Autophony

I want to say sorry to you. I could say in lots of lovely flower-bedecked words. That is my one gift from God. But will it unspeak, undo the words I said? Ugly, unthinking words - the abuse of my sacred gift? What will the sorry do? It may hide, It will not heal. The scar will not go away. I can say stupid things in defence. I can say I bear things said to me with a grin and not resent. So should you. Foolish things to say. I can say silly things that make me pretend that I have escaped from the web of guilt that I have spun for myself. Only to say something more imbecile and fall into my own trap. Even these words will only weave that web even more. I can give you some more fancy words that mean nothing. Just lots and lots of words. One more poem, a little balm to pretend all is well. But they are all I have. But I cannot let go of you. That I will never do.

I think I am a Nazi. I killed a hundred flies today. I froze them on ice, lined them up one by one, and beheaded them; with a new, half-divided blade. I needed those heads: to isolate protein to do an experiment. The Endlösung to publish a paper. And that would bring me - fame, glory, eternity. I say that it is only my duty for the advancement of science. The Schutz-Stafel guard also said that at the doors of Mengele's laboratories. I think I am a Nazi. I kill because I do not like. mosquitoes, cockroaches, ants. Disgusting vermin I call them like the Aryan called the Semite. I swat them, crush them under my foot until blood, limbs, heads, hearts are all indistinguishable organum. I spray them with pyrethrin with glee, maybe even aplomb just like a Sturmbannführer putting down the Warsaw uprising. They come into my house, (built upon theirs). why should I tolerate that? I think we are all Nazis. The wise ones say that an area the size of Belgium is chainsawed every day in the Ama...

Today is Monday: Temple going day. Queue is long with hundreds of folks waiting to see God and praying: to escape from sins, for getting easy money, resolve doubts or feel strong. Priest is doing rituals, chanting fierce mantras in dense Sanskrit, adorning idol with flowers and sandal-paste, and burning powerful incense. Devotees are awed 'Siva Siva' they are chanting. Outside one shop is there selling things for God: Flowers and coconut to bribe the God inside the temple. It is asking one rupee for keeping chappals safe for pilgrims. Prasadam also it is selling. It is also selling tacky little idols of brass or copper, little brocade dresses for the goddess lined with jari and little steel cradles for baby God to sleep in. There are cushions for the cold metal idols to rest when tired, pretty little crowns and lots of other things. All for pious believers to dress up their Gods as if they are dolls. Is God like a doll, to be adored and played with and not awed or worshipped? O...

Those pearly whites that you brush in the sink as you sing our favourite songs; In that cracked yet enchanting voice rich in memories of every argument we've ever had; Those glasses on your shapely nose thickened over years though it is time for a higher number; The sun glinting off the strands of coconut-oiled smooth hairs: white, grey and black; And that perpetually swelling medicine box shared between us from which I swallow what I see first... You asked for it, didn't you what I liked in you And I had to be honest about it? Of course you have silky black hair, and dazzling eyes, bewitching smile, sweet voice et cetera. Not that I don't like you this way, Of course I do. But when it comes to that... Glad you get the point! Published in Writing Love an Anthology of Indian - English Poetry , ed. Ashmi Ahluwalia; Rupa Publications 2010. ISBN 978-81-29116-66-6.

eternal embrace forgotten a myriad years in earthly shelter (based on http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/6338751.stm and composed in MSExcel. Do diphthongs constitute one or two syllables?)

Reading instructions: Please dry your sense of humour before proceeding. Description: short, fair and ugly. defunct left eye, compensated by proud Dravidian moustache. (Kollywood directors' catch) I'm told girls didn't care for looks. So why am I still single? Profession: science student; Two papers in statistics. Ph.D. from reputed institution. (World-changing patents pending) I'm told girls like accomplishments. So why am I still single? Hobby: Writing and poetry. Some stuff published. People rave and rant about it. (May get a Nobel.) I'm told girls are suckers for poetry. So why am I still single? Not so hidden talent: languages. Can be comfortable with your Swahili-speaking brother-in-law (Or Greek or Persian for the matter) . I'm told girls like social skills. So why am I still single? I'm not rich. Well, not yet, but have the arrogance, and poise, cheek and sauciness to get there. (My first royalty cheque's in the mail) I'm told girls care fo...

My name is Raamesh Gowri Raghavan. I am 26 years old. I live in Patanjali hostel, TIFR, Colaba. I have a house in Thane. My father and mother and sister live there. My father is a trader. He retired from the army. My mother is a housewife. My sister is a psychologist. Our dog's name is Puppysingh. He is a very smart retriever. I taught him many tricks. I am doing my PhD in TIFR. I was a JRF in Pune earlier. I did my MSc in Biology. I did my BSc in Microbiology. I want to become a scientist and a writer. My hobbies are reading and cycling. I like collecting stamps and coins. I like little fruitflies. And snakes and spiders and ants. I like writing poetry. I like writing short stories. I make up original plots. I like to write in my own style. I write about many things. I do not write about Malgudi. I AM NOT R. K. NARAYAN.