Mustard.

I wilt in love. I cease to exist. I lose my words, my way, my breath. Without a grip on myself, I love no one. I hate. And hope it doesn't show, not even to myself. So, with my palms wet, stomach clenched, my insides eating itself, unable to sleep, I then proceed to claim to understand. I don't. I cannot love. I can only wait. That is my blessing, that is my curse. But if that is the only way, then so it shall be.

Fishes.

I am breathless, the world inside me emptied out.
My skin on yours, speaking, singing, singing. There are mysteries in the way your eyes glow, pale moons in the darkness.
I am breathless.

The emerald of the walls, the turquoise of these old cotton sheets. Like an old, faded sea.

But I can swim. Can you?

The iridescent laugh of these anklets, as they trickle over you. The scent of frangipani. Of sweat. And the stories of our skin.
I let my fingers trail through the dense jungles of you, no longer unexplored by me, no longer unexplored.

My kohl has inked you. Your fingers tangle in my hair and sleep.

I can no longer breathe. I can only dance.

Genetically modified truths.

Here's the link to a story on how the tests on Bt-Brinjal were rigged, and how they were approved.
The story never ran in The Hindu; but it made it online because of a slip up at the desk.
http://beta.thehindu.com/news/national/article60225.ece

Close.

I want to give up.
There seems to be no end in sight. Ten villages will be emptied out, so TATA's steel plant can come up. It is Infrastructure. It is Development, and it is Progress.
It is Salvation.
It is Technology, the kind that cocoons you, whispering softly, soothingly into your ear, lulling you to sleep.
While the world fucking burns. With you in it.

Now.

Thunderstorms
That went on for three days,
And left me
Weeping. Salty fingers and
Hair tumbling loose
I want the
Thunderstorms back.

That.

ORGY

There were three of them that night.
They wanted it to happen in the first woman’s room.
The man called her; the phone rang high.
Then she put fresh lipstick on.
Pretty soon he rang the bell.
She dreamed, she dreamed, she dreamed.
She scarcely looked him in the face
But gently took him to his place.
And after that the bell, the bell.
They looked each other in the eyes,
A hot July it was that night,
And he then slow took off his tie,
And she then slow took off her scarf,
The second one took off her scarf,
And he then slow his heavy shoe,
The other one took off her shoe,
He then took off his other shoe,
The second one, her other shoe,
A hot July it was that night.
And he then slow took off his belt,
And she then slow took off her belt,
The second one took off her belt…

- Muriel Rekeyser

Follow.

It finally rained, here in this mysterious city. This city which plays close to its chest, and only whispers even to its most trusted confidantes. Madras.

The rain smells foul. To walk down the corridor, I had to hold my breath.
The stench is the slow, spreading kind, that eases into your mind and memory, and stays there.
Yellow. It smells like a carcass. As though the city died a while back, and we didn't notice.

Filth. The kind of smell that will creep into even the most insulated air-conditioned offices, and edge in through the tiny crack between your car window and the dirty sponge-lining.
The pavements will be wet tonight. Even they will have to turn away the millions who rest their heads on them tonight.
Where will they go? Where can they go?

This fetid stench. Of our consciences, perhaps.