When the air is so ripe
And berries when hung red
From those branches of our trees
Why not we go picking them
Tasting their goodness
So filled with the scent of the wild
Moist, juicy and sweet?
Do they not welcome us home
And tell us not our wanton pleasures
That we savoured for ages
In our hearts like the way
We fell in love ?
Have I ever told you
My granny had been a wonderful cook?
And how much we longed to go
Our vilage home where she had stayed
All the summers and rains and winters
Only to savour dishes she us served
And her lipsmacking delicacies;
When in the afternoon we got tired and hungry
Playing around, sweating and out of breath,
She would just give us a call
And we would run, scampering,
On brass plates came piping hot
Food made by her,
As we started gobbling hungry as we had been
She would sit beside us right on the floor
Sometimes fanning us if it were summer months,
I would try to sit near her
To get some extra helpings
A bit more than others,
A spoonful of pickle or a larger piece of fish,
She knew perhaps my hidden thoughts
And always remained so condescending,
Dropping a big dollop of tamarind sauce
As if by mistake on my plate,
And I would just smile at her
While she pressed her lips and winked at me,
Her kitchen was her place to pour
All her love and affection for us
Through her tireless works, her foods,
Her kitchen was her very own world
Filled with aroma of spices and dry fruits,
How many times we tried to steal
Cashew and nuts from containers there
And how many times were we caught
By her (for she would get the noise of utensils or jars moving in her kitchen
Even if she would be yards away),
Granny's kitchen was our place to be
At the evening too,
When we would gather there
To listen from her stories and tales
As she would spread a mat there
On the earthern floor for us to sit,
How many evenings had we spent there
Dozing off to sleep while listening to the adventures of the princes and kings,
She would then perhaps call our parents
To carry us off to bed,
And even while we were fast asleep
We would be dreaming of the kings and queens
And would be thinking that everything happened before us
Right there at the kitchen,
Sometimes in our sleep
We even got the smell of spices
And that unmistakable scent of granny-
Her betel leaves.
Come friend, lets go there once again
Where once we haply went
After a long unending summer-
That summer which us scorched and burnt
And brought the sultry heat right into our souls
Drying them, almost making us parched,
Out of that, remember mate?
How we went away like leaves
Blown away,torn away almost from all those things
That brought us down,
O how we flew
Carried like birds ,
Feathered things
Borne by the light
To that place
Where silence talked to us like our forgotten selves
Whispering us to remain awake all the day
Only to grasp the meaning of our journey
So made ;
Come friend, lets go there once again.
To that place where the river
Slows her speed to take rest
Once in morning's wintry light
There caught the misty sight
Few birds which caught the morning's hue
Woke up from their sleep with moist dew,
And feeling the light upon their wings
They perhaps for the beauty did sing
And the river as quiet as an enchanted lass
Held her breath for a while as she passed
With soft, slow and silent steps
Morning as her with charm so draped.
Let there be, Lord
That freedom from want
Which would make not
Discrimination betwixt us
Based on our color of skin
Or find divisions , in between
Us, negating all that uphold
Feelings that are human,
Let there be Lord
No strife, no curse,
No carnage , no bath of blood,
No death due to hunger and pain
And unmitigated love,
Let there be, Lord
Freedom from want
And nothing in between
Let there be
Only that joy pristine
Of thanksgiving.
(*Note: the painting attached is titled "freedom from want" , done by N.Rockwell, 1942, based upon a speech by U S President F.D.Roosevelt)
One November evening
It had been a November evening
When he arrived at the town
Only to meet her, one last time
Before leaving forever... She told him she would be there
Right at the Strand near that big
Colonial facade of that century and half old building
The distinct landmark of the town,
He there waited for her
To turn up
And she kept her words
The dame of his heart
Wearing a red skirt and black top
She there came,
The air had smell of rains
Somewhere it might have poured,
When she came near
He just looked at her face
Glistened as it appeared
By drops of water...
He felt the drizzle in his heart
Somewhere very deep inside
She gave her hands for him to hold
Her hair smelt so much of lavender
And her palms were soft like cotton
He muttered his undying love to her
She told him that would perhaps not stay once he would go away... Time and distance take away everything
That what she told him,
Many summers and winters and springs
Have gone by since then... Still that building colonial stands
And November comes with
Smell of lavender,
Still he can her see
In red skirt and black top
Looking at him,
Her face glistening
Drops of rain
Like little beads of pearls
Hanging from the end of her hair.
Let me wander through the mist
Of early winter months
When dew gather soft
At the fringe of leaves,
Like dreams of the night
Soothing and calm
Being awakened fresh by the morning's cool breeze,
Let me wander
And gather all the nascent things
And turn them into love of my soul
Only to make the world around us
More beautiful and pied
Let me pay my obeisance
To that kindred spirit
Which turns lives of us
So magnificent
Only by the grace of the eternal
The non transient form,
Let me be merged
With the silence of beauty .
(*Note: this poem is a tribute to a wondrous work of my friend, a poet and writer and publisher, Gopakumar Radhakrishnan)
Know not how but whenever she arrives
I can hear her from far,
Her silver anklets I hear
Ringing like a fascinating music,
Her smell can I get,
Sometimes jasmine, sometimes lavender,
Sandalwood too,
Know not how but whenever she comes
I can feel her arrival,
That night too,
Even before she came,
Thought I heard her footsteps,
Felt a sudden flow of breeze
Flowing into me, my heart,
Looked around,
The terrace was empty till then,
Barring me,
Under the enchanting sky
An enchanted self,
Then her did I see,
My object of so many words
Forming prose and poetry,
'So you came...after days so many...'
murmured I,
Looking at her eyes,
So curiously made
Like a pair of youthful vivacity,
Her eyebrows danced a bit,
Playful as she appeared,
'Thought of me? '
She asked,
'Yes...'
'How oft?'
She was definitely inquisitive,
'As oft as this life beckons me to
Look around me to feel your presence
In your absence...'
I said,
Without any pretensions,
She came closer,
Looked at me,
I found how the Starry Starry night
Wrote song of longing in her eyes,
Cloudless, clear, much like the night sky
That watched us over, like a witness.
Morning road, autumnal vines and that postcard from Provence
The morning had that sweetness of mellowed light
And breeze cool slowly flowing across the golden fields of ripened corns,
Much like that favoured postcard from Provence
It had all the colors of the wild
And shades interfusing lighted space,
The morning had memories of losing oneself to the beauty of life
As captured by the pristine country road,
Not faraway a loco perhaps chugged
Making whistle which only accentuated the lust of wandering in mortal souls,
Like a postcard from Provence
Blissful, serene , restive,
The morning how brought one
More close to colors, lores and free spirit of a day, blithe and Pure.
Still remember that day
Still remember that day,
When we stopped at the fringe
Of the city, descending from the car
You stood looking at the sky
Getting usually painted by the setting sun's glow,
An electric pole with crows hanging on wires
Only stood as an aberration to the otherwise beauteous composition of a sky as it appeared,
You were singing soft ,
If I may recollect,
A song of late seventies
Which narrated how pairs of lovers
Thronged in the city square
Braving odds of all kinds,
I , leaning against the bonnet of the car
Thought of taking a snapshot of your wonderous silhouette,
Your hair that you left unbound
Flew like a garment of silk,
How I again fell in love with you
Your songs, your silhouette,
Your silken hair smelling like lemon leaves,
O how again I fell in love with
The painted sky, the vast meadows,
And our youthful escapades!
Down the road
Down the road
Through the farm
At the end of summer
Happy and warm,
Would I go following you
Till the sky would catch
That festive bluish hue,
And till the birds would care to sing
Songs old wrapped in newer meanings,
Down the road
Through the farm
At the end of an autumn
Just before the beginning
Of a beautiful wintry setting,
Would I go following you
Till scenes would come to view
And till they would cause a rise in me
Words placed in rhyme, like a half forgotten tune ,
Like ringing shape of ancient Poetry.
Ode to the flutist
When the dusk descends soft
Lending the earth her superb inimitable grace,
How oft I think of you , Lord,
Your tune , your smiling face,
The homebound birds as to their nests fly
Chirping sweetly all the way,
How I think your flute I hear
Keeping me fully swayed,
When the dusk spreads the hue
Of orange and red so beautiful
How I think oft of you Lord,
As I get sublimated in the cool,
I think of you and praise Thee,
And your flute more I long to hear,
How then I find me merged
As my soul to Thee I with ease bare,
I think you and only you,
The one and the Potent one,
Your face how then mirrors the world
And with you how I get entwined.
O Lisa! How you have been
Always rendered as some one inspiring,
Grand , opulent and in dressing gown
How you have been made the belle of the town,
Stylish, in vogue , always on shine
Not a renaissance painting but a newer design,
Poised, witty , fingers folded
Just for this age , perfectly moulded,
O Lisa! How you have been made and remade,
With paints morphed, reshaped, relaid,
No other dame could with you vie,
O Lisa! How looking at you , youths still heave sighs,
How you still not fail to ignite dreams
Of painters, artists, poets, it seems,
How they all still love to work on you,
You eyes, cheek, lips and your worldly view,
How still every day people try to explore
Your mystery, Myth and Beauty more,
As I once again look at you
I know by heart all these paintings few
Can only make you all the more enchanting,
Cause you've transcended the form of a mere painting.
How many times , love,
How many times, love,
Have I found the sombre feel
Of Himalayan range,
Upon you so beautifully sketched,
How many times, love,
Found I the fragrant blooms
In your garden shining
In early rain drenched morns,
How many times, love,
I lost my senses all
In thy Beauty so Divine,
In winters, summers and the Fall,
How many times, love,
Have I tried to adore you,
In paints, poems and lyrics,
In molten wax and honey dews.
People who came to the beach town
Had always searched that man with hair brown,
Martin as he was known to all
Had always listeners around him, big and small,
He would sit on a canvas chair
And strum a song in his guitar,
The songs sung were always full of tales,
Of yesterdays and also of modern Fables,
Of princes and kings and sailors,
Of politicians and men with valour,
He sang them fluid like a gust a wind
He sang them gaily only to bind
People around him who came from near and far,
He would sit just on a canvas chair
And shake his mane like brown brown hair,
Many years after had Martin gone
To another land perhaps in search of a song,
They put a chair of canvas on the beach right
To make him unforgettable , for days and nights,
And they had placed a guitar there too,
In name of Martin and his songs so true.
At the hut by the River,
At the hut by the River
Spent hours of lustful days
Till the dusk came sweeping cool
Amidst the songs of gnats,
Twas such a plentiful life
To get soaked into the pervading Bliss
Of nature's profound stillness
And it's soft soothing kiss;
At the hut by the River
Spent childhood and also youth
Watching oft how seasons came
Like moments of Love, Beauty and Truth,
Found there all that had been said
Years before my birth,
Found there what it meant to be
To get aligned with the Eternal Mirth,
That Mirth which people sought
The Myth which got ancient leaning,
That Joy which the Lord had planted
Into forms with inherent meanings,
Beauty is what the truth is
And so is what the Eternal one,
At that hut by the River's side
Got floated in waters like a white swan,
And poems came like ripples soft
Right onto my breast,
And words came like murmuring of
A cool flowing silvery cascade.
Autumn in the forest
Simply treading through
The greenish hue
Of autumn brought so many memories,
Of finding a glimpse of a stupa
Seen through the gaps of trees,
And hearing the gong of bells
Cutting through the mild mist,
All of them came , like a beautiful dream,
Sunlight falling through leaves,
Slight murmur of sweet breeze,
All had Autumn in them,
Distinct, known , felt afresh,
Simply walking through the thick foliage,
Oft how takes one back to days,
When fragrance of blossoms
Covered one's senses.
Every day , specially at dusk
She would come there, unasked,
Only to look at the wide spectacle
Of green slopes of hills as upon them fell
The rays of setting sun , making them wonderous
Every day, there she would come, to spend few hours,
Looking at those trees and listening to murmur
Perhaps of the flowing restless river,
She would with her senses devour
The beauty of hills and overwhelming Nature
And then when the sun would go hiding behind those hills
She would stand there still
And hear the songs of crickets too,
She would catch the evening's hue,
And after that when the night fell
And the moon would cast its silvery spell
She would let the beams come and caress her
Her face, her dreamy eyes, her limbs , her hair,
The window served as her companion true
As she would come there to have a view
Of the world around her, and also the world within
The window gave her always the perfect setting.
There's something in those lanterns
There's something in those lanterns
Which they took in their hands
And went into the garden
To catch fireflies and glowworms
With them went their lustre
Glowing faces of their primordial beauty,
And when they there stood with lanterns
They looked like angels without wings
Making a descent on the sweet earth
To bless all with songs of Love and guileless Innocence,
There's something in those lanterns
Which they took in their hands
And walked slowly as if floating things
Without having any wings,
Their faces had all the beauty
Which could make onlookers resplendent,
Such was their charm
Such was their magnificence.
(*Note: the painting attached was done by Charles Courtney Curran)
Can't recall exact how many days or months
You have remained far away from me,
By and large, silent,
Like that night beautifully quiet,
But then when the sky becomes dark
And rain come in spells, like bouts of fever,
I think of you,
You , whom have I placed at the altar
And prayed for days and nights,
Whom have I yearned for,
Like yearns the parched land for drops of water,
To quench its insatiable thirst,
I think of you,
Your return to the land of mine,
Making it green, wet and fertile,
Yielding, to make it grow like acres of vegetation,
I think of you,
Your return to poems and Prose
And paintings and all that make me
Productive ,
Can't recall when the last time
You spread your charms over me,
My breast, my limbs , my body,
But when the breeze carries home
Scent of moist earth,
I think of you,
As my daisy
Blooming wonderous
In my soul
You have rushed a lot
Through the woods, slopes of hills,
Now when the day is ripe
And the sun is out,
Come, sit,
And stay still,
I will sing a poem to you,
I will caress your braids,
With leaves will deck you up,
Cleanse your flushed face,
You have rushed a lot
Through those woods, hills,
Now when the day is ripe,
And the sun is peeping at us,
Come, sit,
And in you let me find myself,
Immersed.
(*Note: painting courtesy: Michael Godfrey)
When the wintry morn slowly came,
Looking out of window , without any feign,
Saw the Tree spreading wings,
Of her branches singing lost songs of her springs.
(Photo credits: Amitabh Dhiman)
Spread at the horizon *
Spread at the horizon
When the day with his dusky maid meets,
At that rendezvous , when they come together
To each other greet,
I think so much of her,
My ethereal Lover,
Her songs I think I hear,
Carried to me by the cool moist air,
I think of her face , her eyes, her voice,
And that mere thinking with so much of joys
Fill me from top to toe,
Spread at the horizon so colorful ,
I then perhaps with reverence bow
Before that sense which brings me every day
At this time of the day, to find her beauty and aura and Grace,
To look at how the day invariably comes
To meet his dusky maid,
Just before evening arrives,
Just before the sky gets another dress,
Just before little Celestial flowers bloom across
The big vastness of the limitless space. (*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached done by Karla Nolan)
For that bud, encumbered in sleep,
In petals wrapped
Encumbered lies the dream
Of the bud , sleeping
Whilst wet westerly breeze
Upon its feathery shape
Caressed soft,
The rain knows how to make the bud turn an object of beauty,
The drizzle knows how to sketch
Lyrics upon lips.
Out of bounds
That pebbled path leading out of the cottage gate
With sight of hills and a placid lake
Often takes me away to a faraway place,
A morning is perhaps there breaking out,
Away from the bustle of the city,
Where sings the nightingale
Songs of dews that fell
Smooth and almost imperceptible,
I look at the vastness of glory
Of nature weaving a sacred sublime feel of a story,
Of someone after getting lured by the beauty
Sits quiet so visibly enchanted,
I look at the slopes of green
And the rays of the Sun spread through mist,
A poetic journey to the Unseen
Divine presence ,
I try to feel each and every part
Of the day so becoming
A part of imagination ,
Reigning unvanquished, supreme,
And at that very moment,
Like someone being magically charmed,
I go into a flow of a river, a stream,
Of words , coming out spontaneous.
Wish you give us more
Of your words which paint pictures
Of guests arriving crossing the border
And we welcoming them with handmade wheatcakes ,
And taking care of all their pains,
Of chinar leaves falling slowly
Upon the earth moist and sleepy,
Of rivers flowing making sweet murmur
Amidst woods where we can always go ,
Of missing the touch of hands, of our lost friends, forgotten relatives,
Of sunset yellow gradually getting spread
On the sky , a prayer like , orange and red,
Wish you give us more
Of your golden words, lyrically wrought,
So much so that we upon hearing them
Forget how the day goes by
To embrace the evening
And how the evening also slips away
Into the music of intoxicating nights.
(*As a tribute to Gulzar, on his eighty second birthday)
Evening sky *
Often around this time of the year,
Evening sky comes down upon me bare,
With fiery saffron colors so draped
Making me from my works escape
To that vast land of green, a plain
Where I get rid of all my feigns,
The birds which take their flight home
Drenched by the evening light so being borne,
Remind me of my going back too,
To match the orange and bluish hues,
I then think of my return
To the land serene as it turns
My heart, my mind my soul blessed
Around this time of the year as the sky gets dressed
In tranquil silence noiselessly eloquent,
How then I think of dusty roads that bend
To that beauteous natural existence,
To those trees, huts , human settlement
To that river, lake , woods meaningfully dense,
I then think of days passed
In singing songs of Love just
Praising ways of men to God
And ways of God to men that last,
For months , years, decades , centuries,
How to that greenery my mind then hurries,
Only to make out ways divine
Encumbered in peace a thousand inexpressible lines.
(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, done by Sally O Neill, courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei)
That girl who stood with her back
Turned to the light,
Showed her ignorance to the world,
Her back with all those curves,
Had passages of my desires,
That girl who stood with her back
Turned to me,
Showed me how feathers wrote
Candid verse upon her soul,
Which perhaps I missed in shaded alleys
That we had walked through all our lives.
(*note : upon a painting loosely based, as attached, done by Rex Beo)
Sita,
How you were tested and tried
Not once , but several times,
How you after being abducted
Persevered all that happened,
Living alone homeless , without your husband and kids,
How you had withstood that life, held captive,
And after many years,
When the battle had been fought
And won, when much of blood had been spilled,
When the earth was clouded by shooting arrows and spears,
When cities were set into blazing fire,
Sita,
How you thought perhaps all was due
To your honour,
That the wars were raged and men proved
Their thundering skills, their admirable valour,
But when the dust got settled,
When you were taken home by your husband,
How you were put to a test again,
How you were to walk through the flame,
How were you asked to prove before all
That while being away held captive ,
You had not gone through any fall,
How did it feel Sita? At that time?
To stand before all and declare
That you had remained what you were,
How did it feel when thy Soul burned?
How did it feel when thy honour was thus upturned?
Every love is so long distance
Every love I met
Had been turned
Long distance ones,
Interstellar kind,
If I am at one hemisphere,
She is invariably at the other,
If I am gathering flakes of moon
She is right at the wheatfield, golden,
Every love I met
Had turned into
Late night phone calls,
If I am all in day light,
She is under the quilt
Yawning before sleeping off,
Every love I had met
Had made me traveler.
Come away , where the lilies bloom fair
Singing songs of mist in the afternoon's sweetest air,
Come away, where the meadows beckon and greet,
Come away, where dew drops on leaves and petals meet
Like silent drops of Divine blessings,
Come away, to that beauteous scene
Where lilies bloom tender and wild
Come away, to feel that drowsy numbness mild,
Come away, O you human child.
Five years after when he visited the place
With his sister, to find how nature had dressed
His mind and heart and soul,
He found profundity of the river
How before him did unfold,
He noted in that wonderous quietitude
How the Abbey for ages stood,
And how amidst green , those meadows and Hills,
He discovered Divinity in purest form dripping, distilled,
Then he found also the flowing human course
Flowing much like that River, from its source,
He then boldly there declared
How by being the lover of meadows, woods, mountains,
He had found the Blessed state , the fair,
Those thoughts made him more of a poet
Perhaps , who out of the mechanised world,
In the serenity of nature , by his mind, dwelt,
O how the Abbey and the River beside it,
Gave him joys which he cherished,
That pristine, incorruptible one,
How there he flew after five years like a Swan,
Only to savour more of Nature's Beauty,
Only to make out Divine Piety.
(*Note: written upon the famous poem of Wordsworth titled 'Tintern Abbey'. The painting attached is on Tintern Abbey.)
Come, love,
Come, love, when the night is so alluring
And the sky when had got the hues
So Starry and so blackish blue,
Come, love, to the lap of nature
And break into singing
Making me sleep on thy bed of dreams,
Come, love, put thy hands on my breast,
Putting at rest all the worries and woes,
When the night is so charming
And the sickled moon is diving so low,
Just within our reach,
Come , love,
Plunge me into thy softness more,
As the sky the night's Beauty
By twinkling things adore.
'The town had remained as it had been...'
Aniruddha thought as he walked down the alley,
Shops had grown in numbers though, as it seemed,
And the spring had decked the outskirts,
With flowers blooming , kept in pots and pans,
Population had grown too a bit,
Aniruddha thought as he took the street,
'Curios? Want them Sir?'
Aniruddha heard local lads asking him,
'Leather jackets? At price rock bottom?'
He looked at those hanging garments some,
'No...' He replied and kept walking lazily,
A few paces away some urchins were playing with glee,
With a pup running in between their legs,
They looked at him, their curious tiny eyes upon him pegged,
'Hotel? Guesthouse? Warm water bath?'
Men like brokers him asked,
'No...' Aniruddha nodded both ways his head,
He was looking for a hut instead,
'Do anyone know Bahadur Singh?'
He asked, not really knowing
Where Bahadur had gone,
After so many years, alone, like a stray leaf,
Aniruddha heaved a sigh, deep,
Just then he heard someone saying,
'He could be found at the end of the alley...'
Hearing that Aniruddha turned to the direction without delaying,
And following instructions he arrived finally
At that hut , just behind the shop of aunt Sally,
It had remained as it is,
That same hut, that same small garden,
That acre of grass, that open verandah,
And that sight of gulmohor trees,
Two of them standing there like guards,
Tall and handsome and large,
'Bahadur , are you there?
Can you me hear?'
Aniruddha asked, standing before the two trees,
A mild soothing spring filled breeze,
Came to caress his hair, his face,
Aniruddha stood there , as he tried to trace
His words echoing in the faraway hills,
A man appeared soon, white hair, white beard, turban green,
That was surely that old Bahadur Singh,
'Can't recognise me? ' Aniruddha asked, the old pair of eyes blinked,
'Hey you, Ani babu? Here? '
The old man flashed a smile generous,
As Aniruddha noticed little drops of tears
In his eyes,
'How are you? Never thought to find you,
After so many years, see, I have kept my promise,
To come right here, once again, with spring extending its sweet lease...'
Aniruddha said,
Bahadur Singh ushered him in,
Into his hut, and gave him a welcome warm,
With hot soup and momos some,
And that chilli sauce and tomatoes sliced
Dipped in vinegar and bellpepper , diced,
After the meagre meal he took in,
The conversation between the two did begin,
They talked of being friends , separated by age and place,
They talked about how once they perils of the woodlands braced,
How they both worked for conservation
Of Mother Earth and rivers and animals,
Old Bahadur Singh, despite age, was still eager,
To work with Aniruddha with more vigour
To create a better surrounding there at that small town,
As the duo started to talk, time flew by ,
Gradually evening came, with darkness faintly lit
By candles, lamps and the clear Starry sky,
Aniruddha thought this time he would not go away,
He thought this time he would in that town stay
Till he would be able to open a school for those children parentless
And small hospital for those who starve most of days,
With Bahadur Singh, by his side, he could do anything,
Aniruddha thought, suddenly remembering,
How that man saved his life by fighting against a wild mountain bear black,
Which came down upon him, as once he hit that off the beaten track,
Into that woods not far away,
Aniruddha thought he could easily in the town stay
Till he would make that dream of his true,
The evening was getting chilly and blue,
Bahadur Singh had by then brought Ajay there,
He had started singing strumming his guitar,
Songs of Love and friendship and fun,
Aniruddha thought he had another life begun.
Sometimes when piercing the bleakest sky
You arrive like a new moon
Silver all over you,
I get drenched by thy light
And the world too,
Sometimes when you rise
Against the dark
Naked like a moon
I find myself intoxicated
By thy ambrosaic potion
And the world it seems
Beautiful than ever,
Silvery flakes of moon
Then fall into my room
Of Heart,
And I just get dyed
By your sacred aura.
(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached done by Paolo Damiani)
Many days have passed , Noirita,
Since you have gone away to the distant land,
Your postcards, sent from that land exotic
Reached me oft delayed, still they reached with pictures of your journeys
To different places there,
Ah those pictures sent had beauty of your days
Spent at the church yard
or at a big square right at the middle of a town,
Or at a fair where you stood before a shop
Buying items of Adornments, a clip, a brooch perhaps , a hairpin,
Then that postcard of the river
And a small bridge right over it,
You standing there, your hands rested on the bar of a bike,
You flashing a smile as shining as a spring morning,
Then that picture of a path through a forest
Turned burning orange by the magic of autumn,
Oaks, old and ancient , standing there
Like big statues, monumental,
Many days have gone away Noirita,
Since you have sent me the last post card,
Perhaps you have forgotten to write
So busy have become your days and nights,
Perhaps you have again fallen
In love,
Perhaps you have made home there
A sweet home with long curtains at windows,
And cosy couches at the living,
Perhaps you have grown a garden there too,
Right in front of your settlement,
Perhaps there had grown beautiful blossoms
To attract the birds and the bees,
But, Noirita,
How can I ever forget
Those bushes and myrtles
Which I have explored
With you in the greenness of our youth.
We were sitting by the window glass
Overlooking the street
A bit blurry after a spell of rain,
We sat there having no real hurry,
The hall had the quietitude too,
Just that we wanted to savour,
She was slowing turning her spoon
Into the cup of coffee steaming ,
And we talked about many things,
Usually it started with queries made
And answers to them, relayed, 'How was the day? '
She asked me,
Perfectly windowside as we sat
Through the glass the town looked blurry,
And mind you, we had no hurry,
Whatsoever,
She poured sugar cubes one by one,
Into coffee cups of her and mine, 'So far, so good' I replied,
Rain was stopping there, outside,
The hall was quiet
For us to talk , 'How's yours?'
I asked,
Customarily,
She took a sip,
I could see her face,
She was taking the aroma of beans ,
Coffee ,
It triggered more of our memories,
She talked of having black forest
Somewhere faraway from the town,
Sitting on the rooftop
Watching the birds flying
Across an autumnal sky,
I talked of my take
Of caffeine , java,
I recalled, 'Was I there with you too?'
She asked, 'Surely'
I replied, 'I had been there at that rooftop too,
When you munched that sandwich
And watched those hills
And those birds spreading wings
Carried away by the autumnal breeze'
I added,
Knowing she could always carry me,
Like I do,
Everywhere,
Outside the rain had receded,
The glass having those little rivulets drawn upon it,
Was beginning to get clear,
The vision blurry was getting cleaned,
I could see her, biting her lower lip,
I thought her face looked tantalizing,
Redness of her lips
Kept my eyes upon her
Transfixed,
We were never in a hurry,
I held the cup, steaming
She was sipping slowly hers.
Of all the images that had stayed
With me , of her, so to say,
Is the one of her sitting at the threshold
With a book , reading stories (which she told
Me quite oft, afterwards, ) of Love and romance,
And the light of the day upon her hair as fell by chance,
Making her silhouette all the more beautiful to watch and admire,
Of all the images of her,
That had stayed out , magnificent,
Much like her own self, resplendent,
Which not only bloomed like a flower
But also made me oft to love her,
How many times words came out rhyming
Out of my lips merely by finding
Her , sitting quiet, serene and soft,
How by seeing her I sang with ease, full throat,
How I told her too all those sights and visions
That flew within me like a perennial motion,
She , knew every bit of my expressed thoughts,
She knew perhaps every bit of my inexpressible words
Yet she remained as if she had been ignorant,
Yet she had tinges of pinkish hue upon her cheeks, like paint
Of her affection held at the tip of a rain drenched leaf,
Only to make me feel her love hidden deep
Beneath the upper crust of our friendship,
Of all the images that had stayed
With me, of her,so to say,
Is that primary feel of her sitting quiet
At the threshold of a door, caressed by light
Of the day that fell upon her , her hair, her face,
Her gown, white with an embroidered lace,
And she reading a book of stories , of Love,
Which she oft narrated to me, afterwards.
It was only the other day
I was returning from the bay
Where the trees stood like shadows of dreams
Beside the big lake one morning as it seemed,
The day was just then breaking for us,
Through the clouds the light slanted passed,
Falling upon the surface of water, soft,
Felt like by the beauty of the place held aloft,
It was only the other day,
I was returning from the bay
It was another morning bright
The lake was taking the yellowish light,
Cool breeze from the western front
Came flowing as if to slightly taunt
Me to sing a song of taking the road and be lost
Into love which could remind one of winter and Frost,
And of countryside away from crowd and noise,
Where nature presents her sublime joys.
After rains when the sun peeps
I think then Autumn is not far away
For the sky then in blue and white keeps
Dreams of mirth and of mind that sails away,
After rains when the lighted day
Arrives with a mild breeze cool
I think then it possibly may
Make the swans float in the pool,
I think of then our wandering around
Taking those roads which to the country lead,
I then think of scenes by greenery bound
That joys of heart by serenity breed.
Last month the letter you wrote
Which I received after some fifteen days' wait,
Had the smell of pines and eucalyptus
And roses too,
You wrote the garden which you have been nurturing for long
Had started blooming,
Summer followed by monsoon
Had brought fruition there,
It must have been great
To see those trees growing greener
This monsoon,
I could picture you almost
Working at the garden
With those chrysanthemums
With your spatula, plodding the moist earth,
Your apron catching mud and soil,
A few strands of your hair falling over your eyes and you time and again
Trying to put them back ,
Using the palm of your hands,
Yes, I can almost see you,
There at the end of the day,
Sitting at the porch,
Looking at the vacant lot
Before your house,
Where every evening
Glowworms come gathering,
Then perhaps you go to kitchen,
Are there any dearth of works at home?
There is always something to be cooked,
And something to be washed and cleaned,
Then perhaps you serve dinner
The children are always hungry
And who else would understand them better than you?
All these works take away the evening,
The night finally comes with steely darkness,
You wrote then you get your time to read,
You read Eliot's long poems,
Auden's cryptic ones,
Sometimes , as you wrote,
You flip through magazines,
But...
All those poems which I sent to you
Have you ever them read?
Have you seen through them?
Have you?
Have you felt ever how I cuddled up with words
At night on bed and joined them together
By strings of my Love, for you?
Have you ever cared to open them?
Have you ever cared to get how ink dripped
Quiet and fresh , every day from my pen,
Only to reach you?
Come ye , O you wanderer, with me,
Let's go to that far away place,
Across thousand miles of land and sea,
To the mist covered mountains (of home),
You may then turn a Scot,
And sing that song that welcomed once
You to that land of beauty and Grace,
Come ye, O you wanderer, with me,
There we with music try to trace,
How nature fills hearts with wonders of joy,
Come ye, O you wanderer boy,
Let's sing that Mark Knopfler song,
The mist covered mountains (of home)
For which we always long,
For those slopes green and cliffs,
For those caverns dark and deep,
For those ledges where we could sit
And dangle our happy restless feet,
Come ye, to that mountains of mist
Of home, where smell of wildflowers us greet.
(*Note: inspired by a Scottish song written in 1856, titled 'chi mi na morbheanna' which had been rendered into English by many, including Mark Knopfler)
Of all the places where we liked
To spend our time more was Martha's backyard,
Just behind her cottage,
We would there go every time
We paid our visit to hills,
And to her, of course,
Usually we would there arrive
At peak of autumn
When trees would start turning bare,
Their branches shooting up to the Sky
Like ribs,
At Martha's backyard
We always had company,
Of birds and butterflies and bees,
The scent from earth always reached us fresh
Specially in early morns, dewy drenched
Mist covered,
The spot looked like a land of fancy and dreams,
We would go there only to loiter around,
Our cries and shouts filling the air
Making it cheerful,
Making it depart from its usual ascetic silence,
We there ran , jumped , hopped,
Did somersaults even,
Our bodies fell on the soft wavy grass
Moss we got half covered with
Leaves oft got stuck to our pullovers,
Late in the evening,
When the hamlet turned absolutely dark
And sleepy,
When only distant hootings of owls
Could only be heard,
We would sometimes gather
At Martha's backyard,
And create log fire,
Some of us would break into a song,
Some would shake a leg,
And old Martha,
Knowing we were there,
Would come and sit on the cane chair,
Watching us with her eyes of grandmotherly affection and indulgence,
After so many years, when the world
Had got changed,
When the hill and its surroundings
Got changed too,
Martha's backyard still holds
The same magic for me at least,
Just to go there
And stand before those trees,
Just to go there
And embrace the mist and the fog
Of autumn ,
And to roll on the wavy grass,
Still carries every bit of Martha's generosity,
Still I could that feel.
Rain rain relentless
Sketches on the window panes,
Water pictures of a town
When it rains does brace,
Rain rain relentless
Makes the streets empty more
As it rains heavily
An early morning's downpour,
Roads, avenues and little lanes
All become waterlogged,
Rain rain relentless,
Finds the croaking of merry frogs,
Cabs, buses, vehicles move
Slow at snail's pace,
Rain rain relentless
As the town does brace.
Can't you write a sky of a night , like this
As we are here, one time more,
Please?'
She asked me oneday,
When we were lying on the grass
Under the sky with stars twinkling luminous,
I looked at the sky and those glittering things
And thought how for ages they did bring
Amazement to us mortals living on earth,
I thought of human struggles and existence
And so many poems and plays and prose,
Of writings eulogising God and Goddesses,
Of stories which spoke of Love that could inspire,
Millions to go in search of life,
She knew I was thinking and having a travel
By mind to distant places, those valleys and Hills,
She knew perhaps what did I then really feel,
So she waited with ancient patience
Written on her face, her eyes deep and calm,
I was thinking of roads and lanes and streets
Which have I walked through only to meet
Her and our days and our nights,
I was thinking of journeys to the woods,
Of stumbling upon a brook,
Of coming across blooming Rhododendrons,
And also of those wonderous lakes
Where swans floated like white objects of art,
I was thinking of varied images that the world to us had brought,
'Are you thinking of going to any particular place?'
She asked me, after a long pause, silence when wrapped us more like the cool night dense,
'Yes,' I finally ventured to give a reply,
'I was thinking of a cottage built somewhere
At the hills, overlooking a Valley green
With flowering tulips and juicy berries,'
I said, gradually turning wakeful from the trance
That made me to ruminate and to mentally write
Words , arranged with care , placed side by side,
She got the cue perhaps,
Of the place from my spoken words
And unspoken expressions,
'It might be somewhere near Ranikhet,
Or Kaushani,
And it might be the onset of a sweet winter,
When the mist and fog would start to descend soft
Upon valleys there'
She remarked,
I looked up at the night sky,
The stars were twinkling there alright,
And I thought there was nothing more
Could I hanker after, at that moment.
Met her the painter oneday,
At a corner of a souk,
She was busy painting canvases
(Which she told me) to her dreams
As they her took,
Watched her for hours
Completely submerged in her works,
People like me as passed by her,
And she in her paintings at the nook
Created a world of wonders,
It had been a lovely day
Quipped I seeing her
and those canvases spread,
She was filling colors
Orange, blue, yellow, green , red,
I looked at her, standing awhile,
Quiet as a stone almost,
She was stroking on the canvas,
With brushes she drew a sea coast,
Right in front my eyes,
Under the sky bright and with Joys mixed,
I looked at her fingers
As they upon canvas did tricks,
The seas came to her,
So also the seagulls and other birds,
The hills came alive by her touch,
And roads made by her flew upwards,
The souk was a lovely place
People walked checking those shops,
Garments hung loose in the air,
And before her I momentarily stopped,
She sang as she worked,
Singing a beautiful tune,
And how I looked at her
Drawing deserts and sand dunes,
One after another canvases were made,
And they were kept there hanging by hooks,
I just stood quiet like a stone there
And tried to fathom what pleasure
Her it really took,
Just to there come and sit every day,
Right there at the souk,
I just looked at her works of art,
And wondered what passion her really took
To make so many lovely things,
Every day , every morn and Eve,
I just looked at her,
And into a painted day
I, a swim with ease took,
Right there oneday,
At the souk.
Nowadays, when I get to sit quiet
And think over about us, our lovely times,
Your face appears in my mind,
And I feel that I miss you,
How do I miss you?
Like the way the clouds miss the sky,
Or the birds miss their songs,
Or the kite misses the breeze,
I miss you
For I miss my fancy
Which you have always in me evoked,
I miss my imagined land
Where you have taken me so many times,
O how do I miss you,
Your smiles, your little things
Like your words quipped spontaneous,
Your eyes which hold the oceans,
The scent of love which you carry in your palms,
O how do I miss them oft,
Your winged thoughts
How come to me
Only to increase that missing
Which stays like an inexpressible thing
In my heart,
O how oft I miss you,
When I hear someone talking about
A visit to the River,
Or to that pleasant place where trees whisper prayers of Peace
Being so caressed by the breeze,
O how oft I miss you
When I get to watch the sun rise on hills
Or a dusk settling in along a Bay,
O how I miss you
When I think of a song
Of yesteryears, from a flick,
Perhaps, depicting an empty street
In the sleepy quietitude of a moonlit night,
How I miss you.
(*Note : the painting attached was done by G.Seurat, titled 'on the island of La grande latte')
If you are Eve,
Come to me,
And make me man,
Your Adam,
We would with pleasures fill
Valleys of green and pastures
We have not wandered away to,
We would go there
And cherish our living,
Like birds do while flying together
In the sky at the dawn
Drenched by golden light
We would come to our best too,
At the dusk, again drenched by crimson light,
If you are Eve,
Come to me,
Make me a man,
Your Adam.
(*Note: painting courtesy: Flimt, Adam and Eve, 1918)
Walking down the aisle of the museum
When we came to that hall, where Monet mingled with Renoir, and other greats,
We stood for a while by those paintings set,
A Renoir there was with much care kept,
We heard those people there thronging
As they were busy celebrating something,
A holiday, a vacation, a pious occasion,
Perhaps, some sat at tables with paper and potion,
The day they were thus passing through,
Ah, a Renoir could only bring that with details to view,
Cloaks, jackets, hats and bonnets,
All pictured just perfect,
And how could one dare to catch the attention
Of a viewer even when there was nothing really to mention,
No revolt, no grand opening of any fair,
Still how people there (like us) stopped and stared,
At the big grand canvas of life filled with laughter and fun,
How we stood in front of a Renoir, without making a turn
To other things that were there sure in the hall,
We just stood there and watched with Heart's content
That congregation which perhaps had caused a windfall.
At a lusty dusk
When the sky got the rouge
Of love , so yellow , orange and blue,
They sat , the two,
And watched how
The colors of their love got spread,
From the sky,
To the river bed,
At a lusty dusk,
When the sky got the rouge
They sat there, the two.
Once when you go out into the fields unsown,
You find the glory of the morn,
Filled with birds' song,
And you think how wonderful is it
To take the morning's greet,
Right into one's soul,
When all things appear lovely and gay,
Drenched by the new rays
Of Sun and the breaking of a new day,
Then you perhaps stop somewhere
Where you feel the cool air
Blowing through the hair,
At that moment precise,
You think of how Divinity lies
In the open wide Vast ocean of Sky.
Whenever we would get time spare
We would just go there together,
Me and my love,
There we would sit on the sand
Warm and golden as would turn the land
In the afternoon when the sun would drop
Down gently kissing the river and her waves,
There we would put our legs
Into the water cool and blue
And get the feel of the dappled things' hues,
The silence of the place would then slowly into us return
With beauty of finding the day's turn,
We would sit to watch the trees and the green,
We would get sublimated into the scene,
Which could only to us more of Divine Love bring.
Every evening, when the house would become agog with activities,
after the lull of the afternoon,
when uncles and father would return home,
Grandpa would switch on his turntable
And put LPs upon it,
Usually it would be a Bismillah Khan
Or Bade Ghulam Ali,
From his room the music would emanate
Till it got spread through the corridor,
Reaching the rooms , the hall, the yard
Till it reached the portico and even beyond,
We had then also returned home
From our daily ritual of games and matches,
Mother and aunt would blow the counch shells
And put incense sticks at the tulshi mancha,
Grandpa would recline on his favourite armchair
And take puffs from his hookah,
His eyes would remain closed,
He would then be dipping into music,
And the house too would turn musical,
Aunt would be humming a tune while chopping vegetables at the kitchen,
Uncle would be reciting a poem to us
From our textbooks, teaching us the nuances of poetic diction,
And we would sometimes break out singing in chorus,
Our rhymes and verses,
At the backdrop, the LPs would turn on the table,
Spinning and churning music,
As the evening would become night, slowly
Almost imperceptibly, musically binding
All and sundry.
The field looked like a clouded one,
Foggy and full of dandelions,
The day was there slowing waking up
Amidst the green, in molten rays of Sun wrapped,
Distant cooing of birds came like calls
To send heart wandering where hues autumnal
Grow like dreams spread wide and far.
At least they have given her The State Funeral With tongue cut, She could not have spoken for The rare award, The police have done the th...
