Thursday, September 22, 2011

Some Things

I like your mouth when it tastes of smoke.
It’s one of the things I haven’t told you.

You know you have this way of looking when you’re surprised,
Head tilted, eyes startled, mouth smiling and forming an inaudible “what?”
I think you look so real like that.
And I’m so glad you are surprised so often.

I like the creaking floorboards of your house,
The small kitchenette,
The splash painted walls,
And the way your canvases smell of oils and linseed.

Just burn that blue shirt with the stupid stripes
And bury the ashes somewhere you cannot reach them.

But how would you know all this?
That this place exists,
Is one of the things I haven’t told you.

© Rasagya Kabra, 22 September, 2011

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

The Dark Patch

“It’s not the pup, it’s a kitten,” I say, while my mother searches her pockets for her glasses.

“Thank god,” she says. “But it’s still just as bad,” she adds, on afterthought.

We’re looking at the small mangled body on the road facing my balcony.

A dark circular patch has come to surround the dead kitten. It is spreading, coloring more and more of the concrete.


When I go out in the evening the kitten has been removed, and I cannot locate the patch that had been bloodied wet. Nevertheless, I keep to the sidewalk.

The stray puppy follows my mother. It has been supplied with some pet formula by my mother since its mother’s death and its birth two weeks ago. It has become friendly with my mother, and runs with her while she takes her walks.


I wake up late on Sundays.

“You still smile in your sleep,” my mother says. “You know, your first conscious smile was bestowed to a picture of Marilyn Monroe, and her billowing skirt. You were three weeks old and you had never smiled before, except in your sleep.”

I turn to her, propping my head on my elbow. My pillow has yellow and green leaves, and there’s no trace of the dark wet patch that had been a result of last night’s crying. It’s gone, like the cat’s blood. There’s still the buzz in my head, and I cannot remember exactly what had made me cry. I just remember the relief I had felt in submitting to the tepid pressure of tears; the strange comfort in the long forgotten feeling of lukewarm drops snaking my cheeks.

“You know, early baby smiles are a survival instinct," she says. "They are meant to make newborns more appealing, and thus keep them safer. If a baby can win the love of people around it, it’s likely to be better fed and cared for; the odds of its survival are greater.”

I smile at her. My survival instincts come to the fore.

©Rasagya Kabra, September 13, 2011

That is one of the great secrets of life, that life is a movement. And if you are stuck somewhere you lose contact with life.- Osho

Monday, September 5, 2011


“That’s it. Now stand still,” he said. With thin brown wavy lines he drew her hair that was billowing in the wind. Three neat strokes gave him her imposing forehead. He painted her arched eyebrows and the eyes that were shut. Then came the part of her face he liked the best, the straight, thin nose and the cheekbones that looked grand when she smiled. But she was not smiling, so he made her cheeks as they were- somewhat prominent and potentially beautiful. He could draw her lips without needing to look at her. With final strokes near her chin, he said, “That’ll be it. You can take her away.”

The two men who had been holding her, finally let out breath and placed her in the coffin.

©Rasagya Kabra, September 5, 2011