The Mona Lisa

In Musee de Louvre hangs
Da Vinci's greatest work
The Mona Lisa and
Her enigmatic smirk.

Five centuries she's spent
On whitewashed walls
In Royal chambers
And Museum halls.

But imagine, if, though she had once
Been real, she was now replaced
By so much "restoration" paint
That the original work was all effaced?

Festival of Lights

Somewhere along a darkened corridor
Flicker three desolate candle flames.
Ridiculous in their festiveness,
Fairylights twinke away in vain.

Who's way do these candles light
Along the dark, eerie corridors?
Only one person remains tonight
In this empty building with padlocked doors.

The Diya Dance

On a sultry October night
Under the darkened skies
And fickle flickering starlight
Dance four hundred fireflies.

Flutterby

An illustration for my friend Preetha's poem.
To read the poem, go to:
http://therandomworldofmissbiyani.blogspot.com/

(For Preetha, Love Always.)

Mental Snapshot

Vishakhapatnam (Vizag) is built at the point where the Eastern Ghats run right into the sea. The drive down from Vizag to Rishikonda Beach is one of the most picturesque drives you can ever imagine. On your left, all you see is a lush green hill. On your right, the slope drops down, somewhat steeply, to a golden beach. Clear sky and clear water blur into one another at the horizon, blue mirroring blue, till they look like one entity. Even now, I remember it.

(One of my fond memories of our family holiday to Vizag, Sept/Oct 2005.)

Laila

You look so sad my Laila...
Oh so sad! Your eyes
Have gone strangely cold.
The life is gone. It scares me
To see what I behold.

What is the matter my Laila?
Say something... anything will do!
You have gone strangely silent.
The laughter's gone. It hurts me
To hear nothing out of you.

Don't shut yourself up my Laila
Don't shed your tears alone.
Let me in.Don't you know how it sears
My heart to not be able to
Dry away your tears?

(Oh, what good am I if I can't even hold her
As she sheds her tears upon my shoulder?)
I beg you, Laila... put down those keys
Don't drive off like this...don't!... please...
No! Laila... come back!... Laila... please...

Fiction, Tea and Toast

The simple pleasures of a rainy day.
Watching raindrops trickle their way
Down clear panes of glass,
Like liquid rainbows.

I watch as rain ceaselessly falls;
Watch it drip down red brick walls,
Vanishing into the grass
And then... Well who knows?

I nestle deep into the window seat
I lean sideways, a shawl over my feet,
And rest against the window pane.
It cools my fevered skin.

Diffused light filters through.
I read my book. Thoughts of you
Come and go and tease. Again
The pages pull me in.

I’m pampered by the perfect hosts-
Fiction, well-brewed tea and toasts
Buttered golden yellow,
With sugar sprinkled on top,

Pattering rain and sepia pages,
Random memories dating back ages…
My mood is deep and mellow.
And time has come to a stop.

No Strings Attached

Mexican Beans

Ingredients:
1 Litre- Water
1 Kilo- Black Beans
2- (Small) Onion
2- (Large) Red Chillies
2 Spoons- Milk( Optional)
To Taste- Salt and pepper

Method:

Rinse the beans out nice and proper
Put them in a pan of copper,
Let them soak all through the night
By tomorrow they'll be just right.

Pour water in a pot of clay
Add the beans without delay.
Chop onions with a pungent smell
And toss them in the pot as well.

Upon a stove, with the flame low
Let these simmer long and slow.
When the beans start to get wrinkled
Salt and pepper should be sprinkled.

Two chillies are the perfect thing
To give this recipe some zing.
Adding milk- a spoon or two-
Might also be good for you.

Cover the pot and leave it cook,
But take an occasional look
And give a periodic turn
Just so that the beans don't burn.

When the smell turns hot and heady
You'll know that the beans are ready.
With pita bread you serve them hot.
A dish your friends will forget not!

(Daniel- Thank you for those long random hours
We spent stimulating our conversation powers)

Ode To Silence

We sat opposite each other;
I saw you, you saw me.
Yet we were miles apart,
Working individually.

It was our quiet refuge from
The day's chaotic bustle,
To hear nothing but our thoughts
And our papers' soft rustle.

We sat together in silence,
At war with the world around
But at peace with each other.
There was no need for sound.

Alas! That comfort is gone now;
From our refuge was I banished.
Someone spoke into our silence
And our quiet teacups vanished.

(To Rustom, With Love)