the marbled kitchen floor
now inherited shapeless
broken pieces
of plates

she sees him walking away
after his cantankerous
plate throwing spree
showing no hints
of an apology
or remorse

she ponders about what kind of
metamorphosis has belied
her once
considerate
hopelessly romantic
debonair
non-alcoholic husband
she once thought she knew
she once thought she loved

she continues to do the dishes
now washing slightly chipped glasses
and looks at the empty plate rack
and thinks
I shall buy new ones tomorrow

Shalini Nayar
© 2001

the hundred year old stairs
wakes up from its dreamless slumber
to find the world has spun
for an infinity too long

it once roamed
and ruled
the household of Chathanathodi
making way to the rooms
upstairs
that conspired a thousand
whispered secrets

simultaneously
sprawling its termite-infested legs
to make way
downstairs
that injected an aura of
omnipotence

its laddery body was now a little chipped
and its creaky joints, a little shaky
but it didn't matter
as it was still conspicuous
and strong
like Hercules
leading unsuspecting mortals
upstairs and downstairs
to its universe of Gods

Shalini Nayar
© 2001

look up, look up
pretty bride
look how the seats are arranged
just like your marriage
promising a plethora
with three knots of the saffron string

look down, look down
blushing bride
look how your hands are laden
with orange mehndhi
matching your silk orange sari
with your sparkling diamond and gold jewels
blinding the third eye on your forehead
that blinks uncertainly

look around, look around
naïve bride
look how the sun rushes through the hall
waking up sleeping jasmines on your hair
fading away the wretched past
ending your stormy dormancy

look right, look right
****** bride
look how your husband-to-be is next to you
cupping his hands in yours
receiving the priests' blessed blessings
and sharing the confetti of thrown rice

and you close your eyes
tired bride
praying to live
happily ever after

Shalini Nayar
© 2001

These poems are always born colourful.
Pointy and symmetrical, they are life, crafted
Specially for schools that have no bell-rings
Or even recesses. How dull it must be.

They come in different morals: steaming ships
And inexperienced rafts, all trying to taste the
Same water at once. The ships do have an advantage
With big chimneys but it’s the rafts that are more careful.

And how kaleidoscopically they flaunt themselves!
Angels are always with their kin (how saintly), and tigers proudly
Race with their predation pride. The normal ones
Adapt normally, till the gold one comes oval-gaping for air.

It is almost operatic, the bullion fatly singing
A joyful soprano that spirals its corpulent body,
Indelibly marking its forte and making
Everyone else envious. The rest soon join in the orchestra.

Colloid-free, their airy world so thin and wet, the
Little air bubbles drop, drop, drop as clock-like as possible
To balloon and reign the surface. The water’s
Fully bloomed now. They are ready to breathe.

Doctor’s miracles, they are born with unblinking eyes.
Their skin flat and overlapped like thin slices of birdfeathers
And wide bloodless cuts run at each cheek. They defy
Physics with their aerodynamic bodies and a thousand striped hands.

Every nook and cranny of their house is carpentered accurately:
Mirror-rimmed and exact. Windows glued for viewing, flawless.
The tenants move about freely, occasionally pausing to wave
At the guests through the translucent eye pieces.

Untiringly they follow the irises that gawk at their gill-full skins.
The cameras icily smile flashes and these water-gods snap away
Like graceful thunders. Their scissor-tails dance from side to side, panicky,
With only three precious seconds added to their memory.

Shalini Nayar
© 2002

The apple’s shot through,
Wormy and brown but it is her lunch.

Through her hood, she sees the buzzing market.
She is condoned as always, the ***** brown

That harbours near the fruit man, like an unwanted
Sofa, lumpy and ******. Only her grandma-fingers palm through.

Her mane of rags render translucent pebbles of benevolence:
A rare cinematic view of the world, her weary eyes absorbs every colour.

It is gentle and kind these holes: a myopic happiness
That triggers this lady to jump about, and holler and

Holler until the random clanks in her stainless steel
Plate drum up impressive beats. It is encouraging to her,

This sympathetic validation. Though she knows
false hopes don’t hold up too long. It is her sunrise,

The kind of thing we often take for granted.
She cradles the apple (the raggedy couple symbiotic in nature),

Smoothing out its ciders. It is her afternoon’s asset,
Tasting as foreign as mother’s milk.

Shalini Nayar
© 2002

The night is full.
It is simply in its element.
The clouds invade the dark universe,
Curtaining the stars and their moony mother.

Down here the cars don’t **** by much.
The roads are perfected,
Down to bits of fresh-hot tar rocks
And Chinese-lanternesque streetlights.

Houses yawn and drag logs of dreams
Into them. The patrons need it (it’s its excuse)
After a long hard day.
Everything else creaks and blooms. It is dreamy.

This dark hour asks nothing more than creation
Of something. Something eternal that rings us
In this golden circle of mathematics,
Complex and unintelligible.

It is child-like, this algebraic world.
It is simply in its element.

Shalini Nayar
© 2002

“What do you do for living?” I asked, examining the bronzed boy.
“I love,” he said, with a smirk and a slight touch on my fingers.

Shalini Nayar
© 2002