Suggestions

Fictional Arts - Page 2

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Tactile 

“The longing to touch…I feel gratitude when I touch someone  — as well as affection etc. The person has allowed me proof  that I have a body — and that there are bodies in the world.  — Susan Sontag,  from As
April 25, 2023

Happy (?) Diwali- Photo Story

As soon as October arrives, the remarkable diversity of Indian culture can be seen through a plethora of festivals celebrated differently across the country.  Most of us are thrilled for this festive season to begin so that we may meet our
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The Face

If you share the correct OTP, a face will be delivered to your doorstep. This face is a plateau — a cumulation of lakes darkened by screen time; miles of Instagram glide over beginnings of a body, body of a
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The Colonial

Zareena and her childhood friend Sydney sat in a Mexican restaurant at a bar beneath dim lights, waiting for Sydney’s friend Katie to arrive. It would be Zareena’s first time meeting Katie. Sydney had told Zareena that Katie had recently broken up
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My World

my world has three bedrooms two bathrooms and one kitchen but I know of things that happen in your world too I know the days when your boss scolds you when he threatens to fire you you come storming inside slamming the
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After Love

Now that you have lost another version of you, walk out through the new moon in the spruces and lie down in the deep of the clearing. Listen: they are still here, the wild things, migrations moving on again from
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Spring Musings

Bird love  As I write these pieces, Spring is not quite fully in the air, but close enough. It arrives later in my city, here in Canada. The freezing nights and warm days are turning the sidewalks and back alleys into skating
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A Good Friday Beach Visit

A perfect seaside filter coffee leaves a caramel bitterness on the tongue Even in company, the crashing waves of the sea only remind of the disconsolate need for love. A passing fortune teller offers to read my palm. It is not
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Kite Running Days

Kite running days An ambery summer Lay on harvested crops. Our salad days flapped like Dragonflies. We piled up pebbles under Shade of the giant Albizia. Tween us in loosen plaits And frocks with un-tied knots. Shrieks and squeals about the
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The Mask

A soft whiff of air knocking at my window, table of good thoughts turned over. An effort to sew the wound of past, the mask fell off, eyes betraying heartache. Gloom blocking the view of silence, mind forgot to think
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Gulmohur

On the way back from the hospital I ask in the rickshaw — Why this life-long marination in nature and language? Why go desperately Sensing the too-named Naming the too-sensed? Where do I go gutfully as seasons blaze through me?
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Mt. Luna

Sister, look at the moon fret with you above Mt. Luna. He knows the fiefdom of dissenting clans is upon you, somewhere in a countryside where poetry never had a chance. The fire in the mountains is a torrid metaphor you have to
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The Birthing

A wrinkled fleshly fruit plucked out of my womb They asked me if I want to look and feel and hold Angry, I turned my head away, an emphatic no For the pain the wriggling brat had given me so
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The Dawning

The world shifts on its axis when it dawns on you that your parents are not the font of knowledge and wisdom the epitome of perfection not gods, but imperfect, fallible human beings with dreams and desires a life beyond parenthood.
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Love not Lost

I sit and stare off into the void. Wrapped in inky blackness, the sky’s many twinkling stars keep a wary eye on me, I can feel it. My thoughts play a song; notes of an old song, from a
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My Last Link

I ran hysterically and had no idea what was happening! The village was haunted and dark; only the stars gave me courage. Ghostly silence of humanity, and only a bat flapped its wings, and an owl hooted far away in
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Mother’s Tongue

My mother’s tongue is not her rebellion She has never used it for self empowerment or polarity to speak out against humanity or to construct her identity in the ventures of prose or poetry Her tongue is not her weapon
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To the Second Book

The bedsheets had different colours with different patterns of creases that spoke of random encounters with a lost and dull civilization. There were nights spent on a lonely continent, with a slowly growing love of the unknown and the foreign, And
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Reverie

Is it 9:00 am already? Each day, at this exact hour, a treacherous beam tricks her fellow rays and breaks free into the dark confines of my room. Escaping the opaqueness of a thick brown curtain through a narrow slit.
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An Artist’s Burden

Paint the present With past radiant Preserve the glory With pen or brush Glorious, undefiled by the Proliferation of technology Of post-agrarian times…. Down the lane of memory Revisit, recapture and Resuscitate beauty Live present by celebrating past An anchor to
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Caged

I have seen you sitting in the wrinkled sack of a home Your moist, savory stories slapped shut in the folds of your earth, Pregnant, drunk, and raining. I have seen the blue-red shriek, the aboriginal music Piercing through your
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A Talk about Colour

Equity and Justice are overpowering ideas Yet everything not legitimate exists today That deserves not a space to hide and attack On exploration of the natural environment around One may come across it as a word – Environmental Racism Taking a toll
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Dying Poem

My poem is dying, a scared death in the lobes of my brain, perturbed by noises of the rapid civilisation My poem is a thought entwined with many more thoughts, unable to breathe out the right patterns of my imagination My
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Windfall

Behind a ruined cottage ghosts endure among untended trees. Imperfect fruit weighs down gnarled branches. The shadow of a child skips rope, each turn clips hard-packed clay. The sun slips lower. A hungry child her ice-blue eyes, a frenzy of curls, gathering
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Peace At All Costs

Father’s mantra ‘Peace at all costs’ Calmed our sibling quarrels Our petty squabbles soon forgotten We resumed our play with dolls and toys. ‘Peace at all costs, he said to me Standing beside mother, facing me as I tried to win an
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Nightingale’s Melody

City lights turned off, roads emptied, flash of moon glow illuminated the eyes. Stream of honey flowed in her throat, in the darkest hour, heard an irresistible nightingale’s melody. Kneeled by my wounded heart, feathers caressed sunken cheeks, was comatose for years,
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These Dark Days

With wars in the world The covid germs lingering in the air Men and women and children being shot and bombed World war three looming Cancers popping up everywhere The bills getting bigger With people starving and homeless in first world countries
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The Hug

The casually slipped arm about the waist the squeeze of the shoulder spoke volumes of the love felt but rarely displayed. A quiet glow spread from the toes upwards spreading its warmth to all the pores driving out the chill felt
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The Consolation

Look at the kites these are still flying Beneath the bright sunlight The sign of morning and dawn’s hue That is life, giving its clue Don’t get fed up, and catch every chance To listen to the rhythm of heartbeat And allow
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Lamps

People have lamps for bodies. When you’re in hurricane love you can see it, the light house, the summer rental for the soul lit up like unexpected fireworks that make a holiday. The human body is an arsonist. At any
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Silence of Crows

A black line of clouds expands upwards above the trees. I watch in confusion. Your boots crumble honeycomb-cracks stepping across the yard towards me. Your frown deepens, battered hat in hand. My smile falters. The stifling heat. On a day like this
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Shotgun Smoke

She has been living one foot in the Pacific Ocean, the other dipping a curious toe in the Andaman Sea. Who is she? Wild flower flourishing in the hothouse till she grows tall as a poppy queuing for the guillotine. Still,
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I’m PMSing !!

A baby when she wants As evil when she haunts Sometimes Jolly, sometimes Bossy She is the one and only Artsy-Topsy At times as wild as a hungry Raccoon Very soon as mild as the silent Moon Her nails are clean, but
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The Proposals

With a towel wrapped around her wet hair, Mariam stood in her closet, trying to figure out what shalwar kameez to wear to the family dinner. She rummaged through, passing all the bright-coloured ones and landed on a black one. She
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Buying Stuff with Smiles

“Saleem!” Ami called from the kitchen. “Your friends are almost here. Quickly go and grab a dozen eggs from the barn”. I swiftly hurried down the clay stairs, absorbing their coolness as I went through the blazing morning sun that kept donating
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Wild Meadows

Wild Meadows We were allowed To laugh, but not loud Hushed, the windows must be closed Mind the door, not ajar. It took mind to defy and speak The heart always believed That it was love I was protected and valued. I
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Monsoon

Sky shelters the magic bowls that wrapped. Drizzle dances Ahead of street lights. Stillness of the wet city Breeze and chilly. Carving bundles Of memories. I could sense-even a city has nerves Of such emotions. A mid-night sounds Of heavy rain drops.
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The Bonsai

The Bonsai She opened the shining gift wrap And delighted she was to find that exotic bonsai. The beautiful tree so carefully tamed to be dwarfed with gentle love that it was contented inhibited. Excited, she asked friends and the internet some
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One night…

Snow capped purple mountains I see, Whispering a melody for me to feel. The fresh perfumery scent of the Fraser Fir, soothe my lungs in fragment fresh air. Sun dips beyond the hazy mountain range; glow of the rising moon doth search
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Lavender Girl

I’ ever toot though ‘m genuine. Do, remember my summer? Rounded three paired chairs, Fourteen I was, eight we’re Grands, brothers and hens. Crew cries if I break Grand says” lavender-Girl” Once A new beard left My pink breast started To feed.
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Banjaaran

The emarald eyed banjaaran Offers green bangles to me. Where do you get the glass from? I ask her, now crystal eyed. From my tears, says she. I watch the clear gluey stream. Where do you get the green from? I ask
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Happy Family?

1. “Mom left? What do you mean by mom left?” Aman screamed, still standing. The early morning breeze flowing through the huge French-sized window on the opposite wall seemed to have warmed in an instant. Dad looked at him, his eyes were
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Cosmopolitanism

I am in a transcendental trance Of transmutation To transnationalism From nationalism To translatability of cultures And translanguaging! From monolingualism To transhistoricity From historical binaries To transmission of the viruses Of love for humanity! To emancipation From translucent biases To
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House

Sometimes my aunts sit around the stove And talk about their husbands in shy whispers While they talk about countries and their fall in another room This is how it has been ever since I was a child The demarcation
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When Alamelu Shrugged

‘Mother, to suckle and suckle insatiably The milk sentient from thy life breast’ —Subramania Bharati in Krishna – My Mother Alamelu, my mother, is a small made woman. But from her childhood, heavy burdens were placed on her shoulders.
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Two Tales

Cousin Freddie I’ve spoken often of the black sheep I know (if anybody is the black sheep of their family, I surely am) but let me devote some time here to one of the good eggs. Let me mention
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Father’s Day

“Fix everything in the apartment, my parents can’t know you practically live here,” Mariam said to her boyfriend, Steve, before getting ready to take her parents to a Father’s Day breakfast. “I will, don’t worry,” Steve said, rolling out of
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Shield

We dodge sedge and thistles through overhanging branches on the riverbank kangaroo trail, stirring dust of ancient artisans. I see their shadows, stone axes ready as they scan red gums for smooth trunks with the perfect girth. Sure-strokes chime, stripping
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Abba

Abba was the kind of man you see every day, the kind you see, work with and watch him pass by, maybe even attend his daughter’s marriage reception. But Abba wasn’t the kind of man who’d incite any excitement in
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The Four Walls

Springing up from the ink of the lifeless lines sketched on the architect’s map the four walls started growing swiftly. Layer upon layer of bricks and mortar kept tearing the open into an inside and an outside. Strong they stood
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Travel Poems

Waiting for the Haripriya Express The train connecting the god of creation To his consort, the goddess of wealth Is late by a half hour;  Men who shed their manes  In utter devotion Utter curses under their breaths; I read
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Demolition

before the streets smell rain an eye spies an opening in the clouds the gaze curdles anticipation,  traces a metronome louder than a bomb.  fear splays the sun into smithereens spreading laughter into the sky I spoke to him once about
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I want

I want to walk my hands swinging long and free if these roads were not cobbled eyes but spun trees flowers would become fences or paths at my feet I want to suspend thought wear old jeans pull that thorn
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The Interview

The interview was supposed to start at ten in the morning. A worried Bushra in a cream coloured shalwar kameez paced the room in anticipation. What questions will the interviewer ask? How will she answer those questions? Will there be any
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Madam a Sandwich Please

“In this highly electronic and techno era, where fundamentals, manners and charisma are dwindling from the sector who claims as human beings; somewhere in a corner of the globe lived a child…….” I was drained and exhausted this evening after work
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Walking Away

beyond the window a net of roots stitches the creek bank to battered earth. red dust swirls, seeds lie in cracks and crevices patient for rain. paddocks of brittle stalks fill the space between us, overhead a crow flaps its
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Glass 2

I’ve only ever been at home in blizzard, the electric pink dollar store glitter eyeshadow slant of it. Make no mistake God is black and trans. I’ve seen her pink slippers slide in drifts, her matching boa off the
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Impasse

sound of rain fills the gaps between one blink and the next waiting for the storm to pass among shadows in their heads thunder a crescendo of drumfire lightning jags rupture the bloated sky viewed through muddled branches in the
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Homesick For Noise

I hated sleeping in India while travelling for a friend’s wedding. a foreign bedroom of sweltering heat enveloped my sticky body as I restlessly slapped pesty mosquitoes rambling in my ear. to my left, a competition took place between the
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Dust

Everything is dirty, No matter you keep, Wiping with mop, Or wash it away with water. It keeps coming back, Mumbling grudging, Haunting the house, With its all-swarming presence. The books on the shelf, Are all dusty again, Like
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Chede (Wild Figs)

Some fruits were not meant for cutting Formed when stones were soft and Birth was still a kind of bursting See how wild fig flesh bruises when cut By these alien knives, Unschooled in surgical assault No, that firm tart flesh next
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Window Screens

Coming home from school. To an empty house. Sometimes we’d forget the key. We were still kids. Five and six. Our neighbouring friends would help us break through the window screens. The ones to keep all the bugs in Australia
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