the purple dream

I looked at the stream
Standing on the bridge,
And the dusk fell
On the water's ledge...

The stream looked velvety
Like a purple cloth
Spread in the wind
As waves flowed;

I looked at the sky,
As if a dream,
Immobile earth
And a lovely stream;

I thought I should,
Stand on the bridge,
And wait for the dusk,
To lay complete siege;

Just then my eyes fell,
On a cottage afar,
And someone standing,
At the door, left ajar;

But how can I leave
The velvety stream?
Even if its unreal,
Just a purple dream...

the little mother

I looked at her curious eyes and curly hair...
'Who are you?'
She asked, looking up to me...

With tattered clothes and blood all over me,
She might have taken me for an evil, I thought...

But her curious blue eyes,
And floral frock...
And innocence...
I just mumbled-
'Don't be afraid ...I'll cause no harm to you'
And I tried to smile, a friendly one,
But my jaws were broken and it pained
Even to flash a smile to a little girl...

She came near,
Probably she felt pity,
Seeing blood oozing from various spots of my body...
'Wanna have a chocolate?'
She stretched her tiny palm
And I at once noticed a violet wrapper of friendship...


'Are you a soldier?'
She asked, seeing blood and the huge back pack;
'No...A traveler...'
I said;

'How come a traveler be bleeding so much?'
She asked, the little girl with blue eyes;
'Cause I have been plundered on my way...'
I said;
'But...are you not strong?'
She said, looking at my young face and vigor still left in eyes;
'Yes I'm...'
I said...

'Take it'
The tiny woman gave me the chocolate,
I put the whole thing into my mouth, starved as I was...

'Want some more?'
The little angel asked...
I don't know what were there in her eyes or her voice...
But I felt, I've found my mother...
I nodded and my eyes became vaporous;

The little girl ran towards her home
Through the cornfields, the meadows, the marshes...
I looked at her two small braids dancing as she ran...
I started to cry...
I thought I found my little mother;

the danseuse

I was sitting at her first floor hall
Beside the big glass window,
In a cloudy evening,
Waiting with the hot coffee mug in my hand,
While she sat before me,
Bottle green saree wrapped around her...

I noticed how her red stone studded earrings swayed
Every time she moved her head
To nod or just to smile...

I looked at her posture,
Sitting like a swan,
Majestic..
 Her eyelashes were long,
Her eyebrows were pruned,
Her hair was braided with some kind of ribbon...

She looked so much homely,
Like those women of yesteryear,
Who spent most of their lives in kitchen
And labour beds,
The rest of their time on either chewing betel leaves,
Or listening to the radio...


Sitting infront of her,
I thought of those women
Of bygone era...
Red sindoor  on their forehead
Dazzling like a sacrosanct mark...

But then,
Suddenly the rains came pouring,
And saw the homely woman removing leaf by leaf her conventionality...

She opened the window
Put her head out,
Closed her eyes...
And the rain fell on her as if to bring out her self
That had been kept confined for ages...

She let herself drenched
While I, shamelessly watched,
The swan turning into a peacock...

Then...
She tucked the aanchal of her saree into her waist,
And removed the ribbon from her hair,
To help the black stream take the fullest fall,
And...
She started tapping her feet on the marble...

The rain turned violent,
The windows rattled,
The long coconut trees swayed...

And she took the centre of the hall,
Her eyes bore the joys of life,
And the cold moist wind moved into the hall like gusts of sea waves,
Spraying little jets of shiver...

She started dancing...
I sat there still,
And watched the peacock in full flow...
The thunder and the lightning
Only gave cadence to her work,
And her whole body glowed
With indescribable energy and light...

She danced while it rained...
And the sacrosanct mark on her forehead,
Took the shape of a tilak...
A long red mark shiny,
As if it proclaimed victory...

The mesmerizing victory of a danseuse

Musafir

'You seem to visit some places quite often...'
She remarked, seeing him standing at her door;
His dusty clothes and thick beard
Bore all the marks of being a Musafir ...

'Yes...its like gravity... they pull you in...'
He said, standing at her door,
Uncombed hair, muddy shoes...

The salty air of the west
Kept running through him
And he looked at her,
Simple in her housecoat,
And blue slippers...
And the long black hair pin peeping from behind her bun...
And a face that looked pleasant and happy...

'Won't you come in?'
She asked,
And he was ushered into the house...

A neat living space with shiny glass wares on the big oak table,
And the carpet on the wooden floor as new as those in the stores,
And the big plasma thing on the wall,
And plenty other signs of well being...

He did not move much,
For he was embarrassed of his wrong shoes, full of dust,
And the crumpled shirt and soul...
He just stood there;

She had gone indoors,
To bring something for him...
It might be the drink for his dry throat,
Or something else...

He thought it was time for him to go away,
The way he arrived like the bolt;
He felt he was not supposed to be there,
In that neat living space with couches tempting;

So, he turned to the door again,
And he would've gone-
Had he not met himself on the photo frame...

A Black-n-white boy in baggy trousers and the smile on his lips,
Standing by the woman ten years younger;
(Who has gone indoors,
To bring something for him...)

He looked around,
Pushed the photoframe into his hip pocket,
And ran out...

He ran and ran
Till he reached the yellow cornfields...

He ran
Till he couldn't see the door...

The paperback writer...

He writes the whole long day,
As if he was born to write,
All that came to him,
The flowers, the trees, the broken heart, the flimsy shadows on the wall...

He writes,
Like the determined clerk on his desk,
Piles of paper strewn across  his bed,
On the floor, on his body, on his mind...
Papers all around,
White, pink, yellow, black...
Papers of different shades and shapes...

He writes,
About memories real-
Of child and women,
Of men and villians,
And the unreal-
Of forbidden treasures
Of Divine temptations...

He writes,
Like a man dispossessed of earthly warmth,
A pen on his hand,
And a mind on flight...

He writes...
The death wish once,
The love story next...

He writes,
Like a man blinded by sombre darkness;
He writes,
Like a man who has just seen the sunrise...

Last night when the Northwester came...

Last night when the Nor'wester came with the petals
Of yellow and red,
I was only thinking of you dear...

I saw you coming to me with the smell of rain soaked earth,
Dressed like the fairy,
With tiny leaves stuck carelessly into your flowing hair black,
And the pollen grains all over your slender body,
Yellow and red...

I saw you walking across the fields green,
-Those play fields of my childhood,
Where many rainbow afternoons we spent,
Under those sprawling trees with dark trunks,
Gazing up to the canvas of the sky
 On which someone painted the riot of colors...

I saw you standing at the gate of the temple by the river,
That temple ground where many evenings we spent lying on the grass,
Smoking happily away our indulgent time;

I saw you bent down on the rails of the jetty that went far into the river,
Your head suspended in the air,
As if you were planning for a jump into the turbulent waters;

I saw you on the Avenue,
Walking past all those little insignificant spots
Of our nocturnal rendezvous;

Last night when the Norwester came with the petals
Of yellow and red,
You came dear,
Like an ethereal lover,
Covered with pollens...

Last night...
The Norwester came,
And you came thereafter...

The Bus ride

Finally it came,
The last bus of the night,
For me,
Like a monster- one eyed,
Ugly dents all over his body,
Bearing marks of his careless sloppy movement,
And the radiator grill with broken teeth on display...

The monster stopped
Customarily where I was standing...
And I hopped in,
And collapsed on the grumpy seat
Which shrieked every time the monster jerked
As it ploughed down the uneven road of the night...

Tired as I was,
At the end of just another usual day
With usual share of usual nothingness,
The eyelids of mine were heavy
And they were about to be closing down
My vision for the night...

Just then the air brought in a fragrance
Not keeping with the late night bus,
For it reminded me of spring mornings
Of flowers and bees,
Of birth and creation...

I opened my sleepy eyes
And saw the bright sky
Draped in autumnal blue,
Seated just before me,
By the broken window;

The passing streetlights
Cast an intermittent burst of hues on the sky
And I saw how the blue turned green, yellow, red...
I looked at the change of colour...
And...
Goodness me!
All of a sudden,
The one eyed monster, carrying me within its belly,
Started gliding on the road of the night,
Like an automobile of the future,
With no noise, no jerks!

 I lost my sleep,
I was wide awake-
Witnessing the bus ride of my life!

8th march

I never wanted to see you that way
Dancing as you are, 'babelicious'
Embracing the pole ,
Paints all over your face
To woo the gaping men like me,
Full of bestiality...

On eighth march,
As you go international,
I am pained,
To see you on the billboards in skimpy clothes and lot of paints...
You don't need all these false adornments, dear,
For no one ever heard of goddesses wearing mascara or lipgloss!

A still picture

I could see her walking through the woods-
Swampy, moist, green, invigorating,
Staring at her brought relief
To my tired, burnt eyes of the city...

Blue jeans, backpack, white tee, sneakers,
Move away from me bit by bit;
Following the trail,
I move,
Amidst the woods,
Stretching my ears to get to the tune
Of the white tee and blue jeans humming all her way upfront...

The road was narrow, uphill,
Full of the adventures of the wild,
And of trees of unkown smell,
Yet so calming...

And I moved slowly,
Unaccustomed as I was,
To the region and the trail...

At one point she disappeared
From my sight,
I looked all around,
Only to see the trees standing like
Ascetics buried in deep thoughts;

I thought I should call her by her name,
But the trees...
They stood firm,
Like philosophers from the past,
I felt it would be a sin
To call her from behind,
To break the wild beauty of the place;

So I stopped
And forgot to call,
I just stayed back,
I just left the trail untouched by my feet,
I just waited...
For I knew that it would be a sin,
To create a furor,
In the midst of silence so pure...

the eighth year...

There you are,
Dressed in golden,
Resplendent under the flashbulb,
So happy and near,
Just by my skin,
The picture of perfection,
Smell of sweet flowers in the air...

Eight years have gone by,
Eight long years,
Eight short years...


Ninety six months,
Or, sixty nine thousand one hundred and twenty hours-

Of love and separation,
Hugs and slaps,
Tears and laughter,
Kisses and bites,
Eating and starving,
Acceptance and denial,
Enmity and friendship,
Truth and lies...

Ninety six months...
Eight years...
And still a poem for you...

An empty empty world

Sitting by the side of the flowing stream,
Reddened by the last rites of the Sun,
He was reminded of the emptiness all around...

Empty boats anchored to the bay,
Empty trees standing like phantasms with branches set across like frail fingers of the starved,
Empty land with no sign of human habitation...
An empty broken pot lying desolate...

He looked up to perceive the sky,
Cloudless and bereft of stars,
Spread like a low canopy of darkness,
And he heaved a sigh,
For within him he was ground by the void,
Within him there was a black basalt stone pressing hard,
As if it would lead him to asphyxia...

He felt the unnerving void engulfing him from all directions,
A 'void' of being loved till death by someone,
An emptiness filling up him from within,
In an empty, empty world...