tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37729021822347175822011-09-22T10:42:40.918-07:00Be well, good, nice, old-fashionedKissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.comBlogger201100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-82874065897363053702011-07-29T10:35:00.000-07:002011-07-29T10:35:18.643-07:00<a href="http://www.suhaag.com/artsentertainment/katrinas-rockstar-avatar-in-dhunki-song/">Katrina’s rockstar avatar in ‘Dhunki’ song</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-8287406589736305370?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-58187998577196003162011-07-29T10:33:00.000-07:002011-07-29T10:33:55.495-07:00<a href="http://www.suhaag.com/fashionbeauty/hina-rabbani-khar-creates-fashion-buzz/">Hina Rabbani Khar creates fashion buzz</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-5818799857719600316?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-64377163408794110272010-06-04T23:06:00.000-07:002010-06-04T23:55:35.649-07:00There was a rainbow mentioned <div>in all my stories<div>There were endless love stories </div><div>with puny princes</div><div>There were sunflowers</div><div>enthralled by swooning princesses</div><div><br /></div><div>Ants tripping on pieces of jaggery</div><div>Sweet bells in temples tottery</div><div>In a lonesome corner</div><div>Grandmothers</div><div>being catty with their Gods </div><div>in their warm checkered quilts</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Leaves and earth</div><div>Being made to mate</div><div>by warm rains and</div><div>a hedonistic wind</div><div><br /></div><div>Men playing with shingles and nails</div><div>Soaking rags into a drain</div><div>Nodding to loud wedding songs</div><div>Swatting busy flies</div><div>Desiring each others wives</div><div><br /></div><div>You are at fault Mother</div><div>Jolting my body</div><div>at sunset</div><div>Making me swot</div><div>At books that teach poetry</div><div>Reading up wars, famine, death and gore</div><div><br /></div><div>Now look at me</div><div>endlessly insomniac</div><div>trying to scrape at</div><div>My corrugated face</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-6437716340879411027?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-19632711190735886762010-06-04T05:05:00.000-07:002010-06-04T05:16:26.183-07:00Tilt of the head<div>Up or sideways</div><div>Brings into view</div><div>the world</div><div><br /></div><div>Sun, rain and storm</div><div>droll regular pigeons</div><div>in happy form</div><div>dueling with koyels</div><div><br /></div><div>Shafts and beams</div><div>unfinished structures</div><div>upwardly mobile</div><div>eventually solid</div><div><br /></div><div>stale afternoons</div><div>looking forward</div><div>to wet nights</div><div>no power cuts</div><div><br /></div><div>faraway dreams</div><div>money-less pockets</div><div>desires nestled snug</div><div>in creative sockets</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-1963271119073588676?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-14765595998869019182010-06-04T01:24:00.000-07:002010-06-04T01:30:22.109-07:00There was a fish<div>blue, yellow and</div><div>dotted with spots</div><div>riding a watery haze</div><div><br /></div><div>She looked pretty</div><div>with a soft fin</div><div>that saw one</div><div>through and</div><div>through</div><div><br /></div><div>I asked</div><div>"What type"</div><div>"What breed"</div><div>"What do her colours mean"</div><div><br /></div><div>The man at the</div><div>fishy aquarium</div><div>looked over once </div><div>then twice</div><div><br /></div><div>He is a fish</div><div>She there, is a fish too</div><div>This one,</div><div>curled around itself</div><div><br /></div><div>It is a fish too</div><div>They are all fish</div><div>he then walked</div><div>into the sea</div><div><br /></div><div>the watery</div><div>chatterbox</div><div>parched</div><div>blurry sea</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-1476559599886901918?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-43552557293488427422010-06-03T02:08:00.000-07:002010-06-03T02:15:56.995-07:00A young woman<div>of fifty six</div><div>gets up on time</div><div>for a bucket</div><div>to fill</div><div><br /></div><div>She sweats</div><div>and huffs at</div><div>her husband </div><div>with pursed lips</div><div>and dragon gaze</div><div><br /></div><div>The water trickles</div><div>molds into</div><div>murderous thoughts</div><div>some at the authorities</div><div>some at her husband</div><div>some at the world in general</div><div><br /></div><div>The husband stirs</div><div>his gut</div><div>already awake</div><div>to the young woman's</div><div>pallid ire</div><div><br /></div><div>He stoops on purpose</div><div>to show surrender</div><div>to flimsy water </div><div>and his mad woman</div><div><br /></div><div>thus continues</div><div>his weary bond</div><div>with water and </div><div>the young woman</div><div>he married thirty three</div><div>years yesterday</div><div><br /></div><div>tomorrow</div><div>there is hope</div><div>for water gutsy</div><div>for a smile</div><div>bereft of murder</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-4355255729348842742?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-75617198811080237752010-06-02T09:27:00.000-07:002010-06-02T09:36:14.913-07:00The grime settles<div>in between the bars</div><div>of my gritty teeth</div><div>I sigh at the road</div><div><br /></div><div>Scraped knees</div><div>and errant bees</div><div>golden dust</div><div>clouds that must</div><div><br /></div><div>ruin an evening race</div><div>or transform</div><div>into a football field</div><div>with sloppy teens</div><div><br /></div><div>a soft romantic</div><div>I have been</div><div>with squashed lilies</div><div>in a naughty breeze</div><div><br /></div><div>now a cynic</div><div>with arms so plump</div><div>bad breath</div><div>and grumpy roads</div><div><br /></div><div>now a cynic</div><div>in arid grace</div><div>a sore cough</div><div>in dark bylanes</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-7561719881108023775?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-65695904672783212192010-01-19T20:05:00.000-08:002010-01-19T20:20:08.021-08:00Leftovers from a<div>well slept in Sunday</div><div>so rich, so dense</div><div>I carry them to</div><div>This Tuesday morning</div><div><br /></div><div>Gurgling my phlegm</div><div>From cigarettes stale</div><div>From a long lost love</div><div>I ache and ail</div><div>A boy, rather a persona</div><div>I loved and wanted</div><div><br /></div><div>Came to me</div><div>In my first cup</div><div>of dark brown tea</div><div>As I sipped, I longed</div><div>To chore on memories</div><div>of a Sunday yore</div><div><br /></div><div>On Marine Drive</div><div>In the rains</div><div>this persona took my</div><div>Palms in his and</div><div>asked me for my dreams</div><div><br /></div><div>I readily gave in</div><div>To his charm</div><div>and raw wit</div><div>I shook and stared</div><div>At his boyish hands</div><div><br /></div><div>They looked at me with</div><div>Unbridled warmth </div><div>His lip quivered</div><div>from cold winds and sea</div><div>he asked me</div><div>"Tea?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I locked my locks</div><div>behind an ear</div><div>hoping to catch his gaze</div><div>which so unmasked</div><div>my clothed heart</div><div>He asked me with a start</div><div><br /></div><div>"Will you be with me</div><div>while I walk?"</div><div>I took his lead and</div><div>stepped with step</div><div>he looked ahead</div><div>but smiled within</div><div>at my hair blowing</div><div>In the wind</div><div><br /></div><div>This tuesday</div><div>is far ahead in time</div><div>I look at</div><div>His hands </div><div>and try to rhyme</div><div>his life with mine</div><div><br /></div><div>He offers me a cloudy cup</div><div>I whisper and I recline</div><div>I kiss away my week goodbye</div><div>and dwell already </div><div>on Sunday divine.</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-6569590467278321219?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-64297467947392073282009-01-20T20:24:00.000-08:002009-02-03T11:44:25.156-08:00Get up wretched girl,<div>Woman now on assumption</div><div>Your little one wakes</div><div>With flapping eyelashes</div><div>trained to find you</div><div>in the dark morning</div><div><br /></div><div>Your kitchen steams</div><div>of last night's pots</div><div>the ginger wants crushing</div><div>the news babbles</div><div>trained to rouse you</div><div>in the dark morning</div><div><br /></div><div>The husband emits</div><div>One final snore</div><div>morning breath full of gore</div><div>The bath runs gushing</div><div>trained to maul you</div><div>in the dark morning</div><div> <br /></div><div>Sticky lips</div><div>Puckered chin</div><div>yellow teeth cruise within</div><div>eyes wide shut</div><div>headless wonder</div><div>The face laughs back</div><div>trained to taunt</div><div>in the dark morning</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-6429746794739207328?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-42445648467441030422008-12-22T21:51:00.000-08:002008-12-24T21:10:02.638-08:00I monkeyed all day, that day about 6 years ago. I had a History test the next morning and super confident that I always was, I kept from my books, "for just another 15 minutes".<div><br /></div><div>Then 2am was upon me and I stood in front of my dear pal Mira asking her helplessly,"How am I going to cram all this in the next 4 hours? I am soooo sleepy!"</div><div><br /></div><div>She said," Just do it". She waited with me, kept vigil with her snores and finally drifted off to sleep as I thumped my textbook shut. </div><div><br /></div><div>Umang has taken over Mira's mantle. As I wait in REM mode to hear my Ayumi stir awake for her mid night feeding session,  I always think about those numerous History exams that have ruined my night sleep for so many years. Nights are for sleeping. No thoughts, words or deeds, just plain simple sleep. Some white noise and mild dreams with non-dramatic imagery.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mom and others say that I shall never sleep in peace again. It's one in the morning. My last thought and non-dramatic image: Ayumi feeding in peace, her white noise is my beating heart. Her sleep is mine.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-4244564846744103042?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-72490051405190666472008-12-21T20:17:00.000-08:002008-12-21T20:30:50.329-08:00I'm back..No, I'm not attributing this long absence to my pregnancy (though it did seem like a lifetime) or to the fact that I have been completely wrapped round my baby Ayumi's (have to write "ole baba go" and "guccha poochie" after her name) chubby fingers.  I am calm now. Realization has dawned that I am a mother now. <div><br /></div><div>Ayumi is perfect, no two ways about that. My biggest moment and probably my everlasting memory will be her eyes looking up at me and smiling while she feeds at my breast. She looks at me straight with unadulterated affection that has a clear message," Thanks, fellow human, I feel much better. Food's good!" </div><div><br /></div><div>Ayumi is very clear headed. She has a lot to say and she says it out loud and quick and doesn't stop till she's made her point. I don't know yet what her point is; she's two months and two weeks old. But whatever it is there is batter to the babble. She frowns and looks skeptical when she deems it right and refuses to pose for the camera. Her stunned expressions are my most beautiful photographs, so are her grimaces at being tossed and mauled by eager family and friends.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ayumi gives me a sense of startled awareness. I have to get up and GO. There's no time to regret and fret. There are things to be done and goals to achieve. Ayumi has to have a good life. She's my fervent mission and the greatest love of my life.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-7249005140519066647?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-24146506038866781052007-10-07T13:54:00.000-07:002007-10-07T13:55:21.905-07:00A writer -- and, I believe, generally all persons -- must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art."<br /><br />Jorge Luis Borges<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-2414650603886678105?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-37441936857205034342007-05-18T14:25:00.000-07:002009-01-20T16:31:42.699-08:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><div style="margin-top: 6px; margin-right: 6px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 6px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; min-height: 1100px; counter-reset: __goog_page__ 0; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; line-height: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:85%;">This is a time to gloat <br />we are such pieces of work<br />This is how we go about<br />our daily Ennui</span></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />We bathe in the Sun<br />We Love, eat and try to gain Respect<br />We then amble along<br />Gnawing into space<br /></span></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">We hate the sound of white noise</span><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:85%;">"This is mine, this is yours"</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:85%;">We croak until hoarse,</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:85%;">scratch until bleed.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">We send our children</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">Into prompt assemblies</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">to ask for wisdom</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">good thoughts, words and deeds</span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; ">We build our castles</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; ">And etherise our air</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; ">Then ask for allegiance</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; ">to our whimsical gods</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; ">We broker peace</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; ">Sober in solidarity</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; ">But hide our rancor</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; ">To light a wayward fire</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><br /></div></div></div></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-3744193685720503434?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-48395213775492630162007-01-15T13:25:00.000-08:002009-01-31T07:54:33.547-08:00He and She<div>Sat across open windows<br /><div>Once in a while,<br />Over the shoulder<br />Glances were sought,</div><div>Not completed.<br /><br />That was a long time ago<br />Between rushed breakfasts<br />Keeling over happily</div><div>From fast moving bikes<br />Rushing through sentences<br />Proclaiming loud love</div><div>Not completed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now there is dry earth</div><div>And songs sung</div><div>Distractedly so</div><div>Still melodious though</div><div>A walk in progress</div><div>A smile at work</div><div>Still not complete</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-4839521377549263016?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-5241252398881833722007-01-14T18:34:00.000-08:002007-01-14T18:43:46.102-08:00Looks like you need<br />A cold compress<br />To soothe the errant bigwords<br />That run by your tired eyes<br />That giant sized<br /><h1 class="firstHeading">Nietzsche</h1>A couple of crippling sonnets<br />Riding once smooth, but now<br />Beaten down<br />Or does Greer look at you<br />In scorn<br />What about rags<br />Do they stick out their cursive<br />Tongues<br />"Read us your random thoughts"<br /><br />Do you switch back then,<br />To rabid cherry pie recipes<br />Alien but niggling<br />Or rant along with a shrewd<br />Adapted<br />That won some praise sometime<br /><br />Come on, give up now<br />Surely, its relaxing<br />To swim with the tide<br />Try to make your peace<br />In the bright glow of your<br />1 GB<br />Amongst other Bellows and Whatmans<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-524125239888183372?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-54857603707424590212007-01-12T16:55:00.000-08:002007-01-12T17:02:23.097-08:00Elizabeth is not a mistake<br />So what on a rough, edgy morning,<br />Tumbling<br />On a tablefull of stale bills<br />On a bed, groaning with lost hope<br />Around a shrinking therapist<br />Amidst pressed aunts and<br />Pasty moms<br />Drilled by starved minds and<br />Most uncreative soccer dads,<br />You gave in and gave up<br />Lizz, you are not a mistake<br />So don't make one<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-5485760370742459021?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-80973697513254438572006-12-07T10:42:00.000-08:002008-12-27T18:52:32.155-08:00The first time we met, I was in a 7.30 am blur and she was adjusting her "comfort" pillow delicately on her now burgeoning thighs. Due to bring in a baby girl in early 2007, LS is the prettiest high schooler since Relma Ubrol, and as determined as a Tamandua anteater. Every Wednesday morning, we trade gerunds and prepositions, modal verbs and battle adjectives with adverbs. Her tired body houses a very alert mind. She uses the word "conflict" and not "war" because she wants to speak better. She also wires the alarm clocks so that her 17 year old boyfriend and father of her child is in school, on time, every single day.<br /><br />"I want both of us to talk to our baby consistently," she says tipping her mascara-laden eyelashes at me. We talk about the earthquakes in San Francisco, her native Mexico and her upcoming baby shower. Each topic is dealt with ease and precision. Not an extra word, just cool, calm and refreshingly honest conversation.<br /><br />I am hypersensitive about a lot of things. I am a worrier by nature and I am guilt-ridden to a fault thanks to my desperate need to please everybody remotely connected to my life.<br />But LS has a clear outlook. When it comes to absolutely everything.<br />"Mizz B, thatz just too many words and they are all recusant.You have to let go. Don't cling," she smiled, ignorning my popped-eye ridiculous face.<br />Today, I taught her to gently bite down on her lower lip and exhale. So, it's not "burb", its...?<br />"VERB!!!" she laughs triumphantly, asking me "affably" to be "apprised" of my chapped lips.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-8097369751325443857?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-36905341838195861912006-12-04T07:39:00.000-08:002006-12-05T17:20:08.682-08:00Armana had a baby boy last week. R called in to say that little boy had shattered yet another expensive pot pourri vase. My "first best friend EVER" was getting ragged by her one year old in Jersey. Ruhel is on her way from Kentucky to Chicago for the hols and is dreading her trip-companion: Kai, her 15 month old daughter. "Recall, how we camped in Matheran for a whole bloody week. Now I have trudge around with this bundle," shrieked Ruhel. I remember Matheran. Heady with new found freedom and with only our strict but overly affectionate/trustful teachers, we had our first girl Guide camp in hilly Matheran. With rain slashing the wits out of scraggly huts and willowy trees, our own quaint little "hotal" stood soaked to the limb, the brick roof threatening to flip at one more strong gust of wind.<br /><br />But the excited 14 year olds inside were busy sipping elaichi tea from formica cups (I've managed to serve my guests in identical cups from WalMart), shuddering at the alien flavour but trudging on gallantly, in mock adult fashion. We had definite dreams at the age of 14. Ruhel is an engineer/mom, R is an engineer/Mom, Armana is an architect/mom. I am a journalist/with BestMan.<br /><br />We were connecting after 10 and a half years. "Fuck, I still hate elaichi man!" Chorus.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-3690534183819586191?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-51802088346029822492006-12-04T07:09:00.000-08:002009-01-28T07:18:21.493-08:00MASTICATION:<br /><br />What great vanity<br />To think that<br />My table need be<br />Piled with heaps<br />of love, food, sex<br />And there be such<br />a crowd awaiting<br />to give my life<br />a standing ovation<div>When all my<br />all-encompassing<br />Vocation<br />Has been to bypass signs<br />charities and wheelchairs<br />agrressive poetry<br />pointless prose<br />Swiping our old<br />For doll-house chic.<br />How do I want my food?<br />Quick and crumbly?<br />Or thoughtfully yours....</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-5180208834602982249?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772902182234717582.post-35059889039596930992006-11-26T16:51:00.000-08:002006-11-26T17:01:31.297-08:00There is a morose beauty to an empty street, lined with bright, on-their-way-out leaves. The phenomenon called Fall hit me for the first time. I was sitting with BestMan at my tiny roundtable, the spotlight from above making us look like two players round a poker table from Godfather. As we spoke of absolutely nothing, he looked at me and said with the kindest intent," You look sad."<br />I was in that empty street, imagining a less bitter day. Mothers and their prams, scowling but silent maintenance men called to check a non-existent leaky faucet for the tenth time on a Sunday, persistent beeps (set to vibrating mode ) from mobile phones and bold college boys pretending to write by the poolside.<br />I live in a place so wrought with natural beauty that it makes me sigh involuntarily once in a while. I crave sound, I get it and then I want to go back. I am selfish because I want every sinew of every sensation in this world to hit me simultaneously. I am a glutton for beauty and grace and a little gentle digital beeping now and then.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3772902182234717582-3505988903959693099?l=wiltingwhatman.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kissing Kinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08599093861090335888noreply@blogger.com0