A street child

She is the
lone figure
often spotted
on roads,
amidst the traffic,
hands spread out
in anticipation,
by the side of
vehicles that
rush past her.

She is a living
paradox -
the blur of
all things
bright,
flashy,
glittering -
shows of
prosperity;
reflected
in her eyes
glazed with
tears,
starkly contrast
with her
dark, filthy rags,
dirt-filled hair -
her sorry countenance.

Black

I am
no longer
a portrait,
I am
a collage;
I am
water,
the sky
colours me
Blue,
a pinch
of vermillion
makes me
blush Red;
I am,
a mimic,
a schizophrenic
accomodating
one too many
minds
in an
overwrought head.

Life in a Metro

The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
the entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
hoping to extract a penny or two,
not letting go till they relent;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the mixed smells of
samosas and chai fill the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.

Are we 'being' or not?

What if reality
is just an illusion?
What if existence
is nothing?
For, if The Creator
is truth,
how did he
come to be so?
If he isn't
how have we come
to be?
Or, are we being at all?



Read in a book, an interesting conclusion drawn from the phenomenon of reflection of colours - the colour of an object that we see, is actually the colour reflected by that object, whereas all other colours are absorbed by it - this could mean that what we see is not the 'truh' or 'reality' as we would like to believe. The truth could be the opposite of what we see, or, very different from what we see, or, there could be more than one truth, it could be said - Truth lies in the eyes of the beholder. We assume our existence to be the truth. For all our fretting over ourselves and our lives, our existence could be nothing.

Hard Copies

In an age wherein I can replace the books on my shelf with an e-reader, I prefer not to. And I have strong reasons that justify my preference. The main reason being that I find shelling out small amounts of money from time to time to buy books to be easier on the pocket than paying a lump-sum amount to buy an e-reader. Owing to their durability and easy maintainance, physical copies of books last for many years and can be used by succeeding generations too, I can personally vouch for this, having turned to decades-old Physics and Chemistry books in times of need. Reading physical copies also creates a scope for learning through research - a search in the dictionary for the meaning of just one word makes me learn many others, or, research on a concept leads me to learn more than I intended to. As a poet (though amateur), I hope to publish a book of my poems and would definitely like for it to be published as a hard copy, for the simple reason that they are accessible to everyone. The very physical form of hard copies is also an another reason why I prefer them to the available alternatives - they are easy to carry, lend and borrow. I am sure there are counter-arguments but I find my case more compelling.

A train journey

I look up from my book
to find beams of warm sunlight
touching my face,
the chugging of the train
accompanied by its whistling
become my aural companions
for the journey,
as I look at scenes that
unfold before my eyes :
I pass by hawkers
trying to sell their wares,
their calls mingled with
joyous voices,
of children
excited about their
first train journey,
of families
on their way,
perhaps, to attend a wedding,
or to celebrate the birth
of a much awaited child.

I see :
village belles toiling away
on fields;
shabby looking buildings
speaking of years of neglect;
temples ringing with the sounds of
bhajans being sung with religious fervour,
bells being tolled, pleading
the gods to look down
from their divine abodes;
roadside stalls filling the air
with aromas of food,
promising hearty meals...

They are all an ephemeral sight, and yet,
they have become a part of me -
the smells, the sights -
they shall bring back memories
that will become my companions
in solitude.

Parting of ways...

He lets go
of her hand,
his hungry eyes -
wanting to trap
her image
in them forever -
look at her
desperately,
wanting her
to read them.
The silence
between them,
pregnant
with unspoken
words,
becomes too dense
for him to breathe.
His mind goes numb.
He tears his eyes
away from her
and turns
to walk away...
...the wind
lashes against
his face,
as the coldness
of their parting
bites into his heart.

        ------

She felt
the warmth
leave her hand
as he drew his
away from her ;
her tears held back
in quiet dignity.
The detached smile
decieved words
wanting to
touch her lips.
She looked away
from him
lest, her eyes
gave her away.
Bearing
a resigned look,
watching him
walk away,
her eyes
silently
call out...

Rainy evenings

One rainy evening
sitting by the window
a mug of coffee in hand,
she looks down
at the busy street -
the world is in a hurry,
she is unaffected by it
she is far away
from the rush and madness.
Steam arising from the coffee
forms mist
and the present disappears from view
as memories play themselves out
in a stream, one by one,
before her eyes,
as she stares on
in calm oblivion
at the street...

Reminders to self

As the urge
for recognition
increases,
everything you do
begins to lose
meaning,
its sole purpose
being
to derive
gratification
from praise.
You no longer
write for yourself
but,
for the world,
like the courtesan
that dances
only to please
her patrons.
Pressure bears down
on you,
creativity
begins to pull away.
Benchmarks
and standards
restrict you.
You need
constant reminders
that there are
no rules,
that everything
can be challenged,
that it was
inquisition, which
wrought great changes
in the world,
that you are
the master
of yourself
and everyone else
can go
take a hike!

Disillusioned

A little, shiny something,
in the distance,
caught her sight,
on she looked at it
with wide
wonderstruck eyes.
"Must be a precious gem,",
she thought,
"For it shines so bright.",
and kept gazing at it
come day, come night.
Curiosity
overcame her,
and mustering
every ounce of courage
that could be managed,
with eager eyes,
out she ventured
of her cocoon
and made her way towards It.
But finding It nowhere,
she looked around
frantically,
and then saw...
...a bauble perched
in place of It -
her precious gem.

Hope for peace....

Looking across the border,
I see the glowing sky
embracing a new dawn,
a stream,
mirthful,
as it bends
along the meadows;
lush green fields,
blooming buds
gesturing the arrival
of spring.
And I see
a flock of birds,
homeless,
not belonging
to my skies or his,
I see bustling streets,
playgrounds full of
sportsmen and women
in all their passion.
I see him
who looks like me,
I hear his tongue
that sounds like mine,
I see the glorious sunset
as it envelopes him,
And the moon
adorning the sky.
It all looks
like a reflection...
....I hear echoes
of a gunshot.
Curtains fall
before my eyes, as
the scene disappears....

The Dead come Alive

An unfeeling
mass of flesh,
an empty heart,
dry, sightless eyes.

          ---  

A string breaks,
pandemonium hits.

          ---

Storms rage,
oceans ravage,
skies echo
wailing winds.

         ---

The throat chokes,
heart bleeds,
head screams,
eyes weep.

What do I write?

Lying on the bed 
I think of what to write...
....words don't flow out
of my pen
my mind is clogged
vaccum surrounds me
I've sucked all the noise
into my self.
It's waiting to explode.
I realise I am too conscious
of myself,
I realise I am trying to pretend.
My pen leaks out
a random flow of ink
shaped in words
I strike them out
they don't manifest my feelings.
I don't want farce to appeal
to the eye,
I want honesty to touch
the heart.
I am waiting
for my words
to strike a chord
with the strings of my heart.
I am longing
for clarity
that will give my writing
a sense of purpose
and shorn it
of its randomness.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is a clean slate
I want to colour it
with thoughts
and feelings,
I want for it to
lose its barrenness
and be fertile
with imagination.
I want for it to
be bereft of fear
for it is,
the place
where revolutions were conceived
and philosophies were born;
the sole reason
for Man's greatness.
It boasts of coveted freedom,
which,
feared tyrants failed to snatch,
it is a guiding light
to the often faltering humanity.
It has been
subject to manipulations,
deceiving history
into changing its course;
scripting moments
of momentous change,
all, of course,
owing their occurrences
to the enchanting influence
it wields over the body.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is deluged
with a rush of thoughts
flowing in and out,
a haze of colours
mesmerises me,
letters, words
dance before my eyes,
songs play out in a loop,
a multitude of
smudgy-outlined faces
gazes at me....
....And I realise
with an epiphany,
It is this very train of thoughts
I shall elaborate on!
Lying on the bed
I think I know what to write on.

Of Love

Of the racing heart,

quickening breath,
the gentle brush of lips.
Of sweet whispers,
blushing cheeks,
musical laughter.
Of cool breeze
flirting with one's hair,
soft music
ringing in one's ears.
Of quiet exchanges
of shy looks, stealthy glances,
soft embraces.
Of searching eyes,
hands that wipe away tears.
Of the beautiful paleness
of Life, like love,
subtle, yet so strong,
inconspicuous,
despite its lingering presence.
Of the Red hue
of sacrifice, of blood
and vermilion.
Of transcending boundaries.
Of dewy mornings,
glowing sunsets,
moonlit nights.
Of Love,
that walks you hand in hand
into the infinity of the Horizon
and the eternity of Time.

I stand alone

Lonesome I stand
amongst a multitude,
with no companion but myself,
with memories of my past,
that, like autumn leaves,
lie scattered about my feet,
by Hope they are blown away;
and dreams of mine,
that, like flowers of Azure Spring,
bloom on every tree and vine,
colouring pale Life
with their hues,
despair and strife,
hand in hand, fading away.

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from head to crown,
Clean favoured and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
Always a gentleman when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses,when he said,
"Good morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread,
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
                                                                      -Edwin Arlington Robinson 



How wrong people are, to judge us just from our demeanour......when, the side of ourselves that we reveal to the world, is merely a shade, perhaps a farcical one, of the spectrum of hues that colour us. Each of us has a story to tell - the truths about ourselves that we know in the darkest depths of our hearts, no matter how much we deny them or try to keep them in concealment from the world. We are all Richard Cory(s), envied by others, yet, troubled by our own secrets and facades.

Aman ki asha.....

Sarhad ke jharokhon se dekhti hoon main
dekhti hoon usi lalimaa ko
ek nayi subah ko aaghosh mein lete hue
dekhti hoon usi balkhati jheel ko
khilkhilati hui hariyali ke sahare mudte hue
dekhti hoon vahi lehrate khet
vahi kaliyaan jinka khilna
bahar ke aghaaz  ki dastak deta hai
dekhti hoon azad gagan mein
panchiyon ke ik jhund ko
bewatan
jo na mere asmanon ka hai na uske
dekhti hoon bazaar ki usi hulchul ko
maidan mein khiladiyon ke usi junoon ko
dekhti hoon use jo mujh jaisa lagta hai
sunti hoon uski boli jo kahi-suni lagti hai
dekhti hoon usi sunehri shaam ko
uske aangan mein baste hue
dekhti hoon usi chand ko
raat ka daaman sajate hue
dekhti hoon
dekhkar lagta hai
sheeshe mein jhaank rahi hoon
sunti hoon
door kahin se bandook ki goonj
sunkar nazraane par parda padh jaata hai......

Night

The night is so short that the moonlight has barely embraced it, it has barely kissed the dark shores of the sky.....

Midnight Maudlin Fits

Feeling suffocated by the silence of the night, of the vaccum in life. Crying in the middle of the night, convulsive sobs that noone can hear. Because noone is around. Feeling lonely, wishing for somebody to be troubled by your pain. Not wanting to be left all by yourself to handle every damn thing that comes your way.

Giving up on life, wanting to kill yourself and attain liberation from all Maladies. Then suddenly remembering all your big ambitions, a newfound love for them welling up inside yourself, suddenly becoming too selfish to throw away your most cherished things, becoming hopeful again, very slowly falling in love with life again......

Reminded of things to be done the next day, all the meloncholy vanishing in a moment as if it were just a maudlin fit. Wiping your tears away, swollen-up eyes stinging, head aching like its going to crack open under the Pressure. Washing your face, humming yourself to sleep, feeling relieved, peaceful after the catharsis......

Solitude

Feeling the rythmic beat of your heart
your slow breath
listening to the soft rustling of leaves
to the breeze whispering sweet nothings.

Reminiscing pleasant memories...
...an absent-minded smile dancing on your lips
looking at the inky sky, deluged by the cool moonlight
lost in somebody's thoughts, longing for company
to share your quiet moments with...

Random Musings

Living each day seems to be a chore, an unwanted, much resented burden thrust upon. Every crack of dawn ushers in a night of an Anticipation - for that unknown magic cure-all for all of Life's ailments, for the unwonted Tranquility and Calm that will silence all disturbing noises of the pathetic Human Life - that never abates, whose purpose is undefined, whose end is indefinite, one that is overwhelming, that seems to contend with the Horizon in its infinities. With every passing second, with every breath quicker than the other, it only mounts. Each hour feels like an eternity.......it is a daily ritual that is exhausting. Yet the perpetual Wait goes on till the faintest orange glow in the sky is snuffed out by the velvety darkness, and the chirping of birds followed by a stunned silence.........

Random Musings

The times when you want to get away from the cruel, materialistic world, you want to break free of all bonds that restrict you, tie you down to the ground, that don't let you spread your wings and soar high into the sky of endless, liberating freedom.The times when you are tired of constantly having to live up to expectations, some, of your own and some, of others'.The times when all you want to do is dwell upon your thoughts without any noisy interruptions from the world outside, peaceful and tranquil in your solitude.The times when you don't care about the judgemental world, when you want to get rid of the facade that you have to put up everyday, the mask of false emotions, of plastic smiles and of unreal, mirthless laughter.The times when none of your far-fetched dreams and ambitions matter to you.........when everything that had felt so important untill yesterday, suddenly seems meaningless, when your very idea of certain things changes.........the Religion seems to be nothing more than a rigid diktat written by a bunch of moralists; the Nation seems to be just one among the many divisions man has created to mark boundaries of empires, each ruled by power-hungry individuals, either in the garb of People's rule or by irrational use of military muscle and assumed authority; the Language suddenly means more than just words and funny looking symbols, it seems to be an abstract entity, which, besides encompassing all emotions, also gives them a voice, an expression, it seems to go beyond phonetics to include all those unspoken things conveyed through a smile, a touch, a mere exchange of looks; the Expression of the Great Love means more than materialistic gestures, worldly rituals and does not require one to be explicit and obvious; the Family and Relations seem bondages, mistakes and obligations you have to fulfill without questioning their truth, importance and need.........All those times when you want to let go, fall into Oblivion, wish for eternal freedom and relief from the unending agony of Life, from being ravished by the world, from the angst at injustices perpetrated by the world on Man, everyday, and soak in the Calm while you have the opportunity, before any worldly reminder rudely jerks you out of your peaceful trance............