Showcased on the New Ink digital forum in Colombo on July 23rd 2022. Introducing my book of short stories “The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta” and reading an excerpt from the Sri Lankan section of the book: “Serendib Lodge”.
Category: womenwriters
VERSE | STRANGER THAN FICTION
I look at the book
Have I read it before?
It’s a throng of short stories
My favourite genre
I took it from the shelf
In my own home
So it has to be one of the
For-sure-read tomes
Still, as I glanced
At the back cover blurb
Nothing jumped out
Not a line, not a word
I looked at its front
Multi shades of grey
The image glimmered
In its dusky array
I opened the book
I had to recall
A story, a plot twist
A mystery resolved
In the 267 pages
I held in my hand
So I started reading
Page one, it began:
That day Alisha
Looked up at the sky
The purples and blues
Looked terribly awry …
The rest of the story
Unwrapped itself
As I glanced through page two
Of the book from my shelf
Yes I had read it
The memory crept in
Of ETs and UFOs
And otherworldly things
Of skittering creatures
That had huge heads
Full of insidious plans
To make us all dead
Or not! Even in fiction
They were polite
Giving us choices
Being forthright
Choices! Forthrightness!
Now those are things
That are as alien now as
Well … human beings!
Laughing, I put
The Sci-Fi away
Our own lives were stranger
Than fiction these days
VERSE | A SWEET ENCOUNTER
I looked at her over my coffee mug
Stealing silent glances
Looking her way
Then looking away
My heart had set up a regular cacophony
As I stared at her secretly
From above the rim of my cup
That I brought to my lips to sip,
The adrenaline instead making me chug
She sat there, serene and beautiful
An ode to perfection itself
Between the gulps I watched and drooled
Oh lord! I felt like such a fool!
I took in a ragged breath
I had to calm myself
I had to let the feeling pass
To wring it, wash it from my heart
I had to fight, wrest my hungry eyes
Off that whetter of fantasies, that queen of delight
That mesmerizing, will-defying Passion Fruit Tart
VERSE | RODS AND CONES
Day breaks and I’m asleep
But I can tell it’s dawn again
The light touches my retina
Through the barrier of my skin
It gently feels its way around
The darkness behind my shuttered lids
Then it sits itself down
Waiting for me to let it in
To start its morning ritual of
Dancing with my rods and cones
The caper sometimes morphs into
A red hot duel that is fought
Electro-impulsively in my brain
Where the battleground is wrought
Or we break into a marathon run
Away, away from every one
Flowing with the adrenaline
Out of the arteries, into the veins
I lead it where it needs to go
Some days we waltz, and on some
We antelope it out the door
Day breaks, I open my eyes to see
I’m floating, floating into infinity.
VERSE | ALIVE
I sit with the sweet pain
Of remonstrating muscles
Aching tendons
It’s been a good day
I’ve clocked my vital number
Of steps again
Day Eight. Eight days. Day Eight
Of doing my best
The precious little victories
Sit like shiny safety pins
In my body. Their lancing points
Glimmering. Abrading. Wounding
Forcing tiny trickles of red-hot plasma
To run outside my veins
In the sweet agony of pain
Reminding me that I’m still alive
I’m still surviving, still striving
Still clocking all the steps
That keep this life ongoing
Going on. Ongoing. Going on
I breathe in deeply. Tonight
I am serene, there will be no dreams
To torture or torment me. Tonight
In Sleep’s benumbing arms
I will lay down my head
I breathe out, uncoil, soft-ache-bound
As I sink into the swelling seams of my bed.
VERSE | THE SHOW MUST JOE ON!
A tad controversial? Maybe. But am I still saying it out loud, in rhyme and meter no less? But of course. Some folks mull over things in the privacy of their heads, others whisper them in low tones while my iPad … well, it just blurts them out, no holds barred. Whoosh! Here it comes like a sweetly painful winter chill to get your adrenaline up and your spine a-tingle.
Hello 46th*
Are you seeing this?
A war has been stoked
Europe has refugees - Look!
The shock of it!
Afghanistan and Kashmir
Don’t count; neither does
The Middle East
Oh please!
The world is used to those
People, forever in the throes
Of some tragedy,
Some devilry,
Some new-fangled holocausts
Of their own
Russia, the land of Ruskis and Putin
You do so hate them all, Joe Biden
Your last names though
Have such a harmonious ring
Putin, Biden … Biden, Putin
But I digress, your sentiments
Have reached across the continents
To grapple at the throat
Of that villainous foe
That Trump-loving pariah
That creator of election drama
That divider of the faithful
And good American folks
Oh, and you’re still not over
The Hunt for Red October*
The hunt that Hunter* hunted
Via the Kiev crossover
All the chickens that got away
Came home to roost and lay
Their devilled eggs, without the yolks
Putin had them all artichoked!
You believe in all of it
The fairytale, the who-dunnit
To Russia is where all the trenches lead
Putin has always been so full of sheeet!
So now there’s bloody war afoot
The gloves are off, we’re all in it
It’s the same old American adage
“You’re with us or you’re with the villains”
And while you’re beating
That hoodoo drum
The whole world is slipping
Into a recession.
There’s no food, no fuel,
No jobs to do
These trickle-down economics
Don’t affect you
They make their insidious paths towards
The poor, the beaten, the never seen nor heard
Hellooo 46th
Do you at least see
How so much is attributable
To you directly?
The depression, the frustration
The agony
That is doing the rounds
On its maleficent spree
I can see how you wont
See this like we do
How? you declare, can
Uncle Sam be such a brute?!
But you are! You are!
And a bully to boot!
On a final note, dear Joe
May A tad bit of third worldliness
That has so diligently been foisted on us
Graciously, karmically circle around
To you and yours. Please be assured
It will be an experience profound.
* 46th: the 46th president of the USA
* The Hunt for Red October: Tom Clancy’s debut novel, it shows the contrast between Soviet and American societies as exemplified by their militaries. Another significant theme that is played out on several levels of the novel is that of betrayal.
* Hunter: Joe Biden’s son who is rumoured to have had dodgy business connections with Ukraine.
VERSE | THE SCREAM
Listen to the poem being read here: https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSdn6UdCw/?k=1
A storm is unleashed
In sheets upon sheets
Of pouring rain
In a cacophony
Pounding the ears
Pounding the earth
For a while
The storm becomes a part of me
I listen …
I hear a howl, a primal cry
I’m agitated, it feels so familiar
I still my breath …
I know that voice
I’ve heard it before
Finding itself
In a tropical downpour
As the sky tore open its breast
Pouring out its glutted greyness
On my world that was floating upon
Even tides of peace and rest
I heard it then, the banshee scream
It swelled upon the torrents that
Came down in never ending sheets
I heard it then as I hear it now
That voice that is screaming inside me
VERSE | I LURRRVE YOU!
This is for the ladies. Amidst all the funniness abounding in the verse, there is a subtle message of self love and self reliance.
Here’s hoping that we can always read between the literal and figurative noisy lines that may be thrown at us in the name of love. And that our peace of mind and our sense of self worth always supersede other enterprises of the liver (jigar) and the heart!
No offence to my male family, friends and acquaintances - these are truth-telling times!
He said I love you
Like I have never loved another
I said you’re 48 and you’re still
Looking for that perfect other?
Surely you’ve felt something in that realm
You have walked down lovers lanes
Were you perchance arm in arm
With your tonic and your gin?
And not a woman whom you’d consider
A partner and a friend
No, she was always just a trip
A means towards an end
Each bedecked your evenings out
The “I love yous” that left your lips
Were whispered as sweet nothings
In between your boozy sips
And now you tell me that
You’re in love with me too
Except it’s not your usual form
You don’t know what’s happened to you!
Maybe your three-month romances
Would extend to five with me
But the Shallow Hal* in you, pal
Is still waiting to count to three
And then your extra special
Trademark escape artistry
Will take center stage
It’ll be the same old page
From your book of Love for Free
That day he said I love you
Like I have never loved before
I said dear boy you wouldn’t know true love
If it speared you in your gall bladder
* Shallow Hal: A 2001 Hollywood Rom-Com in which Hal, a shallow man who only dates attractive women, falls in love with Rosemary, after being hypnotized to see the inner beauty of women, not knowing that she is obese.
BOOK REVIEW | THE GIRL WITH THE PAISLEY DUPATTA
Hello folks,
Wanted to share with you the first ever review of my book of short stories “The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta and other stories”. The review was done by Maha Qazi of the YouTube channel Maha’s Musings.
She’s done a pretty good summary of the book in general and has also mentioned very relevant specifics from within some of the stories.
Take a look!
(P.S. I would describe myself as a “corporate RUT absconder. A bit of a Nutty enigma in the intro there! 😅)
VERSE | FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD*
Listen to the poem being read here: https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSdn6QjcC/?k=1
I pick it up, I feel its form
I hold it in my hands, the warmth
Transfers slowly and I sense
The tingle of the words within
I gaze at the lines upon its face
I turn it over, my eyes trace
The tale it whispers all its own
Its beauty hidden, as yet unknown
The seeds of intrigue have been sown
It invites me in, in subtle tones
We follow, I and my intuition
On lightning wings, we race in!
Another stridently demands that I
Feel its spine from end to end
And then I oftentimes comply
As it tells its story by and by
I leave my existence behind
For a while I’m in another life
I go on voyages fraught with love
With pain, with humor with suspense
I journey on through these realms
Sometimes laughing sometimes tense
And then I will glance again
At the portal to the world I’m in
Pausing my trip-in words
The story wraps itself up, and I’m
Whisked back into the world
Where I’m dutifully marking time
I feel its form one last time
I leave it with a wistful smile
That Teller of a myriad tales
Waits until I visit it again
* Title inspiration from the novel by Thomas Hardy of the same name
MY BOOK IS ON GOODREADS!
Dear family and friends,
I’ve got my book of short stories on GOODREADS finally. Please take a little time out to leave a review if you’ve read some or all “The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta”. Thank you! 🌸
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61106242
VERSE | ALONE
I’m alone … but I’m not really alone
In all the ways that don’t matter
That shouldn’t matter, I’m never alone
In all the ways that I need someone
In all the ways of being human
I’m alone. There is no one.
It wasn’t always like this, this lonesomeness
It came on slowly as time went by
As I transitioned, nay devolved
Dislodged from the blessed marital fold
From a wife to a wretched divorcee
From a daughter to a social deportee
I couldn’t be the woman he’d conceptualised
His wife to be. Already fantasizing
He was in heaven itself, spoilt for choice
By the virgins lined up in waiting
For him to pick one or four to be his own
I got picked first, then I got disowned.
I’ve been alone these twenty years
Fading ever more into the background
As time trudges on with heavy treads
My aura fades, my voice has no sound
I tried to talk louder at first to be heard
But the booming voices of the world
Were louder still, my voice was drowned
Now I sit here alone marking time
For when the cosmos sees fit to smile
In a new welcome; in a final decline
I see people but they see me not
They saw me only when I came out
Of the box, against the tide of tradition
Then there was outrage, there was derision
I don’t go out anymore nor do I
Try to be bigger than the box fitted for me
I sit in it quietly, patiently
Lonely oh so lonely … but not really
In all the ways that shouldn’t matter
Im not alone. They all watch me
In all the ways that would make my heart sing
I’m alone, waiting for the final curtain.
Mahvash Mohtadullah 