

I feed on  -

a broken twig,

looming dark clouds,

coffee mugs.

 

of you missing me.

Kurup said I no longer have my fangs,

that my fins cease to lift and thrust,

my tailwinds and headwinds are switched.

 
I am Arethea Franklin’s rose,




See my notorious RBG pin, on


I wake 48 mins before sun rise,


The smell of jasmine is still me,

I don’t remember the last time I said “sorry” to Mr. Upsi. Well, apart from occasions where I accidentally trashed his shaver in a cleaning frenzy (it was such a tiny thing, who would have thought it was an attachment to the shaver plus it was rusted though Mr. Upsi argued that’s the paint coating it came in!) or damaged the garage door while reversing my car (I swear I did open the garage door before backing), or accidentally deleting his “favorites” tab in i-pad (I swear all I did was check the Arlo security camera on how I looked while yelling at the kids to stop playing and come inside) or breaking the wine glass moments after he bought it (well, some people break out the bubbly and I break the glass as well). A sorry, was required because I really and truly did not do any of these on purpose. 

It is different when you actually mean an emotional harm with what you say. Then, saying sorry takes a toll. Of course, there were numerous times in the past where I thought about the idea of an apology in my head but that was swept away in a matter of seconds by the million things he could have fixed (for me!).

However, this morning, I thought he deserved an email apology. Somehow face to face apologies lack a certain seriousness that emails carry. A written note seems more thought out, heck, you do have to think on how to word the apology without sounding too forgiving and simultaneously hide a bit of self-pity sprinkled with i-am-holier-than-you mask. Your apology recipient most probably will read it multiple times, not just to make sure he is not dreaming or re-checking if it really came from you but he would be so taken back and wonder if that particular fight really needed an apology. Because, we have grown so complacent of each other and we know that there are a million things that need spousal support that these fights will have to be buried and swept under the carpet. Gosh, no wonder our carpet looks so bulged these days (J)!!!

So, feeling rather pleased with myself on having practiced an art of living technique in real world, I press “send”. Subconsciously I was expecting a similar reply, generous with praises and loaded with appreciation.

Instead, within seconds of sending, I receive a reply worded thus: “thanku”.

Forget it wasn’t a “thank you”, heck I would have even taken a “thank u” too. Thanku!!!! Jesusbejesus holy moly son of guacamole.

Seething.

You know what! He didn’t even deserve that apology. And to think that this will get into his head when clearly I didn’t mean a damn thing I wrote.

Hashtag #thinksyouwillneverlearn#

Dear Ms. Roy,

 

Or is it Mrs. Roy now? But then you never believed in the institution of marriage, did you?

How could you, with namesake lovers and spineless cowards, the nights of anguish and tremor, at times languishing in lackadaisical whimsies but never fulfilled. The knight never came, did he? Ha. And you stuck to telling stores of knights.

I can relate.

 

Where was I now?

 

See, this is exactly my problem with your second novel, the one I waited twenty years. The one that Amazon didn’t disappoint and I couldn’t imagine returning. The one for which I couldn’t wait for my babies to fall asleep, to be transported to your world. The one I read with just four hours of sleep some nights. The one I skipped dinner for and made up with a glass of wine and dark chocolate.

 

Oh, how you disappointed me your loyal fan, Ms. Roy!!!

 

You bring in Anjum brilliantly, I feel her and imagine my own story of her when I finally put the book down for some shut-eye. The next second, you bring in Tilo. Wait! What! Where is Anjum! Who is Hobart and why are we talking about Kashmir and what happened to the graves? The beautiful graves with not so beautiful people in them. Where is Begum? No, stop, wait, Sadam Hussain? Did Tilo love Naga or was it Musa? I know you marched with Maoist insurgents, I know you turned your attention from fiction to real world people movement. I admire you for all that and much more. But can we take a moment to drink in this novel. You mixed so many things into these pages, I lost everything in the end. There was no hang over.

 

I still gave you time to recover and redeem yourself. Maryam Ipe’s monologues helped, Dr.Azad Bhartiya did not.

 

Maybe it is I who have to be blamed. Perhaps I did not grow up with Estha and Rahel. They must be in their late forties now, yea?

 

The ministry that was supposed to provide my sleepless night with the utmost happiness had me looking like a ragged doll with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and blank outs.

 

Love,

Upsi

 

PS: Kazhu Ishiguro Nobel Prize vaangi, kettayirunno? Ningal ingane thanne irruno. Allandu pinne!