31st December 2008. The last day of an extraordinary year. In few hours time an episode of a roller coaster ride will be over.

And all that will be left is nostalgia. All that will remain is the certainty of past. What we will see is a definite place in the history books; What we will remember is an unusual package of love, hate, betrayal .... friendships, bondings, break-ups ...... avulsions and havocs. What we will realise is how real life had presented itself in a garb of weird enchantment.

Tomorrow we will start to gamble again. And if we are courageous enough we will forswear all medial beliefs. We will put wager on the insignificant and evanescent lines of the palmate. Tomorrow we shall take the stage again .... Tomorrow we shall start all over again ...

And for you and me, we take each little step together ....

And in a year's time we would have covered a mile .....

and with a wry shrug of our shoulders
we let the numinous structures
of individual past dissolve
in the whirling smoke
of filtered cigarettes, sitting
on the rocks of Marine Drive,
littered with several old sins,
buried, now proudly rediscovered -
whose fate, ill-fated to have survived
invective reproach of rumour mills.

“man, those were the days”,
classic clichéd terms we used
and within few minutes, antedate
future artificial scenes
that danced the skank
to the reggae of Arabian Sea; and
admiration for time’s ironical gallows
grew with each passing smoke;
life that returned after a long silent void
on way back home: a long evening on road.

wrapped in its arms
this early June,
the sky spinner sits
for long hours on a low baluster
and spins the woolen clouds
onto a spindle, tirelessly -
shaping the moist monsoon;

and like a giggling spring rose,
evident in boundless joys of unaccounted
profits; winds up her trade for this season.

This morning, I learnt from one of my friends back in Mumbai, that first rains of the monsoon had arrived. I felt celebratory even though I am thousands of miles away. I don’t know why. And it is almost futile to seek an explanation because there isn’t any available. All I can say is Mumbai Rains are special.

Monsoon in Mumbai is different, say from Calcutta where when it rains, it does so incessantly. Looking at the skies you can predict whether or not it would rain and most of the time your personal forecast would hit the bulls’ eye. Mumbai skies, during monsoon, are almost perennially covered with clouds, which look extremely inviting. You can feel the air that says it can rain anytime. But then she is temperamental. She would dress up, looking like she is on a rampage to kill someone with her drop dead gorgeous looks and then she might just slump in her chair and decide not to go to the party. Sitting in that chair she would look outside the balcony as if she were lost in her present surroundings. 

In Mumbai you can get caught in the rains at most unexpected times. Even when you don’t see any clouds, and the sky is as clear as a plain white paper on a canvas, it would just take minutes to form a cloud formation and then .. it would simply rain. Its unpredictability is its highlight. And unpredictability is non-monotonous. There is a beauty in random, non-routine but there is also a definite rhyme and rhythm to it. When it rains in Mumbai, it rains poetically. And needless to say, I miss the Mumbai Rains.

strange sensations of the fingertips
stalks dark recesses of hidden caverns
traces stealthy movements
breathes flowing pulses,
stops -
holds -
caresses the bare neck
slowly -
slow steps -
step by step,
fulfillment ...
painlessness …
sheer pain ….

the ruby pendant worn-down
on the empty wrinkled bed sheet;

spurious stains of evening skies
standing alone on busy broadways.

Messages from long lost friends are as scarce as friends themselves. My nonchalant ways with social networking sites doesn’t help either. Given the way people talk about social networking sites these days, I do feel ashamed to admit that I have an account each with two of the big players. I am a moderately active member of one of them and a sleeping partner (not exactly literally) of the other one which was a favour that I had bestowed upon someone, but I don’t remember exactly on whom; it must be some acquaintance or the social networking site itself whom I help generate large amounts of revenue from such an insignificant act of mine as clicking on the site's url.

Well, amidst profusion of no messages, when the mailbox suddenly shouted of a mail from a known acquaintance and an unknown friend, yours truly had no option but to be a little bemused. The insouciant state of being happy without a known friend was suddenly turned into an uncontrollable urge that practically compelled me to follow the link to the site and read what ever was on offer. The “Hi”, was almost bittersweet but the prospect of a reunion party for secondary school leaving batch of 1996 sounded very alluring. The date of-course was not. It was strategically chosen to be somewhere in the next month, which is an extremely busy month for a guy who works for Strategic Planning. Of-course, I accept that it’s more to do with my bad luck than their good fortunes of not seeing me there but then the invitation did set the wheels of school memories rolling. My courteous ‘Hi’ to his message was followed by an enquiry of certain teachers whom I have admired and adored through out my life. One such teacher has been Ms Koyeli Ghosh.

Koyeli Ghosh joined us in the summer of 1994 as our class teacher. She was a phenomenon. She was nothing like what we had seen in all these years. Teachers to us had a very ‘different’ personality. They were like the big wall clock of ebony in front of the main doorway, whose pendulum would swing with a purpose of defining time in a loud, dull and monotonous way. She was different. She had an outlandish air about her, not with her clothes, but with her entire persona that was so “non-teacher” like. She was assigned the task of teaching English Literature. She still teaches English there.

She must have been in her early thirties when she joined us. Graduated from Oxford, we thought she had no business teaching at such a small school as ours. For many months after she had joined, we were still debating (read more as gossiping) as to why she decided to teach us rather than at a college level and do far better for herself. Money was of-course not a criterion because she was presumably a millionaire in those days. We finally gave up but only after having gone through rounds of unfruitful but necessary discussions and debates. Talking in hindsight the job gave her enough flexibility to be occupied, to teach and as well as spend considerable amount of time with her seven year old son, especially when her husband had a job that required extensive traveling.

It was then no surprise that my predilection for her teaching or otherwise would put no restrain on ensuring that I get enough sun tan in a class already filled with luminous stars quite near to the earth than those in the galaxy. The positive vibrations were extremely important if I were to do well in the subject matter of her choice but my preference now. The only danger lay in her liking someone else and any effort was required to ensure that she looked straight at me rather than beveled through the edges of her table. But after sometime it simply didn’t seem to matter.

Her extensive taste in good books, life and music was something extremely endearing and enriching for the students. Her anecdotes, references, allusions, interpretation and descriptions were collected diligently and cherished by yours truly almost like a philatelist. I still remember the first poem that she taught us was D.H.Lawrence’s “Snake”. A life long journey of love for reading, understanding and interpreting poetry had worn its Adidas boots that day. I remember her telling me once, reading poetry is an art, different from writing; one who reads poetry well doesn’t necessarily write good poetry and vice versa. Well she was responsible for making Shakespeare fun and ensuing that we read and discussed him without notes. She explained the importance of translations in one of the most outstanding ways that I remember, by making us translate Rabindranath Tagore’s Bengali poems into English and then reading to us his own translations from "Geetanjali". 'Translation is not translating one word from one language to another verbatim; understand the meaning and translate the meaning to achieve the desired effect, if that is to be ever achieved'. We of-course kicked ourselves in our endeavours and realised why he was the Nobel Laureate and we were studying him. The best aspect of her teaching was going beyond what was written as texts in the books. This might sound clichéd but believe me you must, that this is the most difficult thing to achieve as a teacher.

I was able to build across a sense of camaraderie with her but then that was not as exclusive as I would have liked it to be. She had grown to be one of the favourite teachers of all students irrespective of how they fared in the subject. And that didn’t bother me anymore. She knew exactly how to divide attention to each and everyone of us equally. No more careful walking on stilettos was required because there didn’t exist a desire to have her full attention anymore (or for that matter the fear of falling out of her graces one day) and yet be quaintly happy everytime she called out in her charmingly brusque tone -“Jha”. Yes, “Jha” is what she used to call me instead of “Alok”. The archipelago of memories is what binds me to her even today and I am grateful to that message for letting me remember her in the recesses of a Sunday morning.

many rounds of black coffee
with futile aversions to white milk -
a round table meeting of two people,
in a round room, beside the chamber
with attractive wooden doors,
winding up the entire summer.

almost like a peignoir, loose and unsound
unarranged for all the seasons: whose questions
this summer; in the vague raining of confetti
gathered together … every year … year by year
in the constant fight of the last battle –
now discussing, deciding on the one survivor.

and the sleuth of afternoon summer sun
assumes the artificial cold of winter; proofs
all in a black binder, neatly folded and arranged
proofs, of all living … lost and dead , buried and found
chronicles of little smoke and all dust; unaccounted
discussed and decided on a round table in a round room.

many a times -
infact most of the times,
i follow the path of breaks and joints
while i hold few verses …
that fails to articulate
whatever i understand;

sentences that exited --
with or without
my penning them down,
on a piece of white paper
forgotten long time around …
while i break them into three lines
each of the same theme
but of different forms;

he asks me for a simple meaning
and i look at the earth -
and the sun -
and later on
towards
the mercurial moon,
on the long distant -
plain, placid sky
which all along looked at me
for assurance,
that i hoped to seek
in return;

but as monetary as desires are -
i seek gains,
even in broken sentences
and uninterrupted sequences
which i try and make
and fail to break again;

the broken verses
that followed a sequence
of this unknown poet,
in the broken alleys
of small towns
where he looked down
on the lighted thoroughfare,
on several occasions …
days and nights,
of jejune thoughts
or call it juvenile
if you may ….
if you wish ....
to call it that way - -
puerile breathing,
and complex impedance
of an adolescent mind.

the glass of water
peacefully resting
on the table,
on the other end
of the same room
of the same house;

the glass is transparent,
so is the water
so the cat
black in colour - 
right in that corner
seeing it through;

to see through indeed
a six by six vision,
as sharp as it can get
to see through the stillness
of many small crystals
of eristic reasons uncountable;

the glass of water
peacefully resting
on the table,
on the other end
of the same room
of the same house;

the quench of thirst -
that the table understood,
the state of satiety -
that the cat realised,
the reason of everything -
that the corners witnessed.

Wheel that has evolved

on a certain round notion

goes on and on

without revolution;

I stand at the edge

none the fear of falling

neither the unknown awe’s

revulsion to moving;

Some will land … conquered

where no land exists

beyond shore … sans energy

and quaint infinity breathing;

(and even if the land holds acquaintance

and speaks in funny old language

let him find another plain

and another air in semblance;

let him restrain

the spokes of running wheels

let him rejoice in his victory

of landing on another territory.)

every written letter saunters

between space and time

somewhere …..

someplace ……

bargaining, trade of an awl

in exchange for a quixotic - 

worn courage -

neighbourhood witnessing ....

a popular yard sale.

but the moon has many shades,
and the canoe still has to sail
distances traveled on plains.
lost raindrops never regained.

(even as thoughts erase memories
you walk on dead grass
leaving your imprints behind)

the iciness of thin air
hangs over the eaves; and
grey edges of the walled mirror
smiles unrevealingly;

and ...

the gaze of unredeemed
grips my whole body
made of flesh ...
or is it hollowed skin
wrapped around assembled bones
gathered through centuries;

there ...

over the window sills
where silvery moon shines
outside this vacant ….
dull ….. dreary …
oppressively soundless room
where silence .....
quietly ..... silently .....
proposes an unruffled gloom;

Shall we walk into the mist?
From where no one has ever returned
Where unexplored mysteries sleep
And a haze that explains nothing
Overshadows forlorn belongings;

This is the road that walks there
Where no shadows have ever followed
And no lover has stayed alone
Where with open arms they embrace
The abysses of unclaimed depth;

Where shadows that lived a life
No longer exist,
Where the trembling heart
No longer breathes,
Where journeys no longer pretend;

Let us hide once beyond recognition
Let's today walk into this mist.

I hold on to you as you fly
High over cerulean carpet sky
Like free, unchained desires
Far away from roadsteads
Tasting the salt of unbound water
Into open countenance of sea’s delight;

I think I hold your strings as you fly
Plunge into chasm of infinite heights
Over white flames where you travel
Caressing neighbourhood horizons; and
I stand augured on the shore watching
As you carouse with fire and winds’ whim.

And as merry a fool as there is one
You remind me of Prehensions and Strings
Whose hold would never matter
If you did not know how to fly -
- Partners in that flight
- Partners in this walk of life.

window vane -
unwarranted baggage
swaying ….
lost in thoughts -
questions which way to go
- mild winds ..

when young and relieved this evening
grows on to me ... to be a man
I will look back on his turgid days
and follow him sometime.

when virile sky of this elliptical night
chained and restless, elusive kind
questions me on busy carrefour
and leaps forward ... suddenly .. twofold.

when etch horizon of this folklore
nears the terminus of wrinkled floors
I will walk through caverns of dark light
and carry the bier, holding high.

(every silence sounds different
unrecognised ... unvoiced tales
ensconced in far crevices
so often, galloping miles away ......)

wrinkled causeries of eider-down duvet

blissful next morning -

testimonials of you and me.

I have hardly ever described you

but you remind me of rain,

whose purling beads of pure ecstasy

mildly paints

and easily

swoons by fragrance of spring

incepted of new breath

and wings my dream.

I never thought I needed to ……….

I never realised .... I could'nt ………

Night accepts the invitation of another day with seldom seen alacrity.

And the quiescence of sleep rests tatterdemalion blue skies above.

Through many continents my words wander ……

hesitantly through centuries.

The ennui fabric of epithelial prologue

seeks way of eminent tomorrow.

A virgule nonpareil light slants through his mind ....
--- whose looks can not deceive trained eyes.

Looking / searching through pliant mind on whose surface rusts the rust. And whose wallet searches for impecunious illumination.

It almost rhymed.

It didn’t.

Surely didn’t

But stood out as if its penurious lyricism was almost a blessing.

Almost an assumed freedom.

Dulcet winds of violoncello plays my room. It has already composed a quartet of an opera, embracing the silence of mutiny ..... of several instruments that propose lying scattered thereto.

Faint knocks on the front door. Listen. Recompense - a pledge not a mercy. Do not look beyond.

I seek not to ignore, not to look away into the distant. I wish not to armour myself against uncalled saccharine glee floating at the corner of my eyes. Smile with less scruple, as I am willing to.

I want to.

I have to.

I shall.

Celebrate.

“in questioning lies man’s downfall”
- whose rhythm I cannot apostatize
incalculable time spent on naught
whose productivity I cannot belie;

life that breathes after my death
Father will you not question
my meager existence without
betroth to own, in unearned request;

let me seek my own questions
through wastelands apprehend
- stunned by unvanquishable truths
- assume phoenix’s own willful request;

Favouring tongue bears favouring speech;
So did she tell me in Cantonese
and as difficult an art as crochet
easily differentiates a novice;

I smiled instead,
for words were none
almost like the empty coke can
holding to quench my thirst
on a blank summer afternoon –

Well so does it happen
my empty smile betrayed me
giving away secrets of soul
as always like a traitor;

How long have you been here –
in pure honey coated brisk mannered
English she speaks - - -
I still smile back at her
entranced .. well almost
smiling foolishly …

memories I come back to you
time and again
through countless tides
on aery sea face
where standing between two shores
we build a bridge of lost eons - - -

of the many years that I rendered you
pilfer my desires for me;

Despite his courage, the insurmountable effect of time’s prowess on his veins can be clearly seen. As they say much water has flown under the bridge and evidently so. I wish one could measure the essence of time. We say quality but then that is so subjective, so human and unscientific prone to hours of discussions, debates and later on comments which these days become so unmanly to most of us (yet we never refrain). He lived his life to the fullest (in all sense of the term) and even these days after 81 years when he speaks he tends to exude a sense of calm that is so inadequate in most of us.

of old flint efflorescent time
uplifting its stony head,
like a solitary star on black nights
amongst unseen, unheard spirits -
strike it bright with shining steel
on this raining night’s dancing ordeal;

of the many years that I rendered you
pilfer my dreams for me;

He does talk of death these days perhaps more than he has ever done in his entire life but then he talks of it as a certainty and not out of self pity. The death of his son in 1998, aged forty four, had left him shattered and weak. He perhaps would have wanted to die at that time yet he survived, survived with scars of time though as well as with all truths, the scars do lighten but never disappear. The fact remains that he grew old faster than he would have done otherwise. In fighting the malaise he showed a sense of resoluteness in overcoming it that is hardly seen these days. Remember he had lost a son whom he loved the most. But through all this he never lost his sense of calm which has always been associated with him. A great man who lives life on his own terms, does the right things and defines what is right, has seen zillions of ups and downs - fighting, surviving and still living with a legacy of how exactly to live a life like a true gentleman (and believe me there is still this concept that is viable).

like many a man past, man will outgrow you
and you will live through me fresh as green
like first rays on window sills
of moments enraptured in countless deeds
flesh in flesh who momentarily believes
where my soul rests, lies my memories;

of the many years that I rendered you
pilfer my moments for me;

who else will fear the sleet
when infused gentian breathes -
across silent roadsides fallen asleep
and phantom blue mountains foreseen;

little did snow know
whom I have never seen
fears come and go
as life exists …

when winter will surely succeed
and questions whoever wins
happily as today, in this full spring
in blue mountains it will recede.

peace rules my house
sans noises -
sans cries -
sans people -
sans voice ….

infact mirrors do speak
and I am awaken by a presence
of something … arr somebody
looking through a glass ...

and …

seldom do I realise

friends can be beyond
a structured being
a structured human being;

strike a conversation
strike one indeed,
and you will hear
playful, interwoven noises
arr sounds I mean ...

but …

then, I realise almost solemnly

peace indeed rules my house
for mirrors don’t speak
or do they … or do I
simply conceive .....

Expressions

ensconced comfortably in cloud’s arms
concealed in her eidetic memory
- from four corners of framed walls;

and as you come nearer, closer
the sense of your fragrant essence
- holds me tight in your lighted gaze;

uncertainty of your first steps
questions my latent desire
- in one moment through eternity;

and let the forbidden evil embrace us
for all nights to come when I am yours
- you the master and I your chosen slave;

Can I make a wish
hold me tight... hold me today ...
for you and me .. yet again.

# pictures taken the night before when it was beautifully lighted by the full moon

Jointer that holds the wooden table
In a living room so naturally -
Empty a while before, whoever noticed
I still await;
- Forgetful …
- Extremely forgetful …

Spring that’s known to rear a life
In a garden so naturally -
Shivering in cold winds
I still await;
- Forgetful …
- Extremely forgetful ….

A beginning too has a loose end
For a new beginning so naturally -
On a curled dirt mountain road
I still await;
- Forgetful …
- Extremely forgetful ….

I saw the wind travel, northward perhaps
Carrying a sealed letter pale and empty -
Sunny yellow window panes
I still await;
- Forgetful …
- Extremely forgetful ….

speaking of those almost prince like;
charm that breathes fresh air
and spreads the bloom,
aye! such talented colours
on spring’s bosom
has blossomed again;

wrought thou my art, almost ruined
few moments ago on a lonely chair,
in a yard where droplets silently
kissed the grass under her small bare feet
and her eyes that held a glance
over the ray floret blushing pink
and a sense of joy under a gray roof
- a little persuasion for winds to woo.

images of hibernal clouds
cling on the terrace walls
a wholesome day of scarce fancy
within lost imaginative prowls;

and the evening’s scarlet sky
assumes infinite scars
with twisted images of an afternoon
curled in an armchair by his side;

amidst mickle of old poems
and few pages of polemic verses
his mind wanders in a coppice -
- star’s search for twinkling lights;

practice makes a man perfect
time on iron board reduced
productive with each event

I can feel,
The shuddering of my heart
When I breathe.

I can feel,
A veil of fear passing through my face
Slowly …
So slowly as if breathtakingly.

I can feel,
A voice from within
Which comes out crying loud
Aye! So loud …
As if the man beside me can hear him
I try to shut him up,
But so adamant is he
He kicks my plea out of the ground
And cries more loudly.

He cries ….
I cannot stay with you any more
For you are incomplete
For you are impotent
I cannot laugh with you any more
Cannot play with you anymore
I can only cry and cry with you,
On this treacherous bed of yours
No, no I cannot stay with you any more.

I try to disassociate myself –
From my foes turned friends –
The trembling hand
The overflowing pessimism
I beckon my friends
Those who are trying to run away
I call them long,
I call them hard,
I make an extra effort,
But why will they look back
I am lying on this treacherous bed,
Being Just crippled …..

- Being Just Crippled (March16, 1996)

I found few change that lay orphaned on the bookshelf. I took a hard look at them for a moment, a little more than necessary, thinking of the least interest I should have in them. But I picked them up anyways.

What world can I buy few pennies
Do I know thy worth few pennies?

What you can buy I can help you decide
Will you follow me undesired?

Few pennies tell me new
Images that lie beyond the dew
And geometric scheme that conspires
Will I bear infinitely supreme powers?

Why then is that undesired
Powers that bore upon your hand
Need not have me conspire.

I looked at the pennies. Three shillings. All of three shillings. With amused satire I thought of power and they looked at me wearing the same attire.

What else can I buy few pennies
If not it's the power that I desire?

My dear friend, my dear friend
Can’t you think of anything but satire?

Will it be peace few pennies tell me
Will it be happiness that I should have undesired
Whose shadows participate in infinite spheres
And yet tell me that I can’t be a sire.

Why then is that undesired
How can I help you find a trodden heart
Whose virtues were considered bemired.

My irritation was now too evident. Pennies that I hardly thought can buy me a cup of coffee were making me question my own desires.

Few pennies, few pennies haven’t I changed
In this convoluting world can’t anew I desire?

You call it a change when left unfulfilled
Over half the tasks abandoned indeed?

Tell me few pennies, tell me last
What can I buy, if not then don’t surmise.

New dreams you dream my friend that I can’t desire
I will help you buy old dreams that left you undesired.

Appalled I stood looking at the three shillings who just bought me my dreams unfulfilled.

(click on the photo to enlarge it)

To lisp in sighs I haven’t had the time, whose breath smells of the brazen wind and flutters the thread of my bare scalp, livid sometimes with my earliest words, in cold nocturnal nights, I the Child bear upon the signs of life a part of that is death and not otherwise

As my fingers weave a little dream
I dare not say whose path extreme
Dare say dare whose strings tremble
Of sheer tumult amidst flagrant ramble

I haven’t spoken of it for sometime now, whose lines crumble and shiver sometimes of sheer pain and sometimes naked wants, needs and deeds succinct, whose lines mark my open palm beside a cold knife’s accompaniment

I will write again and change some path, merge them perhaps or separate, I haven’t had thought of it yet but I know of knows I will leave behind when time shall come and I shall remind.

In the silence of this quite night
When I fail to rhyme …
Play me -
Play me will you;

Hit the strings that bind me and you
And few notes that I taught you …
Improvise me -
Improvise me will you;

When no longer the sleight of your fascination
Extols my celebration of you …
Delight me -
Delight me will you;

Rhyme the rhythm, scale up that quarter note
Look, see me through that resplendent orb …
Surprise me -
Surprise me will you;

And when the chorus picks up, culminating our joy
Hear carefully for that base tone …
Surrender me -
Surrender me will you;

I have lost pain for the sake of happiness and
it hasn’t pained much as suffering had claimed;

The pursuit of happiness isn’t too hard a path
isn’t too harsh a road of untraveled fakirs
and is unlike the guilt of ridding in surreys;

I have lost few senses and some figure of speech
touted of importance which I seldom now feel;

Lost some, gained some and found some memories
and suddenly exulted with realization of only
having played a game and surrendered solemnly;

The pursuit of happiness isn’t too hard a path
for its my right and for rights you never fight;

Happiness is by right … Indeed my and yours solemn right.

wish you a morning –
in missing courteousness,
days crowned in sparkling diadem
and arrogance in mighty powers
subverting, in its supremacy yet again;

wish you a morning –
in subdued diabolic senses,
days balancing on splinter woods
and stuttering in impaired speech
has fallen flat on its words yet again;

wish you a morning –
in incomprehensible subtleness,
days laced in velvety silky fringe
and vagabond peace in shrillness
has come home to breads yet again.

A country that laments the absence of winter can hardly enjoy the essence of spring. It is late January and the mind invariably returns to days marked by festivities welcoming spring .....the turbid waters of Ganges (heralding seasons of green fields and yellow flowers) swollen with the fragrance of ecstasy..... I am at a loss ..... complete loss .....

the doggerel verses languor
yearning for a form nay
in seasons of spring
even the fritinancy of cricket
yearns for monsoon's frills ...

The hot afternoons gather dust here and I am again taken back in my times where spring would tease the knots of winter slowly .. somewhat steadfastly animating the colours of violet on a wide screen for small mortals like me to gauge and gaze and appreciate.

Sighs! the appreciation is only in memories, memories that has tangled itself with the soil of my skin. I look out at the virile sky who looks madly and deeply in love with the moon tonight with curious onlookers waiting expectantly for them to make their next move and as time continues its enfleshed dreams I see no movement ...... no movement yet again tonight ..... making me wonder what happened to their love stories .... the eternal love stories … there I see desires but desires that are not sought and I look again … this time blankly at the solitary smiling moon … remembering …. just plain remembering ....

give me another moon to last
the moon I saw the other night
of white muslin floating over
memories patterned in black & white
whose dainty feet above slender grounds
whose sandals encased in wimple strides
whose silence draped in charnel nights
whose colours rain radiantly bright ---
whose colours rain radiantly bright!!

do you think on days like this
miracles will smile with exuberance;
(this bleak visage of the night
draped in black somber bonnet
looking with supplication
over the laid back winter sky)

whose wind seduces spring
melodies in lower octaves,
spasms of affliction painting
paths of miraculous effulgence;

one by one
miracles - -
one on one
miracles . . . . . .

silent strokes of steeple bells
and halcyon balmy .. airy nights
even their euphony in -
(unpoetic verses
unryhtmic songs,
clamorous screams
settling affright,
brazen winds
longing deserts
and muted desires)
tells those tales
(of lissome oceans ...
and purling waves ......
of enameled touches -
and humbled prays)
of your small notes
and weaved letter,
and bucolic songs
of shepherdess and swain, -
of you and me
(and all of them); (today)
mirror speaks language same
entangled in single solitary twain ....

was she bothered
engrossed in her mind
thoughts … thoughts
unlike flowing breeze
(whose heart could smell
of fragrant silence)
thick hard shells -
rock hard -
shell hard -
like a gaze fixed
(instinctive twilight
administering - - -
crimson heights)
whose moving body
sets afire
fire burns fire
or is it -
she was just too bothered
when nobody else bothered
(whose rose would smell
still distinct
distinct - - - -
as roses always would always believe)

the clouds looked different today,
haunted by black angels
wandering thru vales abyss
wanderlust at best
carrying -
undulating tears of joy
or just perhaps ----
burdens of boundless tears;
its way who never knows
its path who never realise
through unfathomable chasms
and countless mountains tall
dismal love of its tarn
has yet again,
completed its journey beyond;
few drops of kisses unto you
silently surging …..
………………..fallen resiling sky.

tired of exhaustion
seeking divine
rest for an hour
lost in a busy year behind;

of a lighted cigar
by the green doors
a chaise rocks the cottage floor,
moves to and fro -
the painted memory
rendering the aerial shore.

his peace envies me beyond words today
where for another sky he never lived
ever so serene
ever so calm
ever the satiety
in air surround.

the sun that came this way
all of today
what day
what time
what lies
what rhymes …..

and then his victory
cheers - - -
to all his and mine.

In the midst of glory
I was plodding around;
Came to a hut, dilapidated & round;
Lay a woman with rags on.

Her two children
Shoved in a corner,
A paper hiding
The naked body of theirs;
The empty house ----
With nothing around
But the emaciated mother
And the sick children's frown.

Tears floating down her cheeks,
Her body shuddering,
A picture of desperation ---
A picture of frustration ---
Fighting with the world and herself
She being defeated once and again.

I asked her who she was
I asked her why she was here
I asked her how she reached here
Bearing an unbearable silence, she answered none.

An unending pause, --- disturbed
Said she ----"Who am I, know I not
I have no work, no food to eat
Burnt in my mind are events past
My children like beggars
But we are not beggars.

I promised her food
But she refused
She wanted work
That I had none ---
And I came out,
My self respect bowing in front,
My helplessness coming in front
"Oh! God where have I come?"

Who doesn’t like numbers and numbers especially when they quantify a journey. The last post was my 100^th poem (read more as scribbles) on this blog. This is a poem (a repost) that I had written almost 10 years back for my school magazine. The date in my diary reads Jun 14, 1997.

I generally do not read my writings over and over again. I actually lose track of them after a few days but I have read and reread this poem several times over these years. It has a sense of helplessness in it that questions my sensibilities when going gets wrong … especially making me appreciate other’s sensitivity … making me aware that there are less privileged people than me but by no means lesser in self respect …. and at the cost of not going overboard making me understand what being humane is all about … I thought it is a good time to revisit the poem.

And lastly a thank you note to all of you who have taken out your time from your daily schedule to read me … thank you all

from the distance that you see the light
will be yours -
from the distance that you dream
will be yours ;

in woodlands where senescent night breeds
and lies awake like cascading lava rills,
on a broad road highway where with wizened eyes
the moon starts gazing with a lover’s sight,
come lets stroll until we stride;

at the end of the liquescent highway lies our path
where the other morning had built a similar structure
but without form and had called us to have a look
in tremulous lights where only heart could sight
and till we see, come lets walk till we stride;

my city will watch as we pass, by the houses beside
in torn clothes and messed hairs but crystalline face
and mutter and whisper tales of our love to their lover,
with blood on our hands we will reach the weir
and till we reach, come lets walk until we meet;

and when at the site our eyes would meet
with shame the dim lake will breathe -
and ablution of our sin will surely concern
the existence of ghoul haunted seer
and till they learn to live, lets walk still;

from the distance that you saw the light
will then be yours -
from the distance that you dreamt
will then be yours;

the heart that had bled yearning
will then be yours - - -

innocence of morning winds
over the ashen skies,
whose leaves withering
and seer of cypress wreathes
and bitter oleander’s pallor
bades adieu to the crescent scene - -

and,

the penultimate fight for each life
even those flickering nights
but must die for death in stillness
will make alive … the dawn’s sight -
whose limbs will feed the brittle day
and blood will wash memories away - -

now -

let us go out over that place, where
lover’s complacence of violet space
has marked the land of erstwhile brave;
and break free shackles of restful peace
look through the prisms of nascent glow
to the second birth of our moral soul.

Burning time on low heat fire
slowly .. steadily … tediously -
as it melts I look solemnly
at few words dissolved
into drops of scatted ink
like heated fire
spreading ... flaming ...
intensifying the gathering air
as brazen winds push the casement
and phantoms await encroachment
as storms build their mighty force
and awaits their loud captain - -
Shall we wait, asks myself
Shall we run, asks again
as mind holds fort over thy rein
and heart gallops to a country
far on northern plains
I find my sun beside me
beneath my clouds awakened.

Today I will walk with you to infinite
through the essence of wetland grass
whose fragrance our bare feet smell
and inveigles impassioned pleas
to consign your perdition upon me;

I will walk with you to forbidden seas
of barbarous waves ignoring heed
whose winds conceit of forever love
and beckons lost life on alien coasts
to redeem your grace on innate shores;

I will walk with you to orion’s abode
listening to dove’s testimonial soul
whose sonata sways in oriental winters
and charms your smile in small starlight
to aerial harmony in dissonance’s might;

Today I will walk with you hands in hands
all I ask for, is your walk to all those miles ....