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.