another year...

Another year added mate!
to your and my dates...
of the runs...the plays...the writeups...
the tuxedo black jack chase...
and card games...martini glass toasts...
of holidaying breeze rubbing a frosty nose...
another year...is at its legit end
another year to catch up with dreams right at the bend...
where the road takes to the hills...a long climb...
and the wind falls with drops of lemony lime...

No big wishes for you mate...
no big wild ecstatic screams...
only wish you to live it good mate
and sleep well in peace...
and wake up every morn with a smile
and grab a belly full breakfast
and a bit of juice...
wish the battery of gunshots cease
and brothers hanging up swords...declaring a truce...

No real big wild wishes mate...
nothing like that...
only wish flakes of smiles falling everywhere...
and wish birds to fly unobstructed till they warm up...
and wish to find soft kisses from the heaven drop
on those living without basic required things...
wish the new year only love in fullest splendour bring...
and wish to see midnight's children also going to school...
and wish to see lotus of fancy brimming the pool...
and that twin dimples appearing often on her cheeks...
wish to see the crimson shiny himalayan peak...
breaking sun rays into a seven band bow...
wish to breathe air fresh not heavy with cfc snow...
wish the oceans remain deep and blue...
wish to see green leaves bathing in morning dew...
and to hear the chirping of tiny ones from the branches of trees...
wish to see every house hang clothes on lines swaying in the afternoon breeze...
and parks full of kids...old ones with walking sticks...
wish to see no child labouring at the kilns of bricks...

another year gone mate!
another year gone...
wish to see a lot things
not left undone...

the portrait of a woman...

seen her standing sidewise
the rays of smudgy light
on her shoulder and back
so careless...
as if she spent her life that way...
oblivious of the eyes of the onlookers
amazed...
by her simple demure non chalant charm
paintbrushes with white hair as on the canvas make a free run...

the portrait of a woman...she...
stands before my pen and paper
to ignite inspiration in wintry dried up me!

the recurrent combination of red and black...
an off shoulder dress kind of slack...
losing and yet holding up the dream
silk gown without seam...
and eyes downward in a self absorbed mood
a smile hidden in lips...
the blurred light soft on her shoulder as she keeps...

the portrait of a woman...
like a great spoil...a work of art
bestirs me with energy...and i erupt...
from the cold...the chill...the frost...
with thousand shooting stars...
with ashes emitting unseen sparks...

for the candlelight that dimmed...(on the Delhi rape victim...my girl!)

they picked you up
from the street
like a prey
ruthless sex starved perverts
and after pouncing on you
mutilating private parts
they threw you off
from the bus shuttered windows
brutality taking the bestial course...

the candlelight...
fell...
on the street...wax molten...
spread like blood...
and those perverts flashed teethy disdain...

the candlelight panted and screamed...
in pain...in humiliation...
in horror...in trauma...

O girl!
Give me a knife...
let me shake the dread...
give me superhuman strength
to bobbitise them...
those evil demonic serpents...

come'n out...sing a pillion song...

what's the point in sitting cuddled up?
while outside...the winter evening is writing a draft
of a long chilly cozy story so warm...

yes! by the fire faces burn
and hands stretched on the yellow red
flames caused by gallons of hearts...
bottles from which the youth of time takes a swig...
shadows eerie sketching cartoons wide and big...
and haven't you so far seen?
how vapour rise to paint fog on screen
of the cars plying fast jumping lights?
how she held the arms of her wight tight-
as they haply cross the road to reach the opposite side
where a vendor selling steamy momos draws crowd so bright
under the corporation trident installation...

why cuddle up when the city is on the motion?
come'n out! enjoy the chill
let's whizz up the air with a thrill
of cold cutting into our bones...
of visors getting a smoggy tone...
of heat of petrol turning into fumes...
of singing pillion a highway tune...

last winter...

last winter...you once came
knocking my door early one morn
with a basket full of strawberries...
i remember...
your pink pullover...
glossy lips...
which had the hint of a smile...
mischievous one...
and then
i welcomed you
had coffee
together
sitting by the window...
i remember the sun falling on your hair...
black and browny silken motion...
and how you added two cubes of sugar
to my tumbler...sweet...

last winter
i remember
you coming with bunch of marigold flowers
hung around your neck like a carefree garland
and a porcelain vase
in your hand
one afternoon...
so fragile...
vulnerable...
running fingers on the edge
of the vase...
i got the feel of a shape...

last winter...
i remember...
pink pullover
and strawberries...
how filled the barracks of my heart...

merry christmas...(of the yore kind)

loved always that door of teak
polished shiny with copper bangles
and the graveled pathway that led
to that door kept opened from evening on for children like us
to run to and fro through the legs
of adult members of the town...
little bulbs were hung around the trees...
and four rows of wooden benches were dusted and cleaned...
special candles were delivered...
by a small van...with a grinning front...

At midnight...for the mass...
we used to come again...this time properly dressed...
in black and white...
Father Mathew in his whites
looked impeccable and somewhat alien to us...
He never smiled at us...that night...
he would keep lips held tight...
probably he had been himself a bit tensed
to stand and deliver before the townsfolk dense...
And also there would be some monastic guests...
From the city cathedral...
And everyone opened their books...
we also opened our own...
though our eyes hovered around...
What our friends were positioned...
whose dad looked particularly fearsome...
After the prayers we loved to stand
in the queue to kiss Old Father's shaking hand...
and he also seemed a bit relieved
with the biggest ceremony being over...
and as the adults hugged each other and wished
we got time again to run and play...
the night never looked like a night but a day!
No one slept...
No tears were shed...
as if happiness had been the only choice
of all people around...to sing...and dance...and to embrace...
That small chapel...
that old Father Mathew...
and that graveled path...
That 'Merry Christmas'
and midnight mass...
I miss...

beach ball...

the vast beach calm
and the long line of trees...the palms...
looked like the biggest ground on earth
swept by the strong wind from North...
and as we started to play
the ball by hurrying feet...prints we laid
on wet white sand soft and so full of grained joy
we became ourselves mere toys
at the hands of His vast open unpolluted variety
we had a beach football party...

but who's in midfield?who's centreback?
where's the goal post-
the fisherman's shack?
the central defender...the middle mark...
all became non existent...all positions were blurred...
for the vast...the open...the freed...
need no such markings to pay any heed...
only the ball rolled and rolled...
and we ran and ran...
on the beach...the soft benign sand...
putting everything at bay...
the civil choas... the horns...the crackers...
we ran and kicked the ball through the air...
got blisters on bare feet...
white foamy patterns dried neat
on our legs...by phosphorus got lighted straight
we ran hard...in the open sans barbed wires of time...or a closing gate...

those trees waved and sang
the only audience joining our band
as if they booed and cheered our game...
as if they implored us to carry on the same
sense of mirth...and uncaged hope...
the wind from the North brought twigs and feathers down a faraway slope...
the ball and the beach made us discover
life is unbound for any nature lover...
All we need is a pair of feet
and a ball to kick till we meet
the horizon...the waves and the wind
life...is not to be tinned
into some tiny cannister...
with a pin hole on the top...
life...is a beach ball party till the churchbell chooses to stop...

midevening blue convertible ride...

The air and the smell and even the taste of the midevening
came paddling smooth on the turf
as I rode the convertible...
the people had come out too
in jackets...wraps...sports shoes...
and young moms pushed perambulators...
the old man walked the footwalk with his setter...
and my blue midevening convertible had a song
of a self indulgent vagabond...
like a stallion the machine ran
whizzing past coffee joints and glowsigns...
the traffic lights blinking reflections pasted
on the roads...intersections...dots red green and yellow rested...
a brief too momentary makeover...
midevening convertible blue rider
that's me...

reunion at Nice...

She was working on the machine
tallying the day's earnings...
while the crimson spoilers fell
on the ocean...the bay of Nice...
Waves were roaring hard before kissing
the rocks...a shining turf with bubbles missing
the count burst into the air of spring
and she heard the ring of the door of the shop
someone had come to rent a scooter or to drop
one taken at early hours of the day...
without looking back...she stayed
put to her machine...and the book
of coins earned and coins spent
just then she heard...
'is the shop still open?
can I rent a scooter now?'
The voice sounded too familiar somehow
to her...so she turned
and with a frown of surprise
She found him in white flannels with a smile
cutting the ice...
she put her palm on her mouth
she kept looking at him with stupefied doubt
then she thought to play around
'Got an ID?'
She asked him with suppressed fun
The strokes of crimson sun were
on her face and also on his...
'I think I haven't...but wait...'
Saying this...
He brought out a picture...of he and she...straight...
Two heads and faces placed side by side...
One leaning on another picture of a kind...
'will this do?'
He asked back elongating the fun...
but that was too much for her
she did just make a short but fast run
to embrace him after four years with might
for four years they lived without each other's sight...

if you ask me...i would say...

if you ask me
i would say
tonight...
is just like another night
but it is also a special one...
like every day which comes and goes
each is special too!
if you ask me...
I would say...
Every month is so banal...
but every month is special too
for it has so many beautiful nights and days...
the days which herald the birth...
the nights which announce the climax...
if you ask me...
i would just say...
every birth is so banal
and so special too!
every kind of birth
on this awesome place...
full of possibilities...

urban mist...

when the late evening me returned
piercing the misty pattern
of urban decline...a slope
two or three figures like climbing ghosts
stalked me straight from tombs
as if to remind thrills of nights
listening wide eyed stories of fright
from granny in her gray shawl wrapped
me resting my tiny tired head on her lap...

urban misty form has such a thing
known roads turn never seen...
buildings frequented to look so unknown
a small patch of green turn a smoggy ocean...
park looks as wild as a bog
It is such a delight to move through urban fog...

the warrior's way...to sainthood...

Well... led a life upto twenties
chasing guns and pink panties
a warrior was I...wild...reckless...
and women dropped to me like lost necklace...
or sometimes as offerings by the kings
under whom I served and did trophies bring...
then Beth came from no where
Mild...observant...soft...benign like a mother...
Never felt to chase her...dont know why
In her eyebrows were hidden tears and sighs...
orphan as she was without family
but got a strong overwhelming personality...
a virgin by face and eyes and demeanor...
she carried in her robes a sad sad lore...
and I chose to keep my head down to her
Couldn't look up to her eyes demure...
then a civil war of a kind broke loose
Swords and harpoons like lavish rain flew...
My wild wild warrior self rose to shine
Heads fell on streets like rolling dimes...
And someone told me Beth was caught
Heard in the melee some bastard sought
her to satisfy his carnal desire
My eyes were filled with hot charcoal fire
I flew to the spot and by a single stroke
killed the devil his breath choked...
But Beth ...being what she was made of
Her breath panting and she sobbed
and asked me to shun the fight
pleaded me to leave the sight
of gory battles and too much of blood
in her eyes saw how tears could flood
a warrior's merciless subhuman heart
She asked me to my ways part
with fights and battles and beheading course
she taught me to seek God's ways and remorse
fell on me like never it did on anyone
changing me from a warrior wild to a pious man...
Beth did it all by her smiles and eyes
which showed me to makeout His Holiness in blue sky
and green patches of life so vast
Beth removed my valour and lust...

unexpected rain ...

The rain of the evening caught me
unawares...
'a chilly night awaits us'
I thought as I buttoned up
and waited for her to turn up...
Mid december rain
sent shivers down the spine
and miserable umbrellaless men
ran helter skelter in vain...
'this gloomy evening...
Better not to expect her...
She wouldn't dare to wet her expensive fur...'
Thinking this I pulled the moist air
off my face...neck...and shoulders
and took a glance at the both sides of the road
glistening by the lights of municipal posts
declaring vivid a scene cold...lifeless
buildings looked all cooped up... captive
people must have chosen to dip
into tumblers of warmth and wine...
only I on the road caught in a drizzle unexpectedly shine...

a prayer to Him

let me be free
O God Stand before me
And place your sweetest softest hand
on my shoulders which are drooping down
and flash that your smile so blessed
Let your halo burn my flesh
and transmute me into a soul
Send me that fire to brave the biting cold...
Let your robes so white and soft
on my face with soothing feel drop
and give balms to my parched and broken heels
for I have walked far and the journey kills...
O God pull me up from the pit of uselessness
Make light of the mountain that my heart press
and help me to stand like a man who had seen
the worst and the best through your blinding dazzling beam...

being bikechopper...

Have been long doing this
for just love playing with those ladies...
And after several hours of grease and grime
On the tank when airbrush the sign
and when the spark plug runs the first fire
and the sound of their hooting and purring rend the air...
I just love to take them for a ride...
a long one slicing the road of night...
O my ladies...of pure badass looks
and with jet set gasoline to keep them off the hook
Lowering the cg to the ground
keeping balance under a monstrous shroud
Chopper dreams when become plasmic real
More visions of aerodynamic builds I feel
as they drop one after another like a long battery of hope
on chartboard white rugged and broad...

the plant by the window...

when the last rays of the sun pass
by your blades...
the patterns of light and shade
fall on the stones...submerged
in water through which like tentacles
you spread thin line like roots
as if to find the perfect route
I know...
you are getting happy inside
and chlorophyll dots are waking up
to capture the waves of energy of light
and your cells are wriggling into life
for time has come to catch those photon drops...
the last quantum of energy down the slope...
I know...
you are perennially on the growth curve...
I know...
Your molecules of joy then get sprinkling of love...

wintry evening sudden...

This sudden arrival of evening
in winter has always kept me nonplussed...as if a practical joke
has been thrown at me by someone...
For the sun which had been there
a few minutes back round orange fair
writing orange songs on the wall...
playing hide and seek with boys homebound
from the school where they did a lot of math and writeups...
God knows where the sun suddenly hides
as if to quit his job he all of a sudden decides...
and the evening at that moment makes
an entry like a trained pro usually takes
into the last phase of a play on stage...
with gigs and gags suiting the script
winter evening to another level the day lifts...

frosted fingers and ringing ears
in diluted spirit rainbow tears
speed up a rocking episode of cuddling life
a huge multiplex screen lit up with supranormal delight...
a bunch of exotic smell grasps the teenaged boy
a boutique of designer wears he brings for his girl so coy...
and the little boy in socks and shoes and muffled look
tears open the wrapping paper of a story book
given to him by his father on his seventh year...
the taxi driver stops arguing with an elderly woman over fare
who has come to her son's after a decade long silence
frosty air smoothens the road view through my lens...
potholes appear closed forever...
ups and downs remind one of his granddad's rocking chair...

obituary to a simple unknown woman...

Today is a special day
for me...since two thousand and three...
for today I lost one of keys
to my original home...
the warmth of that womb...
that not only supplied liquid hope
and food through pipes and chords...
today is my day...
only mine perhaps
to lie down at the feet of Lord
and pray the whole day...
to cleanse my all impurities
to purge and burn
to sanitise...
to disinfect...
today is my day to have a tryst with fate...
one more time
since two thousand and three...

Mother!
stay right there with me...
as you have been
all these years without being seen...
like a smell of flower of the morn...
like an incense stick relighted...reborn...
like a smile with ambrosaic spell
like a bed time story that from your mouth oft fell...

twin space

The journey had been long...
tedious...full of hairpin turns...
bends foreseen full of puns
bends unseen with diabolic chance;

but pushing up the hill
came to a flattop...
can't move more
for the hill comes to the fullest stop
from where one could only drop
some fifty feet chasm deep...
lying down had a peep
God! only having wings one could try
to move smooth through the air...fly...
but the journey had been a macabre one
lost wings of the white swan
so lied moveless like a stone
felt clouds happily so far airborne
inscribing songs to my bone...

Eyes closed tried to ease
with my mind fathomed the breeze
it had the smell of God
surely it had penetrated my bod
for felt I had dreamt of me
Going out of all physicality...
there there saw myself asleep
And felt like a superb mind freak
Being at two places at the same time
on the top of the hill lying flat
and afloat without any effort on a magic mat...

'Now you don't need any wings
Wings had become part of your being...
But to keep you there for long
you need to shut externalities strong...'
Heard Him whispering into my ear
as if He divulged a secret fair...

winter evening and a game of badminton...

Badminton court on grass
with definite five lamps at each end of poles
and the net across in the middle...
set the winter dew in motion...
corked feathers smelling so much of body lotion...
and a green wooden bench
for peers to witness
a titanic clash...
cheers and boos...
grass laden white canvas shoes slipped so often...
giggles rippled the silent yard...
closed windows...drawn curtained doors...
wintry evening ran its simple course...
and the yellow lighted faces...
sweatshirts unhooded roared...
some shadows from memory disc
also sat amidst...
the roar...boos and the cheers...
on white tables a few paces away golden bottles of beer...

Three sets after,the air thickened sure
and hearts pumped more of oxygen
and drops of sweat mixed with the cold nip
sent down slight shivers down from nosetip
to the toes...a downward flow ...
from tired bodies rose a glow
of tungsten burnt...and held in fire...
winter evening hollered in the densest air...

And the neighbourhood would quilt up
for another happy snappy winter...
and its evenings full of youth...
and games of badminton...
with feathery dreams and feathered joys
Running to and fro across the net...
and score cards which kept rolling...
and withered trees with leaves forever falling
to give a particular dress to the streets...avenues...
winter came with old things renewed...

Heroine of the script...

'Where have you gone?
Leaving me at piazza Dante all alone?'
She ventured to ask me oneday
Turning up beside the table
Where my paintbrushes lay...
Their hair with paint dried up
Hard as stone rendered useless
Obsolete coat of paint red turned too black a base...
A perfect case
Of unfinished work
Riddled by wounds so fresh...
The canvas also looked damaged
Beyond salvation any art critic's gaze
Would extract an appraisal befitting the stage...
'I know...'
However my fictional character assured
With her iconic eyes she tried to lure...
'Your hearth within still got that fire...
Your fingers still aspire to touch that lyre...
And music still sits pretty on the reeds of ivory white...
Still by the moonlight croons the runaway bride...
For you...
Can't you hear and see?
Unlock it all...
And you still possess the key...'
The lady from my script ,page number six
Came to evoke a tone
That could my crumpled soul pick
With a distinct possibility
Of the wind unfurling paint bottles in me
In shape of colored flags with joy...
Free...

And sudden plots of colors with ornate hope
Started appearing down the slope
Of Mount Vesuvius...non functional and dead...
My heroine with eyeconic black hues paid
Back all my beads of sweat and toil
Wetting my stone hard paintbrush with a new foil
Of stories and tales and poems- injecting fertility to the soil...

The heroine of the unfinished script
Me and my paintbrushes into the infinite dipped...

an evening to glide...

An indolent self indulgent me
Go out to get the evening air
and to cheer up to the living taste of life...
buzzing...alive...

Soon finding myself on the road towards the bazaar...
I go by shops half open friday night
And a small queue by the wayside
before the panipuri stall doing brisk business...
And someone in a black dress...
asking for more chilli...more fire...
her earrings trembling in the air
as she moves to see my passing by look...
she stares and the panipuri drops
instead of the leafy bowl...
on the dusty leaf strewn floor...
a ripple of laughter breaks...
I glide to get into me whatever it takes...
at one corner with a lot of marigold flowers
like a heap orange and yellow the old woman sits...
I nod my head and she greets
'Good evening...'
her wordless mouth utters...
I glide by the factory manager's quarters...
The portico looks vibrant as ever
The brown oakwood door with a copper lever
Shines marvellous under the yellow light
from the first floor the piano sends a flow...
I picture her hands on the reeds running slow...
I glide...

au revoir...

The desktop theme of the sky pad
is definitely blue...
last time today I am destined to get the view
of everything...this world of ours...
You opening your life under the shower...
Aroma of lotus all over...
Honey getting collected on palms...

Au revoir...dear...for time has come...
in both analog and digital stillness...
captured somewhere in a fine mosaic...
I wish they would all stay...
the trees...the lakes...the secrets
of an experience...
bookshops...chats over cuppuccino...
all would I hope just remain fine tuned
reality checks though leave them pruned...

au revoir
to that bench upon which we sat
and also to those saplings with purple and red spots...
glowing like impossible little ideas at twilight...
to that particular corner where we stopped
every day almost before another day would arrive...
to that sweet fragnant beehive
hanging from that branch so burdened...
to that paper napkin for scribbles specifically meant...
to those afternoons by pillows cushioned...
to that manuscript upon which fingers motioned...
au revoir...

Doing the Christ...

You said
Getting philosophical on you
creeped you out...
Yes! I agree...
I do get into wider spectroscope
sometimes...nowadays a bit too often...
that's a sure tequila shot
tangy...lemony...burnout...
into me singing doubts
smooth...
lemons never tasted so sweet
ever in anyone's life I bet!

okay...
okay...
I guess...
before I again deviate
into some philosophy esoteric
lets do some thing very basic...
like...errr...
a horse ride?
no?
eh...okay...
Then let me be the Christ!
yeah!
The undisputable irreversible Christ...
That way standing on the mean beast
I could get myself kissed
all over me by the breeze...
of the night having the scent of a new bride...
coy...opulently ornamental shape...
flowers on the bed...
Yeah!
I do the Christ!
Standing on the booming thing all right...
and spreading those arms like wings...
a Christ balanced on wheels...
a do or die stuff...
Now it has got no mumbo jumbo
of any Aristotle or Plato!
Right?

Hey!
Still you creep?
Why?
Dying in doing is a beautiful thing!
But onething...I divulge ...
Nay!
No Victoria's Secret!
Just in case you missed...
The philosophical gibberish
is also here in this act...
Being Christ is not just a pictorial fact...
It is shooting my nerves to the full...
It is like experiencing the jaws of death cool!
An act to face it like that tv show...
for me it is however without security rope!
There is also a kind of philosophy in it...
I leave it for you to dig it deep...
Meanwhile...
I do Christ...

kali and me...

'The darker it becomes
the more you see...
but its got to get more dark
for you to see my spark...'

Saying this she disappeared
and I... in thin loins shivered
Bathed as I came
to sit before her
a few minutes or hours this elapsed
..I don't exactly remember...
and she without shame
bare bodied before me
Had appeared out of the smouldering pyre
A black bluish feminine shape...
Lips perilously red
and a long garland of hibiscus flowers from her shoulders-
Glistened by the flicker
of flame...

the square yantra which held
chopped pieces of wood and camphor and honey dripped
drop by drop into the square
only kept the tongues of the fire red and hot...
a replication of conflagration-all consuming...

I looked at her eyes...
hypnotised...
they were violently beautiful...
and she was wild...
and those skulls in her hands
seemed so real...
as if they would send a crack jawed laugh
that would echo across the place...

'I am the Brahmn...the universe...
in me you could perceive
all...
the stars...planets...galaxies...
away still now from you several light years...'
She uttered...Kali...the consort of time...
And I knew the dark
would devour me soon...
before I would be allowed
to see the light...
the blinding searing light...

another dewali...

The parapet...
terrace...
stairs...
walls...
verandah...
every place...

tonight is decked
with candles and diyas...
and those lamps...
chainlike hang
pyro art shows went bang bang
flower pots made of copper silver aluminium
fell from sky like a delirium...
and noting a screen of vapour
rising from the earth
I was about to travel...
once again...
to you...
only you...

but those crackers...
they burst too frequent...
they startled me...
and broke me off too often
from the trance...

But I am not giving in...
I am not quitting...
After the noise calm
would surely come...
and with silence
Of the next early morn...
when the town
would be fast asleep...
I know...
you would come
and lights then lighted
would never dim...
and crackers that would then burst
-no one would that notice...
Only me...
Only for me the time would then evoke
another dewali...

she...her song...the morn...and love...

She sitting on the white bed
on her black skirt knee length
resting her guitar,
her back to the window long
was singing a mexican song...
oblivious of the sun of the dawn
peeping through the white curtain
falling on her hair...her hands...
how soft orange hue did land
on her shoulders...perfecting a shadow
falling on his sleepy face...
his side profile on pillow...
calmed...innocent... must be in a dream
yellowish light like a cream
putting moisture of love and care...
as she strummed her morning lyre...
That single white rose in the vase...
dipped in water...a transparent glassy case...
must also have felt the song in her petals...
for she opened up slow getting the pulse
and the verve of the morning serenade
She the room to happy love led...

can kill me...but not my poetry...

Do whatever you wish to do
with me...hack me...
nail my back to the stone wall...
throw me from thirteenth floor-
an ideal case of freebody fall...
tie my hands with a string of steel
with electric saw elaborate a kill...

still
Can't take my poetry away
from me...
for in my little red blood corpuscles
which under microscope look like dots
quite curiously chemically caught
rhyme and visions reside in peace
killing me won't stop them from germination...
killing me would only set them in hectic motion...
they would with the flow of blood
spill over the town...causing a flood!

return of my mountain girl...and winter...

This return of winter...
after one year...
is like meeting an old flame...
a lover...
misty lipstick wet
on my lips...
and her pink pullover...
and her jeans and white sports shoe...
once again she coming with drops of dew
on her hair...her eyelids...
her sitting by the fire
and jamming of guitar...
knocking wooden beat...
crosslegged on a stool...
Wind sweeping through so cool...
her eyes kind of drowsy...
her red nails...a bit lousy...

and tents zipped up...
Deodar trees...tall silent
and mystic hill tops...
drooping down...bent...

The return of winter
again this time of the year
is like...in a way...return of her...
my mountain girl...

love song of a fallen rockster...

The beats fell like coins
soft pedals on drums...with points
to prove perhaps just in time
walls white scented lime
could not stop a Jason Bourne
from falling a victim to a system torn
by infighting...corruption and greed
sharp shootings that every day lead
to blood bath on ice...
still a flower somewhere does a bee entice...

The beats fell fast...flippant
gasping hearts for air pant
and those trees also so white
bloodless life like hang in sight
in terms of too apparent a matyrdom
still bloom at my backyard flowers some...

flowers red as blood
of pure pride and privy to all conflicts
with petals as imprints of her last kiss on my cheeks...

bicycle days...

when see my kid
cycling at the lawn...
specially on a winter afternoon
by the soft yellow sun
and he pressing the lever
of a bell attached to its handlebar
a curious ring of a bell...a round device
with a cap of shiny silver...
and his eyes...laced by a glitter
of hope...freedom...
in sleepy neighbourhood
an unbroken song...
I also take a road cycling down...
a road before me and my childhood town...

A sleepy afternoon such
slanting my cycle gifted on my birthday
on the strong trunk of a tree...
with seeds having feathers of cotton
-flying in the breeze...
And me standing on the seat
of the bicycle to catch the branch
-the nearest one...performing a balancing act...

Then see myself going out
down a road straight by a wall
of a big factory standing tall...
and a serpentine footwalk
which followed me everywhere...
the sunlit noon...and even after dark...

and I cycled by...
The big sixteen wheeled trailer trucks
parked like stationary blocks of steel containers...
a small shop which sold peanuts
mixed with salt pepper chilli dust...
a bridge with concrete railings with a fresh coat of paint
yellow and red...a big gate standing like a muted saint...
a park with empty seesaws...twin artificial hills...
a deserted shade with a ghostly eerie feel
with broken windows...rusty lock hanging for ages...
I cycle down some forgotten pages...

'cring cring...'
thd bell sounds with glee
and my kid gifts back to me...
my days...one of a kind...
seeped with nostalgia...that only binds...

Finding him true...

I open up
seeing that ocean of green
straight perhaps from a balmy dream...
and felt in my bones
what it meant to be city pent sure...
I open up
to a sky in its proudest blue
not a sliced or scissored view...
and felt what it meant to be
His life long devotee...

Is this refuge really that man sought?
The man who aimlessly wandered about...
and found in rhyme and melody
in nature found his pantheistic deity...
and also got goosebumps...
tugging a boat in a lake after dark...
and looked at hills with a sense of wonder
finding in them sleeping monsters...
And at a certain state of mind
flame of perception of a different kind
when made a proper descent to his soul
like an ascetic light of burning coal
He probably reached the end of a chase
bereft of unnecessary glare and haze...

the green sports car girl...

She went out one morn
Took the road for another town
The road lonely straight shot
Down the valley just as she thought
it to be...a long and wide piece of asphalt
She ran her green sports car without halt...
The wind from the mountains west
Kissed her face and her hair caressed...
'Love unconditional or no relationship'
Sang she aloud as she tapped her heels...
on the steel pedals smooth and full of gas
she blew down the road clouds of dust...
She passed motels and shops
Throwing winks at boys at doughnut stops...
She glided by tapping her heels
on the pedals ...her eyes up the hill
as the road ran its way...
She sped to paradise for another day...

Apology from the youngest Corleone...

Sorry...
I had to leave you stranded
On the Brooklyn bridge...
What to do?
Tommy guns from all sides sprayed
Paints so red...so red...
Sorry...
I had to run for cover behind that car
And checked on you going away ... far...
A white cadillac with you going opposite
To the place...Little Italy...where my fate's street
Always took me at night without breath...
Gasping panting dragging feet
To dump my soul and tuxedo emptied
Of me...
Sorry...
On the bed I fell asleep
Maids in black gowns with eyes deep
Wooed me...refurbished me...
Bribed me...to recharge battery
Of cells  with newer energy...
Next day...
At the breaking dawn...
When the gardener was not yet at the lawn...
And the cars with big black rear sides
Were resting at the garage like birds without flight...
Took to the bridge to catch the trail...
Of you and cadillac tyre marks
-I thought to tail...
But so many cars had screeched to halt and sped
On Brooklyn Bridge
Can't find you my sad eyed maid...
Again I had to come back
To the safehouse where life's track
Always ended without any hope...
Sorry...
Being a member of a family
Of the infamous Corleone...
I had to leave and sacrifice...
Discharge my all in streetfights!

Doctor saab...

The three storied mansion
Stood like a three dimensional magic
Straight from some archive...
Of history...
pushed from two sides
With serious force...
By two glitzy towers
With glass facades held by steely pipes...
And moving escalators...
In them like bubbles round
Going up and down
With people and avant grade items
On display...
Machines that could make rotis and paranthas...
And run blue ray discs with perfect
Sound effects...
And hand held gadgets that could shrink
Time and space...
And the three storied building
So ancient...a misfit
Stood betwixt them
Vying for space...

The basement of the mansion
Had dust and cobwebs...
And a 1908 Ford T
With a bonnet huge and wheels
With spokes like that of a cycle but sealed to decay...

Second floor had a wide lounge...
With chairs made of burmese teak
Dark dark brown...

And the chamber of the doctor...
A huge mahogany table
Littered with papers...journals and medical books...
And a chair that screeched a noise
Everytime the doctor sat on it
Or tried to get up...

The third floor had a bathroom
three bedrooms and a kitchen
And a drawing room...
Only one bedroom is used...
The other two are under lock and key...

'you live alone here? Doctor saab? '
'not really...'
The doctor answered with his usual sense of wit...
Pulling the strings of his pants...
His flowing garment soft milky white...
And then put on his pipe...
Which had no tobacco mix...
His eyes got to the white ceiling fixed...
And then ...
He murmured...
Within himself...
'I got a bed partner...
For sure...she comes...
Every night dutifully like an adulteress...
Peeping...
An anopheles...
But she does not bite...
She buzzes me to sleep...
Every night...'

rain and a late night stop...

the street stretching its limbs
took a long tired yawn...

and the lone road side dhaba
woke up from slumber...torn...

late night rain
dripped insolent...

and stone shone
glistening like slippery plate...

the colored chairs
empty empty seats...

white and yellow light
a stationary car bare softly kissed...

an umbrella deflecting drops
of water towards me shared...

a sleepy dreamy night
so strange...so rare...

red tunic...

sometimes...
in a red tunic
I see you
like a contrast sharp
against a b/w backdrop...

you seemingly stand
motionless...
white socked
and black shoed
ballerina...you...
with a candy in your hand
white and pink going round and round
with a long stick attached to it...
and the seesaw behind you
and a slip...
and a distinct row of eucalyptus-
a row by which we passed
every morn...
going to the school...
our class...
long casements in wooden frames...
a pathway of marbles glossy
bordering a green plain...
waterbottles with straps blue red pink
standing like a column of robots
at one corner of a room
full of hurly burly...
paperplanes flying around...
flipping leaves of books in a hurry...

and in a red tunic at a desk
with pencil you drawing a sketch...
a mud house by a river
and a tree with branches strong but bare...
and a perfect round sun at one corner of the page
torn from exercise book...
your hairband slim with flowers on it-
failing to hold back the unruly streaks
of hair from falling upon your eyes...
with a blunted blue crayon you painting your white sky...

then at tiffin break...
standing next to you
in a queue before the tap
to wash hands with soap...

then sharing with you
crumbs of bread
and getting in return
a spoonful of noodles...
from your yellow tiffin box...

sometimes...
in red tunic you return
to me with a lot of smiles...
against a backdrop not colored though
but against b/w red becomes a sweet contrast sure!

where's that cakeman gone?

In wintry evenings
breaking the chilly misty slience
he used to cry...a trade cry of his
The cakeman at our colony
of houses with small families...
and we would then
just run outdoors
and in the dark
would find him
a big black trunk on his head
full of pastries and cakes...
We would surround him
like bees...buzzing...pestering...
and he would carefully put his trunk down
on the lawn his hands shaking...
his wrinkled face happy seeing us...
his tiny crowd of customers...
and in his little taper light
we would wait to see
what he had brought for us
from far away...we thought then
our cakeman...was from an alien land...

The top shelf would have small pieces...
of cakes and pastries and chocoballs...
but we were always eager to see what
lied underneath the top detachable tray...
and yes!
before our eyes filled with wonder
and mouth already watered...
he would remove the upper tray
and then...
numerous big creamy chocolatey
dreams
were revealed to us...in different shapes...
some were three tiered ones...
some were simple cones...
some looked like hearts big...
some had faces of mickey mouse or donald the duck...
O ...
we would then ask for more!
we would shout,clamour,tug
his shirt's sleeve...
and he would happily distribute
cakes and pastries and muffins...
cupcakes and toffees...

The wintry evening of childhood
at the colony with houses
peopled by small happy families...
and badminton courts laid fresh
and wooden benches with green paints...
had that cakeman very much into it...
A cakeman arriving at the place...
with his trade cry...'cake...o...o...'
breaking the misty sunset silence...

A cloudy november morn...

This low pressure belt hit
Sky of the city
Take me straight to a window facing the east...
See you there
Standing back towards me
Looking absent mindedly
To the telephone tower
The lone iron structure
Set in the midst of paddy fields...
Far away...
A binocular vision...
A herd of cattle...
And a locomotive motion...

And there would also be a song
A female voice...
Crooning desire of fallen joys
And the wish to row upstream
A watery rhythm...
Full of foam and surf
A red scarf
Fluttering like a sign
Of liberty
From ten to five
Clerical time...
And the spray wetting your face
Upon your shoulder the glimpse of a silken lace...
And pebbles brown orange and green
Underwater...through which colored fish gleam...
And algae covered a big old rock
Upon which in a movie perhaps
An angel with golden locks
Waited all the day and wrote
Letters on pages white and loose
Before setting them free
In the breeze like leaves...
And they perhaps flew
To fall upon me and you...
At the window as you stood
And behind you me...on brood
As low pressure hit sky
Of the city fell...on my eyes...

A farmer's tale...

Being a farmer
I was duty bound
To till the land
And plough
Remove weeds
And sow...
Yeah...
I was duty bound...
But as I ran
My plough
In dark
In shine
I fell in love with the land
Thought the land to be mine...
For when the first plants
Of my brokeback toil
Came out of the soil
And they nodded blithe
In the southern breeze
I just looked at them
Without cease...
I just ran my fingers through them
Caressed them...
And cried for them...
They also seemed so happy...
They giggled...
They wriggled...
They danced...

Till
Merchants came
With trucks...
And they were taken away
But for a price...

Winter checks in...

This time of the year
Leaves depigment...
Green turn yellow...
Aging cabs
On streets
Like they go...
In fits and starts...
They just go...

For the new to set in
New cream...
Napthalene balls
Cocooned sweatshirts
Mist on cheeks...
And pickles in jars...
Rubbing palms
A bonfire
Strings plucked
Sitting on a chair...
And vapour on glass
Smoky finger sketch
Lantern shadows
Screeched through wooden gate...

the climb...a pilgrimage...

Stopped where the tyre marks
marked the end...
the slushy turmoil here ceased
and from here felt like only could climb the cliff-
a strong one...singleheaded
standing like a pillar
to support the fate...
stood looking up
its determined look
and then hammered into it steely hooks
to slip rope through them-
lifeline...
needed to go up to meet the sacrosanct
the Divine...
pressed toes leather covered to hold
the overwhelming downward g-force
clawed like animal-a fourlegged spider
teeth clung together
braced all muscular pull
viscosity of blood reminding me- the fool
the climb upward is only vertical
chimney of heart forewarned the Fall...

But then the sky...unseen blue
the dusty torn spiked shoe...
the wind from north with scent of saffron...
His tempting calm driving me alone...
His eyes closed to see the universe
His folded palms on knees kept unshivered...
Sent thousand kilowatt electromotive force...
And simply couldn't alter the course...
Kept on moving dragging the burden
Of body filled with smoke lust and cholesterol...
Till felt down the spine
Nothing existed...body is not mine!

The climb ...
thus extracted all of me
physical and metaphysical molecular energy...
And punished me hard
To amalgamate
lessons on life,love and fate...

riding down...a transition...

Rode down
the road ... the one
which took off from the city's heart
and went deep
into a country
an awesome side of me...

the pond...green
like newly wed young maid's
bosom just been admired
in terms which love could shower...
a replenishment of eyes...
blue sky
without ladders or concrete beams...
and trees...
upon which suspended dreams
hang forever loose-
dreams and myths
from grandmother's girdle...
An old owl's tale...
and stories of prince
running through darkest shadows
to meet his dame
held captive in a tower-
from where her hair braided she lowered...
and a pathway...
narrow meandering one
through bamboo thickets...
longish leaves
with brownish midriff
from which several lines ran to the fringe of life-
drinking it binge...

Rode down
the road...
the one from the city's coyote nights
to a dawn...
an uprising...

twenty years on...

you told me it took
twenty years for you
to write that few pages
of your life's unfinished book...
you told me it was a gift
that you possessed within
for two decades nonetheless...

A vision...
of a pool
and madness lurking
all around...
beatings of drum...
cannibal laughter
people smeared with blood
baying for more...
and a baby elephant
badly injured...
half sunk into water
and you going near the baby...to save her...
but you couldn't...
you're not supposed to act
like a saviour...a matter of fact...
but you kissed that baby
her small drooping eyes...
you hugging her
profusely cried...
and the pachyderm
on her way to another world
opened only once
her eyes...so dark
and whispered into your ear
'you got nothing to fear';

Those words...
they rang forever in you
and you tried to write them on pages
in prussian blue...

you told me it took
two decades for to open that book
and write only a few
pages with prussian blue...

bitter gourd...

Told you sugar
don't pour on me
so much of sweet
Told you blood glucose level could shoot
up the meter...having a history of diabetes...

You heard
and the next day me sent
Bitter gourd...
with chilli powder sprinkled...

I had that
for you said
that embittered pungent thing
had your soul upturned
your essential being...

and as I swallowed the lump
grimacing
trying hard
I saw your face
your mischief...
and love perhaps
that under syrup of sugar
you keep
for special ones perhaps...
a special course...
instead of glucose
bitter bitter gourd...

hey!sister...don't cry...

when you called me 'dada'
do you know really where you have me placed?
Remember your eyes...
your red teary eyes
which spoke in terms of void,
nothingness...
so sheer...
so overwhelming
was your suppressed cry
that I assured...
I would try...
to be...
your brother...

true brother in arms...
to help you tide
over life's bumpy ride...
a brother true...
to make you learn secrets
of flying kites...preparing strings
with broken glass and glue...
to make you jump to catch
that low tree branch
and push you hard to climb
upto the tallest place...
from where you would be able to see
long unbroken horizon...a key
to living it wide...
and when the evening would sing
homeward bound songs in the breeze
and cattle from grassylands would return
I would for you surely bring
a paper wheel
which would go round and round
-spinning a magical charm
upon you...
and I know you would run
through the open green with the wheel
held in your hand spinning fast whitened blades...
I would help you live undistressed...

hey! my sister!
I would help you to fight...
your downs...
your slides...
to the dungeon...
to the pits...
I promise...
I will shoulder your rise!
Hey! sis!
Don't you cry...

Neellohit...(a tribute to Sunil Gangopadhyay,)

What will Nira do today?
Will she cry herself hoarse?
Will she thump her breast
For her Sunil is no more?
What will she do?

Who would tell her
In lucid verse
The hand that once touched her
Would never commit a sin...

Who would say that to her?
Who would?
Her Sunil...
The hippie...
The punk...
The erratic youth
Who never grew old...
Died so young
At heart...

That one of the three
Drunkards...
Wandering souls...
At night of seventies
When the city bled
Only red...
On tramlines...
The trio would uncork poems
So full of life
And also of bullets
And three naught three fire...
O!
That undying Neellohit!
That sprite!

Anjali...

Yes...yes...
I know
It is not the right place
To stare at you...unblinked
But you bloomed
There in the crowd
Like a lotus with milky pink petals...
The microphone blared...
Early morn kissed your bleached hair...
And the smell of marigold mixed
With sandal wood and incense sticks
Kept me on the ground fixed...
Looking at you...
Chants from cloth red covered book...
The holy incantations...
Fleeting happiness on perennial motion...
'Don't throw petals here and there...
Put them into the basket with care...'
Someone announced over the address system...
I stood like a dumbed liar...
Cars passed...bikes hooted...
Moveless memories to me perfectly suited
Came down in forms of petals
Yellow...orange...white...pink...red...
Placed gently in the cane basket...assorted...

creme de la creme...

i like it creamy...
a layer of love
on the top...
and underneath a light liquor
through which light could pass
only perceptible to me...
the drunkard...me...
the lover...me...
chocolatey...she...
i like it...
heart signs on top...
arms in arms...
a big soft dollop milky white...
and bubbles on the rise...
forthing out...

when that evening you smiled...

and you smiled...
the first time
under the soft soddy light...
that evening you smiled
looking at me...o your deep oceanic eyes...
lined by kohl...
and red accompaniment of lustre...
on your silken smooth lips...
and that mole on your left eyebrow...
my birth and death!
and you smiled
that evening under the canopy of starry sky
and transparent blue dark on you
like wavy water flow all over
giggling with fondness...
you smiled...

come...we join us...

come let's join hands...
there might be several seas
and gulfs and straits
between you and me...
you somewhere in the middle of corn fields
and me on the city street-
still come...

we join us...
you send me the whispers
of corns in the northern breeze...
i send you flags aflutter...
symbolic of urban colors...
you send me shiuli...chatim...five winged leaves...
tugged by the cool flow -life's seeds
like autumnal joy just freed...
i would show you how kids throng
at the icecream vendor's shop,
people with eager eyes on wait in queues long-
their anticipatory hope...
streamlined by thick ropes
on two sides of roads
manned by traffic guards so busy and tensed...
jostling mob, cameras clicking flashes
to frame in revelry so jampacked...dense...
and numerous billboards hanging from blocks
chains of blue and yellow dots like cascading stars...
and rustle of newly bought sarees and bangles...
Hooks of alluminium getting entangled...
lovely couples seeking lonely spots
to kiss away time festive by the moat...
and you would unwrap before me
how moon comes to dance
on the top of a coconut tree...
how in a shed cows chew the cud
how two little angels by the barn
play with packs of soft mud...

there are miles of green and highways and towns
between you and me...
still come...
we join us...

Remembering her...my mother...this festive season...

Waking up with beats of drums
And slokas chanted
Principally helping a sacrifice...
Fire red orange like potent life
And leaves and flowers...
Sprinkled time to time...
Wooden plates full of sweets
And eyes closed in tune with gracious hymns...

I discover the festive blues...
By not finding you...
Nowhere...

But then
See you everywhere...
See you with a stick
-cotton attached to its tip
Decorating your heels
With red streak...
See you
In red bordered white dhakai
Covering your head...
Gold bangles on...
A tingling sound...
And red round dot
On your forehead...
Resplendent...
See you
Before the flame...
Offering your prayers...
Mother mine!
See you...
Everywhere...
An image
Of the goddess...
See you
By not seeing you...

An avenue and me...

The soft golden afternoon sun
And a gilded pathway with trees on both flanks
A sleepy avenue...
Some cars parked for ages
Beside the railings...
Leaves fallen all through the day
accumulated on windshields...rails...footpath...
Upon trodden made crumpling noise...
And I came back with accumulated leaves also...
Of images...
So true...

Probably after few days
This lonely avenue would be full of lights...sounds...
All these cars would busily ply
Through roads streets boisterous...
Then also a lot of images would be born...
But perhaps then I would not be here alone
To collect them one by one
With a lot of care...
I would not be there...
Alone...

from memory...

i miss
that piazza
that cluster of palms
a sight of green sudden
in an open space...
and that statue
of the navigator
compass in his one hand
maps scrolled in the other...
and that little book shop-
piccolo negozio...
and that old man
with glasses on his nose...
a wrinkled cobwebbed look
hands that always shook...
urban paralysis setting in...
dense air as smooth as mozerella cream...
walls with spray paint blue
and little tents selling leather bags and shoes...
the three shields full of epiphanies
perched on the top of a gate made of stone...
people sitting as mob...
people all alone...
on benches under the blue sky
criscrossed by wires over tram lines...
pigeons at play near a gallery
Jesus standing muted overlooking a valley
of cars scooters bikes bound by time
a big copper bell under a dome that chimes
slightly in the breeze carrying jingle of falling dimes...
i miss that piazza
that cluster of palms
a sudden green
in the open space...

mahalaya...

still remember
quite precariously
the night before Mahalaya...
me sleeping by my dad
and a radio near our head
a small one...black...with knobs rounded...
at three thirty or four in the morn
can't exactly recall now...
would in half sleep know
Mahalaya has come...
the radio would come to life...
the sombre voice...
of Birendra kishore
on air...
Mahishashuramardini...
he would narrate the story
the lore...the tale
so mythical...
how the devi...
the powerincarnate
would dress up in armour...
in shields and spear...
she would dress up for the occasion to tear
the demonic serpent...
to kill him by her empowered gait...
she would,being blessed by gods  stand up like a spirit...
like a spectacle almost...
and then my mom would wake me up
from my half sleep...
she would me take
to the shiuli tree near the rear gate
of our humble house...
where white little blossoms were always found spread
like a white flowery carpet...
she would pluck flowers from the tree...
I would jump around laughing in glee...
the misty cool vapoury town
of ours perhaps then still asleep...
then in graded shades
the black sky would change...
from black to pink to reddened orange...
and the people...the townfolk...
would come out for run or walk...
some pious ones...with towels in hands
would go to the river
to take a holy dip...
there they would pay
obeisence...
to the immortal souls...
the departed ones...

I would go to the park
to play with friends of mine...
on the dewy cool grass
we would shout and run
having the simplest fun
of childhood life...
so removed from agonies and strife
till our bodies would be full of sweat
and glowing enough by the heat
generated by our plays and runs...

A lazy sunday noon arrives...

A lazy sunday noon
Dripping through
The open window
Like a landscape
Comes...
Of all the pictures
Yours only strongly emerge...
Your Green Earth shower gel
Tubed...placed neat by the nozzle
Upon a glass niche...
Your wet towel on the ring
Your bathed freshened lemony feel...
And a song heard so often
In wakeful state...daydreams...
Emanating from bathroom...
In your softest self indulgent style
Only stirs the idle air...

Another lazy sunday sets in...
Sunday brunch next
You and me...
Face to face...
Crumbs of bread...lots of fruits...
Peach...pineapple...oranges...
And honey kept in small table tubs...
Wooden properly carved...
on a wheeled trolley...
You...
And me...
And a sunday noon so lazy
And noiseless like a country bunglow white...
Aloof...observant...
By a tree standing giant
And a graveled path...
Going from the house straight to the forest...
And perhaps a stream rippling nearby...
A lazy sunday noon arrives...

A martini evening ...

The rain was then weaving designs
On the window glass...
Inside...
By the fireplace
Martini evening was setting in
Within him...
And the orange red glow
From those wooden chunks
Half burnt shivered
Like a kitten caught cold...

Just facing him
He felt he saw her...
She in black saree
Black blouse...
So deep...
He looked at her face...
Her red lips...
Her perfect bow shaped brows...

The shades of orange and red
Upon her hills and rivery plains
Played a game...of hide and seek...
And in half illumed state
He saw how
A glittering piece was born
Right under the black saree transparent
Upon her navel...
And also saw
Thousands in number
Butterflies
Coming into the room
To sit on her arms-
Spread like soft ribbons
Of silk...
And the colors from their wings
Fell on her...
The couch...
The floor...
The carpet...

Two street cars...

The two streetcars bound for
Seperate destinations wide and far
Sometimes stop facing each other
They just stop to exchange flowers
And pleasantries...knowing they will
Soon be gone...one to the plains and the other to the hill...

Still...everyday at appointed hours
The two street cars they have a brief stopover
They stop on their respective tracks
They gossip,share their woes and cares...
And they start again down their path...
One to the plains green...
Other to the hills not seen...

Parting...

Leaving me in a dream
You slip...
Into the crowd
Of the city
Every evening;

And I stranded like a child
orphaned under the corrugated tin shed
Of the busstop
Keep on looking at you
Going away...
Slipping into a pandemonium
Of cars,trams,crowd...

Neon signs flashing
with consummate ease
Remind me
My foolishness...
Those flashbulbs seem to tease...
My present occupation;

several minutes later
When the frozen moments sink in
The metal road dividers mock
At me...
Telling me
My road will never bend
Towards the route you take
Every evening
As you slip...

Finally with injured soul
Annihilated mind
I take the stride
Back...

After ten years...

'Is it my fault that I conceived late?'
She questioned back in her defense
Of the poem that arrived like fate
Ten years after in the arid desert
When it rained steadily for enough days and hours
To sweep all the grains of sand to flow down
The channels of water when every bit of her drowned...
Till the earth hidden so far under tonnes of sand
Came to sight...a vast secret fertile land...
And as it rained and rained bringing algae and moss...
Much like life first in this planet did sprout...
And when after rains the sun lent its warmth
And the temperature met the level optimum...
Her womb of earth felt first the wobbly thing...
Life!
Life at last in her destiny did bring...
Ten years!
My God!
Ten years exactly it took
For her to get in her belly that form which shook
And told her in simple movements...wriggling ways
That time has finally come for her to sing songs of happy days...
To download nursery rhymes from the ethereal world web...
For her child she thought to save...
All her angst...worries...tears of the night...
She thought she finally got rid of the curse...
'I am no more infertile see?'
Standing in front of mirror she cried in glee...
She felt she should make the whole world know...
Ten years after the seed sown
Got into a perfect form
To fill her...all...with a mighty flow
Of pride...hope and revelry...
She felt she had taken an overwhelming dope...
So she sang...she danced...she leapt...
With bolster between her knees she dreamt...
Of nappy days...happy cries and childish wails...

in my last birth...i had been...

perhaps I was part of that land...
evenly spread ...full of corns...
and perhaps in my last birth
i had been here...
this particular field...
here i had perhaps tilled
clods of hardened soil...
broken hairline fractures...
all over the place...
and walked three miles to bring water
for the plants...those little saplings...
danced they surely in the breeze...
perhaps I at the dusk...
used to walk through the borders...
the cleaved path...
I walked in crimson light...
the moist evening then also came
to me to breathe her last whispers
in my ears...
perhaps...
here...right here...
in this field
I saw the mist
laying her sleepy bed
so cool...so soft...so wide...
I had seen heavenly sprite
embodying every grain...
with love devoid of pain...
then there would be a rise of a dirge...
a murmur would in graded chapters emerge...
little lifeforms in shapes of gnats...
and glowworms...
would play all night in this field
coming in swarms...
they would sit...fly...and chase
from one leaf of a plant to the hillock of a baby maize...
I saw the stars with their babies in lap
dancing down to the field with nocturnal joy...
they would come in flocks...
their babies would run about the rows of corns...
their giggles I heard sweeping the land...
then when the first ray of light
would redden the eastern side...
the mother stars would collect one by one...
starlets still dancing and playing without care...
before going away they would drop a few
tears of starlets ...which shone like the morning dew...
In my last birth...
perhaps I had been
in this particular field....
and all these I perhaps had seen...

we...two friends...me and white fairy...

we are two friends...
me and my white fairy...
she comes to me too often
at unexpected hours...quite sudden...
last night when I thought I was in sleep
she knocked twice before peeped
and I was in a state of surprise
but smiled still knowing that she never comes without a prize...
'what have you brought for me tonight?'
I asked...staring at her halo bright
the encircled head...
the flowing cascade...
She smiled...
so soft...so gentle touch...
and opened her clutch...
a flower...simple and white
like her...very much a soul's delight...
the flower bloomed before me...
her petals opened slow for me to see
how yellow pollens in her core she carried...a treasure
she showed me the germination of life...at leisure...
she showed me chromosomal helix spread...
she made me make out my passage of moments and days-
how much of time I spent bodily imprisoned...
how much of light penetrated my soul every season...
how many images of lanes,streets,balconies...
how many pictures of electric impulses phoney...
how many clouds rested on my shoulder at noon day...
how many waves lashed at a secluded bay...

the flower opening up to me said all
how rains are formed bit by bit before fall...
how snow flakes whiten the rooftops...
how desert storm sometimes the nomadic caravans stops...
how on a peak of mountain a man got once lost...
how two enemy snipers at the gate of heaven raised a toast...
how carbon dating trace the origin of icebergs almost...
how fallen leaves brown leave natural sorrow on earth
how seeds dream with precision the oracle of Godly birth...
how two galaxies once took a vow...an oath
how asteroids in void with determination decidedly did float...

we...two friends...
me and my white fairy...

last night...
she opened mysteries
for me...in her outstretched palm
and left me fully buried...

a dussera morn...

i distinctly remember
once waking up in a cloudy morn
like today...got the scent of rain
falling somewhere not so far away...
and that day was before dussera
the chill got bold in the air
biting into my bones...i shivered
for you i got a strange fever...
to get you...to see you...to get your touch
i was burnt within by a desire such...
not something that could be termed as lust
but a soft gentle pining for your hands...
to get the smell of your alien lands...
to read a story with you together lying side by side...
to paint a picture together of a full moon tide...
to stand just beside you close
on a pier jutted into a river...a photographic pose...
to watch with you how water of a stream flows...
to embark into a hall of cosmic slideshows...
to fly paper planes with you through the air
moist vapour turning into beads on our hair...
to climb with you that iron spiral stairs of the tower
to stand aloof with only you,from the city teethed and bare...

knowing perhaps at the evening the pyroart
would make my dreams decorate the dark...
with fire...lights...and shooting sparks...

memoir of a shopper...

thought to call you
restrained from it
knowing you are on the city street
busy in a shopping spree
that saree...
this capri...
that pair of dhoti pants...
those bunch of pencils...eyeliners brown and black...
that polish for your nails...
those pillow covers with images of hills and plains
flooded by blossoms pink red yellow green
that flat container with UV protection cream...
a pair of ear rings with red stones rimmed by copper...
a shirt white and soft for your husband and recent lover...
a pink dress for your niece...
a peacock blue satin piece...

and perhaps a sigh for me...
left in the festive air...
lacing the sunny afternoon sense of glee...
as your eyes suddenly catch while you pass
a coffee shop front table by the glass
and a tumbler left unattended by an open book
smoke curling up soft as you stop awhile and look...

silent note...

I think I have made a silent note
Of the smell of chatim in the air... how it floats
And also of the mild chilly nip
Into which yellow streetlights dip
and the conical luminance getting dense
 falling like a shower on my heart's barbed fence...
And also by chance on my palms like a mirth
Perhaps noted a song, waiting for nocturnal birth...

Perhaps I have found it right
How in glittery black saree, the night-
Walks the ramp of the sky crossing hip
Before I die in my autumnal sleep...
And see so many shades of you
Laughing, smiling,leaving enough cues
For me to lay awake all through my prosaic plane...
Till the whistle of the dream bound train
Leaves the night air bestirred with a tale
Of you winning it all without fail...


I have made a silent note...
Of songs never coming out of your throat
I have, perhaps, observed quiet
How like beads of your sweat
My little hopes of foolish love rest
On your shoulders bare, fully blessed!

occhio della mente

Been there perhaps
Where the waves lapped
On the rocks beside the park
and the blue sky dotted by larks...
Heard in my ears
'La mamme..' the song of mothers
Salvatore Toto on fullest song
At the tree-lined Antonio Dohrn...
And seen how those street posts
Curved, bent like minstrels on repose
Offered silent prayers to the sky...

But dreams always in dreams die...
I know...I know Isabella mine!
Pledged you to the God once
Freed you with the flock of white swans...
Sent you away from me
To the rocks, rivers, blue blue sea...

When you made me blind...

Met you once covered by the mist
Beside that feeling of rows of trees
And the unseen lamp post four
the stillness of the night might have then devoured...
Met you first like a runaway light
From distant star that dropped flakes of silver
And my eyes turned surely blind...
For I did see you through my mind...
O I felt you in pores of skin
And in the thickness of the air that leaned
Between us two...like a layer of glass
O I felt how your smiles passed
From your untouched lips straight to my nimble heart...
There must have been a shiuli on bloom
Somewhere very close to us...calm and sweet
Filling bit by bit my vacant rooms...

my autumn...

losing me in your sky
cajoled by your autumnal eyes
getting the smell of your perfume
and your lovely turn table tune...
sinking slowly into your folds
your beauteous form as I behold
your long long dark brown tresses
your mystic sweetness as my soul embraces...
losing me slowly and surely in you...
in your flowery deep cleavaged view...
in your sharodiya numbers...chiffon saree
in your glass of frosty bloody mary...
in your lips glossy dark red
in your unrealised dream evenly spread...
losing me slowly in you
as drops of dew I gather few
on my blades of unopened eyes... my autumn!you're such a lovely device...
I rise and rise to get forever you
losing all again in seamless you...

Being a tree...

The tree was strong and full of branches spread
Like a myth wide enough to cause
The moon takes a little nap perhaps
Tired as she was wandering about the cauldron of the sky...

And those little birds who with all fondness
Built their nests with twigs and twines
At the ys and xs of the branches full of solid wood thick
Must have gone to sleep...
And the sweetness of the mystic fog
Had long since woven with deftness
A curtain...around the tree...

I looked at her grandmotherly
Attitude...saree spread as if
For tiny despondent travellers
To take a nap or a yawn...
And sitting right there I got the feel of her roots
Deep deep into the earth...
Underneath I knew there were branches as well...
Going to different places...groping perhaps in the dark
In search of water...
In search of life saving elements...
That's the being I dreamt once
To imbibe...
The being of a tree...

Kaash flowers of the morn...

From the window when she saw
The kaash white on bloom ...on shine
Kissed by the first rays of morn so sublime
She forgot for the time being
That she had works in hand
She went to her girlhood land...

Twenty years ago...
She had such autumnal morn
Such golden kaash on bloom
Such white jovial hues filled her girly room...
And her dad...her dearest friend...would with a twinkle in his eyes
Ask her if she would love to run
Through those kaash flowers under the new born sun...
And she would just nod her tiny head
With round eyes she would just gaze
At the meadows...open field
Green dotted by whitest cottony things...
She would then take a jump and plunge
Into the soft wavy grass...she would lunge
- an animated sprint...so full of life!
Those kaash flowers waved then with supranormal delight...

Girlhood of those times are now gone
She now travels by car all alone...
Her father's white hair she still could see
In forms of kaash flowers waving in glee...

You...the diwali light!

Left you...almost abandoned you
Under the heap of papers...old files...dusty shape of negligence...
Discarded you thinking there was no way to make the light
Penetrate the cobweb...
And more importantly forgotten you...
Ah!
I am such a man of ingratitude!

You could have cursed me...
You could have left me with an irreparable scar...
A blemish right there on my soul...

Nay!
You're not so poor at heart...
You're not so weak...
To leave marks of skirmish...

You chose to pay me by blood...
You chose to give life out of you
To give me an inexpressible height of a dream...
You chose to put me in the highest pedestal...
And burnt yourself like diwali light!

hey kid! get rid of exam blues!

Wish to kiss on your lids of eyes
to make you feel the width of the sky
free from mcqs...overlapping discs...theorems...
cramming data to excel in worksheets lame...
wish to take away the mountain of books...
trailing satchel... bottlenecked knowledge on tenterhooks...

don't fret over exams kid
believe me...life is a celebration
not bound by dates of neolithic deeds...
don't chew your nails over a silly questionnaire
with your fingers you can strum the strings even better!

come'n! get rid of your exam blues
just tighten the lace of your naughty boy shoes...
and kick it hard...the best you can
life is just an upturned bottle of sand...

what is the way to love?

The pink stood by the creeper
like an onset of long devised winter
And seeing her in fullest bloom I wonder...
What is my destiny?

The procession of the tiny wishes...
Love stories in cursive hand...so cliched
What is the way to love?
To paint the sky with reddened gleam?
To whisper like the yellowed leaves
Falling slow through the airy sea...

The pink stood looking at me
By the creeper so lovingly...
And seeing her in the brightest splendor
I just stop a while and wonder...
What is my destiny?

leit motif of the incomplete...

some incompleteness
has the dream of completion...

a project taken chip by chip...
a drawing sketched incomplete...

a note left  on table unsigned...
a webpage logged in but not logged out...

a coffee mug taken but left not sipped...
a book borrowed from the library but kept half read...

a bite taken into a sandwich and gone-
to attend the chorus of a delirious dawn...

a Vesuvius bubbled but not erupting full
a song from a heart turning into a drowsy drool...

a car ignited by the turn of the key
but engine kept on idle under the shade of a tree...

a poem beginning to become a myth...
a kiss dying on the surface of lips...

some incompleteness are so still and stiff
like a frozen state...a leitmotif...

before the race ends...give me a spark...

Give me a blue mustang morn
laid straight across the noon day
before I take the pit stop...

Give me a race course with thirty five degree bank
liquid nitro guzzling where would my soul run
before I would be towed away to rest
By crane fitted car...flashing blue beacon...

Give a freeway to choose...
out of congestion
so that fiery trails would be left
by the smart control cruise...
before the race comes to an end...

Udita...to you...a dream...

Udita...
Wrote nothing to you
All these years
As time had not been in my purse
And rains here were really scarce...
Ten days of last month had been down
With fever...fret and frown...
The months before the last
Were full of dirt decadence and dust...
Finally this evening got the scope
To write a short version of what I thought most...

No...not specifically about you I thought all these days
But when this year the summer came
And a few yards away the thickets of bamboo grove
Got yellow from the green
I was reminded of the shot taken
By me in a garden of you once
Standing joyous
Probably in your white top and blue jeans
Puffy lips...
And long ear rings...
And  blushing cheeks...
And then the monsoon nights...
They came as usual with thunderous lights
Like flashguns burning for a moment true...
I had momentary glimpses of you
Sipping tea from your favourite tumbler
And sitting on the couch legs on fold
Newspaper opened unmindful
Flapping in the breeze...
That image me several times seized...
Like other ones...your wet toweled stance
Before the oval mirror combing your hair
Smell of shampoo,love and jasmine flower...
All these came and go...
Its a pity...Udita...that you then failed to know...
How thoses images wrought me up in bliss
How on bedspread I discovered your undropped kiss...
Then the autumn...festive glitter
Highs and lows in my barometer...
Mercury wrote your presence in graph...
I saw you breaking in wild laugh
In billboards...posters...special editions of magazines...
Your smart savvy days of teens...
You licking candy fluffy pink balls
Your face resembling mountain falls
Rapid...sparkling...full of life...
Lustre of diwali lights
In your hands...palms...and arms
You like a magic spreading charms...
On my every way of looking at things
My table...bookcase...runaway dreams...
In rhythms of drums beaten to offer prayer
To the mother like idol standing fair
I found the beats of my nimble heart
You...placing your fingers on left side of my checkered shirt
You biting ends of lips with suppressed desire
Full of wine...so intoxicating...yet bright
Udita...
O how I saw you in also wintry morning light...
You in red sweater upto neck covered
You thumping on my bosom...calling me 'coward'...
You walking through the flock of pigeons under the canopy of a provencial hotel
You unnecessarily pressing my doorbell...
You stopping in a misty wide open field
You taking a deep breath to get the feel
Of the new born marigolds that painted gold
A whole country side wrapped in idyllic mould...

Udita...
Wrote the short of the long one here
Next time I think I would make you a movie dear...
A big long one with choreographed trees...
And sea coasts exotic blue like a tease...
And hammock in swing with you on it
I would take long shots panoramic...
And there would be music...a lot...soft...ethereal
Music as rivers and fountains oft create real
As wind blowing through the sands...
Sometimes evolve into tiny strands
Of vision...
And music that emanate from caravans
Of nomads after the day dims into dark
Music of that invisible skylark...
Which once made a poet to erupt in joy...
Wish to put them all...
In that movie that would be shown in a private hall
Only for you dear...for you alone...
You would sit there and watch it...
On the leather sofa brown you would sit...
I?
Well...
I would be then in the projector room...
I would be keeping tabs from there of your smiles...gushes and frowns...
And when finally the movie would end
And the credit lines would appear
Rolling up from the bottom of the screen...
You would think of surely finding me
Somewhere in the hall...but you would not find me...
I would have then left the projector on run
I would have then another dream flown...

Caffeine...

Being fully drenched
With a coffee thirst went
To that shop...pushing in the glass
And at the corner thought would pass
The evening with smoke and drops
That put opaque peculiar shots
On the oval table top
And then your polished nail
Tapped...
Double red marquee on the wood
I glanced upward...and saw you...
Smile kind of slight...
A thin layer of moisture
On face...under the designer small but sharp light...
Enough for me to shift
From coffee smoke to take drift...

And a few paces away...
The whirling sound of a machine
That conjures the perfect brew
For like me the thirsty few
Signalled green...
certain signs with practised hand
were made on the choco cream...

It was still raining hard
Through the glass the city looked blurred...
And the coffee smoke from the cup
Before getting mixed with the captive air
Penciled a sketch...
Of a face...

Let the day wane...

let the day wane
the way it should...
with the homebound flight
of flamingoes true...
let the day wane
the way it deserves...
western front a riot of colors...
let the day wane
the way a novel long ends
with a commensurate line
A profound deep sense...

This day...

This day...so cloudy wet and cool
Is devoid of aging perhaps...
This day...so somnambulent
Drowsy like tired leaf
Falling from branches...
On roll from the cliff
Of incomplete sadness...

This day...so mystic
Full of meaningless myriad flow
Collapse all senses
To bring the insignificant show...
Of the thirst of flowers
Looking up to the sky...
Of indistinct hilltops
Upon which sun cast beams on sly...
Of blades of grass
Burdened by drops
Of last night's hopes
Upon them stopped...

Once again the night same...

'Phir wahi raat hain...
Phir wahi raat hain khwabo ki...'

Once again the night same
Came to me as cued by 98.3 fm
And I plunged into the dream...

Exile...sure...an exile sweet!
And into that exile away from the crowd
I slipped...

Unchanged...

'The town has changed...a lot...'
She said the first thing
Sitting on the grass
Looking around...
The towers were being erected
A few yards away...
Tall towers posing as threats
To the sky...
Over which a few birds at that moment fly
As if like a series of kites...
Reddened by the dying light
To the distant halo of the sun
Where afternoon to the evening will eventually turn...

I said nothing...
For me the change was slow and creeping
As if I am very much part of it...
So I did silently sit...
Waiting for more remarks and comments
That expectedly from her mouth should lend
The air of the day passing quiet...
With more of nostalgic flight...

'Only this particular spot
By the river has remained almost the same...
Remember?'
She started with renewed vigour...
Of her journey to this part of the land
Where she surely spent some days grand...
I waited for her to break into more
Of her girlhood frocked and ribboned green...her mickey moused door...
'Remember?...Once on a wintry evening...
We all gathered here...after our
Daily grind with books
Tables...piecharts...like compressed molecules...
We wanted to burst...
We thought to have a farewell party that would last
Till the next morn...
Decidedly when we would surely be torn...
From each other...sickled by the time...
We had songs and games and barrels of red flowing wine...
We sang songs that night...the whole...
Till the wine made a trance like toll
On us...we laughed...we cried...
On each other's arms we heaved long sighs...
And on the bow of the sleepy boats
We slept off with cracked throats...
Made hoarse by our foolish cries...songs and sobs...
And the next day...we were to be lost in the mob...'
She talked relentless...as if she had gone back
To that day when we had our last get together
When we all wanted the time to grow weak and slack...

'seriously...so many days have passed
Since then...'
I added somewhat sad...
Lugubrious... Like a man turned again a lad...
Young...hypersensitive...touched
By the long memory lane march...
'Hmmm...'
She stopped...
Looking at me with a searching glance...
'I could see streaks of white...
In you...like a sweet aging sign...
Like the town you also changed a bit
But like this evening...there is also a youthful street
Still in you where icecream vendors do come...
Where still play in a water tank colored fish some...'
She said...in a tone of observation...
'Now...tell me...what in me you see?'
She asked...quizzical looks
That me to the lost days took...
I turned towards her to get close
To see what changes left marks of prose
In her poetry which once me submerged...
I looked at her eyelashes large...
'You've changed surely but to me
Changes make no impression...you see...
For a river can never be old...
She can flow...flow forever...
And a man can never a river in his heart hold...
So...you are...flowing decent with time...
So you are like unuttered unwritten lines
Which occur to mind which inexhaustibly pines...
For perennial love...an undying sense...
You can't for me appear changed...'

With this utterance we stopped...
She bent her head on my shoulders...
And before us time seemed ceased...
As if the hands of the clock took a nap...
And a smile appeared gradually in her lips...

Can i betray?

If I have the desire...
To collect little drops of sweat
Which glitter mixed with rain
On your open bare shoulders
On my fingertips ...
As I do collect your stares
Unmindful of my eyes...
And the smell of your shampooed hair
Ignorant of my quest...
Will you call me a fool?
Will you term me a man lustful?

If so...then I have no issues
With those epithets...
For in you I have another of me met
A fool...a lovesick...a poet...a sage...
I have found me in different stages
Of my own development...
In you light of the whole world of mine if without any Eiensteinian work bend...
What am I to do?
Can I betray laws of science?
Can I betray my conscience?

Granny...my granny...

The smell of spices
Ground on mortar by wooden pestle
Evokes so much of love...
Of granny...
Her frail figure...
Betel nut red lips
White saree with border thin black...
And pickled winter noon
By the radio 'Akashbani' tune...
And evening ritual of a drool
Closed eyes...counting beads...
Countless pennies kept as seeds
Of memories...old black n white turned sepia gray over-exposed in light...
Granny mine walking silent head slanted on the left side...
And then stories told in a feeble tone
Of princess lost in a forest lone...
White horse galloping fast with his mane
Dancing on the move...hoofs ploughing fields and plains...
The prince riding turbulence strong
His scabbard glistening like a heroic song...
And then sometimes soft trebled voice
Cajoling consoling wiping my eyes moist
With the end of her saree-smelling betel leaves...
Love dripping incessant through her porous sieve
Of heart so weak yet so full of care...
On her lap childhood brimmed with dreams fair...
Granny...o granny mine so gentle almost like a feather...you come without fail...
Specially in forms of trivial things...
A smell of pickle...old songs...and in fairyland dreams...

Sunday is a marketplace...

Sunday is a big market place...
At long winding queues heels  cool off...
At the bazar full of teeming crowd
Domestic minds shopping spree brace...
'two chicken legs'cries a fellow morning bazar goer...
With a big shopping bag by heaviness lowered
Almost to touch the pavement...
Another orders kilograms of sea fish...
Weighed on scales -a silver dish...
The vegetables green sprinkled fresh
Housemaids in floral Sunday dress...
Talk about foods fashion and brunch at friends...

Sunday is a big market place...
The plaza opens at three thirty one
Glassy facaded...escalatored...glitzy mall beckon
Headphoned young man with his pillion girl
Hair loosy bound in air unfurls...
Movie tickets perforated and cut
Leather sofas filled with popcorns in paper buckets burst...
Jeans and tees low and tight
By oneliners teasing sizzle bright...
'its my life...'
Sound bars shriek...
Icecream sandwich evolved OS
Cellphones carry bluetoothed whales
Evening of hedonism dip in pitchers and pails...
Sunday is surely a big market place...

The moon game...

And then there were nights...
Cool...windy and by moon light
Soaked silver with long shadows of palms
Falling on the ground with strange patterns...
And we would play our 'omot nwaid'-
Our own moon game...
Someone would count one to ten
Turning towards the wall not knowing where and when
The others would hide...just evaporate...
In the air like ghosts perfect...
Then reaching the end of the count
One would start the drastic panicky search...
For others everywhere...behind the trees...bushes...walls...
Till one was to be found
The search under the silver light
Would continue...
Sometimes none was to be found...
Sometimes the massive search would yield null...
And the searcher would sit down
On the grass fully dull...
Then the others would come out
From places where they had hid
Like shadowy creatures only to bid
The lone searcher with cries and shouts
To wake him up from all his doubts...
And the game would start again...
One to ten would start the bargain...
Till night would become dense like fog
Till the trees would sleep off
And streets would be vacant of men and dogs...
And a mother would call aloud her kid's name...
And the drowsy intoxicated steps would be heard at the distant lane...

First muse...

There was a face once
Eyes down...always veiled
Had stones on the shiny forehead
Like three signs of divine grace...
And from under embroidered lace
A few disobedient streaks of hair would flow out
In the wind they would sing songs
In the breeze they would like dreams sprout...
And sometimes like tiny bells would chime
The long earrings for me soft genteel lines...
Full of music ambrosia induced
She was my first perceived muse...

Then at the sunset orangy scape
With more words I would be certainly draped...
Words hanging like loose scent of flower
Words would fall on me like unprecedented shower
But she remained always silent calm
Yet she dropped lines of creative balm...
Much like nature perhaps so  encompassing and holistic
She would just come there to stand
Infront of desperate me...
And by her nods..her unuttered words
I would jot down on pages white
Notes musical...so enchanting...
Notes of birds spread as benign light...