the unbearable lightness of a particular being...

'well...
i am no Kundera...'
he started...
upon being reminded of the existential issue...

'i am in no way into
Nesnesitelna lehkost byti...'
he murmured...

'no Tomas have i...'
he added...

'then what?'
the grey suited man
opposite asked...

'the unbearable lightness...
for me comes from
Light...
and the rainbow clouds...
afloat
over Prague...
though there might be mist and fog...
but lightness unbearably light
and bearably bright...
so appears...
it appears so that
i just lie flat...
and the light takes the body in...
for a flight...
the Light...'

he sighed...

the grey suit smiled too...

was there any dearth of light?
really?
in the room...
where the sequence took place...

when silence checks in...

Silence...
the sister of serenity
checks in with Him...
He is her elder bro
and the two
they come together...
hand in hand...
serenity is their another sibling...

when the three together sing...

Life...
becomes such a blessed thing...
Life...
it turns into nothing...
and yet
everything...

after a road trip...

'so you are back!'
Isabella was amazed
to see him back...
he smiled...
unclipped his headguard...
the helmet with a stud
of Apollo
behind...
'hey! you've grown tattoo too!'
she said as she looked
at a write
on his nape allright...

'whom did you meet?
this time?'
Isabella asked...

'God...'
he replied...
Francesco...
tired but having a glow...

'God? are you crazy?'
'No...
i am not...
i saw Him on number plates of cars
whizzing past...
i saw Him sending me a bird...
a very big one...
like a white swan
showing me the path when i was lost...
i saw Him in faces of people...
in wrinkled starving faces...
in eyes of kids...

after the last lap
when i was thinking to stop...
a stop sign appeared
and i stopped...
a piccolo...
was it there earlier? i didn't know
but a man...
would you believe it? just like our Abramo...
he came up with a bottle of water...
only for me...
and methought...
how could he
know i was thirsty?

then...
once...when the tachometer read four hundred and sixty three
i found a tree
quite similar to the one...
we have behind that Clinic here
at Orazio...

and found posts and signs...
as good as new
in places people live few...

and then thrice...
missing horns
from behind
i could have met death
but He stopped me...

simply...
by asking me to stop...

and
interestingly...
when the dark came...
and my visor got blurred...
I sang aloud...
and thought He heard my song
on the road...
and He sang too!
Yes...
assolutamente!

i found Him
and we had long chats...
about life...
we conversed...

and when i slept off
by the road
putting up my tent...
He would His angels send...
to stand on vigil...

O i met Him...
on the road...'

Francesco's voice trailed...
he stopped...

Isabella said nothing...
she thought she needed to say nothing...

sitting...on bike by a road

sitting on motorcycle
rested on double stand
by a slightly busy road
under the open sky
and a breeze flowing by
has its own beauty i think
for i sink...
sink
into a blessed nothing
an oblivious way
of getting out of busy life
so meaningless sometimes
compared to the vast that sets in
gradually on my skin
like nimble feel...
as if life should be like this
and nothing else...

what's the use really of that hurriedness
which leaves one finally vacant?

i prefer quite the opposite...
specially on a summer evening
when the breeze is so young
and the road beside is long
with lightbeams playing on
simple...
i am loving this song
that is emerging slow
by this sitting doublestand
on a bike
and the sky
and the trees
and the breeze...
all coming to me
like the way they should be...
and never to be missed...

siyahi...

those carves me etch
on the paper relentless
'what are they?
where do they me get?'

i asked my friend
the ever present One...
the unperished...
the blessed...

and He
gave me a pot
of ink
a big inexhaustible one...
and placing it
right on my desk
He disappeared...
a vision was He...

time and again He comes...
paying a visit with His calm...

He had disappeared...
He might reappear...
but
Hadn't He left
an ink pot?
Siyahi...
right on my desk?

meeting Hugo...

meeting him
his blue eyes
and cute face
soft curls upon rest
his head full of an idea...

'automaton...'
he said
he knew...

meeting him
at his workplace...
repairing and maintaining
that golden and brown giant analog clock
full of levers and gears...

he stays there
round the clock
and in his spare time...
doesn't he have a dream to chase?
a dream of an automaton his father once laid
in his diary?

a mechanism...
he told me
standing a bit aloof
from the crowd
'i have no doubt
a machine is so perfect
having nothing extra than it did get...'
'spare parts? you need them na?'
i asked
not a machinist like him
-having no machinist's dream...

and he seemed overjoyous...
for the first time
at the station
in smoke...noise...dust
i saw him smiling just
as if it was the only thing
that did dreams bring
to his soul...

Hugo...
a boy,
with golden curls,
blue eyes,
excellent voice
and
a dream...

meeting him
me thought
it was his dream
that made him
so cute...
so good...
though a bit aloof...

'rendere il viaggio...'

'rendere il viaggio...'
He told him...
in simple terms
while dropping butterfly wings
on his palms...

he looked at the butterfly's wings
colored like a rainbow it did bring
the temptations faced by a wanderer soul...
he looking at the butterfly's sweet earnest
to fly...to fly to where its pleasure lie...
and then he thought of the air...
the pollen laden journey fair
the leaves...the trees...mother in Nature...

he thought
it was time for him to make a journey
from the bounds of space
to the unbound shape...

'rendere il viaggio...'
He had said
and he saw how the bluish road laid
for him to travel...
all the way...
to Milky Way...

The two...

'per favore...signorina...'
Isabella thought
she heard almost inaudible a voice...
a male one...
familiar...

so the crowd of Gay Odin
she just scanned...
it was evening...
a holiday one...
families...kids...
women with loud airs
all had transformed the shop
into a great center of
fun...
but the voice...
gentle...
inaudible...
familiar...
had hurt hidden...

so she scanned...
and found right behind
her...
Francesco...
uncombed...
sleepy...
there he did stand...

'Buonasera...'
She said...
'what happened?'
She asked curious
seeing the man
in biege trousers
and a dark blue jacket
looking not so fair...

'nothing...
thought of you...
and
so
came running just...'
He answered...
self absorbed...

'good...
want to have a gelato?'
Isabella asked...
thinking he needed that thing
as the evening drew
soft breeze into the streets
and the city was beginning to get lighted
into different colors...

'want to have a walk...
with you...'
Francesco said...

'Villa Communale?
will it be good?'
Isabella asked...
looking at his eyes...
tired...
sleepy...

'Bene...'
Francesco said...

and the two started the walk...
from the crowd...
towards the park...
by the sea...
so blue...
they walked
the two...

mother true...and a child...

'so good you are...
how come you so good?'

he asked her...
'and why can't I
be as good as you?
where does your motherly heart lie?
can you show me that oneday?
at least once...
so that
i be good
and get motherly kind...'
he added...
murmuring...

She said nothing...
she just placed her palm
on his shoulders drooping down
and looked into his eyes...
soft...
teary...
a weeping child...

she smiled
mild...
but said nothing...

he felt
he just got
what does it take
to be a woman...true...
he felt
he just saw
what does it take
to be a mother...true...

deservingly...

no regrets...
got exactly what i deserved...
exactly the way things should have fallen
lightning...
blazing...
searing...

deep into my skin...
half killing...
half still...awake...

Lord!
forgive me...

and send down more if YOU please...
for its YOUR way...
and who am i to contradict
YOUR ways?

Send me more
more
more

so that
i die
and
get
a
rebirth...

YOU
promised me once
'a rebirth is pending'

is it not still the time?

looking for YOU...

Every moment i live
i look for YOU...
in morning dew
accumulated on windshield
kissed by the springy dawn...
in my sleepy yawns
and also running speeding traffic less roads...

i look for YOU
in broad Billboards...
in horizontal white lines
where to stop...where upon roof lied a flowery vine...
in orchards of fruitful smell
in shops where dreams at bargain that cropped haired ol' man did sell...
in labyrinths of the city going round
and round like a puzzle...
in flow of coolest water from the muzzle
of a corporation tap...
thirsty me look for YOU
in every motoracing lap...

and YOU
the benign...the calm
the man with purest softest palm
just leave me amazed by your Signs...
YOU draw for me vertical builds
and also horizontal lines...
And then send me images of young kids cycling hard
on an empty street
YOU...
with fascination me leave jarred...
i wake up from sleep to a kingdom of the wakeful
i become wise and then to be the fool...

still YOU drive me through the hills and the plains
YOU send flowers on my bluish contact lens...

and
i just laugh at me...
and ask YOU silently
'what this YOU
so cheerful?
How YOU discovered me?
or is it ...i discovered YOU?'

a painter's morn...

the sky was still pink
the sun over the Eldo superstore
appeared like a float
and Amadore at his studio
drew...
the whole of the night he blew
into that painting...

il fiume...
(the river...)
and its bank
and a tree with the strongest trunk
and a woman sitting there
in white...her flowing hair
by the breeze of the morn
carrying a song...

the whole of the night he spent...
Amadore...as if he worked on
a dream God sent
and now when he had completed
the work...his eyes tired greeted
the round pinkish orangy float
over the Eldo superstore
across his flat at Monteoliveto...

the pigeons of Naples
had woken up sure...
he could hear their hopping sounds
on the stony pavement below...

A painter's night thus
come to a morning must
with il fiume del dolore...
through which he could to the millions say
his life had already become an art...
and he with the blessedness can never part...

Soon the day would come
with hurly burly noises some
but this morn will be for him the same
a morn of creative blessedness...

brought out live...

the sombre tone
that chanted the slokas
supported by the beats of drums
and pads...

the child in us the ambience
brought...
out...
live...

the lights
the chants heavy
ably supported by pads
beaten happy and soft...

the child in us the ambience brought
out...
live...

'for this death
i am to be born'
he thought...
'only for this realised self...
happy...loved...blessed...
by Him from top to toe dressed...'

the child in us
it brought
out...
live...

Who wants more in this cyclic life?
from soil we begin
and upon soil we lie...
who wants sounds of crackers and bombs?
who wants really that?

the child in us
it brought
out...
live...

'see you at Montauk...'

Standing at the door of the Memory motel
like a Billy Joel...
he thought he should break into a song...
afterall
it is his eternal sunshine
on spotless mind...

and the fishermen's shack
had all the racks...
of his love...

here
some say
The Rolling Stone
hanged out with mugs of beer...

and his eternal sunshine on spotless mind
found only the blue open theatre
of spellbinding width
the Montauk Manor
also stood like a white layer...

'see you at Montauk...'
Probably that thought he wrote in a book
and felt that real was here...
he realised he had arrived wholesome there...

and for the first time
a feel of being at peace
with a sense of fully accomplished
made him so restive...

'see you at Montauk...'
he thought he had written a book
on the idea itself...
his eternal sunshine on a spotless mind...
and now love too
had made an entry there...

the desired variety...
with eternality...

left you there...Isabella...with hope...

Isabella...
Left you at the shore
in front of waves...galore...
with a purpose so definite...
wish you catch the light...
of the sun on the waves
sparkling...gleeful kind
a sense of joy so eternal
and also of hope and piety...
left you just there...

and hope
you will have the wings of an angel
to fly to the light...without fail...
as God resides in Light...
God loves Light...

the connect...a highway

the road that ran empty
like a highway cool air in my head
and big trailers hissing soft
caused the connect...
'relazione con dio...'
they say...
those people in robes...

Earlier
i had no belief as such
cares of the world had i much...
and then He happened
full of dark...He happened...
was it His subplot?
'only in pitch black dark
one sees the light'
they say...
those people in robes...

and
soon after that
'relazione con dio...'
it happened...
like the road empty - a smooth highway...
and big trailers on their way
to reach faraway towns...
with essential supplies
of life...
sped sending the wind through my hair...
combing a sleepy soothing feel
and transporting also the morning air...
Of this state...perhaps...
to another city...town...
up the hill...
and also down...
to that greenish valley...
they just carry...

'relazione con dio...'
they say-
those in robes...
and i felt it on the highway...

the void and filled soul...

this starry night...
this breeze...
playing with long coconut leaves...
and the music so blessed...
keeping with the tradition of a perfect transcience...
this beauty of doing nothing...
must be a choice so ancient...
Pre historic one...perhaps

a free uninhibited mind
converging all into one
a blank creative choice...
in void the birth of a voice...

Plato...
he had that aplenty I guess...

the beauty of doing nothing...
and also getting into everything...

the starry night...
the leaves talking about the day...
the clouds on cushiony dreams laid
yawning...
the night waiting with all her keenness for the morning...
the mother bird telling a tale...
the rhythmic passage of an express mail...

all arrive...
with the beauty of nothing doing...
and how
they just fill the soul...

the start has just begun...

Today...
Isabella must be the happiest...
for she has got the ticket
of the flight...
in her trembling hands
to catch the flight
to her place of birth...
her hometown...

faraway from the piazza
smelling still of pizza and mozerella...
faraway from the known streets
peopled by hurried feet
during daytime...
and where at night
yellow lights mix with smog...
and the chill sleeps beautifully like a log
over shoulders of people returning home...
riding scooters...vans...or plodding alone...

Upon her Port Alba home
His Holiness today shown...
the way to start a search
for her roots...
La radice...

she has boarded the flight
and the start has just begun...

The return to the base...after a long day...

the return
to the base
after a long day
is so good...
a return
with a tired body
but lightened heart
airy...afloat...
He must have been doing all these...
my friend
He...
so good...
so bold...
I cry in happy tears...
He hears my prayers...
and He delivers...
He delivers hope...
and courage to me
and others as well...
to climb the hill...
to reach out for the sky...

O...this golden dusky light...
He permeates me...
and others too...
for I see people climb
the rigorous upslope...
they sweat...
they toil...
their garments mix with the soil...
so good...
He
my friend...
He delivers
the good
to me
and all and sundry...

and hope arrives
in rainbow colors
of joy...
of mirth...
I know
He does it all...
from above...
He
the ever inspiring soul
He
the bold...

'grazie...vivere felici...'

'grazie...
vivere felici...'
he said...
not said
but wished
not wished
he prayed...
probably he prayed...
for the violet
the red...
for the sky...
the blue...
for the leaves...
the green...
for each and every element...
living and non living
that surround him
days...nights...
evenings...

he chose mornings
to pray...

and he saw
a perfect reply
coming in...
pouring in...
in terms of the Signs...
in terms of marble balls...
in terms of ice so cool...
in wind...
in light...
in alleys and roads...
in big green nine hole golf course...
in inglorious french clips of celluloid...
in glorious and holy dips in water...
in long walks...

and
he felt
there is no other more beautiful thing to utter...
to send out the heart
than muttering a prayer...

'grazie...
vivere felici...'

the legend of golden moon and...the longest ride...

legend has it
once a king
covered by dust of gold
his all properties sold
for others...
he just sold...
at the streets of El Dorado
his soul...
for the poor...
for the destitute...
for the orphan...
for the dumb and the mute...

and then perhaps
a golden moon like this appeared
round and bold
blessed by Him
the Lord...

just like this
when he peered out of his visor-
he-a death penalty charged Ceaser...
and Brutus was he...
perhaps...

but he was so ready...
for all possible outcome
for he had found Him... the calm...
and also His golden gate...
where golden flag fluttered sans rest...
and Peace sang her most beautiful song...
where mind only for a long ride longed...
the longest possible journey...
from sticks and batons to sanity...
from hurls and brickbats to pride...
he was fully prepared for that golden ride...

and the golden moon
she shone with her succulent cause...
over the buildings and trees she paused
and watched the ascent...
an El Dorado kind...

finding the key...

'i got the key!
i got the key!'
the little kid ran
and shouted...
His son...
him he brought to this world...
now he got the key of his bicycle red...
he lost it...
in a heap...
he found it
this afternoon...
and how pleased he seemed...
as if the key was the only thing
for which he prayed
to Him...
and the Supreme...
gave him that...
quite sudden
like a joy...

and he laughed
and giggled
as if he found in the world
his only toy...

the key
to his bicycle...

'i should have been a monk...
why am i here?
these cries...shouts...curse laden... stratosphere?'
he asked himself...
and
He told him
(He was always by his side...
He hears his voice...unuttered words)
'that is the best...
going to mountains
is not a course...
stay here and fight...
here you alloy burn right
to be a steel...
a perfect thing...'

'L'amore e un viaggio...'

'L'amore e un viaggio...'
(Love is a journey...)
He muttered...
Francesco...
Looking at the birds...

'non una destinazione...'
(not a destination...)
Isabella perhaps added...

and the two...
they just sat...

silent
but talks continued...
silently...

the gift...of a rest...after twenty three miles...

After travelling twenty three miles and half
his lungs needed a puff
and he thought
'why not? lets stop
for a while...
a half and twenty three miles...
after one needs to take rest...
a bit...on a wooden bench...
beside a park...
the sky opening to light from the dark...
the whistleblower on his way...
the light has endowed the day
already with Faith...'
He thought looking at the opening of the gate
of the church...
He thought after twenty three miles or so
having searched
he should sit for a while...

the wooden bench by the park
had moist dewy feel of the March
Though it had been April...
and soon the May would begin...
but the wooden bench...
had a dewy feel...

So he sat...
putting to rest all...
the engine...
the silencer still hot...
the dripping and cooling sound of the thing...
like a moving mild ticking of a clock...
on the bench by the park he docked
his ship after a voyage as if...
much like Ullysses...
tired,needing a rest
and always willing to go out again for the best...

and like a contemplative sage...
the Sun peeped...
out of the dark...from behind the hills
of clouds...
the Sun peeped...

the Man and i...

'practise looking up to the sky...'
the Man with golden beard
told me once...
His Moses like eyes
sparkled with hope...
'practise delving into the depth
of ocean...'
the Man with golden gait
told me once...

'why?'
asked the fool...i...
and He...
just smiled
and looked up...
i...
the fool...
looked up
to see the bluish sky
and saw an eagle...
soaring high...
and the blue
was so wide...

then He
the Moses bearded Man
took me to the white sand
laden beach...
the ocean...
also blue but deep
He signalled me
to walk...
into it...

i...the fool...walked
and drowned...
the initial asphyxiated me
later...survived death
and much later found...
Diamonds...
Pearls...

i the fool...
died...
at the discovery...
i
just
died...

'Life is wonderful...'

'Having worked all my life
on life...
how it bloomed
against all adversities...
feel...
life is just beautiful...'
Francesco said...
choked up voice...

and Isabella ?
she said nothing...
she just allowed
Francesco
to jabber...
and she knew
when he would mutter
things might change...
so she just allowed...

Francesco was thinking...
his eyes blinking...
his fingers in the air
like a pianist rolled...
no reeds however...

'think...
Life...
blooming in deserts...
arid...sandy...
never measured...
by any scientist...

Think...
life...
how it bloomed
in arsenic...
adaptability of a pure Godly kind...
Only God can transmute
Adversities...
to Favours...

Think...
Washington...
Life is wonderful...'

Francesco stopped...
not stopped...
his ruminations went silent...
paused...

and

Isabella?

well...
she had tears...
those round glassy beads...

paradiso sulla terra...(paradise on earth)

'Paradiso sulla terra...'
whispered she..
his Isabella...

they were by the sea
and the breeze was blowing cool...
the blue vast and the clouds
hovering across
might have made
her to say
those words...soft...

'Paradiso sulla terra...'
he repeated
in his own diction
a curious one...
an affirmation...
of his faith on love...
on the ocean...
the clouds...
the clouds on motion...
on Abramo...
and his piccolo...
on violin played all solo...
on the statue of Dante
at the piazza...
on occhio della mente...
on paintings done by Amadore...
on the alleys not woken up...
on Napoli Metro running non stop...
on the flower woman carrying basket of blossoms...
on his satiated soul...
and His Last Supper bowl...

And...

'paradiso sulla terra...'

the place became so...

a time for living...

Brothers' four...
they sang in chorus
the green leaves of summer...

and
summer came with the cool
yes... with green leaves
and a soothing feel came...
a soothing feel...a solemn one...
a place for to die...

a time for living
and a space for to die...

He sent ... the rains...

Finally ....
the rains...

He told me...

He was curious...
about him...
so He sent rains...

Rains...
would it alter him?
a recourse?
or...
would he be on the path...

'let's put him the idiot to a trial...
a test...'
He joked.

And he got prepared...
the rains...
it came
heavy...
but worked wonders...
upon him...

he just looked at the fall
and felt only cool
was needed...
the cool ...
and nothing else...
the cool...
simple...
joyous...
profound...

not quitting the early morn...

'I can quit my day job any day
but can't quit my early morning one...'
he thought
as he stopped at the site...
saplings being planted in perfect rows and lines
and columns being raised
one by one...

'Celebrate life'
Said the architect
and he thought
he was going absolutely by his dictates...

the birth of trees...
from birch to peach
and those round shaped leafy ones
light green and the pond with swans...
he gets the godly chance
to see them all arrive
because of his early morning job
of a man celebrating life...
and he is a scribe
too...

'what a wonder...
to be
an architect...a scribe
and also a celebrator
of life...
and I can quit my day job
but how can I
cease to be a scribe?
for that will turn everything so meaningless...
for that will make shabby the white dress
and...
i would then lose the simple faces of people...
people who talk their heart out
bringing their best out...
people...so varied and good
no doubt...'

only this morn
when he was again all alone
to devote his mind to work
and soul to God
and a bit of contemplation
he had struck a conversation
with a man
an early riser like him
for his morning job...

the man...
he had looked at him
and he smiled and asked him
to 'go slow...'

'take me for example...'
the man like a revelation
by God started...

'i am into it since i had been
a boy...
young
with dreams since then i toyed...
my father brought me here...
and see...
i am old now
but i have so far made it fair...
can't move fast...
but there's no need to...
i think by going slow
one gets dreams too...'

he had smiled
hearing the old man wise...
saying these to him
today at early morning...

an allegory of a good samaritan...

met an old man in the market
by the shop..on a stool ...sitting...
I stopped... there
had to buy things...
and...
He the old man...stray white beard...
a pair of spectacles hanging from nose...
smiled ...
and asked
'what do you want kid?'

'do i look like a kid?'
i thought within
and gleamed
and with a happy face replied
'bottles of water...available?'

'Sure...'
the old man
(was he that cobbler Jesus met?)
said and went right in
and came with a big bottle...
a real big one...
cold water...

I drank...
and
paid up him...

He the old man this time smiled back...
'Where do you live?'
Was his next question...

'Nearby...'
me answered...

'but you travel...
far ...
you travel...
i know...'

the old man affirmed.

i stopped short of getting into the closed air conditioned thing.

i just stopped.

for a moment i thought
the old man looked like the cobbler...
that cobbler who became God!

trance...she came in her perfect dress...

the lights dimmed
the soft padding was on
and a trance took her perfect footsteps
to walk on his heart...
his tired yet restive heart...

he heard the hum
a slow hum
as if he was under hallucinogen
but the lights still played
here and there
slipping and catching his buttons...
silver knobs... catching the liquid mind
and flowing evening...

trance came with her best dress
a long needling feel
all over his arms...
his legs...
his every part of biology...
and
he left his body
half awake...
and took a walk...
away from the dimming hall...
his mind went outside...
though his body stayed
on the couch...
he walked
and bare feet
stood he on the soft cool grass...
the sensation of another calm
gradually started climbing up
from toes...feet through the legs...
chest...
till it reached his tiny tired head...
a headlessness...
no brain...
no reason...
nothing...
only a mind
so blessed...

trance
she came in her perfect dress...

the Signs...

talking to people
unnerves him...

but talking to God?
O he loves it so much!
and God
when responds
he knows he is filled with joy...

He
Never resorts to usual talks
like what is the market share of digitised alarm clocks...
or what is the repo rate of currency...

He
talks in terms of Signs...

Signs
falling sudden
so clean
and
so clear
only to him...
and that is the most interesting part...

God
just leaves Signs...
very common yet
he knows there were left for him
only...
much like ,say,
a route map left
at a very common place
for a hidden treasure...
A Gift...

And the moment he sees it...
he knows He had been there...

He had been just there
Smiling...
ever joyous...
so plentiful...

He just like a child plays with him
making him never a fool...
He leaves...
His Signs...
in simple things...
like an appearance of an aura...
a star...
so sudden...
and the next moment
something so desired just happens...

oneday He left him a movie clip...
another day He into his eyes closed peeped
and showed him a vision...
a bird on flight...

He
just leaves Signs for only his sight...

the sacrament...

'well...we have changed the engine oil...
cleaned the spark plug...changed the oil seal foil...'
the service station man in charge
of the vehicle with a pro attitude
jabbered out what were being done...
to the vehicle...
looking clean and quite elegant...

He looked at the shiny chassis
and knew all these works
were part of a sacramental service
to his being...
he knew before going out
one needed to be really clean...

taking the red square cotton piece
he dabbed it into a can of grease
and touched and smoothened
every part bolted and hinged...

he knew all these were part of
a sacrament...
soon he would be out to attend the big mad world
so far calm and with no disquiet...

and he patted soft
the visor upon which a leaf yellowish managed to drop
from no where... blown by the morning breeze...
a blessing?
he did not know...

and the machine roared
and soon he was gliding...
the sights and visions
started pouring in...

an empty traffic stand
'survey ahead..go slow'
printed in bold letters first did land...
then children in different uniforms to schools
with satchels...water bottles...
like tiny soldiers out...
a group of middleaged men
having 'elachi tea' sitting lazily on a bench...
a speeding public bus...
a garden of flowers
with boards
like 'don't tread on the grass',
an empty petrol station-
one of four dispensers 'out of order' and closed,
a mini van from a bakery unloading buns and breads and crumbs...
an yeasty smell reminding him childhood days some
like going to the market with dad...
a big billboard announcing the 'real mean and bad'
arriving to the town in form of a health drink...
two orange distinct round lights on blink...

The sacrament...
he knew all these were just part of,
from the start to the finish it was just that...
and he knew it...

a letter to Him...

Dear Lord
thought to write you a letter long
but you know it all...
where I rose
and
how I did fall...

Now that you rest
your palm on my breast...
want to play ...
Your confidante!
No...
there's no pride in it...
only give me a humble treat...
give me and all just a space
to put all worries to perfect rest...
and
provide us with whitest dress...

[this is written in response to an article published today in The Statesman by Uddipana Goswami called 'why I married a wife beater?'
Those who are interested can go through the news. Here's the link:
http://m.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.thestatesman.net%2Findex.php%3Foption%3Dcom_content%26view%3Darticle%26id%3D452889%26catid%3D44&h=DAQFHSi5f&s=1 ]

On Francis Quimet...

He was his father's last hope
he was his father's last chance
to deliver a 72 amidst rain
so he looked at nothing but trained
his eyes only on the greenish soggy plain
and the hazards...
he was not worried about his part...

he was not in the course to beat
anyone... only compatriots he did meet
but all he had to do was to overcome
his father's laboured eyes and his tired mom...

And then there was Harry
his first teacher...idol...who with the club him married...
the club...the brassie...
he looked at his eyes...
on verge of a defeat but proud
Harry was his first teacher and idol no doubt...

And the rain was cruelly hard
and he had always played against the mud...
he remembered in his child form
when his father...a labourer...ploughed and sweated on
and his mother would sew old clothes...
he had his eyes...
on Harry...
and Harry Vardon
alone...
the stylist...
the greatest brit golfer...

and this Harry stood opposite
and across the busy street
the Quimet cottage had surely his mom
she might be feverishly tensed and dumbed...

and he took his stance
his club his only chance...
to refurbish his dad with a hope...
he took the air and landed his amateurish stroke...
and the 17th looked a long;really long ride
for the ball to travel calm and fine
but it had already followed the course
it went through all till it dropped into the hole...

'amateurs never win an open!'
that shout stopped all of a sudden
and hats and flowers flew
just flew in the air...
Francis Quimet made it to the heavenly lair...

Harry also there stood
his teacher...the idol...
he with happy tears stood
and clapped at the rise of a star...

helpless to hope...

'Helpless...'
She said...
'I am so helpless...'

'Helpless? you said? just?
me too!
Helplessness is such a sticky glue...
but then ...
there is the Sign
the God cross
on your shoulder
and on mine...

God cross...
The Sign...
and it also favours all...
those who are gutsy to stand really tall
to fight against all odds
not by sharp tools like swords
but like Mr.Deeds...
who just goes by seeds
of deep and profound leads...

and the helplessness turns into hopes
and The Sign
of God Cross-
it acts like dopes...
and
generations stand...
finally a generation stands...'

He muttered...
and looked up...

the sky had sunny beams...soft...

got wings to fly?

'got wings to fly?'
whistled the sky
too early...
a bit too early
the city in sleep then sighed
and me caught the road...

'got wings to reach up?'
asked the gps map
too early...
a bit too early
the city in sleep then sighed
and me caught the road...

midtown sleep...

'Open your eyes...
open up...'
the feminine voice non stop
from the digital alarm
with blue and silver top
kept saying in a sing-song manner...

initially it looked a morn
a cloudy desolate kind
but as senses got reorganised
he found himself in a room
with big glass windows
through which a golden aura showed
and lit up every single inch...
he thought he was at a sandy beach...

the trees common looked uncommonly new
as if they were eucalyptus few
planted by some genie sudden
he found himself sand laden
and the sky was so monsoon like
felt it had rained somewhere the day and the night...

'open your eyes...
open up...'
he thought he heard not so distant lapping up
of waves breaking into foams white
he thought he saw a rising tide...
glistening boulders...mica shine
he thought he saw tables laid for some people to dine...
at the beach...sandy windy cloudy one
and umbrellas having pictures of white swans...
on blue canvas painted good
he thought he for years by that scene stood...

finally the bustle came in
a bathos with the real thrill...
he was asleep in a car
and the stereo blared
a jingle loud...
and the jam just looked like a filthy crowd...
and those electronic boards glowed red and green
causing him to have a grin
to his own self so much lost
he then a paper slip tossed
out of the window for the city...
those noisy lousy hurly burly things-
he just pitied...

sleepy...

Have you noted the cool...
the air...the mellowed sky
few birds flying really high...
and the soft road...windy...
no heat ...no shouts crazy...
no frantic desperado...
a long and wide dreamy shadow...
a lazy man singing a song...
stretching notes suiting the long
and spread balmy feel...
have you seen how the afternoon
brings an indolent restive boon
all over the available space?
how a child sleeps and drools ?
how his head on a cushion back seat just rests?
how the sleep only brings peacefulness?
and supreme innocence?

father mackenzie...

Seen him walking in white dress
dirt in his hands bare...
seen him standing by the ocean
looking at the vast beauty...
seen him doing just his duty...
seen him embracing the cold
bite of the wind
seen him before his Lord fully bent...

he sought just forgivenness
and wrote sermons
that no one would hear...
seen Father Mackenzie
walking in white dress
with dirt in his hands bare...

purple dream maiden...

This morn seen her
my purple dream maiden fair
a violet purple magnificence
her overpowering luminance...

the sun which rose just then
fell upon her woken face
and her purple violet dress
had glitter of a royal lineage...

the city was still then vacant
only the sun had his hopes lent
over the macadam... road and tar
a milkvan crossed the speed bar...

seen my purple dream maiden
at a park by a simple lane...

made a friendship with the sky...

made a friendship with the sky tonight
made a friendship just
those stars...galactic kind...
supernova...
made a friendship with them all...

through the cool ether as the night did fall...
heard from them their stories
and their own allegories
of bluish marbles kept in glass jars...

struck a friendship with those twinkling things
dots faraway yet coming down did bring
tales and fables and parables...
how once a starlet
broke off from her path
how a rising sun collapsed tired at the gate
of a milky way...
how in blank verse Miltonic equilibrium stayed
hanging precarious...
a galactic sky so various...

made a friendship with the sky
so vast...so unimaginably wide...
as if she got no ends...
ever lasting and expanding sense...

and i got widened too...
i stretched every limit
of impossible possibilities...
tired and yet i got a broadened view...

made a friendship with the sky
and caught a jet to away fly...

a flight...

took
off me
above...
i thought
the tachometer read
one twenty...
took me off
above...
i dreamt...
the purring fan blade...
led to a trance...
momentary
though
but a trance...
above...
someone's shout...
someone's oblique curse...
but still managed
to have a flight
clipped wings have i not...
hidden wings are they...
i dreamt and unfurled them...
purring fan blade...
tired body
but took me off
i thought...
and the tachometer yellowish red
one twenty it surely read...

took
off
me
i dreamt...

the soil...
the fading buildings...
water heavy blackish cloud...
sultry weather opposition...
somehow managed a cockpit position...

and took off...
me...
soulwise...

growing up...on the road...

every day i grow up
on the road i stop
and asphalt blue tempts me
more to run at full throttle speed...

every day i grow up
on the road i live up
to dreams longish side
every day the road i ride...

unclutched...unleashed
with the air i converse a tease
and the trees when they wave
i know i have been true and brave...

every day i grow up
tears, laughter and wails fill the cups
and on the road i spend 'em all
on the road i rise and fall...

unclutched soul...unhindered run
on the road i meet the sun
a yellow round glowing thing
the road so often exploration brings...

on the road i sleep and wake up
on the road i just grow up...

tears and attainment...

some cries
and tears
cleanse...
they just purge one...

those drops
that fall from eyes
carry salt
but sweetness too
for tears are made out of blood...

those drops
that come out impromptu
carry oceanic depth...
salty might be
but after tears also come sleep...
a sleep to catch up
with Him...

to be blessed by Him too
tears are made by Him...
His dictates...
His wishes...
His way of reconciling to mortals
with the purest state...

some tears
are so cathartic...
a needed level
attained
after a lot of pains
and attained still
no doubt...
An attainment.

turning good... after squall...

after the squall
the ride seemed good
really good...
cool
transient
perfect
in every sense
to stop
and admire
the beauty
of a day...
peace...
i wanted all the best
and peace descends
graded
as soon as i flee
from the melee
and take a time out to breathe
free
from all cares tussles conflicts and hassles...

under the open sky
soft cool breezy
aha...
i re-live...
re- cast...
re-painted...

is it what feels to be a holy man?
i am no holy...
i am so full of regrets...
does a holy man have such
regrets!

but
this sky
and a beauty of a day
post squall cool
i turn good...
i just turn good...

a bubble...He and he and ...

for him
a bubble around
is a world...
that is his
destiny...
its a bubble
nothing else...
a spectrum...
of hope...
beauty
and truth...

and music...

and a vision perhaps...

and He...

a bubble...

though

and it gets pricked

severely...

and he dies

and wakes up

and finds He...

again rebuilding the bubble

for him...

for several others perhaps...

krishnachura red...

to find you there
at my door
is a surprise...
red petals
and dots of yellow
and white
last night
you might have arrived
but me was then
in another kingdom
with Aristotle
and Poseidon...
twelve Olympian deities...
but you
illuminati
like came perhaps
red
fresh
and so nostalgic...

finding you at my door
is a big surprise...

torn...
from a tree...
you prized
blossom
of my
pristine sense...
of those cradle days...
and innocence...

and I am not Dan Brown
but you illuminati
came...
with myths...

a morning...wet and sweet...

like this cold
wet drizzling morn...
cuckoo's songs are intermittent
and the sky is though dark...
but this cold wind
against it jacket collar flapped
and the streets are lovely
as good as any other street
of the town...
an onset of monsoon...
a southern tune...
a thatched roof
and drops of water dripping
from someone's gate
and railings...
and here and there fallen twigs
and small branches of trees...
and leaves...
and flowers
wet and soft
last night-
the rain them on purpose perhaps dropped...
on the streets...
on lids of eyes...
on pages of heart...
and also at the spot
where the road diverts...
and occasional thunder
of clouds...

like this cold wet morn-
a sensation
a road pretty slim and long...
and the jog...
jacket collar against the wind flapped...
and grass on my feet
cold and yet so sweet...

ah...this rain...

Ah...
this rain...
she comes to soothe me
cool me...
wash me off all the pains...
and
i think
she has worn a greenish algae
upon her
this evening...
and she has jasmine
all over her...
aroma...
she just arrives
with a scent of her...

Ah...
this rain...
she soothes me
by her cool temperate feel...

a potboiler
she the serene seals...

Fearless ...

You made me so fearless
a Lear probably
white bearded
and a garment
blown by dust and wind
standing against a storm...

God You made me so
I can kiss my worst enemy
and seek blessings even...
(for the sense of enmity is gone...
who is enemy?
we all are forlorn...
lone ones of Him
and once dropped
fallen from sky
we all miss that silvery beam...)

God You made me so...
when earlier the lightning crashed
I used clutch like a child
the end of a straw
or ran for a cover...

God now how You make me stand
Against all possibility
the devil's curse...

and I find love
only love everywhere...
a grain of food...
a little minute one...
I feel so elated by that
upon being given...

And feel so humbled
that I can only mumble
my faith
upon you
O the Fearless...

'i just love this place...'

'I just love this place...'
he thought once again
of his age...
some three decades
and half
several times he had confessed
this...

and soon
like earlier occasions
he once again
thought of old days...
'here had been a playground
and three or four big trees
of exotic variety...
and
one particular year
when it had rained uncommonly
the most...'
he remembered...
'the ground
got fully under water...
and we then had football here...
the leather ball floating on water...
and...
a few paces besides
during autumn there used to be an exercise...
Annual Sports Day...
and then so many things happened
here...
right here...
once fell from a tree
and broke ankle...
and on this ground
there had been kite-flying competition...
kites...varied...
flew...
dotting our childhood sky
with candles...'

he thought...
once again
parking himself
at the fringe
of what was left
of the memory...

Splendour...

Got startled and stopped
The drizzle on hair mopped
A cool sensation
And the breeze told me
The world is so far good...
And I stood
An imbecile man
And the glorious Sun...
He sank
Before me
Hiding behind the canopy
Of trees and semi urban builds...
The lightning far away sealed
A tryst with the scene...
Unravelling before me
A sublime feel...
A splendour
Soothing
And yet so binding...

Faith...

There are times
When faith gets reaffirmed
Subtly...

Like
Seeing a child tired
Being given a fan
By his mother...

Like
Seeing a beggar given
Alms plentiful
And the giver
Staying conspicuous
By absence...

Like
Seeing a stranger
Stopping by a destitute
And helping the person
With shelter or food...

Faith
Gets reaffirmed
Strongly...

As strongly as His
Supreme providence...
Buttressing only faith...
And nothing else...

Can you help me?

'she calls out to the man on the street
Sir...can you help me?'

Phil sang
To me
Only
As the walk I took
Down the street
Of the town
Blisters on my feet
And sure
Blisters on the scape
Of the town...

But felt
As Phil in my heart dwelt
There's always an inexpressible
Happiness
In giving away...
All...
The robes...
The shoes...
The whitest lace...
In giving away
There's always a hope
And even the rolling down the slope
Causes no hurt...
No pains...
Its always a pleasure
To attain self effacing grace...

And Phil sang to me...
'she calls out to the man on the street
Sir,can you help me?'

Mother, me and poila baishakh...

I had my poila baishakh the best
When mother mine had been dressed
In her red and white saree
And when she had
A copper bowl kind
To hold all spring flowers white
From our garden...
A paradise...

I had then always a new beginning...
New ways of interpreting
Life...
And mother mine
Requesting me
To accompany her to the nearby temple
At the riverside...

I usually cycled all the way
From our house
To the temple gate...
Her copper bowl of flowers
Hanging from the handlebar
Of my red racing bike...
Sometimes I would pedal a bit fast
And she would fall behind
And I would wait at a corner
Of street not to be seen by her...
For her beautiful call:
'Son...where are you?'
I would just pedal faster back
To her with a laugh...
Kidding with her...
And she would smile back too
And would politely ask me to
Be by her side...
For the rest of the journey
To the temple
By the riverside...
So white...

I usually complied to
Her polite
Snubs...
I still do that
When she visits me
In my dreams...
Snubbing me
She so politely...

'am I not allowed?'

She once came and stopped
And her soft eyes she just dropped
And in a hushed tone
Sought
Permission...
To mutter a few words...
Like
'am I not allowed? Here?'

He heard those words
Soft
Demurred
And he tried to tell
Her something...
But
The whistle blew...
And the guns fired shots in the air perhaps...
So time elapsed...

But
He left a small note
Words that stuck into his throat...
'you may...
As you think...
And may not...
If the passageway is too full of crowd...'

Saturnalia of faith? Nay!

'so you have...
What?
An excess of faith?'
She said...

'saturnalia?'
He asked...
Not asked
For there was nothing to be asked...
And then murmured:

'yes...
And no...
Perceptions differ
So what is yes to one
Is a no
To another...

I do not have any Saturnalia
Of faith
But definite
I do have a path
To choose...
And look
How I just cruise...
Through the gales and storms...
Violence at Sierra Leone...
Carnage...
Blood...
I think I still feel also the flood
Of passion strong...
The trembling of nosetril
The flushed cheeks
The high heels...

But transcendence
It also stays a few more hours
I guess...
A few more hours than its usual stay...
Transcendence...
It once led Louisa May
To go to seek abolitionism...
I think I do prefer the same...

An abolition...
Of violence...
Carnage...
Massacre of hearts...
An abolition
Of disarrayed universe...
A chaos...a ruin...
An abolition of all such things...
And One and Only Peace...
A restive meditative mind
And pure lavish uncorked bliss...'

How you left me shrunk...

Look
How you left me shrunk
And scared...
I lost my courage
I am so bare...
Look
How you left me wound up
Scrolls of angst I just soak up...
Look
How I have turned me a stone
Can't even open eyes to where glittery grass shone
With drops of dew...

A shopping center and the halo...

I was at a shopping center
Basically buying something for my mentor-
My dad...
And also a white racing tee
For the kid...
Afterall the new year for us...the bengali
Is at the door...
Gifts galore
Arrive at this point of time
To every fortunate household here...

And then someone yelled
'Hey! There's a strange halo outside!'

I went out...
And saw the curious circle
A miracle!

Around the Sun
The thin rainbow kind
Appeared quite visibly bright...

I just looked and looked
'What a wonderous way He took...
To put us all mortals so out of place...'
Me thought...
And forgot temporarily why
On the street under the heat was I...
The shopping center and those big buys
I forgot all about them
And felt so beautiful inside...
That...
I actually thought to fly
Away from the crowd
to get nearer to that circle no doubt...

Can't you see...how He comes to comfort me?

Can't you see
The more you serve me
With stings
The more I just seek He?
And interestingly
When He responds
Everytime I go to Him...
He just comes
And places His benign soft palms
On my heart...my turbulent soul
And you never know
How He comforts me!

He...
The Jesus...
He...
The Buddha...
He...
The Mahavir...
He...
The omnipotent one

He just comes
And washes me
With His ambrosia...
His tune...
His halo of a light
He unburdens me
And fills me
With all delight...

Can't you see
You how indirectly
Only bring me
To He?

The drizzle of the morn...

This morn
The drizzle icy cold
When shot against my face
And arms and legs and handrest
I was at once to those days...
My pristine childhood
And also of the same of my mates...

Incidentally
This morn
The road I took matched
To this feeling
This road...
That often in the glorious past
Led all of us
To playgrounds...
And courts where basket ball hooped
And those trees...
The violet,the yellow and the red-
They bloomed in our springs
Of the past and
They still do the same!

This morn
The icy cold raindrops
On my skin
Fell exactly the same
Just like in our childhood of Eden
We shouting at each other
A game played a side seven...
And after that
When the rain took the shape
Of torrent...
Those krishnachura radhachura
Petals-
They used to fall on us
As if from Heaven...
As we played a side seven...

This morn
The drizzle and the breeze
Brought all these...
The red yellow violet
Blossoms flying to kiss
Me and my horse...
Only...
Those little friends....
They were missing...

On the eve of another day..comes the night

A long tiring day see
How comes to an end
A perfect red black sky
A breeze with rainy sighs
And a festive bubbly form on streets...
A new year for some people to meet...

See how a day comes to a climax
A sleepy road stuck and still sluggishly on move at toll tax
Plaza open for the next life
See how the city takes a slow dive
Into a pool cold and soothingly calm
A new dawn will tomorrow come...
With what events non events who knows...
The kings will walk still with his minnows...
And farmers will still plant seeds
And the parks will be filled by shouts of colorful kids...

On the eve of another day here comes the night
To put a rest to all flimsy causes for fights
On the eve of another day a soldier me
sleep heavy on benumbed eyelids only can see...

O my sleeping child...

O my sleeping child
Coming home aren't you?
From school satchel heavy and roughened shoe?
Got a scold from the teacher?
Got grades below average in algebra?

Hardly matters kid!
You sleep and just have the dream
Of white horse running fast
Through a green meadow till the congested traffic lasts...

O my sleeping child
I am no band member
Of the famous MLTR
But I know you got dreams sure
To play with wolves and bear...

Seeing Him!

Met Him there
The white car stopped where
At the gate of the church
He was  there methought...
Or was He a vision?
But ...saw I Him in slow motion
Waving and beckoning me
His golden hair I did see!
He had  wooden pole...in His hand
And from His eyes drops of diamond
Fell incessent like a flow
He His magnificence did me show...

At that century old gate of a church
Him I did find after a frantic search!
His arms were milky white
And His feet bare looked a splendid sight
Dusty but so pure and white
O I saw him like a melodious sight!
With ethereal tune flooding my ears
O I saw His diamond tears!

The road...and the wise...

'why you love so much the road?'
She asked me
Seeing me gearing up
For a journey two days' non stop...
'don't you get tired?  Off roading all these years?'
Were her next two queries...
As if she was my interviewer
King Larry's...

'hmmm...'
I started
To explain things...
'look...
The roads are so symbolic
They take one to fun and frolic
And also to deepest regrets
Roads are part of human fate...
But I guess being a traveller
I need to tread across both the valleys and deserts far...
And the road...
The road can only take one
To the unknown and the unseen...
The road-
It is like an experience...
The more one travels
The more one gets wise
And life is just not measured pennywise!
So...
I take the road
As Frost opined once
Specially that road
Less travelled by...
I am not sure
Whether that will make difference any
But I am sure not to be bound by copper and silver too many...
The road...
It serves me with all
The honey,the bitter and the malt
And crispy and softy and the salt...
The road...
Is the only way I know
To bear all the happenings and also
To tear slavery all...
The road
Is a way towards love too
Getting completely merged with the ocean...the blue...'

The morning stopover...

The sky was then still dark
With a paint...a dab of red
On the eastern part
And we made a stop
Just we two
Me and my darling in blue...

The breeze was then still cool
And saw crows and pigeons few
Dancing and hopping...
And we made a stop
Just we two
Me and my darling blue...

The importance of being a motorcyclist!

Man!
I just love this machine!
Blue
Like a deep oceanic one
And mean...
Bulgy front
And good torque...
Kerb weight fits me too!

But there his thrill doesn't end
For he is fast...
Ready to respond...quick
And scuttling across the crowd thick...

And sometimes he is so slow...
A romantic one...
Purring very low
As if he is scanning ports and maps
To which harbour he could stand...
Under which tree there's the longest shade...
Where he could take ascetic a roadie
Like me...

He takes
Me to country side
Pebble red dusty road
A slippery jaggery feel...
And then once he slipped in mud...
But stuck not...
He...
My lovable beast
A horse of steel...

When the wind blows his sides
He just let me know how it takes one the bravest to ride
Through roughest patches...
He...
My lovable beast...
A horse of steel...

And then
Sometimes he stops to let
A small kitten pass
Smiling...

the listener and the God...

'well...'
After listening to with all intent
The bass and the treble
Specially the bass which lowered and sharpened
To form a faraway feel
As if lifting away someone from the mortal world...
'this one is my music...'
He muttered
Still trying to grasp
The rhythm
That fell from the high to the low
From the low to form a stream like flow
running haply in its own motion...
a strange curious revelation
as if there should not be any cares
and there was actually nothing such...
a profound leap
a platinum height
a soul reaching the superhuman delight...

'who wrote its tune? pray?'
he asked...
and then someone did say
'God...'
'God?'
the listener...
was dismayed
and then he closed his eyes
and felt the tune in his soul
and he just stayed that way...
for some seconds
or it might be minutes
or hours...
and then
he nodded
'surely...'

The storm needful...

Last evening
A storm took place
It raged
With thunder
Sending shiver...
But this morn
When I look up and see
Find only calm and cool
Moderation...

The streets looked fresh
As if they are swept
By municipal workers...
The garden grass look watered...
The soil seems soft and yielding...
And the breeze has kindness
As if the storm was needed
To make everything so good...

The storm last night
Took away all melancholy and thorns and pricks
And only brought out the core...
The best one...the pure...

The storm last night
Brought a renaissance in me...
A renaissance of sorts-
A painter's dream
A writer's hopes
A sculptor's feel
An explorer's heart...

The storm last night
Did the needful thing...

On tiredness...

You come with the softness of deep
A mortal collapsing sleep
But that chemical lab inside
The cranium fights
Against all...
Exhaustion gets a full score defeat
For work...
Works...
Multitasking brain just needs the works
And it gets supplied too!
With many...
One too many...
And tiredness
She just waits
With her divine slumbery idea
To put everything into rest...
A complete rest...
A perfect wakefulness!

The creeper over the garage shed

That thin creeper like
Flowery tree
Which I planted by my own hands years ago three
Saw this morn finally
Got blossoms...

Over the shade of the garage
Where she had been lying all these years
Finally broke out into smile
Of being a meek fragile kind
But she got blossoms all right...

Looked at her tired
Sleepy way
Of climbing up all the way
Holding on to layers of bricks
And slabs of concrete...
She had been doing it for these years
And spent sleepy under wails and tears
And the lashing storm and the turbulence...
She
finally becomes a flowery tree
With blossoms hanging from her bough
Trembling in the breeze...
Lucid...
Joyous...
Festive...

Over the garage shed...

The happy self...

'Why there is nothing like grief
In you?
Why are you always happy?
How?'

Asked her
Nature
The mother...

And she said:
'For I am part of Him
By Him I am made
And by Him I die...'

I just sat
And
Felt she might be right...

'but then why all these?
Why can't I be like you?'

I tried to know
For knowledge only sows
Seeds of generation...
And so hungry was I
For more...
More of light
Without any proclamation...
Without any goal really...
I was just hungry;
(And when the hunger is overt
It surely comes out...
Through poems and prose
Through words...
Through silence...even...
That who can deny?)

She
The mother...
Said nothing...
She just
Spread before my eyes shooting light
And on my skin
She played the breeze
And in my ears
Came rumbling stream
And roars of clouds
And...
For a moment thought
'Who am I?'

The sky and the inception...

'After nine weeks or ten days
Or six decades...
I am not sure how  long and grinding the suffering was
Finally it is good
To be liberated...
From the inception of a kind
That the real with the unreal did bind
In such a horrendous malignant manner
That lost my self into that...'

He told oneday to his sky
The blue one where only birds free
Dared to fly
With outstretched wings...

The sky heard the statement with  wise experienced eyes
Feeling certain about things...
And haltingly replied:
'but boy you needed that
All things are good if you take lesson...
And forget the inception
Which had been false
And if you deem the future is right
Make it only bright...'

I looked up at the expanse of the blue...
Wide...
Seals and eagles where only dare to fly...
And...
The essence of experience in mind
Appeared so true and divine...

Under ghost protocol...

'now you are under ghost protocol
That's the President's call...'
The secretary stated
And cast a sweeping glance...
Outside the light from towers danced
And the car ran really fast...

He knew that could be the last
Mission of sorts
For him...
'but needed a team
Of four
One analyst...
One operator...
One stinger...'
He declared
Thinking seriously;

'and the bee?'
The secretary patted his coat
And underneath the seat
He showed the box
Silver...
Coded chips levered;

'that would be you...'

Saying this he
The secretary
Placed the map...
And then the car stopped
And the op
Started...

He getting down
From the car
Took the alley to the town...

The evening was definite
And with all parameters designed
For the mission...

He walked
Through the alley
The rundown houses...wareshops
A crowd of people...a melee...

He walked...
His mind had nothing in it
Only the mission
And that particular street
Where he could find the code
And so he strode...
Alone
But sure...
Like a ghost
Almost...

Builder of an ark...

Oneday God
Asked him to build the ark
For there would be a flood...

That year had been the driest one though
And everyone barring him was sure
It was just a great joke...
But he carried doing his work
Defying everything...the metero-logical...
And this idea was so much into him
He forgot to trim
His beard which grew
Like dark brown carpet
And his hair got really long...
From a distance he appeared a workman strong
Slogging on planks of wood...

With the work his hands grew tough
His skin got a bit rough
And people were amazed to see
A big ark being built by him faraway from the sea...

But the flood did not come
Wayward vagrant lot
Used to stand before the ark
And look at its magnitude
And he, the builder stood
Always on the deck
Searching for a speck
Of dark cloud...

Days passed
Heat lashed
Like a whipping thing
And people talked about the futility
Of such a gigantic work...

But the man
A faithful servant of God
'soon there will be a flood'
He thought...
Being a faithful one...

Then the authorities of the land
Oneday turned
And passed the order
Of dismantling the ark...
They came with saws and
They were about to hack
The whole wooden work to a garbage stack...

Then...
Somewhere there was a strong sound
Of water forcing breaking the dam...
And
The people, the townfolk
Turned their heads and looked
At the huge mountain shaped column of water
Breaking open the dam
Rushing down...

They all ran helter skelter
And the great inundation happened...
The ark and the man got floated...
The ark
Got floated...

Icy dream in the midst of grinding heat...

It didn't rain
Who could guess a rain in mid of april?
It was scorching...
Dry...
As dry as a dried withered thing...
And terribly troubling...

But then thought of ice. 

Ice...
White. 
Ice
Cold.
Ice
Bold.
Ice
A soothing thing.
Ice
A mountaintop spring.
Ice
A wonderous form.
Ice
On my dried palm.

And the scorching sweltering sultry thing...
It was just nowhere.
It was just nowhere...

Peace.love

The more you hurl stones and bricks
The more there can't you see the white flag being waved on that cliff?
The more bullets fly through the air...
Can't you see more of golden chips on my hair?
The more you claim by means of violence...
Why can't you see the bridges break more sudden?
The more abuses fly...
Can't you see more doves how on flight die?

Peace.love-
Peace...

Snowballed...

Snowballed me
Sometimes lose
Real things...
Cars zipping...
Horns blowing...
Cacophony...
Cries and shouts...
Defiled books...
Derivatives of a degeneration...

Snowballed me miss 'em all!

But that missing is so much desired
For snowballing keep me fit and layered
With cold numbness
A passivity where only mind operates...
And this state is such a thing
Wonders of ethereal kind it brings...
A subtle breeze...
A distant chirp...
A murmur...
A piano tap...
A slight hum...
A rhythm profound...
A formation of a drop of dew...
A flute which only the goatherd blew...

Snowballed me...
Remain awake thus
And every moment with more snow collapse...

Euthanasia...

Just had a dip
Into the cool stream
Aha! What a dip
Watery coldness entering pores
Of skin...locked up doors
And bringing down fever
And the celsius meter
Made a decline to the utmost
Like finding a way after being lost...
And I was lost also this time sure
By the blue bubbles completely lured...
Euthanasia...
A choice of a dip
A plunge I always keep
Into the soul of one and also of millions
Perhaps...
A plunge like a surge...
Deep in search
Of a being...

A balmy evening post carnage...

Another evening is on the descent
Just like evenings of the past
Just like the evening last...

Only sought the calm
For so much I got the belief in that
Nothing but a silent sit on a cotton square mat...

And that incense laden room
Into which the dying light come
Like a soft pedalled balm...

Only sought that...
Another evening that has arrived
Just like another life...

'The new life'
He wrote
My fav...
O.Pamuk...

But...
Where would from here the journey I take?
To which destination?
Where exactly?

A projection...
Perhaps of the unreal upon the real
With which the whole of life would one deal...
But this evening has the balmy feel...
A proper kind of a birth
And also of a proper death...
A rebirth
Requires a death...

But who could seek death
Without pains?
Who could really abandon a deep sense?
It has been never easy...
But the evening...
It helps one sometimes...
Which has a descent of a calm
And peacefulness...
But who becomes desperate for peace?
Only the one perhaps who faced the cruelest carnage...
And blood on the street...

A balmy evening post carnage...

Another evening is on the descent
Just like evenings of the past
Just like the evening last...

Only sought the calm
For so much I got the belief in that
Nothing but a silent sit on a cotton square mat...

And that incense laden room
Into which the dying light come
Like a soft pedalled balm...

Only sought that...
Another evening that has arrived
Just like another life...

'The new life'
He wrote
My fav...
O.Pamuk...

But...
Where would from here the journey I take?
To which destination?
Where exactly?

A projection...
Perhaps of the unreal upon the real
With which the whole of life would one deal...
But this evening has the balmy feel...
A proper kind of a birth
And also of a proper death...
A rebirth
Requires a death...

But who could seek death
Without pains?
Who could really abandon a deep sense?
It has been never easy...
But the evening...
It helps one sometimes...
Which has a descent of a calm
And peacefulness...
But who becomes desperate for peace?
Only the one perhaps who faced the cruelest carnage...
And blood on the street...

I'm already there...

'I'm already there...'
He muttered
'only my body is here
But my mind and soul
Had already taken the path...
Surely...
I'm there...
Already I'm sitting
Under that tree which
I might have discovered...
An old mighty and sprawling one
With birds
And birds' nest made of twigs and twines...

I'm already there
The stratosphere
And the luminous happy unreal
In me dropping every moment
Like a dripping thing forever...
As if I have turned into
What I probably wished
Forever...
I'm already there...

Silence and the rise
Of the luminous ball inside...
From feet...
To the head...
A slow sure move made
Through vessels and nerves...
That sensation...
it is already there
Pitifully only my body is here
And...
The mind and soul
Had taken the path'

Can't you see the beauty in it?

When I know
I can only be sorry
And you also have similar degree
Of sadful melancholy
Then why we are sorry really?

Can't you see
There lies the beauty
Of a knowledge so different from other earthly things?
Can't you see
There lies the beauty
Of a seperation
Which keeps our lives in motion
On seperate tracks perhaps...

Not feeling sorry and yet feeling
Terribly sorry...
You for me and
Me for you...

And then you for yourself
And me for myself!
and you for the society
And I for poetry
Losing to prose...

Your sleepy dose
And my wakefulness...

God!
Can't you see
The beauty
In it?

A knowledge
So pure
And unique one...

Kissing His feet...a perfect living...

If I fall and kiss
His feet...
And wash His fingers
With water that linger
In eyes ...

There lies
My salvation...

There lies
My hope...

My getting away from all
Real hardship...
Daily suffering...

Every day I suffer
But that really doesnot matter
For that only brings me closer
To His dossier...
Of love...an ever spreading one...
To call a stranger
My brother...
To call a little girl on the street
My daughter whom I scarcely meet...

If every day I suffer
I think it doesnot matter
For that takes me more
To His open vast shore
Of heart...
Where all the gales stop...
Where all turmoils just cease...

And I just go to a sleep...
Knowing waking up the next moment will be
Full of everything...
knowing fulfilment and satiety
Would surely be poured on me...

'you're so religious...'

'How can you still
have faith on Him?
you're so religious...'
She sighed
and also laid down facts
of life which schooled her
all through not to be religious so...
'I have been brought up in such
an environment...
I couldn't help
being...
An Atheist...
That I have been...'
she added...stating another fact
as if she held grudge
against the world
for being so indifferent to her...
her woes...her bloody past...
her singularity...

'But I am not a religious man!'
He exclaimed...
' I am mohameddan...
and a Christian too...
then sometimes I am a perfect Jew...
sometimes I can be a Buddhist
when I come across a bodhi tree...'
He tried to clarify...

But by then
the new sun had risen
and he was peeping through
the blanket of cloud
over the mound...
almost piercing into
every possible things transparent...
the sun...
he had his golden arrows lent
upon every possible and impossible things...
and a v shaped array of birds
just flew
-migratory...

and he looked at the scene
a calm descending on his outer skin
and he felt through those pores
the calm went deep indoors
of his veins...blood vessels...
his heart...his lungs...
his brain...the nerves...
the chord that reaches orders...

'I will...
have faith upon Him...
forever...'

He muttered...
and fell silent...
absolute.

On a delusional man...

Watching a flock of pigeons
Hopping and plucking grains
He tried to put the movement into algorithm...

That was yesterday...

This morning
He watched boys playing in the park
On the glass he drew a line
And tried to do another work on their movement of feet...

Another night
He worked on a chase scene
A woman being chased by a thief...
He put the two into an equation...

Doing all this
So much engrossed...
He got delusional...
Saw codes and figures everywhere...

Then he met her
The woman with brownish hair
And amusement in her eyes...
She placed his palm on her heart
And made him feel the beats smart...

'its got a pattern too!'
He gasped
And soon took out a paper
To put the sequence into an expression...

She got pissed off sure
And felt what she could do
With a man like that?
She wept silent
Still she couldn't leave
Him the delusional man...

Years went by
His hallucinogenic indisposition only accursed
The whole of her...
Their kid born out of this wayward life...

He...
Grew frail and sickly
As if he would die...
She had left him by then
Bidding good bye
With tears that dried...

Then...
One one fine morning of the nineties...
Middle ...
She while cooking a broth
Faraway from him...
Standing beside the window
Overlooking the garden...
A spring in bloom outside...
Soft...fresh...
She heard an announcement...
Someone put everything into codes...
Someone who wrote
A long mathematical history of sorts...
She heard the name of that someone...
And for a moment her hands got shaken
And she did not know
Whether to cry or laugh
Her man ...
It was her delusional man
Who rewrote...
Everything...

So what we passed the travel time?

You're so sure of standing there
Its not that I ever did care...
babe I know you can never be mine
So what we passed the travel time?
Cooped up in a single hole
We passed half of a night and a day whole...
Go ahead babe you're so sure of standing there
A sparkle of sadness in your hair
I know you think you would never be mine
But not that's what I did ever mind...
Go ahead babe you're so sure of to do
Touching the layer of a sky so blue...
You can come dressed up for a date
With another chap you can cross my fate...
So what we passed the travel time?
I think I know you can never be mine...

The day he said 'thank you'...

He looked at the valley of smoke
And in his eyes saw she tiredness like no joke...
And then she heard him say
'it has been a long tiring yet fulfilling day
And its a long time I haven't said
Thank you to anybody...
But thank you...'

She heard him saying that to her
His eyes fixed at the forest of deodar...

'Get out of here as fast as you could
And when you probably would
Reach the other side of the hill
find a small cottage white you surely will
And rows of bushy grass and three trees
There you would see
A small table made of oak
Placed right at the portico...
You would just open the first drawer
A Bible you would find there
And three thousand and five hundred bill
Take that with you...
That would serve you for days
Buy a bag of corns with that
And the land beside the cottage
You grow crops there...
That way you might live...
And you could if you wish
Plant a sapling for me...
Somewhere by the wooden fence...
You could christen it by me...'
She told him
Looking at his tired eyes...

And the valley of smoke
Stood witness to their story...
The man with a tired soul
Face torn by grief and blood
She knew that was real and the only choice...

'its a long time he hadn't thanked anyone
And I am the lucky one...'
She thought
And her head she gave a half hearted nod...
And let go...
Of him...
The valley of smoke
And his thanksgiving...