How to Eat a Wolf.

[This poem, ‘How to Eat a Wolf’ is from Sharanya Manivannan’s book of poems "Witchcraft" (Bullfighter Books). It has been reproduced here with the permission of the author. I am an avid reader of Sharanya's blog and look forward to her "Venus Flytrap" posts.

Where most young writers these days focus on the contemporary style of writing, Sharanya is lyrical, without sounding archaic. She has just the right word for what she wants to say and I love it when words just fit! In my opinion, she is one of the most promising upcoming young writers. You can visit her blog here and her website here. Being a spoken word artist too, you may listen to her reciting some of her other poems here.

This poem struck a chord with me. I have read and re-read it several times. Especially the last few lines. I wanted to share this. Hope you like it too.]

Does all lust start
and end like this?
Don’t get me wrong.
I loved my wolf.
I held him tethered
like a pussycat. I nursed

the rumble in his belly
with hands gentle as a burglar’s.
He lived on milk and blood and ocean.
He had violets for his furs.

It’s just that he was
beginning to devour me.
He nuzzled me with claws,
fondled me with fangs sharp as yearning
He snaked a tongue so hungry in its kiss
it turned my body to salt.

How do you douse
a dervish swirl? I asked.
Devour it, you said.

So I fantasised
about eating his balls,
rolling them in semolina seeds
and roasting them golden.
I got blooddrunk
on the thought of the
crisp tender cartilage of his ear,
left to simmer in tequila and cilantro.
The dry teats turned
sweet when baked with cinnamon
applesauce, or drizzled with chocolate.
The tangy musk of austerely steamed eyelid.

I set traps.
Mine is the deepest void,
the deepest void you’ll ever know.
And so I lured him to a well.
A wolf can drown in its own
wetness. But mine swam
and lapped and doggypaddled
until I waded back in to get him.


Mine is the darkest smoulder,
the darkest smoulder you’ll ever know.
And so I conspired to let him burn.
A wolf can poach in its own juices.
But mine danced on coals and leapt
ablaze, until I pussyfooted back in to get him.

I became desperate.
I preached to my wolf
about suicide, proselytized
about reincarnation. Come back
as a sleepy kitten, I said.
Come back as a hibernating bear.
Come back as a snail
with a flag trail of surrender.
But my love was indefatigable.
It was volcano and oceanic tremor. It was
a black lace bra and
too much jazz at 3 a.m.
My love was as big as betrayal.
I pleaded and pleaded until

you finally looked up and said,

You can only kill a wolf
you don’t want to have,

and only then did I see that

your love
was exactly
the size of two fists.

While you were sleeping...

[Sunday, September 19, 2010: The Girls walked inside my house after a night of partying at 5:30 a.m. Now that I was up, how could I let them sleep. Thus happened the early morning (6:30 a.m.) trip to Hauz Khas Village, right before the morning showers. These are the days, when I love Delhi. I will let the photos do the talking. Photo courtesy: yours truly. Models: Muse and Suu, the odd goose and the ruins.]

As the geese swarmed for the little boy to feed them bits of bread, the odd one stood out.

The girls looking upon the quiet lake, with a cutting chai.

Enjoying a free flight before the morning shower

Thus I framed the lives of those on the other side

Look through, and what do you see?

I flourish through the remnants of what used to be.

The lone street lamp, doesn't belong.

Do you wonder how many looked through that balcony to find something but didn't know what they were looking for?

Now people power walk though my paved pathways, every morning.

If you pay attention, you may hear the sounds of the past...

of the little boys reciting the Koran in unison and of ladies talking in hushed whispers.

While the little girls played hide-n-seek, sheltering themselves around my resolute pillars

I stand witness, through the ages.

10 Things I Hate About Being 25.

(...or the advent of quarter life crisis.)

1. The disconcerting realization that "generation gap", like global warming, is a real phenomenon.

2. Having to consider whether the man you've become a little interested in, is younger to you or older, as opposed to earlier, when the only consideration was, whether he is single or taken.

3. Calling them "men" now, not "boys" or "guys". Sigh.

4. Sighing more often than before.

5. Self dependence is (pretty much like capitalism) a necessary evil of the adult life.

6. Every body around being so married and all, these days. And people thinking it is okay to ask "So? When are you getting married?"

7. The feeling of running out of time.

8. Having to take care of cooking gas, electricity bills and house repairs.

9. Missing the feeling of butterflies in stomach that came with being infatuated.

10. Bargaining with parents for deadlines as to the number of years you will be "allowed" to remain a bachelorette.

Let's face it, there is something very panicky about being on the other side of the quarter.

How to Identify an Emotional Mind Fucker or a Pathetic Loser.

Now let me tell you, it hasn't been easy.

But I have finally developed the "Loser Alarm". Yes, that one which starts beeping and blinking red inside your head, and which blares the warning "Don't go there!", every time you listen to that smooth, emotional, processed tin can of crap being dished out at you. Ever been there?

Now, here's a bit of a tutorial. Because honey, if I've been there, use my experience rather than going though the pile of crap to figure it out for yourself. As for any men who may come across this post, and have been fortunate/unfortunate enough to meet the female counter parts of the two prototypes I am going to explain hereafter, just think of these caricatures in terms of altered gender.

In my experience they come in two kinds: the Self Degrading Mind Fucker and the Guilt Inducing Blame Gamer.

Mr. A, thrives on your sympathy. When things don't go his way, he tells you emotional stories from his past, or whines about the instability of his present and uses them as an excuse for the "monster" he has become. He will tell you he can say such things only to you, for no one else understands him. Don't even try to argue with him, it's a trap! For this man accepts his mistakes before you can even point them out. And no, this does not mean he takes responsibility for it. Taking responsibility for a mistake means that you do everything possible to rectify it. But no, what this man does, is that he very carefully and strategically disarms you, while putting his own hands off. And then comes, *Dhan-ta-Nan* the "self pity" act, till you crumble, because ofcourse you like him, maybe love him even. You think that it's cruel that someone should punish themselves so hard, and feel so miserable for having committed those mistakes. Don't even think about this ladies! The only way out of this: throw him out of your house, all bags and baggages, but before that, gift him a tampon and ask him to stick it up his rear.

Now, while Mr. A was just pathetic (though manipulative in his own way) Mr. B is a sly, calculative manipulator. He thrives on your guilt. Almost nothing you do is good enough for him, and worse, you "make him act" the way he acts. He will turn your statements around; bring up past acts which you did not even know were an issue till then; all just to make you believe that you had an ulterior evil motive behind the way you acted or maybe you're just a bad person overall. You can't get away from this person, unless you can stand up to him and say "Fuck off. It's not my fault that you're such a dick head." and really mean it. The strategy to deal with this kind, is to simply refuse to allow the guilt to eat into you. Trust me it's a lot better to be a bitch who walks all over 'em than to be a door mat who's walked all over.

Every once in a while, if you're really God's favourite child, you'll run into a certain Mr. Duplicity, who seems to have perfected both of the above mentioned mind fucking techniques. If that Mr. A+B has been unleashed upon you, then God save you. Simply. Run. For. Your. Life.

I can smell a piece of crap when I see it and sometimes even when I can't see it. A turd is a turd is a turd. Even if they paint it pink and spray it with perfume and garnish it with little heart shaped pretzels. If you go ahead and eat that shit, the joke is on you.

Ladies (and gentlemen, if there are any here), if you ever need someone to tell you that, your "Guy" or "Girl" is being a total dick-head, an ass-hole or a vapid and sore loser, just holla at me. I promise to say it as it is. You'll get no "but maybe she's confused" or "maybe he needs some time to figure things out" bullshit out of me.

Trust my Loser Alarm. I henceforth stand proselytized to a Heartless Bitch. Fuck you very much.

Wouldn't you love to come with me...

to a Sunday Brunch, Darling?

I'd wear the classic white dress and pearls. While you wear that favorite tweed blazer of yours, with a white shirt and cotton trousers and don't bother with a tie.

How about a little brasserie down by the Thames; would you like that? You could carry your flamenco guitar in there and we could get a table by the riviera.

We would walk in, our heads held high, our every movement frozen in art. People engrossed in meal and conversation would take a moment and notice us and then get back to their humdrum. They do not know how to reinstate magic, to a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Do we notice them, you ask, and I say well, not really, not today. Today we reserve ourselves to our bubbles; confine ourselves to the indulgences of a good life. Today we be the Epicures, we live for beauty, for gluttony, for art and for respite from the mundane. For these few hours, we are the dancing characters of a snow globe, oblivious to the world around us; arrested in our moment while the world spins past our eyes, as if on board a merry-go-round.

They must think we're lovers. I find the thought amusing, and I can see, so do you. Hardly do they know, that you are me and I am you and the affair of our friendship is only incidental to who we are. But let us brush aside the matter of our affinity for the time being.

We seat ourselves by the café's portico and let our gaze rest upon the bustling traffic on the Thames. Had it been any other day, I would have asked for some Sashimi, Caviar and Sake, but today, let us gratify our senses with the Mediterranean delights, shall we? A platter of Mezze and a bottle of Sambuca as apértif. Why not wine, you ask. And I say, let us be true to our rebellious souls.

The redolent Tabuleh, seasoned with olive and thyme, after a morsel of Pitta and Hummus make for a perfect beginning. Anybody else would call them appetizers, but we're Indian, Darling. We believe that a satisfied tongue is a good beginning; a sign of a fair tidings. Looks like this is going to be a good meal eh?

We talk; not about the stock market, even though we can. Instead, you explain to me that it is proportions of the coconut milk, the basil and the lemon-grass that make all the difference between a regular and that perfect Thai green curry. I neck down a shot of the Sambuca. We remind each other of our past explorations of anise flavoured drinks. I preferred the Ouzo, I tell you, but gulp down another shot of the Sambuca anyway.

We discuss the subtle differences between the impressionist style of Monet as opposed to that of Van Gogh. Meanwhile, you pull out your guitar and begin to strum. I let my fingers fiddle with the pearls girdling my neck while I look upon the Thames, hardly a moon river in mid day, and sing along.

"Two drifters off to see the world, there's such a lot of world to see...
We're after the same rainbow's end, waiting round the bend, my Huckleberry Friend"

A few people applaud and we acknowledge their kindness with a grateful nod. It is time for the main course already.

I am unable to resist a craving for the Stuffed Pasta Shells, pregnant with sumptuous mozzarella, pureed veggies and minced meat, served with aromatic salad, which I believe is a jealously guarded recipe belonging to the northern Italy. You, on the other hand, are ready to move past Italy from Greece, into France and are in mood for some Spinach and Pancetta Quiche. It is only fair Darling, that we offer our due respects to el España, and order Sangria for accompaniment. I choose white wine as base, while you clearly have a preference for the varieties of red.

You wonder whether you should end with a Tiramisu. You never quite got over the taste of brandy in chocolate now, did you? I sigh and declare, that as always, it is only going to be a baked New York Cheese Cake, from across the seas, for me. Ambrosia, for afters. We toast our Sangria, to the Good Life.

It's going to be a date, Darling, with the finer things in life.

Pixie. Because I'm cool like that.

Don't believe anyone when they say that a girl's femininity lies in the length of her hair. It's a bogus claim. Truth being said, I have never felt this feminine in a long, long time. Add to this femininity, a dash of juvenile exuberance, and that's how I'd describe my close crop experience.

When my Pa saw a photo of my new hairdo for the first time, he instantly hated it. "You look like a wet bird!" he exclaimed. "I feel like a wet birdie, Pa!" I told him. I can now do a little head shimmy when I appear out of the shower, just like a wet bird. And I love the way my hair sticks out, making me look all pixie-like. The only maintenance it requires of me, is to wear an occasional wax and to wildly dandle up my hair with my hand. And honestly, the dirtier it gets, the better it looks!

Oh, and I'd forgotten in all these long haired years, how large my eyes really are. Or maybe they just seem larger now, making me look like those wide-eyed anime characters. I now wear kohl often and leave those glasses behind. My mane stands prouder. My naked clavicle begs to be flaunted in strappy dresses, off-shoulders, tube tops and to be adorned in retro tie-up scarves. I even bought little diamond studs to wear in my ears, which is kind of a big deal, because I never used to wear any jewelry at all. But now my ears demanded attention. When I wear those short bangs on my forehead, hold a cigarette, and make small talk, I feel very 'Audrey Hepburn', and want to refer to random people as "Darlings"!

I feel 16 again, or younger (and if you know me, you know I could get away with that easily). I feel like a girl who could get caught sneaking into the club without an ID, but who takes her chances anyway. The girl who the men at the bar give that "does your mother know?" look. I feel like I can get away with finagling for a drink on the house if only I could let my little-girl-eyes grow wide and pout about my drink getting over so soon. Who knows, I could pull off a floozy even, like Natalie Portman!

It all makes sense now that I should wear my hair short, though I wonder why I never tried it before. Long hair is meant for girls who grow up wanting to be Princesses. I was never that girl. I didn't grow up dreaming about a Cinderella story, looking for a Prince Charming. Me? I wanted to be a fairy; a pixie, like Tinker Bell. I would merrily settle for the role of the green, jealous side kick to the boy who never grew up. I wouldn't, I couldn't settle for being a damsel in distress, no Sir! No moping around in the dark corner of a tower, waiting for Knight in Shining Armour for me. Even as a little girl I thought I was better than that. My life was meant to be an adventure; it was meant for mischief and magic, for rafting down the Mississippi, for tackling Capt'n Hook, for surviving an island filled with cannibals. These are the stories I grew up reading and loving. Not fairy tales, mehh. Rapunzel is such a passé.

Of late I have been feeling that wide eyed little girl take over my personality again. She's mocking my 25 long years, willing me to get silly and naughty.

If you'd like to hear it from Mary Garden of 1920s, as she explained in her Article titled "Why I Bobbed my Hair":

"Bobbed hair is a state of mind and not merely a new manner of dressing my head.… I consider getting rid of our long hair one of the many little shackles that women have cast aside in their passage to freedom."

I do believe that this "freedom" is largely mistaken for imitated masculinity. When a woman cuts her hair, she doesn't necessarily sacrifice her femininity. Quite the opposite actually, it could metaphorically be described as a celebration of the innate femininity of a woman, which has nothing to do with her outer appearance; a femininity which is free spirited.

Coco Chanel once said "A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life". There's got to be some truth in that. You reckon?

Notes on not belonging to a City: Delhi & I.

"There are really patterns. It was a revelation, of a kind. Dreams and sand and stories. Deserts and cities and time."

- Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Fables & Reflections #39: Soft Places, (1993)

After two years, Delhi still remains what it always has been, a dispassionate lover who is the best kept secret, but never a friend.

It’s not for the first time that I feel intrigued by my impersonal, bittersweet affair with Delhi. I have oftentimes imagined myself as its Mistress, treated with a cursory nod of acknowledgement in society, and with utmost benevolence in private, but never with acceptance.

It would be ungracious of me to not acknowledge its kindness; often I feel it eying me as a step child - making up for its lack of affection by showering upon me abundance in kind. I owe it the exceptional opportunities it has provided, a thriving career. In Delhi I graduated from being a Missy to becoming a Madam. But ask me (or ask it) if we ever became allies and we’d both nod our heads with a dismissive smile and proclaim “we’re just old acquaintances”.

Not to say that personal histories have not been created and buried in its folds: chance encounters, opportune romances, circumstantial friendships and unpredictable trysts with love. Like the boy who liked flying planes so much, that I failed in keeping him grounded to myself. And another, who excelled in bizarre boyish skills: fire poi and skateboarding; who made for excellent conversations over Sunday brunches and etched himself in my memory forever as the Sweet Blue Eyed Boy. The girl at my dance club who asked me to go dancing with her; who was the queen of Delhi's debaucherous nights, and yet who then settled to marry a man chosen by her parents with little resistance. That beautiful dancer whose amorous embrace consumed me in a dervish swirl every time he took my hands and led me to the floor, but whom I left waiting, without remorse. And the Man who taught me how to use chop sticks on the first date and made me fall in love with him, so hard, in spite of my intelligence, my clairvoyance and my awareness of its limitations, that it felt almost criminal. What is it that they say about a lot of water having gone under the bridge?

I never belonged to Delhi like I belonged to Hyderabad. Good ol’ Hyd - how I longed to run into its arms at the end of every week, riding red district buses meandering through desolate highways, to escape my far off college campus and to set foot in the streets of Hyd, where I was free. We were kindred, Hyd and I, each looking to belong, each trying to shed the old ways of towns and adopting the new ones of a city. Unlike Delhi, in Hyd my friendships were never listless, my loyalties never trivial and my love never conditional upon loss.

I never belonged to Delhi, like I belonged to Bombay; throwing myself at its mercy, which is the only way it allowed its patronage. Hopping on and off Mumbai’s gritty locals, I felt comfortable in my skin. In its salty rains I felt submerged in reality. Its rocky sea shore reflected the conflict within. Mumbai demands your resilience, but also delivers itself completely to you. Unlike Delhi, Mumbai is a life coach, not a sugar daddy; it pats your back and hands you a spade, it never pats your head and hands you a candy.

I never belonged to Delhi, like I belonged to Singapore. Walking down Orchard lane, on the Christmas eve, hand in hand with my 9 year old huckleberry friend - I felt appropriately festive. Drinking wine right out of the bottle at Clark Quay with my namesake, who I serendipitously happened upon at New Years’ Eve - I never bargained for a lasting friendship. Dancing with the beautiful Indian boy up close and personal to the tune of “Stand by Me” played by a local band - I knew the night to be a shifting moment, never expecting it to last forever. In Singapore's utopia, I was not once disappointed. Unlike Delhi, Singapore delivered what it promised, and exactly what I expected of it: to revel in its ephemeral glory.

For long, Delhi liked to see me in captivity, be it in His arms or a cubicle; it never set me free. A fleeting sense of belonging to Delhi once came upon me, as a packaged deal with belonging to Him. I bought a car and there was a time when I wanted to buy a house. I had assured Him and myself that I would make a home for us here. I may have been disillusioned that it never came to be, but I am, all the same, relieved. Belonging to a city in which you are not free may come easier, but it is impossible to love a city in which you are not free.

I plan my escape every day. Will it be this year or the next? How much should I save? Should I learn Tango at Buenos Aires or try Ayahuasca in Peru? Maybe I should start taking Spanish lessons already? Maybe I should learn to swim better so as not to be embarrassed in Fiji's blue lagoons? Will I ever be able to save enough for a Round the World Ticket? But then again maybe I could take the Trans-Siberian all the way from Beijing to Moscow, with whatever I am able to save? My mind, dear friends, designs its own adventures.

Maybe it is me, and not Delhi. Me and my peripatetic ways, my impulsive escapism. Maybe I have spent enough time in Delhi to thwart its attempts at camaraderie. Delhi remains, a soft place, a place in transit, a sojourn: a place where you don't buy new furniture and don't plant bonsais in your terrace. A place where some nights you enjoy engaging company and at others you light a cigar and listen to jazz till midnight. My friends are not Dilli-Wallas or Dilli-Wallis, they are exiles, expats, small town boys and girls starting out here from scratch, people trying to make a living, just like me, or people surfing one couch at a time, awaiting a revelation through their encounters, travellers, tourists even. There is distant family liberally scattered in and around Delhi, which I choose not to socialize with much. When I hear of someone claiming to belong to Delhi, I do not relate, but I understand. Delhi, history's burden bearer, the City of Djinns, that has embraced so many, from the Pandavas to the Mughals to the partition refugees, never became mine.

Maybe when I leave, I'll look back upon Delhi with the fondness of a lost lover, and finally belong to it, like one belongs to the nostalgia of days bygone.