Tears of the River

A tale of a man's love for a river, forgotten and remembered when the river needs him, told in a manner which brings to life all that surrounds him and his love.

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I had forgotten her; dear friendship does leave one with the traits of the other. We had not met for a long time. But now as the sun goes down, with deep sighs, on the western sky, I have an urge to meet her, fulfill a tryst that was never made. It is in the dusk that she must be met. She lives only after the sun is annealed beyond the reach of the eye. During the day, she hides behind the colourful shrouds, sequined with catamarans, bathing women, the occasional kingfisher and dancing sunlight. She hides from the prying eyes that try to see through the gaps in her clothing; she is a woman.

But in the night she sits there naked throwing aside even her last garment of shyness. She sits there singing songs in the night, songs that she had learnt in the morning. Songs of allure that tempt and draw troubled minds to her. Yes, my river is alive in the night.
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Pieta

An article in the Aug '05 issue presents the author's love for Michelangelo's Pieta (3 sculptures and 1 study), with great emphasis on the Vatican Pieta (shown below). The journey is not an analysis of the art pieces, but a presentation of a personal love affair...

Chandralekha

This poem featured in the Aug '05 issue of Alvibest recounts a conversation between King Ashoka's courtesan and the subjects of Ashoka. He lies on the brink of death in his palace pining for Chandralekha who has left him and gone. The people beg Chandralekha to return and restore joy to the king's life and to the kingdom itself. Chandralekha has much to say...

Key To Life

This is a snippet from one of the pieces of fiction in the Aug 05 issue of Alvibest....

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He took his hands out and looked at them. He wiped the sweat and felt the calluses rubbing hard against the skin under his eyes. He winced then grew a lop-sided smile and put his hands back into his pockets, slowly. He felt his bare thigh against the wetness of his palms. Some people stopped and spoke cheerfully but before he could open his eyes completely, the boots and slippers moved on. Now he stopped trying to respond. The wind blew the covers off shops and dragged umbrellas with it. His locks were left untouched. He took out his hands once more and looked at them. Relations, church bells, machinery, children, hope, coffins. He curled his fingers, made a fist, tightened it and put it back in his pockets. The sun was directly above him. He looked up and squinted at the sun. A cloud covered the sun long enough. He smiled. Sweat trickled down from his forehead, six and a half feet down without a thread of his clothes stopping it. It finally lodged between his foot and his boots. After hanging on to the edge of his heel, it left his foot and slipped out of the hole in his boot. The evening brought back the crowd. They walked all over him but never too close. The wind had grown stronger.
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