Keshavan and his Bronze medal

Shiva Keshavan, India's only lugeist and my sister's fiance, has just won a Bronze medal at the Asian Luge Championships 2008.
This is indeed a very special moment for him, and I am extremely proud of him for his achievement.
The first article http://sportswire4u.blogspot.com/2008/12/shiva-wins-bronze-ion-luge-asian.html

slipping

Slipping. In a herd of slipping buffaloes, who would remain victorious – the one with a bit of guile, or the one with the largest hooves?
Leaning. It is all about leaning. And not being afraid, or ashamed, to do so. As soon as this is recognised and brought forth into popular thinking, herd and beyond, there will be better understanding. For the leader of the herd knows the guileless will be lost, and will prefer that they not know that he does.
Until of course, water is found. This is the distraction. Clear, clean water. A chance to forego due explanation, to rest finally, to revel in the course rightly pursued. The course that brought them here, no less.

And then there will be the snort, that which will bring us back to reality, to tell us that things could never be so serious.

(2008)

The jade and the pink

The jade and the pink, above and below,
Come together in a lazy moment of reconciliation.
Emerald trees sway, as if trapped in a languid, slipping gait.
The mariner crosses his hands for the last time,
Imagines being among groves and children once again;
This dream among countless others, that he can never fully recollect.

There remain no longer any birds circling the sky.

(2004)

Instead of a lie, let me write you as a story.
And not merely a story with any allusion to understanding, or compassion –
an illusion in every way.

Instead of a lie, let me write you a story.

(2008)

A City scene

Slow down, look around, he advised.

Uhh.. we’ll be late for the show.. again, she pleads, taking his hand, trying to lead him on.

This is a better show. He turns all around, arms outstretched, a smile on his lips as he looks at her – the City.

Ohh no.. don’t you start that now, she shouts back at him now. Come on, we’re almost there.

He runs to her, and they go to their show, a play that focuses on the many reds and yellows of a frequently grey place. Beautifully done too.

But they cannot get out of their minds what he had said before the show.

Against White Light

I want nothing but to sit here, and
Watch her great pools of eyes burn like silver oil.

She moves, languid, toward the window,
the white light brightens her smooth, screaming lines,

accentuates her lively beauty, ever effervescent,
that shines like the morning sun through trees
in a green meadow.

I watch, in black and white, as everything
around her fades to a black.

And then, all that remains, is the smoke from her stub,
And a memory that rests, simple and assured,
ever, in my mind.

(2005)

In Futility

Armaan had seen this often enough. From the roof of his house, he watched perplexed as mobs of youngsters in the streets below hurled abuse and stones at each other, which more often than not, ended badly; all, conveniently sanctioned in the name of religion.

Armaan and his mother lived in their ancestral home, in a city which had seen more than its fair share of communal riots. Vaguely, Armaan remembered a time, when as a little boy he had lived in this same place, and all the people seemed to live easily together, like people do. That was normal then. But this was now.

‘Amma, I’m going back to college. And this time, you’re coming with me, ‘ he announced as he reached her bedroom, where she lay reading.

Amma looked at her son and smiled. All grown up, she thought. He’d had been studying the arts at a college in another city not too far away. However, with the situation at home as it was, he’d decided to return for awhile to be with his mother. His father had long since left them, and he was the only child they’d had.

But now the sometime had stretched to long months, and looked to go on longer.

‘I have three months till graduation, and I need to finish this.’ He went on, ‘I’m sick of the ‘dire communal situation’ that everyone seems to write about.. why doesn’t someone do something?’
Armaan’s mother put a comforting arm around her son’s shoulders, ‘It’ll all get better soon. It has to.’

‘Nahi Amma, we’ve been through this over and over again for too long now. What we need now is good leadership, not good rhetoric. Of course, you could blame me for that myself right now,’ he smiled and continued, ‘But I know now what I’m going to do with my life.’
His mother didn’t need to ask him what that was. ‘If I decide to come with you, what will happen to the house?’

‘We’ll work something out,’ he replied. ‘Right now, I’m going to go over to the station to get us the train tickets. Or to Salim, if the station’s sold out,’ he continue with a wink and a smile.

‘Why don’t you just ask Salim to bring them over? I really don’t want you to go out right now.’
Amma had been hearing the shouts below.

Armaan leaned out of the window. ‘It’s quieted down. They’ve probably remembered their favourite serials are on. Besides, I have to meet someone before I leave, and I’ll be taking the back door, so there’s no need to worry.’

He moved toward the door. ‘Come back quickly. I’ve made something special for dinner.’ He smiled as he closed the door behind him.

As he stepped out into the alley, Amma felt her stomach lurch, as only a mother could; Armaan would never know what hit him – the police would later report that it was a stone, hurled carelessly by one of the retreating mobs. None of that mattered anymore.

The moment his life flashed before his eyes, the light went out of Amma’s.

(2003)