Ayesha's Weblog

je depart

ayeshabanerjee — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 13:57:10 +0000

Let’s put responsibilities in an unmarked envelope, seal it and say a prayer and let it go

And grab the wind, grow wings, just fly

Nowhere

Like the envelope

Without an address

Lover, the idiot

ayeshabanerjee — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 03:37:29 +0000

The mazhaar of the lover who died lamenting his uncaring beloved still reeks of the stench of his useless sacrifice, which the foolish devout try to dissipate

By lighting incense sticks…

the flame of unrequited love that blackened his heart now burns the earthen lamp that lights the darkness where he lies

his songs for her eyes, her lips, that look, and her slender waist are hidden between sheets of yellowing paper, little books that won’t even sell for Rupees five

because nobody wants to read them now and the drunkard who forgets to go home some nights, in his inebriation, sits by the grave, singing loudly into the night

and says he, when out of his mind,

sometimes

understands the dead man

A dust storm plays with the souls that are left behind

ayeshabanerjee — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 03:36:19 +0000

When the furious wind gathers the dust and roils it and bounces it up and fans It around your soul gets caught up, whipped up in its swirls and you fly up, swoop low, look down upon the lights on the streets, the bridges, and hear your delighted laughter get lost in the wild stormy whine. And you momentarily forget your terrible truth. Don’t care too much about it

Qaid

ayeshabanerjee — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 18:12:18 +0000

Kuch khwab

aath hazaar rupiye ek square foot ke daairey mein

qaid reh gaye

Responsibilities

ayeshabanerjee — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 18:08:03 +0000

Ah well, it’s that time of the year again when you take a relook at the contract you signed up before stepping on earth. I am feeling pretty positive about this year. There is a ‘sense’ of direction (thank god thank god) – in my harumscarum life even that ‘sense’ is a big bonus. Gets me all fired up. There are constant conversations of course with the self. And one thing is responsibility. I don’t think I have a lot of it in my life – I mean life is what happens to me – I don’t choose what happens and I like what happens… but what about this responsibility stuff? And I wonder what it means? I mean I spent days last year with AB – and watched how she was constantly being a beautiful and perfect being. Feeding her husband his medicines, opening one box after another and feeding us rolls and sandwiches. Supervising maids, rooms in which we were guests. She was up early morning, fresh, bathed (IN THE COLD) praying with her husband, making tea for us… I looked and her and studied her for a bit and really liked what I saw. I think it’s such a lesson in itself watching a ‘mom’ in action. The gentleness, the care… and the loving way in which they performed each action… being able to maintain such a lovely home, keep the kids bathed and fresh, handling the maids and FLUFFY TOWELS in the loos. All neatly folded.

Is there some kind of maturity most of these women have? Discussing finances with their husbands, planning for the future? Bringing up the kids, seeing to their education and development? Must be such a task, na? Hmm. I like moms. I admire stay-at-home moms and I think there should be some award out for them. To top it all, AB and R – another friend of hers – they are at parties looking s ‘put together’ – beautiful, fit, made-up, elegant and so, so perfect. I think their husbands and families are very lucky to have them…

The Good Terrorist by Doris Lessing

ayeshabanerjee — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 13:07:28 +0000

Just went through it – wasn’t convincing enough. Alice is the ‘little girl playing house’ – a squat in which leftist rebel types congregate. She is in love with this ruffian no-good Jason and is a phenomenally organised person. Transforms the squat into something liveable, cleans rooms filled with buckets of crap and manages somehow to get authority permissions for water and electricity…
What you can’t quite comprehend is how such a ‘mother’ figure can rail and rant against capitalism and its trappings. One moment she’s getting the carpenter to clean up the attic and the next she’s chucking a stone at daddy’s (now remarried – so obviously) bedroom window – or planting a bomb somewhere.
Couldn’t quite connect. If you were fond of playing house as a (girl) child you’d like to read bits and parts about our heroine going to various dumps and collecting things and setting up her home… Hmmm – why didn’t I think of it before buying that cane four-seater from that Assamese rip-off joint? Keep falling off it while watching Austin Powers anyway! More like Alice in Wonderland through Communist eyes.

Mad.woman.I.paint

ayeshabanerjee — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 12:45:44 +0000

Your skin

And shadows under the eyes

In brown

Deep dark strokes for the sides of your mouth

That once laughed

And now don’t smile

A lifetime

Of you

On canvas

Out of a paintbox

Goodbye

ayeshabanerjee — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 12:12:19 +0000

There comes a time
When you quit
The questioning
The waiting
The expectation
The hope
And surrender to the healing blue merged orange
Of a sunset

What was that again?

ayeshabanerjee — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 12:27:49 +0000

A fashion designer with nice long silken hair
Falling and curling about my shoulders
Like waves unsure of a direction
Talking creativity, showing it off in neon pinks
Ruffles
Bustier and very hot pants
Ecru
Lycra
Words in vogue
Everything’s in vogue
Nothing of what I actually feel
Or
Am.

Once again that familiar knock at the door

ayeshabanerjee — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 13:30:55 +0000

The reminder

the knock

soft and muffled

mortality

again reminds me

that i should not forget she lurks hidden in every dark nook i pass by

trying to grab at my shadow and make it hers

and i know we have to be

only once

touched

by death’s sly handmaidens

to start tearing apart

painful forlorn process of letting go

everything accumulated

gathered close to our hearts

severing

most painful of all

the ties

with our flesh and those who come of our flesh and from whose flesh we are created

but so frequent have your calls been

in this life

the strangest thing is my gentle reminder

i believe i care no more

it is not the giving up of a fight that counts now

it is the grateful embracing

of deep deep sleep

and peaceful rest

the finality

of a full stop.