The Rat Trap

All those times
you think of
pulling the plug
falling head-first
into null, void
that little bugger
that calls itself
Esperanza
tugs at you
lures you
to bite
the bait
leaving you
spinning in
madness
again.

Amorous Frenzy

I draw you by the collar
closer to me
as we fall on the bed
it happens in a rush
in a blur :
                                         lips gasps moans mixed breaths
I feel you
along the contours
of my body
as you kiss, caress
plunge yourself into me

I part my lips just a little
drawing you into me
                                             slide smack stroke
consuming the
forbidden fruit

We rise, roll, burn rapturously in whirrs of ecstacy

mornings, love, warmth

She wakes him up with a kiss, stroking his hair,
pushing away a fringe resting on his broad forehead;
he opens his eyes to her sight :
clad in his baggy blue denim shirt
her hair falling over his chest
half asleep she looks just as sexy
as she does fully awake and clothed
all prim and proper,
she gets out of bed
saying something about having to leave early
he lies, warm and fuzzy, in the rug they share
as he watches her come out of the bath
her wet hair effusing a stream of water
running down her back through the blouse
her chest heaving with every breath she takes
as she ties a sari;
his eyes follow every move of her wrists
as she drapes the cloth around her luscious hips
her nimble fingers manouvering as they pleat the sari
tucking it just below her belly button
with a flourish she sweeps the pallu
across her alluring bosom
brushes her eyelashes with mascara -
the most of her embellishments -
bends over him, caressing his cheek,
whispering bye,
"Darling I won't be long,
coffee's on the table,
don't miss me.".

Throwing Up

you spoke in mocking whispers laughed in taunting sniggers
you thought i never heard your snide remarks i heard them i
heard them all and i realised with thrills of horror that i who
relentlessly strived to go unnoticed was your hottest topic of
gossip you scrutinised me and every damned action of mine
you treated me like an object on display you broke me down
and crushed my spirit and trampled all over it and when you
were bored you made my pain the subject of your conversations
you took my silence to be a mysterious ailment you made
assumptions you drew conclusions based on rumours you thought
you knew all about me you don't know anything about me don't
you dare assume you know me or what goes on within me or why
i am the way that i am.



The format was inspired by that of 'A breathless counsel' by Meena Kandasamy - http://meenakandasamy.wordpress.com/2008/06/01/a-breathless-counsel/

Memories...

There are many of them --
Life as it happens gets recorded
in my hard disc of a brain
(I'm always in 'save by default' mode) --
some are like
harmless, even pleasant, butterflies
some like
stinging bees
I store them all
in cages
in the posterior of my mind
even as the Present engages me
I often catch snatches of
sounds of buzzing,
or, of the flutter of wings
never allowing myself
to get a full blast of them
(I don't usually dwell in the past, you see, it's the future that causes worry)
except in occasional moments
of mental peace
when I let the cages open
and they swarm into my head -
the bees and the butterflies -
diffusing colour
into my monochrome mind
making every bit of it
bloom alive --

it's like listening to old cassettes
you know
dusty, old cassettes that were lying
in some drawer, locked away;
like turning the pages of a novel
read long ago,
getting re-introduced to its characters --

and a gamut of feelings
rushes through you...

The Moon seeks his beloved

He awakes from deep slumber
to find his beloved missing by his side,
again.
He doffs the shroud of dark, dense clouds
dons the black cloak of night and begins his frenzied search
for Her - the perpetually elusive one :
He scours the skies, cuts through frosty winds,
roves through the infinity of stars desperately seeking Her,
looks down at the lonesome road abandoned by commuters
who treaded upon her all day long
at a dingy alleyway where a girl solicits her new owner
for the night; to be used, abused, misused
at the young woman storming her way back home
distraught from a break-up with her Casanova of a lover -

all this, while She trails behind him
in his quest for love, silently accompanying him
as he drifts over unknown lands,
hoping his agony abates, wanting to tell him
she is there, he could see her
if only he were a little observant.
She, who took form from him -
as did Eve from Adam -
lending meaning to his being,
his silvery, mesmerising, soothing
Moonlight.



This was inspired by 'Mrs.Sunshine' by Meena Kandasamy (Indian poet, writer, activist and translator).

Returning home...

As the sun sets
and melts -
a deep orange -
into the blue vastness
yet another
weary day
dies
and a void
creeps into me
and fills
my heart.
I think of home :
I think of you
and
the sky
blushes a faint red.

The birds
are home-bound
restless to be ensconced
in the warmth and peace
of their nests
and
the turbulent sea
has come to a stand-still
with her pacified waters
resting lightly
against the
broad, brown chest of the shore.

The traffic
trudges at a
snail's pace
as hordes of vehicles
bang on to the road
with an
air of urgency
that gets
more pronounced
with the
incessant honking
as the city
rushes back home
and my dear heart
returns to the
heaviness and hope
that accompany
my wait
for you
for home....

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.