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...