Regeneration...a conversation...

'Frances...
Your mom's photo...
i placed it at the parlour...
And...
i see it at the stairs...
On the wall...
i am confused...
You took it there?'
Isabella asked
Confusion writ on her childish face...
In her white long skirt
And pink bordered dress
She appeared like a doll...

'si...'
Francesco replied...
Working out something on paper...
Revising his own writeup...

'purche?'
Isabella was confused...

'Dear...'
Francesco looked up...
Smiling...
'why don't you sit
For a while...
And let me clarify...'
Francesco smiled again...

'i got works Frances...'
'i know...
You got works...
But certain things are even greater
Than works...
Like knowing...
Knowing is believing...
Knowing is Faith...
Knowing is a journey so good...
Like knowing Death
Is a staircase...
A regeneration...
A restart...
A reboot...

Mother passed away...
Ten years...
Almost...
A decade...
But i remember it was her journey
Beginning...
Her rebooting...
Hence she is at the stairs...
Climbing...
And more properly placed...
Than at a parlour...
A showcase...'
Francesco clarified...
And looked at his Isabel...
White and pink...

A girl...
A child...

Frances started again...
A recitation...
Solemn...

'The person is divine...unshaped
He is outside and inside...unborn
Without breath,without mind,pure,
Higher than the highest imperishable...'

'Gita?'
Isabella asked...smiling...
'no...For a change...
Dear...
From Upanisads...
All the same...
The Mundaka one...
All the same...
You can call it a song...
A rhythm divine...
The conservation of mass theory...
A Tagore...
A Wordsworth...
An Einstein...
A Copernicus...
A Newton...
Anyone's work...
For divinity is everywhere...
Upanisads are everywhere too...dear...
So also Gita...
On leaves on grass...
On petals...
On you...
On me...
On Abramo...
Donya...
Cicero...
At the pigeon pooped alley
Beside Tabachchi lotto store...'
Francesco smiled...

Isabella...
Smiled back...
'in my works...too?'

'assolutamente!'

A death for Him...a prayer...

This sleepy cloudy morn...
These coconut trees and palms...
Leafy painting they how evoke
Against the sky which water like sponge soak...

This monsoon so pleasant mystic
This morn so balmy ascetic...
This life so silent and blessed...
This noiseless painless death...

This He and Only He manifest
This Love reaching Agape...
This connect with a Carol...a kind song...
This euthanasia for which Buddha longed...

This June coming like a vagabondish charm
This dream of July a rain filled mid term...

O Lord!
i wish i cry...
O Lord
i wish at Your feet i just die...
And be born again as per Your wish...
To lead a life with Peace unleashed...

A playground and six trees...

'one...two...three...'
Counted he
The trees...
Six in number they stood
Somnambulant
Like six old men...
Wise...
Perfectly alive in rise...

'i think i have been here before...
And played a football match here
On this particular ground
One monsoon after rain
With childhood friends...
Yes!
Those trees they were there then
Probably one more
They were then seven...
Yes!
They were seven...
And there was a goalpost painted white
At the extreme right...
Facing west...
The horizontal top bar of which
Had the middle bit inclined...
Downy...
And for that one goal we missed...
The shot rebounded...
Hitting the bar...
Yes!
i remember!
i had been here once
On this ground still green
After last night's rain softer and yielding...'

he thought...

Standing on the ground
Of his one childhood...
With six trees standing too...
And the benign milky curd like Sun
Collaborating his view...

And two cranes at the fringe
Of the ground played...
Where the ground even...ended
And a marshy land took over...

he stood happy breezy sunny
Like a new born lover...

City to country ride...one evening...

'when the evening is so cool
And when the moon is still
Under the shroud of translucent cover of cloud visible...
Why not i take the road?'
Asking himself he rode...
The cruise...
'first half of the mile
i will be the slowest...'
he planned navigating a chart...

'A country...muffassil kind?
Why not?'
he thought...
And the road he took...

Ahoy!
After an hour or so
When the city faded
And the tridentlights died natural
And the people's cries and hootings
Of buses and vehicles almost ceased...
he felt he smelt the jasmine breeze...
And rain drops still accumulated on semi dark long leaves
he noted down in his mind...

But then why again this sudden hype?
A few decorative lights...
A flashing bulb...
A small crowd thronging at a ground...
White tubelights...
Rubbing against rusticity bright...

Ahoy!
A village fair!
Simple people in simple attire...
At the evening they had thronged in queues they waited pretty long...

A canopy...big...a shed...
A simple penny entry gate...
A big wheel...rolling on...
A crying child held by a peasant woman strong...
A nut seller's tirade...
A tree nearby shadowy calm bred...
An evening far away from the crowd
And yet so much crowd
Simple though not so loud...

A drizzling hope and joy settling quiet...
A life to be lived right...

City to country a journey so good
At a village fair he solemnised stood...

She the sacred and cool evening...

The evening...
She came after a spell of rain...
Fresh...moist...
As if she had bathed
And had worn
Her saree meant for a special occasion...
As if she had prayed to her lord
For the rain
All through those six days sultry...
She chose simple things for her dressing up...apparel...so paltry...

A rounded spot on her forehead
Red...
And a creamy orangy saree
Matched
With a red border...

The evening came
Like a woman out of her prayer...
Straight from the temple...
Chaste and simple...
Washed hair...
Shine...and black-
so divine...

And she walked slow...
Vermillion flakes visibly tangible on her brow...
And coolness emanating
Against a western orange setting...

She walked by the park
Children still running...too eager to cash in
The day's last spark...
They had a match a bit delayed
By the rain...

She walked past the lake...
Love birds counting anniversaries of May...

She walked past a library lane quiet
Three old men reading newspapers under yellow spot lights...

She walked past the terminus...
Buses coming home with people tired so out of gas...

She walked past a painter's studio
A man in colored apron standing arms akimbo
Lost in his world of Vinci and Picasso...

She walked past...
The evening sacred and cool
Touching all and sundry
and a great fool...

The bridge on the river and a journey to heaven...

The bridge wooden looking fragile
Still went to the other side
Of the river...
The other side
Full of green tall trees...
And their tops swept in the breeze...

The boy and the girl
Were in the middle
Of the bridge...
Looking weak...
Making screeching sounds
Every time they tried
To move their feet...
The moth eaten planks looked like waiting
For their feet to cause them leave
The strings rusty and fall steep
Into the blue river...

The boy had eyes fixed on the green
The other side...
'loving colors and the breeze...
i think i should try
To go to the other side...
To those tall trees...incense bearing...
So fascinating...
But...'

The boy stopped here...
The girl had her eyes on the boy's
And nothing else did she see...

'what?'
The girl asked...

'i can't risk it...
You...how can i risk?'
The boy looking at the sleepy wavy green murmured...

'you love that place...na?'
The girl asked...

The boy bent his head to right...
To the extreme
To show his willingness...

The girl flashed a sunny smile...
Her ribbon she knotted tight...
Her shoes she took in her left hand
And the other hand
She extended to the boy...

'let's go...'

She said smiling...

And the two...
They walked along
Side by side
Over the moth eaten fragile bridge...
Which could break and fall
And slip straight into the river...
But the river was so blue...
And the sky too...
And the land on the other side-
It was so green...

A journey they started thus
based on Faith...
They were mere teens
And had no dearth of that...godly sense...
They had only innocence
And no apple tree around
And no Satanic shape
In form of a serpent...
To lure them...
To them tempt...

They had only God
And no Lucifer...
Perhaps...

So they walked...
And reached...
The other side unhurt...
To Heaven...

To Isabel... (an impassioned address)

Hey Isabel...
Where are you?
Am i not dying for you?
hey Isabel...
What do your earbells tell?
O i am cut and bruised and felled!
hey Isabel...
Abuses fly rapid like a storm
And malign hearts conspire a half chance torn...
But i am still standing like a sage
For have i not also seen glorious days?
Have i not taken part in three generation's funeral?
Have i not sipped blood and gall?
hey Isabel...
Have i not ripped knife into my own bones?
Have i not gifted a sanguine rose?
Have i not prayed with a pure heart
'mea culpa...'
without being haunted by any speck of doubt?
hey Isabel...
The road seems long and tiring and full of thorns...
But have i not worn wooden shoes like an ascetic born?
Have i not bent and stooped to touch feet of all?
Have i not tasted the venomous gall?
hey Isabel...
Where are you?
O the sky is still like a morn blue...
hey Isabel...
Apologies for being so much  passionate...
hey Isabel...
The bus had gone far and i am so so late...
hey Isabel...
got only prayers ringing for peace...
like a man in grave dreaming a kiss...
hey Isabel...
Sorry for being so lost without calm
But knowing taken not any wrong turn...
i pray to God
And also to you the same...
hey Isabel...
Where are you ?
my imagined dame?

Waking up...also a journey...

Atop the build
So by yellow lights blazed
The architect
Stood...

The iron rods were jutting out the same
Out of concrete...

'seen the light?'
He asked...
The kid nodded...
'seen the green?'
The kid nodded again...
'how far have you transgressed?'
Was the next question
Whispered as if...
Contemplative...
'not far...
Cause i am still tied...'

He looked at the kid...
'naturally...
Tied we are all kid...
Tied we are the same...
But then
There is also the flight...
Love life...
Joie de vivre...
Remember?
The deepest root
Going down in search of water and minerals?
And birds and birdlings on chirp...
And tired traveler sleeping off under a shade of a big banyan?
Remember?
You once wrote a whole world on that...
Remember?
You had Anu...
Monideepa...
Ved...
Sonai...the little girl...
And so much of being virtual...
Mind...
And so much real...
And Agape...
Remember?
Those one lakh words?
Remember?
A pestilence stricken city?
Before that?
And Saurav?
And his childish revolt?
And remember
That Gandharaj tree?
Your mother?
The biting cold?
The hallucinogenic trance?
Remember?'

The architect smiled...
The yellow light painted joy
Upon his old wrinkled face...
His nose top glistening...
His eyebrows shining like a pair of bows...
Bent perfect...
Sharp...
Penetrating...
Deep...
The kid stared at Him
Amazed...
he thought he should bow...
he was about to do so...
Feeling weak at knees...

'stand erect...
Be drenched by the saffron of the cloud...'
He the old millionaire
Muttered...
Audibly good...

The city from the top
Looked like a space
Being painted all saffron...
And gold...
The kid looked up...
The sky was blue...
And it was another experience...
Of waking up...

Remembrance of the Father...

finding the white swan
Flying across...
The Sun rising gold
he thought she by her mere passing him told
he had not trodden along the road
To that architectural marvel-
A building old made of white marble...
For long...

he thought...
he was at Nuova Marina...
and the white swan
Like a ballerina
Dancing to the tune of the breeze...
Flew by...
Gently...swooping down low
Before rising against the gold of the sun...
As if to remind and show
him the path ordained...
The Faith...

And Cicero...
The youngish speedracer of the whole of Napoli...
Thought of Father Mackenzie...
he imagined His calm face
His white blinding dress
And soft kiss...

And so many other things
Like His slightly bent gait...
His humourous sense...
His insight...
His bending down to appreciate
A grass flower waking up...

And the seven kilometres
he glided...
In two and half minutes...
Thinking only of Him...
He standing white...
Bright
And an altarpiece...
Made of glass...
Forming a perspective...
Through which the gold entered like rays
Of joy...

And also
Cicero
the youngish speedracer
Felt...
How gold melt
And seeped from top to bottom...

he sped...

With the swan in his heart...
The gold in his head
And the Father all over his soul...

A moon lit evening...and one impressionist...

'had i been Claude Monet
i would have captured perfect
And created a work...
Naming it
Impression,lunarscape...
Much like the Sunrise one...
But on a different platform...
Differed Space
And Time too...'
he thought
Looking at the moon
Through the bamboo thicket
Peeping like a little girl
Playing hide and seek...
One evening
So heartwarming...

he looked at her
her silvery moist face
Without any cosmetic
Any adornment artificial...

'aha...
She is so much like a dream
And alas
Even if He is so kind
So wealthy...
So rich...
i am so poor...
Not a Claude Monet
To create a canvas pure
Of an impression
Cast so vivid
But lost in transit...'

he thought
As real engagements caught him
The table was made ready
And he had to attend a party...
Away from the Moon...
Amidst hurly burly...

A painting and a boy...

It was snowing like cotton
and the evening had only white
All over it...
The boy stood there at the station gate
With his eyes filled with paints
He thought he witnessed
A beautiful evening again...
Looking up as he saw flakes
Of snow circling and dancing mid air suspended by the magic
Of the wind...
He his overcoat tightened
And looked ahead...
The road leading to the gate was all white
And the rows of yellow streetlights-
How they lent hues on the snow...
Yellow and blue and darkish shadows...
The golden rails of the stairs
Marble under a thin cover of white
Under the faint loony light
Glistened like real gold...
And he the boy stood there
As if he was struck by some painting so moving...so bold...

A painting of a station gate some centuries old
And a little boy standing right there
On a snowy evening with moonlight fair...

A dream of a white colt...

'seen a white colt...
Bianco cavallino...
Last night
In my dream...'
Francesco told
Not told...
he thought...
Not did he think
he did sink
Into the dream...
Of the colt white
Running free...
Running happy...
Running like a wind
Of the sea...
Breathless...

he did sink
And Isabel?

She just sat...
Her cheeks were so pink
And she was also participating...
Into that run...
She relating...
She transcending...
Slow...
To a white little dream of a colt...
Running breathless
With the wind...
Amidst heavenly green...
A dream he had seen...
Of bianco cavallino...

Silk...the lake and the Sun...

When the golden orb appeared
Like a round plate
A silky saree orangy pink spread
On float... wavy
On the lake...
he saw...

A saree with golden hue
Too-
Spread
and by the breeze trembled...

he looked
as he saw the creamy golden spread
'perhaps i have seen sarees like that...
In handloom expos...
In the weavers' fair...
Silk...
Soft...
Wavy...
With borders thin...
A light greenish one...
But they bear only a likeness...
By the sun they were never so blessed...'

he thought
Looking at the creamy golden spread
Like a silk...
With a round motif of the sun
Appearing right
In the middle of the lake
Afloat...

Like Diana Hay...like la dolce vita...

'Like Diana Hay...
Had i cooked...'
he thought
As he looked the outdoor
The sea opening her greenish blue door
And on the grill eggplants
And lamb pieces...
Smoke...

And to decorate
Two tablespoons
Of yoghurt...
With chopped coriander leaves...
And cucumber leaves too!

'like Diana Hay...
i wish i lived...'
he thought...
The sea...
The bluish green...
The breeze...
And
La dolce vita!

The poets of the fall and a carnival of God...

'to breathe the name of your saviour...
...
...
To taste the flavour of blame...'
The song altered and occured
In his mind
One breezy a bit cloudy
Cool evening...
Just setting in
Like a dream
On the road
So much painted red
By blossoms that bled
Only Agape...
The highest form...
Of living...

And he looked up
The sky so stupidly beautiful
The road so insanely dipped
Into songs of cuckoos...
And other unknown birds...

They are all singing...
They are all part of springy monsoon...
They are all connected by fastest wireless network
To Him...
The God...

And he sang
The Carnival...
'The poets
Of the fall...'

he and Pamela... one Madrid afternoon...

She came
In her dark blue jacket
And blue skirt...
Perfect...
A thin gold bangle on her left wrist
And white collar neatly placed...
At table twenty six
She came straight...

he seeing her
Signalled
The bellboy
And ordered
Goat cheese
And omellette...
And of course the afternoon tea...

She sat down
Calm...
Composure writ
On her face...

he by then wrote a scribble
On the white paper napkin...

She sipped tea...
The afternoon in Madrid...
Looked pleasing...
The cafe looked at peace
Though other few tables had people...
Laughing...guffawing...sneering...jeering...
Loud...unprovoked...
Too gaudy...too showy...

Pamela looked at ease
he too...
with his poesy...
Busy...

Pamela drank tea...
Her eyes noted the paper napkin...
She said nothing...

After twenty minutes past three
She
Got up...
Running late perhaps for some work...

'Madrid's lanes are very clumsy nowadays...'
she remarked...
And while she was getting up
he noticed she
Taking the paper napkin
With the scribble...

he said nothing
Barring standing up...
Showing courtesy...

And soon after she left...
he ordered the bellboy to bring in another cup of tea...
he thought he needed to write...
Just he got an idea...
It just clicked
In his white mind...

California to Port Alba...a letter...

'Dear...
Left at the cupboard
A Bible wrapped in red...
And a star...
And a ribbon blue...

And if you want to know
i am fine...
Only now the time -spatial logs
Keep me busy...
Not often
But not infrequent also...

The distance you measured?
Well...
Last night...
i did a bit...
And it turned out
To be...
Something like ten thousand three hundred eighty nine point eight six...
That in kilometres...
And you can call it
Six thousand four hundred and fifty five point nine five miles...
And if you think in nautical miles
It would be a bit less...
Around five thousand something, i guess...

And now the time...

Today is twentieth here...
Yours is twenty first...
And mine is night fair
And yours is a morn...
Six o clock? i guess so...

But...
As i told you...
Left a Bible wrapped in red
And a star...
(Gabriel's...remember?)
And the blue ribbon...

So...
That is it for now
That's all you needed to know...
That's all i needed to tell...

Here i this damn math end...'

-Francesco Ghirlandaio.

Game of Football and Nash...

When by the road
At a land so far unexplored
he saw kids playing
Football...
he had to stop...
A game of football
And how could he miss that?
football that had
Given him so much...
Rains...sunshine...broken ankle...
Dreams...flowery garlands...
Sweat.. Hard muscles...and friendship...

How can he not miss that?
So...
he stopped...
Parked himself under a tree
A medium sized one
Not sprawling
But leafy sure...
And incidentally with plastered seat
Underneath it
Neat...
he sat...
feeling the cool on his back
And the breeze
Taking light just faint
And under that creamy golden paint
A bunch of kids
And a game of football...

he them watched...

One particular kid
In blue jersey and white shorts
Number nine...
'he is fast...
he is a possibility...
But he dribbles too much
And keeps the ball in hold...
For himself he plays...'
he observed...

The game was on...
The blue jersey
Nine
Whom he chose
Was coolly moving on
To the opponent's goal post...
One-to-one...
A sideback also from his side
Had come up...

'minus the ball to your side back...'
he...sitting like a fan
Under a small banyan
Wished...

But the kid...
Inexperienced a bit
Dribbled for an opening
And the goalie pounced for the ball...
The number nine
Inspite of a possibility
The goal missed...

The sideback seemingly got disappointed...

He was too...

'these kids need to know
One thing...
What prevents an ideal situation from happening...
Prisoner's dilemma...

They need to know that...
Prisoner's dilemma causes always the ruin...'

Thinking this
he thought he should call the kids...
But to his surprise
The game ended there
And the kid...
Number nine
And others too...
They were retreating...
From the field
Going back home perhaps...
Their sweaty jerseys they had opened...
They were walking home bare...
Talking within themselves...
Their exploits and errors...

'hey number nine...'
he called out...
The kid looked up...
The jersey in his hand...
Number nine still visible...
Folded though...

'you need to do the minus
Sometimes
When you are not sure
Of your
Positional co ordinate
And you can't shoot home a point...'
he yelled...softly
Advisory...
The kid stopped for a while...
Looked at his eyes...
his smiling traveler's indulgent face...
And then he yelled back...
'next morn ...
We all will be here...
At six...
And we want you to be with us
We want to know certain tricks
To shoot goals
And to cooperate...
To know
More about dilemmas
And the theory of the game...'

he nodded immediate...
'Nash would be too much for them
We could just talk the application next day...
And a bit of fun...
A zing...
For them...'
he thought...
Smiling...

Mea culpa...

'mea culpa...'
the priest only shook his head
And kept jabbering the same...
'mea culpa...'
he shook his head
And repeated...

'where's our target? The girl we spotted?
The girl whom we want to be hanged?
Answer us...
Hey you!'
The men in uniforms sought an answer...

The priest would not tell...
He would just shake his head...
His cape had fallen...
His grey head got revealed...
His eyes looked sullen...

But he smiled...
Knowing the girl he perhaps saved
By saying 'mea culpa...'
'i am ready to be hanged...if you may...'
He repeated...
And in his mind's eyes
He knew he saw
The escapade
Of the girl
In his dress
Which he her gave...
Only to her save...

And those men in black nazi uniform
They thought it was time to put their grips strong
Upon him...
So they pounced on him...

But did not he pray a million times
To Him seeking forgiveness?
And to His feet he his blood sacrificed?

They pounced but found
The dress worn of a woman
By the priest only lied there...
And he had become permeable
Absolute.

A note important...and some works...

'left for you that worksheet...
On your desktop...
You need to that keep...'
She had left a note
On his computer deliberate...

He had works to do...
Workaholic... wasn't he?
Works...
A small life...
And a lot of works...

So
She thought it would be wise
To leave certain notes
On the desktop...
And she colored it...
Highlighted...
He must not it miss...

He had his works...
Columns of smoke to build
Over an ashtray...
And then to write some...
An architect...
And a God...
And groceries to be still maintained
And electricity bills were to be paid...
Medicinal plants for an old man...
A special biscuit can for the puppy...
A hurricane tour to keep some old friends happy...
A pending infrastructural issue...
Toilet running out of tissue...
A bank note with a dubious thread...

And most importantly...
A road that to a journey proper led...

He had surely works...
Catching pictures of storks...
And also of the sky blue as reflected on a small puddle clean...
To memorise multiplication table of nineteen...
(for the kid at home who always sleeps on his breast)
And songs to be downloaded straight...
Some mails marked as spam...
Some submissions marked as pretty dumb
Some movies not yet seen but stored...
To think out another urban folklore...
To connect with New Jersey via skype®...
words sixteen hundred or more to type...

But the note
On the desktop highlighted
He thought he properly it sighted...