Adapting

An excerpt from my unpublished novel, BEYOND BOUNDARIES.

Taara sat on the family room area rug in her Minnesotan suburb.  Head bent over her sketch pad, pencil in hand, and tongue twisted out to the side of her mouth, she drew lines, erased, and redrew.  As she worked, glow from the fireplace cast shadows around her.

Dimple sat on the sofa and stared into the fire.  Her thoughts traveled to her valley, the place of her birth, her home of 18 years.  She remembered how Ammaji had sat her down one afternoon.  An old friend, Kalavati from Kandhar days, was coming for tea with her nephew, more like her son, orphaned at a young age.  Ammaji had picked out Dimple’s emerald green salwar kameez shirt pant with white thread embroidery.  A chiffon chunni scarf had been draped shoulder to shoulder over her breasts.  Balancing a tea tray, she had walked into the drawing room, her eye lids lowered, her steps measured.  Kalavati had invited her to sit next to her on the wicker sofa.

Dimple had felt his presence in the wicker chair adjacent to her.  From the corner of her eyes, between stolen glances, she had noticed his thick dark hair and bushy eyebrows over intense eyes.  He sat with a polite smile pasted under a full moustache, listening to the old women reminiscence.  She poured elaichi cardamom tea which he quietly sipped.  As she offered pista biscuits, he took one from the plate and thanked her, as he looked into her eyes.  She could feel his gaze following her as she moved to the other side of the table to offer the biscuits to Ammaji and her friend.  Dimple took her cup, found her seat, and sipped the fragrant, creamy tea.  The chatter of the older women continued as a background chorus to the melody in her head.  She stole a glance in his direction from the corner of her eyes, but his look held her there and she felt hypnotized.

Ammaji and Kalavati slipped out of the room, taking their musical refrain with them.  Her grandfather’s clock ticked away in its place on the corner table, each staccato note at a time.  He cleared his throat and leaned forward, empty cup in hand.  She reached for the teapot but he held up a hand and placed his cup on the table.

He cleared his throat again and said, “What does religion mean to you?"

Teapot still in hand, she set it back with a louder thud than she had intended.  She sat at the edge of her seat, kept her back straight, and placed her hands on her lap.  Keeping her gaze on her hands, she spoke softly, “Family.”

From the corner of her eyes she saw a smile appear on his face.  She looked up and noticed a biscuit crumb on the dark hairs of his moustache.  She smiled with him and had the urge to reach out and brush the crumb away.

“Mummy.”

Dimple slowly traveled back to her cozy home in the Minnesotan suburb, her gaze fixed on the flames in the fireplace.

“Mummy.”  Taara repeated.

“Hmmm…?”  Dimple said dreamily, a smile pasted on her lips.

“Mummy, what are those flowers called?”  Taara pointed with her pencil.

Dimple looked toward the sun-bathed corner of their family dining room.  The glass of the sliding double doors welcomed the warm rays inside and left the snowy chill outside.  A large pot sat by the window balancing a trellis.  Ivy of green leaves crept over and around it.  The tropical plant had rooted itself firmly into the new soil.  It flourished and even bloomed in the winter, flaunting its heart shaped purplish flowers with a hidden tiny white flower within.

“Bougainvillea.”  She told her daughter and went back to staring into the fire.

Obscure Memories

Inspired by a scene from Amy Tan’s “Valley of Amazement”

I can never forget the day Rosemary died.  My very special, constant companion who kept me amused all day long. Her face was soft with pinkish tones, as if she was always flushed.  Her eyes had a mix of sly and timid with the permanent sideways glance under long, blond lashes.  Her rose colored lips pouted together into a permanent pucker.  Father had her especially manufactured for me in his porcelain factory. I asked mother to sew her dresses to match mine, so we could be like twins. 
 

I took Rosemary everywhere, even on that fateful day to the mountain top picnic spot. The day was picture perfect under the bluest sky I had ever seen in all of my nine years.  Its blueness hovered in the backdrop to jaggedly edged, brown, sandy peaks in the distant.  Our luscious picnic spot was carpeted with greenness speckled with wild purple, yellow and red blooms.  A stream sauntered down the mountainside in a lazy lull. Its musical notes serenaded us as we munched on ham sandwiches, nibbled on the potato salad and sunk our teeth into the juicy watermelon slices. My brother Michael made a game out of spitting the black seeds, measuring the distance to the farthest throw he could accomplish. Some of them even went as far as the sharp edge of the cliff, down into an abyss.

Sated, Rosemary and I left mother, father, and Michael in their grassy spot and walked toward a shadowy corner by a large rock. I had dressed her in the lavender dress with white laced edges, an exact match to mine.  Her long, blond hair swayed in the breeze but kept away from her face with a sparkly headband, just like mine. We sang and danced, twirling on the rocky floor as my Mary Janes thumped the hard ground. Music rang in my ears that transported me to a grand dance hall, just like the ones Mother and Father attended. I stayed in the shadows and danced with Rosemary exactly as I did when the grand events were hosted in our Manor. A whirl, a pirouette, a skip and suddenly, before I realized it, Rosemary was snatched from my hands.

The music stopped just as the dance hall disappeared.  I was back on the mountain. I turned around to see a pudgy faced boy grinning from ear to ear. Malice floated in his glassy, blue eyes as he threatened to throw Rosemary in the air. Before I could react, I saw her flying, high towards the clear blue sky.

I shrieked and rushed to catch her on her downward journey. The chubby boy pushed me aside, his red cheeks flaring as he caught Rosemary just before throwing her up again. I kept screaming and crying out for him to let me have her back. He ignored me and continued with is vicious game. I did not see my brother, Michael, come from his grassy spot and try and catch Rosemary for me. Before I realized what was happening, I saw the two boys on the rocky ground, fighting over Rosemary. Each had her by an arm, trying to pull her apart. I could not see her being tortured and shut my eyes tight as tears rolled down freely down my cheeks. I heard myself scream that they were hurting her, to let her go, to stop fighting. I heard their voices, sounds of scuffle, a pebble being kicked, thumps, and then there was silence.

The wind blew my hair off my tear stained face, it brought the smell of lavender to my nostrils, and it fetched my screams back bouncing them off from the far off mountains with their jagged edges. I also heard screams that were not mine. My eyes opened and I saw an odd looking bird sitting on a rock. I turned towards the shouts and saw my mother screaming and a strange woman in white pants crying uncontrollably. Father and a pudgy old man stood frozen, silent, and far apart with no expressions on their faces. The pudgy man’s cheeks flared red, its color spreading all the way down to this neck.

I walked up to mother and tugged on her skirt to inquire about Rosemary. She didn’t respond and continued to cry. I walked to father and asked where Rosemary was. He ignored me and walked over to the edge of the cliff and proceeded to look over into the abyss. I ran towards him and was soon dragged back by mother screaming, “not you too”.  She held me close to her body, digging her fingers into my arms as she held on.

 

The End

Mystical Masterpiece

Slice of a lake
    where lilies skate
       slight immersed mist
             my painting it assists

Hues emerge bit by bit

      blackness to when it’s lit
          luminous returns to dim
              defining just the rim

Silhouettes expressed

   egret somehow appears
      alighted by a cove
         conversing with a dove

Ripples form the center

     core of the senses
       stroking to evoke
          emoting to provoke

Nuances pour and stream

     spread through the misty steam
       supple in its advance
          appearing only by chance

Haze rises and disperses

     displaying white blossoms
        budding lilies wave in concert
          calling for attention

Greens, whites and blues

     blend in to subdue
       stunning on the surface
          serene in the essence

Lines remain blurred

    limits linger as slurred
       stillness appears disrupt
          design seems obscure

The final image transcends

      to tranquility, an essence
             that exceeds beyond senses.

 

 

HOME - Conclusion

Street life had been hard and I had to fend off many such assaults. Setting up home in this quiet alley, next to the self-talking man and a sad Golden Retriever had been heavenly compared to events past. My room was tattered, leaky, musty, but it was home and it was mine.  No more houses that many called a safe place.

My three new friends left, leaving behind a set of brand new clothes, blanket and toiletries. A week later, the daughter returned alone, dressed in jeans and t-shirt. She wanted to take me to her home for dinner, to thank me for helping her. Her home was warm with a soft sofa and cozy kitchen. The running water in the bathroom was heavenly and when I asked if I could take a shower, she smiled and nodded. I let the warm shower run through my hair, my bare back down through my toes over the foamy, slippery lather that smelled of spring and flowers.

Fresh and clean I sat at the dining table across from my host, taking in the aroma of a hearty meal. After a delicious fill, we sat and watched some TV and she told me about growing up with an ill father who taught her many things. I felt like talking about my parents and shared some of my childhood memories. We talked and talked and pretty soon it was too late to go back to my home. She invited me to stay in her spare room. The bed was soft, warm, dry and smelled of fresh rain.

I slept all the way till lunch time and the nice girl didn’t mind. We ate and went to some stores where she bought me more new clothes. I didn’t want any, but she forced me to try them on. Next she took me to her friend’s home where we had tea and talked some more. The friends were nice and reminded me of my parents. They asked if I wanted to stay the night and even showed me their spare room with its colorful walls and large bed with hundreds of pillows. I said okay, but only for one night. Soon it was seven nights, then 30 until finally I lost count. They asked a kind old lady to come home every morning who helped me with books. I read stories, learned my numbers and lots of new things. Soon my new room was surrounded by so many books and I read them all, sometimes even more than once.

My new home had a lot of things new to me. My bed was big where my new puppy, a golden retriever and I slept. The walls were surrounded by bookshelves filled with so many books which took me to so many places. I even had a closet with so many new clothes that were clean and sweet smelling. Most of all, in my new home, I had a new mom and dad and they were very nice to me and loved me very much.

THE END

HOME - Part Three

A week after the new girl’s exit from our neighborhood, the Golden Retriever returned. Her skeletal figure limped towards her old home, now empty.  I brought bread and water and nursed her back to health.  She followed me everywhere as I roamed the streets, walked on the beach, loitered about on walkways. She sat with me on the pier watching the sun set and the birds fly home. She warmed my feet on cold nights and cuddled with me on stormy days. From the time I can remember, I finally had somebody my own, another soul who cared for me.

Neighborhood life carried on with comings and goings and minor incidents over some troublemaking new folks. Some nights I woke to the sound of sirens and a large group from the new settlement hauled away in the back of a van. One morning I woke to a police car parked in front of my home, its siren turned off. The Golden Retriever barked and ran out to greet the visitors. Bleary-eyed I stepped out and recognized the girl, the daughter of my former neighbor.  She was in uniform, her hair neatly tied back into a bun and a wide smile on her face. Behind her stood a tall, clean shaven man with dark brown hair and familiar blue eyes. He stepped forward and hugged the dog before moving towards me. I took a step back, uncertain who he was. His warm smile stopped me in my tracks as I recognized him. My old neighbor! My eyes shifted from him to the girl in uniform, back to him. The girl stepped forward and explained.

Her father had disappeared from home several years ago when he went off his Schizophrenia medication. Their family dog had followed him and kept him company until the night of the incident, when a few guys kidnapped him. These men had recognized her father from his previous employment as the chief research scientist on the verge of a breakthrough in a biological experiment. Her father had abandoned the project when he learned of the company’s intentions of using his experiments to develop biological weapons. He decided to disappear.  Without his medicines, his mental state took a turn and he ended up on the streets. Going undercover was the safest way for his daughter to find him and thanks to me she tracked down the blue car. The kidnappers were arrested on various charges including hit and run resulting in murder of the poor, old bag lady.

I was happy to see that my neighbor was safe, yet sad to see my new companion leave. The daughter offered to take me with them too, to a new home, a safe place. My head shook profusely. That’s what the nice lady at the hospital had told me four years ago, when my parents had died. I lived in that house they called safe, for four months. There were other foster children there, some even younger than my nine years. Each child walked about the house unsmiling, their eyes vacant, their hope diminished as they went about the chores assigned to them. I kept to myself and quietly cried to sleep every night. One night as my sniffles had run their course, I heard footsteps behind my cot. Pretending to sleep, I froze my body in its place.  A hand reached out to stroke my hair. I thought of my mom, coming to tuck me in with her goodnight kiss. The hand stroked my arm travelling down to my hips and before it could go any further down, I turned by body around and landed a kick up his groin. As he cowered in pain, I ran out of the room, out the door and clear out of town.

To be continued....

HOME - Part Two

Continued from Part One

I spent more and more time in my room, thinking about the bag woman’s last breaths. Each vibration rang in my ears over and over refusing to let go. Her blood still soaked my skirt and had begun to dry up. It must have been a month or more before I realized that I had not seen my neighbor or his dog. His home stood in its place, but a new face sat at its entrance. She had a sweet face with big, innocent eyes welled up with fear.  I stopped in front of her and smiled. She cowered back and disappeared into her room. On my way back, I left a loaf of bread at her opening and went to my home. From the slit in my room, I watched her warily step out, grab the loaf, and chow it down ravenously.

In time I befriended her and learned that she was the self-talking man’s daughter. Her search had begun a year ago in various neighborhoods until she finally arrived here, but found her father’s home empty. As soon as she found old photographs with their clean, smiling faces scattered in a box in the corner she was exhilarated. She loitered around a while, awaiting his return eventually moving in, hoping, anticipating, yearning then despairing.

When she mentioned it had been a month since her arrival, on a night when all was quiet, not a soul on this street. I recalled it had been a month since the incident, the poor bag woman and how everyone hovered, watched, collected around the scene. I recalled the car with its screeching tires, the blue bumper, a face in its back seat as if a motion picture started to play in my head.  Suddenly, I leaped up and announced that I knew of her father’s disappearance. The license plate number of the blue Chevy remained imprinted in my memory that I had ignored all this time.  I related the events of the night and gave her the number and details of the car. She was on her feet in no time and the last I saw her was running out into the other world.

to be continued...

HOME - Part One

My new home had a lot of things new to me. A twin mattress, tucked away in the corner of my cozy room was soft and plush. A corner table sat at another end on top of which I placed my hair brush, an old clock, and my shell collection. My jacket occupied the space below it along with some old newspapers, a notebook, and a pencil. My roof was low and sagging, but mostly kept the elements out. A small tear in the wall became a window, bringing in cool breeze on hot summer evenings, a fresh spray on those stormy nights, tiny visitors to keep me company as they buzzed around the room.

The neighborhood had become crowded over time and always changing with new people plonking new homes, or some old ones disappearing into the night. My next door neighbor was a guy who talked to himself. But his Golden Retriever looked up at me with sad eyes, her shaggy fur drooping over them while her matted tail wagged with enthusiasm. I always bent down to pet her and even shared my bread whenever I could. The man always shoo-ed me away, just as he did everyone else including unseen monsters. Further down the street, newer homes had popped up, as colorful as the people inhabiting them.

One time when I was coming back home late in the night, the woman who I always saw carrying an assortment of bags was crossing the street. I heard a screech and a car swerved sharply away before it sped off. I looked at the street and there she was, center stage under the spot light of a street lamp. Her bags were scattered around, her body half on the sidewalk half on the road on its side, and her eyes closed as if she was sleeping. From under her head a pool of blood expanded as more drained from her head and her fragile body. Neighbors stood around watching, waiting. They waited for what, they did not know, perhaps for her to die, or for police or ambulance to arrive. We all knew death will come before the help. No one had called 911, none of us had means to. Gradually, the crowd dispersed until we were left alone. I sat on the sidewalk with the woman’s head on my lap. I sang softly to her as her heartbeat became less labored and too weak to be felt, and then it stopped completely.

Next day started as usual, everyone in their own direction, no one remembering the episode of the previous night. All evidence of the crime had been cleared away. Before sunrise, an ambulance had arrived and taken the lifeless body away. How they learned where to come, none of us knew or cared. Our world was our own and each day was new, a gift that we had survived.

To Be Continued...

WILD

Two mourning doves perched on a fence. He fluttering his feathers, flitting his tail, doing the dance on the balance beam. She watching, stepping away in her dainty steps, turning around to look the other way. For three hours the birds performed, a live theatre under the clear blue sky and our very own sun as the spot light. They flew off with the breeze, perhaps to carry on their courting for a new audience, on a different fence, or branch of a tree, or on a poolside patio.

 

A cicada killer wasp, nestled between the window and the screen. Slid half-way up, the glass holds the creature back from invading the indoors. Secured on all sides, the screen keeps it from its freedom. Its waspy body crawls up and then down, right and then left unable to escape. It’s long, translucent wings, instruments to call its mate flutter in desperation, their music without any sound. Encased within two barriers through which it can see the high ceilings of the indoors or the open sky outside, the creature quivers, paces, finds an opening and takes flight. Liberated it soars and returns to its seasonal music that sounds like the rattles of the desert snake.

An innocent squirrel scurries across the fence, leaps onto a tree branch, traverses down the trunk towards the birdfeeder. Gorging down the seeds on the ground in a hurry, spent, it falls flat on its stomach. It’s mouth bulging, stomach packed, energy depleted, desire unsated. Moments later it scuttles back to its home in the tree only to be tormented by the mocking bird that calls it home as well. A Roadrunner act comes into play as the squirrel dashes across the yard with the bird hovering overhead, it scurries across the fence under the squabble of beak, and it hides in the branches only to be assaulted within their canopy. The scene plays on for hours, fusing from Act 1 into 2 and 3. The two dash through yards, front and back, between houses, across boundaries unrecognized in their world. Then suddenly, a truce is called and each go their own way, until next time.

A blackbird loiters by the pool’s edge, its chlorine blue water shimmering in the bright day. It spots a June bug floating in the center whose slim legs wave in the air. The bug drifts on its back, helpless on the cool water’s surface. The bird tilts to the left, then to the right grasping the edge with its dainty feet and in a flash its wings open up and it glides to the center of the pool, diving just a smidgen. Failed to grab the helpless bug, it flies to the other end, re-evaluates and dives again. The June bug is rescued from drowning and becomes nourishment for a little blackbird.

A rabbit treads out from under the rosemary bush, strides toward a shady patio and watches a human sitting on a chair, book in hand. It plods forward stopping to admire the scenery at every turn, its mouth moving constantly, nose sniffing incessantly. Picking up a familiar scent creeping up from its rear, it scampers forward, decides a left turn, changes its mind and turns around in a circle with the beagle close on its tail in hot pursuit. It sprints to the far end of the yard, from the side of the pool, does an eight around the two trees and runs back into the rosemary bushes. The beagle maneuvers the course as an Olympic champion, curves around the bends expertly and keeps pace with the tiny creature. His bulk around the belly, long hours of rest and comfortably secure life contributing to his handicap in this chase his breed was born to perform. The beagle buries his nose, face, half his body, in the fragrant bushes, lying in wait for a tiny movement or minute mistake by the little creature. Several minutes tick away as all that is seen is the Beagle’s tail upright like a flag, waving, wagging, wiggling, until he gives up and returns to his interrupted nap under the cool breeze of the ceiling fan.

This kingdom under the sun and moon where there is game, much romance, fight for survival and a lot of dance. Each day is new with renewed verve and vigor to stave of starvation. Each night is fearful and then thankful for not becoming the hunted. The cycle endures, theatre persists, acts performed and we the humans, sit back and watch. If the actors come too close for our comfort, encroach into our turf, we complain, shoo or whack them away.

But whose turf is it really?
Who is the one really intruding?
Who is truly wild?

 

Defined!

I wrote a book

in all of ten years,

guiding force a woman,

my near and dear,

 

it started as mourning,

to celebrate a lost life

of woman with much grit,

formidable mother, and wife

 

a shawl of comfort and healing

she nestled her large brood

through turmoil, nation divided,

loss, and scarce food.

 

In writing the book

I celebrated my grandmother,

what I learned was not just her life,

but how to be a woman and mother

 

I learned how to live

and tap into the mettle,

an essence of our pedigree

whether we roam or settle.

 

The book is not a story

of people in life, fiction, or gone,

it is an elixir, a being, breathing,

giving air for her to be reborn.

 

The process to script

became life lessons on verve,

raking the past to reveal

a future full of nerve,

 

resonating her spirit

her message to rise above it all

for the next lines in her blood,

a family together will not fall.

 

I am who I am, because of the book,

not just for what’s in it,

but who I became crafting it.

 

The milestone that defines me,

as a woman of robust pedigree!

Progress

Shovels dug into earth
gravel and sand excavated
ground levelled and firmed
foundation is laid

 

following the design

pillars erected
connected in all direction
rooms are segmented

skeletal frame silhouettes

against the sinking sun
long shadows cast
upon the receding land

skeleton morphs to walls

fragmenting each space
levels are determined
as a house takes shape

as one nears completion

another prepares to rise
as this house becomes a home
more skeletons materialize

all land beneath these structures

disappear in submission
hidden from sun and sky
to escape their derision

a shameful task of our land

succumbed to a new need
driven off creatures from habitat,
left is only human greed

these skeletal structures

standing tall against wide horizon
unashamed of their numbers
wild flowers, now just an illusion

sod is set to add the green

so all will be manicured
beauty as we know it
forever obscured

today wooden skeletons above this terrain for a hearth,

tomorrow our skeletons merged with displaced creatures, beneath the earth.

It's a Blue Day - 2 Poems

A Blue Day

Blue Jay tormenting a squirrel

Blue beagle chasing rabbits
Blueness of the sky, or mood
Creatures of our habits.

Rabbits eating flowers

Owls eating rabbits
Circle of life completed
Way beyond our limits.

Love doves wobble along

Mocking birds creating racket
Sing song and chatter go on
To woe, to whisk, or flatter.

Tiny turtles strut, tut

Lonesome, lost, or flattened,
In or out of water
Flourish or lament

Magnolias in bloom high up

Petunias making rabbits fatter
Marigolds, begonias, roses smile
Race of survival, all that matters.

Blue beagle and blue jay, music of life

Howling, barking, and chitter, chatter.
Blue is serene, calming to the soul,
Color of peace, cooling on the whole.

Cool Blue

Blue is soft

And it is deep
Blue is sad
That makes you weep

Blue is music

Blue is Jazz
Serene and lyrical
As is Topaz

It’s a great big canvas

From the sky to the sea
To splash all the colors
For all to see

Blue is the Beagle

Jazz is his name
If he wasn’t naughty
All beagles would be same

Powder or baby blue

Peacock or mid-night
Blue is beaUtiful
As hues on full moon night!






 

Mothers' Legacy

He strived for stripes and stars

a bath of blood became his reward

all is not lost with him no more

spilled blood of his family knows no woe.

Like a tree, family branches spread thick and wide

just as the trunk, they stand together in stride 

the support helps branches dare to dream,

bear fruit, and flowers, and healthy leaves.

They dream together and aim for the sky

when a branch falls down, the dream stays alive

just like the roots, a mother keeps her family grounded

she is the core, her legacy keeps generations bounded.