You wouldn’t know me least of all recognise
O Himalayas but I do,
For as long as I remember reading through
books written about you,
My un-sharpened lanceolate blades of memory
drew grains of inspiration from you.

I look up through the haze of vagabond clouds
across visible horizons
Where you stand tall
through vicissitudes of primal living
I wonder again, would I live that long.

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.

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;