little frog, big city

fresh, real rain and old music that belongs to someone else's heart and someone else's back

waiting to write is like waiting for rain like this. you want it and can smell it but it isn't here yet and won't come until the clothes are hung out to dry and then dada's lawn is keechad and you have to jump and slide to avoid the frogs.

little frog. I hate living in a city that made me scared of them, hopping in my bedroom. throat bobbing. then the chuha, little beady eyes looking up at me both of us stunned and waiting for the other to squeak

akira doesn't know what to do with the chuha in my room. she prefers socks and jhaarans that don't run away she doesn't walk enough i hate roads she loves mud it doesn't work.

noni and akira lick bite roll over each other the whole day- are 2 year olds supposed to be this smart?

but i still love the rain, everywhere. in my tropical home I tried to explain to my bemused class the rhythm of my bones: as goosebumps erupted in time to thunder and lightning. they didn't get it, they slip and fall I skip more alive then ever. driving in time to weird music slippery slippery roads and slippery thoughts . its scary I don't hear horns i just see your angry faces and want to laugh and i do. i love driving welcome me to your entitled spaces, carved out on roads that we defend so righteously.

car = fast i have to be somewhere now. entitled where ever you are. in a car you're angry and hidden outside you're wet and slippery and the horns are so loud . the metro is crowded like in Jharkhand, rolling slowing, sweaty mass moving as one. my hair gets stuck in a fierce lady's hairclip . i clambered onto a bus forgotten how much i love it but then its just the day you love everyone today. then there's the pretty girl you'd love anyway she catches your eye you smile because it feels good to be beautiful in an ugly city.

lady tramp woman
man how easily we inure ourselves to names like boxes how easily words I didn't know i knew come to me

finger cramps.

शान्तिः

The silence of the Buddha points to the impossibility of trying to use reason to explain phenomena. Metaphysical reasoning will get you nowhere, the only access we have to it is what the structure our imagination and our creative minds impose upon it. And therein lies our bondage to Samsara. The cessation, then, of our thought process leads to the dissolution of plurality. Nirvana is the quiescence of plurality. 

The silence of my disfunctional phone has been interpreted variously. Speechlessness, an absence, the inability to say something. A warning, cry for help even, causing late night are-you-okay calls. Extensive meditations on the perlocutionary effects of non-speech, in the absence of the person even. Contentless, it is taken as a sign for something else. An ineffable something else, to be filled in like a post-modern fill-in-the-blanks orgy.

The silence of Akira means she has eaten something.

But this silence I leave with you is like a pus-filled boil on the verge of explosion. One false move and our noses and eyes and hair will be swimming through an unctuous trickle. Can you feel this dank coldness slowing down your face muscles? Are your eyelashes stuck? 

I could say honey if it made you feel better.