Apology from the youngest Corleone...

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

Doctor saab...

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

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

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

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

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

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

rain and a late night stop...

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

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

late night rain
dripped insolent...

and stone shone
glistening like slippery plate...

the colored chairs
empty empty seats...

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

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

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

red tunic...

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

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

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

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

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

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

where's that cakeman gone?

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

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

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

A cloudy november morn...

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

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

A farmer's tale...

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

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

Winter checks in...

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

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

the climb...a pilgrimage...

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

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

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

riding down...a transition...

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

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

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

twenty years on...

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

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

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

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

bitter gourd...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anjali...

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

creme de la creme...

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

when that evening you smiled...

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

come...we join us...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An avenue and me...

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

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

from memory...

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

mahalaya...

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

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

A lazy sunday noon arrives...

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

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

A martini evening ...

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

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

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

Two street cars...

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

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

Parting...

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

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

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

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

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

After ten years...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a dussera morn...

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

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

memoir of a shopper...

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

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

silent note...

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

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


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

occhio della mente

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

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

When you made me blind...

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

my autumn...

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

Being a tree...

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

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

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

Kaash flowers of the morn...

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

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

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

You...the diwali light!

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

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

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

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

hey kid! get rid of exam blues!

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

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

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

what is the way to love?

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

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

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

leit motif of the incomplete...

some incompleteness
has the dream of completion...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caffeine...

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

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

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

Let the day wane...

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

This day...

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

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

Once again the night same...

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

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

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

Unchanged...

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

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

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

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

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

Can i betray?

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

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

Granny...my granny...

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

Sunday is a marketplace...

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

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

The moon game...

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

First muse...

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

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

Bound for late night home...

This mist in the air-
a sense of a slight chill,
The moon soaked by the wet clouds
On the lonely road ghostly feel,
And the mild purr of the engine horsepower under clutch...
the breeze with nightly kisses of fairies from the sky despatched...
And the rapid run of the dots of lights
To the opposite direction...blazing flight...

I am just loving it...
Every bit of this return
Late night home I would meet
At the possible next turn...

I am singing a song way back home
Homeward bound as I am
I am awake running the road
While the world has fallen dumb...

O what a way it is to return home
Late...tired...yet gay and fine...
O what a way it is to see her on wait at the table to dine...

Doubly born...

To be lost in a forest
Enveloped by the mist and fog
Where cloudlets come down to rest
Their wings after the flight...
To be lost in the stories of the sleepy meadow
Where dewdrops accumulate on blades, bits of rainbow...
Is like savouring life
In its truest form...
Is like in single life
Doubly born...

Take me back to the womb...

Put me into a wrap
Of your long gown black
And bring me all the studs
Of starlets like newest diamond buds...
Put me into your lap
And the whole world so boisterous
Jarring spokes...flattened tubes...hissing down
Just by your flowing cover everything collapse...
Put me into balmy sleep
By your black hair in which glowworms peep
Send me rest...send me refuge true
Drop on me nightly mist and dew...
Take me to the time primordial
When chaos wasn't born to dictate the real...
Take me to the prenatal insulated state
When sounds and sights through liquid of womb me met...

Take me back...
Back to the womb...
Take me to the sack
Floating me where caught first the heavenly tune...
And sang forever silently closing eyes...
Take me back where only dreams of birth lie...

the archeologist...

The tiny drops of rain
Cried in vain
Clinging to the rails
Of the staircase
Of the palace...
So majestic ...grand
As if a white marvellous land...

But without people so empty
And standing at the feet
Of the flight of stairs
That rose up to the upper layers
Of the sky...cloudy with colors dark deep
He thought what for he had come there
What promises he had to keep
After so many years that glided by
After the terminal kisses and long drawn good bye...

Then he looked up the golden dome
And a pink floating form
Came to his sight
At one corner of the dome bright...
A pink saree's end perhaps or a flag
He his hypnotised legs up the stairs dragged
As if that piece of cloth aflutter
Beckoned him to climb the marble ladder
Of hopes returning again with force
For which he wheeled away several miles from his determined course...
For which he spent hours by the lake
For which needlessly he made too apparent mistakes...
For which the sky, the river,the trees, the hills...
All his mind only impressions sealed
Quite permanent...indelible like some ink
Painted on fingers which to his digressive paths him always linked...

So he climbed the hypnotised man
He climbed not knowing after that time where he would stand...
Only he felt he was there like an archeologist
To unearth history from the surface of marble and brick...
He felt by his spatula he would carbon date
What is the exact age of his pinkish fate...
So he moved up to reach the saree's end
To where his search to the non physical world bent...

What can i give back?

Since morn the rain has been
Weaving a pattern of love...it seemed
As if it fell on me being sent
By so many beautiful souls...
Living so near...
Some even traversed miles far...
I know...
Just like the clouds of late monsoon
Travelling acres of green...
And perhaps sands and snow...
I know...
O how much of love
You send...
This day...this moment...
Supercharging me...my every bit of nerve...my veins...
O how you fill me with a wonderous sense...
I cry...
And tears so happy
Never did I notice...
(And I don't unnecessarily lie...)
They come out flowing with so much of ease...
That I feel ashamed to wipe those drops...
I just let the rivery stream flow...
From my heart...to my toe...
As if I have been bathed
After a long gap of years...with the passion unsaid...

Now its my turn to give back...
Some thing at least...sure...
But what can I possibly give back?
I am turned such a debtor...
By you...your morning scraps...
Your evening pings...
Your noonday dreams...

And then I felt...
My hands trembled...
My heart throbbed...
From eyes water dropped-
In shapes of silvery beads...
And I know...
All these
Are just the rightest signs
Of giving you back all that is so far mine...

The metro girl...

The whiff of sudden air
Always let me know
You are there
In that compartment of metro...

Announcements made over address system
And the simultaneous automatic doors burst open
To let you out from the belly of the train
Reminds me always life's halts and stops
And how images underground pops
Out of busy city borne day...

And at the evening...
More and more crowd
Run up and down escalators...
Like columns of heads tired on return
To their favoured destinations...
I am reminded of you again
Your numbed feet...hazy brain...
Your forehead with beads of sweat
Your smudged up lipgloss...your flushed cheeks red...
Your dawn to dusk runs to and fro...
Your anxious stare at watch...your furrowed brow...
Your autorickshaw wait-
At the non scheduled spot...
Your phone losing charge...
You in traffic jam caught...

Everyday...day in and out
Metro trains remind me of you no doubt...
I can only admire this superwomanliness...
I gape awed seeing you running the life's race...

A tree like birth...

Felt so lost
And so tiny
In the midst of towering trees
Standing tall and strong yet aged right
With wisdom of the flowing breeze specially at night...
Which tell them tales without cease...

Stood underneath at the feet of them
Trying to grasp the meaning of living untamed...
To taste and savour how the beams of moon
Cause silver plating on them by loony tune...
Tried to fully understand
How they collect news in leaves from dust and sands...
How they assimilate opinionated claims
By their sap running like a column of liquid sense...
How they converse in whispers at night
Exchanging slokas of the brightest minds...
How they transfer every single bit of pulse
Of living to non living by being static cults
Of aging beautifully with a growth of knowledge...
As grow the souls of the ageless sages...

Felt so humbled...belittled...dismayed...
Being lost in the woods of trees so great...
Touched their trunks huge solid with cracked woody surface...
Felt how they all ravages of time witnessed...
As if they carry the crux of life...
As if they like stoic gulped down all the strife
And transmuted them into beauty and mirth...
Felt myself wishing to have a tree like birth...

A search...a reverie

Since morning perhaps
There the subconscious
Planted in him the wish
To make the visit...
To that narrow lane
By the canal
To that stop...
Where he was once born
And saw the first light of the day
Thirty years back...
He thought even before taking the turn
The sharp bent ...where the light hit
To the wall pretty straight
That he would find everything the same
As he had left thirty years ago...
With great anticipation he made the turn
Excitement ripping him apart
Within...
He thought there that gandharaj would be seen
Standing as she used to be
With white blossoms under the shadow dim...
He thought soon he would hear
Children in giggles...cries and tears...
And out of that double storied house
Soon his playmate would run across
And pull him by his hands
To take him to that meadowy grass
And that bank of pond...
Where tadpoles wriggled like a black cloth broad...
He thought he would with nature's innocence bond
There after thirty years he gripped by memories fond...

But nay!
That was not to be...
Rows of houses collapsed all memory...
The gandharaj was not there
Only a brick ugly wall stood
And an electric post like a shock
His foolishness severely mocked...
A curious woman from a door
Looked at him...with crossed brow...
Another stood at the window
'Searching someone?' was the unuttered look
He with dubious sad confused state shook
His head sideways...
And then muttered within clumsily...
'No no none I came here to seek...but only me...'

Every one has roads within...

Every road has its own story
Don't you think so?
The road that runs the desert through
Is long hot sultry mirage like simmering...

And the one through the forest is cool
With long and dark shades full
Which play on the wayfarer's face and body
Like little touches so benign...

And there are roads also within
Both through desert sands and woods...
And we...all make journeys through them...
We all make journeys the same...

transcendentalist of seventy seven

Now the knowledge has dawned on him even
He had been a transcendentalist of seventy seven...
the year of flood and artificial famine
was his year of birth and will always remain...
otherwise why this confusion? this unrest?
why this ritual of afternoon embrace?
why this tumult so unnerving?
why this search rising within?

He thought and closed his eyes
Standing still amidst blood and lies
and the city by him impalpably passed
Lousy generic codes filled fibre optics just...
A flash here...there a lightning struck
A halogen yellow went sudden dark...
A red Ducatti double exhaust dream
Like a supernova burnt his outer melanin
And he became so colorless white
A statue of God that fell just in sight
Standing amidst confusion so so quiet...

Madness in shape of blaring horns
black glassed kisses in cabs covered- unblown...
Vendors selling cheap spaghetti tops
Carts with apples freshened by rain drops...
Police guards hanging bellied pressing palms...
Quotes so godly straight from psalms...
All by him fleetingly passed
but him the transcendentalist they never touched...
He just chose to stand upright
eyes clasped closed...unopened tight...

telling you a lore of a city...

Telling you a lore of a city
being tilled and ploughed relentless
by earthmovers...gigantic cranes
which like monsters shake
the soil beneath and the sky they mock...
Those monsters by day look chivalric and by the night send waves of shock...

Telling you a lore of a lost eden
where trees no shades bear
only cacti with shapeless thorns prick and burden...
visions of life where with morn rise
but by night where they invariably die
like fallen leaves from withered skeletons...
Where sands and ashes fill grasslands like claustrophobic remnants
of morbid tirelessness so brute...

Telling you a story of utter loss
of a city -thrown for a toss
for sharks to grab with greedy teeth...
where smoke belching existence with expansion of boundaries meet...

pre dawn moment

The pebbles of the recent past
Have not yet gathered dust...
The bud of the morning late
is to bloom into flower yet...
The lake water blue glass
is yet to get the breeze's touch...
A pre-dawn moment is so still
So silent peaceful with serenity fills...
As if din and bustle are non existent
As if horns and chaos never civil life reigned...
As if wakeful restless had never torn
Pantheistic deity which the poet forlorn
Savoured full in his sublimated life...

It is the hour of sublime birth
Of inherent joy...genomic mirth
Which only beauty of silence can write
A pre dawn moment when comes with darkness bright...

The pen your name when writes...

With the thought of writing
Your name on this white page
I'm writing this...
After a long time
My pen has so wished...
To write your name
On the white page-
As I revisit
The days of liquid ink
And handmade paper that soak
Every impression made on it...

With the object of finding you
Once again I write
And I know that is another way
Of discovering myself right...

This sky...reminds...

This sky reminds me of autumn
So young...impulsive...gay
A fun filled boyish toy shopping day...
I walk back to hold my mother's finger
So many board games...red cars plastic on shelves when lingered;
Tempting new shoes on racks
Books opening Russian maps...
White kash flowers swinging down the grassy slope...
This sky fills me with autumnal hope-
Of finding my best friend's red tricycle making rumbling sounds
On asphalt...empty afternoon's playground bound...
Of sweet little bits of innocent dream-
Savouring alone a bit of chocopie or cream...
And the restlessness to reach that twin hills at the park
Where some genie would arrive after every sunset dark...
And the thought of flying a smart black and yellow kite
Ripping apart all contenders by its fast fiery flight...
And also of a balcony where the mellowed fairy would turn up
With cheeks powder puffed
And hair tied by ribbon pink oft...

I know...yes...i know...

Yes...I have faltered
But I know the course of stream can never be altered...
Yes...I am in a confounded mess
But I know fully how all these years
Poetry in you I desperately traced...
Yes...I know it all...
Where I rose...
And where I did fall...
Where and exactly at what hour
I know the smell of gandharaj flower
Encapsulated me...my soul...my pages of write...
And when did the moon shine on the water bright...
I know...yes...
I know...

I know what you sought in me...
And when the first birth of hidden poetry
Rushed you to the labour room
With happy face...closed eyes...full of satiety...
I know...
Yes...I know...

When you bit the end of your pen...
When you threw away your phone with disdain...
And which night became dawn
Washed completely by your sobs...
And which days you returned
With tired tears and yawns...
I know...
Yes...I know...

When you coiled your end of hair...
When you called me 'An intolerable liar'...
When you termed me 'A fugitive'...
I know it all dear...please believe!

I know what it meant to stop at a lane
And what effect could cause a whistle of a train
In the night most dark and somewhat eerie...
I know what I put into your bosom to carry...
Heavy sighs...hot lead feels...
Sudden going back...envelopes unsealed...
I know...
Yes...
I know it all...

Provence...a name of a place...and a sense...

Had I not been tired
Surely I would have admired
The wetstone slabs which did reflect
The lights from the closed gates
Of the houses on two sides of the road
And the silver glitz of the swords
Fixed in crosses on the wooden boards
On some walls of the place...called Provence...
Had I not been using contact lens...
I would have surely wiped my glasses
With the soft pinkish cloth a square piece
Kept in my trouser pocket without unease...
And looked again and again to get
The full meaning of the colors that spread
In different directions on the wetstones
I would have made a replica of the sword that shone
Like golden artefact so glamourous...
I would have for a wide angle shoot asked
The people...the curious bystanders...
At that place called Provence...
Where peace that evening came like a newly discovered sense...

Universal being...

At the evening
when the cicadas sing
and the well of smoke
with white curls trees and vegetation soak
and the distant rumble of train
fill the plain with euphemism-
He would take a seat
on the porch...silently tweaked
by Nature's overwhelming magic...
He would become a disciple
avid...restful and perfect recipient...
Of all little changes and things unchanged
Of wide and far and deep and profound range
Of the eternal as metaphors dense
To him like sluggish rain came...

'I got to write them down
somewhere in suitable form...
In golden alphabets perhaps which time could never drown...'
So thinking he took up his feathery pen...
So thinking he got engaged into a chain
of thought and imagination intertwined
He filled white pages of his enlightened mind...

It took a whole long day
As long as a decade could in mirror on soul stay...
It took real out of him...
His inexhaustible self merged into
the universal being...

i am at Khowai...where are you?

'i am at Khowai...where are you dear?
the river is so soft and genteel here...
and the earth is saffron red
and the shadows the trees bred
on the post rain bosom wet
whisper peace and so much of love...
and a song like joy of living
here the breeze to me brings...

where are you dear?
missing it all...the heavenly splendour...
that lifts me up to the eternal moment
of ecstasy that only nature to a man can lend...

where are you locked up?
To which traffic snarl you stopped?
O dear! here dreams drop from rainbows straight...
here at Khowai...browny red
afternoon siesta of monsoon late
Has some visions of cowsheds sketched...
and the smoke from chullas simply catch
Setting sun's blushes unmatched...

Where are you sweetheart?
Fly to me...lightning fast
for the day is to come to an end...
For Khowai would into the dark soon bend...'

Belle de nuit

When the city returns from work
She adjusts her hair locks...
Just where the flyover takes the speed
To defy the printed limit
on blue boards that glow in dark...
She also arrives to stand...stark...
A lone lustrous figure on dazzle...
To stomach taunts...gestures...smoke from muzzle-
Of cars that don't bother to stop...

The city night descends quiet
As she waits eager for headlight
That would come and switch off
To take her to the exact spot
where a machine would for her churn
Coins and dough after a complete burn
of mechanical pulls and pushes...
of playing around shrubs and bushes...
Of human anatomy...hormonal desires
Of plunging full in mud and mires...

Then at the day break
She would invariably a long deep breath take...
As if her night has finally come
to give her tranquility some...
As the pigeons on lonely streets catch chaff
As the milkman with cans of life emerge...
She takes her refuge in sleep
And surely dreams of oceans deep
where dolphins play and sun paints joys
She in sleep with impossiblities toys...

why i seek you when it rains...

On such a rain filled day
Once on your lap of barley fields and hay
I discovered my love, lust and peace...
By the drops of water teased
We started a talk first
Laced with insatiable lust...
Then we got adrift
The motion of the needles swift
On my face...your lips
Took us to newest discoveries...
Of both mental and physical spaces
We glued ourselves to the utmost closeness...

The rainy day graduated in us
From lust we to another chapter passed
Of our co-written book...
And the long leaves of palm which shivered and shook
Dropped spherical dimensions of beads
On us providing different leads
To our story so multispatial
We filled our vials
of minds...to the brim...

Life and Time woven tight
In patterns of stitch work bright
With silk threads of peacock green
We caused birth of huge wide dreams...
We put words in pictures calm
We caught colors of the whole spectrum
Yet to be seen by naked mortal eyes
We our fabric of life with colors dyed...
Colors almost as old as Pre-Raphaelite
And modern as good as Urban Blight...
We reached two opposite ends
The extremities which only passion lends
To mortal bodies and immortal minds...
We  trespassed barriers of all kinds-
Of space...of Time...

So when
A day of rains
Come dripping slow through leaves
I seek your presence
In all my veins...




 

naked...

So as per her wish
The goddess...
I stripped
Of clothes and sins
And desires unseen...
And sat on the rock
Upon which the sun grew dim
And the wind
From the far away lands
Came to pay a visit...
The solid coldness of the night
Grew moist on my uncovered thighs...
And moisture from the sky
Fell on my breast...
Naked like a moon
White...all white...
Just then a sublime tune
Told me plain
It was time
To go unchained...



 

carrier me...

The blue lagoon sky
with a sprinkle of pink and violet
set my return to den with a sense perfect...
but that glassy tower
when the sky did reflect
I was reminded of you
whom I had physically left...
some hundred miles away
Having no real way
to carry you with me...

Yet I do carry you...
In aromatic manner...perfume
mild and so much feminine...
in an image of hair blown...on float...
in touches smelling of only jasmine...
in choked up throat
throbbing for words...
in tachometer beeps
lunging forward...

I do carry the warm hugs-
the feel of a thread being somewhere tugged...
the joy of a flower as she tastes rain...
the sublimation of life in a bucket of paints...
the birth of a sensation assuring me bliss beyond time...
the sight of a glass with an umbrella and sliced lime...

my mad girl...

Your green android dreams
were there lying on the table it seemed...
It was just one of your half read days
fifty shades of mind on the coverpage...
and a hairclip black with stone studs...
and a picture on the wall of tulip buds...
and there your brown leather bag
with your toiletries surely stuffed...
lipsticks...pollen grains...liners black...
and there on the desk I also discovered...
a few lines written by you on a file cover...
'O My restless mind bestow peace
O You my tormentor give me a kiss...'
I looked and read those lines several times
written in red they just in me chimed...

Manas sarovar...

Reaching the pure blue
lake named after the deepest wish
under the sky so clear
and the dry chill drilling numbness into bones...
Is a revelation by itself...
as if I have come here
with a purpose...
'what the purpose could be?'
asked myself twice...
looking at the flakes of ice
golden dazzling profound
My reflection on the water found...
and also that of the world...
the stray leaves in the wind twisted and twirled...
Caught a glimpse of a silent procession
of monks returning to their stone sculpted stations...
after their customary morning practice...
of visiting the silence absolutely without leash...

then watched a flight of a bird
unkown like an arrow straight up
piercing the blue like a sprite-
wonderous happy unprecedented sight...

then sat down folded knees
beside the lake...to get the breathing of the breeze
into heart fully inflated...
sat down like forever fated...

and kept on staring blank
at the water of the lake...and sank
into me,more and more...
to feel the inner persistent downpour...

how time elapsed couldn't make out
how the scenery outside within me sprout-
also didn't perfectly decipher...
but felt on skin and nerves
so close...so happily near
to the blissful state eternal...

an elusive evening...

Waded through time and water
Like secretive spoils
On wet wet soil...
The grass land ahead was dark
Only a post lone stood and lent
A glow white of moon that spread...

Under a small tree which cast
A reflection same of its happy being
On watery pool near...saw you asleep ...
Thought not to wake you up
From your sleep drenched by light so soft...
Only got dangerously close
To you...my white moist rose...
And at once the smell
Of grass...and flakes of sandalwood
Gripped me...and made me lose
All my reserve...my philosophic cues...
I dropped my lips on wet wet you...
And planted an insignia of my dreams
So much smoky like burnt nicotine...
And you without opening your eyes
With your arms like an evening song me tied...

And the moon like glow of the post
Mixed with the haze of the rain
Put up a big white curtain
All over us...

The courtyard...

On the floor of the courtyard
That leafy motif by you I found
Done last year with all your devotion...

In concentric circles you painted
Leaves of trees hung immobile from branches...
And flowers a bit perfect nonetheless...
Colored by different chalks...
Yellow petals...green stalks...
And at the centre of the elaborate design
A red circle solid I did find...

While last year you were putting finishing touches
The day turned night and by sticks of matches
Your face with little beads of sweat
I discovered as my only fate...
Your hands were filled with liquid colors
Red,yellow,white,green all layered
On your eyebrow found a stroke
Of yellow and red mixed supercilious
And how then I into laughter broke...

That motif is still there on the floor
Of the courtyard where now light through cloud pours...
Reminding me another year has gone
The courtyard knows...what it means to be lone...

One last time more...

Wrist watch told me plain
It was three thirty p.m.
But those dark clouds did descend
In such a manner on the road open
It seemed I reached an evening...

Heard in the country night comes fast...
Saw how the dark swallowed up rays last...
Of the sun in a philosophic fashion...
Slow gradual but such an omniscient motion...
Knew this road would take one to the gate
Of horses mounted on its pillars of eternal rest...
Knew there at the end before the door
I would see him one last time more
Rested...slept down...forever young and old...
Knew I would see him with smile put fixed...on hold

It was only three thirty by the afternoon
And still the dark walked so bold and beautiful...
And the road cutting through all trees...bushes and meadows
Beckoned me to rush to touch his shadow...
One last time before he would away go...
One last and final time more...

Mountain girl

Through the glass rectangular
One could see upto that far
Where the lean asphalt disappeared
Into the woods of lovely deodars...
And with two coffee mugs striking red
Which all the time warm cozy feels breathed
I by that glass for my mountain girl did wait...

My mountain girl...who would every morn come
With flowery songs woven on her white cardigan...
She would come slow penetrating the haze
Of the foggy pines where time a few minutes delayed...
She would walk slow past the churchyard calm
She would arrive with smell of just risen sun...
Pure white as new born babies smile
She would come crossing a score and half postmiles...
The moment I would see her face
On my mind only poems would surface...
I would pour hot dark liquid into mugs...
Waiting still to be caught in her hugs...
Then closing in when the screen got wide
I would see in her hand a bunch of flowers blue and white
Wrought simply by a thin twine
How spread all the sweetness of love mine...

I would go quick to open the door
To let in the morn so white and pure...
She would smile and hug me tight
And thus my mountain girl would inspire light...
In me to throw away all the dark...
And I would thus be reborn
By my mountain girl every morn...

To those evenings...

And there were some evenings...
When with a book of Keats
And mind ful of images
I would seek a refuge to your first floor...
To that room with half opened green door...
I would never knock...
The yellow light from the corridor
Would cast my shadow on the floor...and also cut into your room...
Your ghazal seeped bed...
Your red cement cool...
Half awake you would smile
As if you were waiting for the precise time...
And we would talk...
Laugh...burst into blast...
Your dad would sometimes come
Joining us with his songs some...
His voice simple and chaste
Would leave for us sometimes  unusual images...
of an ivy on the porch...creeping climbing to reach stars of the night...
Of a village road bending to meet a well...
Of a river bathing in vermillion where someone dwelt...
All these songs would evoke...
And the tingling of glass wares...
Urged us three to get soaked
More into the idyllic passage of evenings...
Lying on the floor sometimes I would
On a scrap of paper draw a tree with charcoal wood...
My drawings got surely then interfused
With ghazals...glasses red and brown smells...
O those evenings only with blessed creative calm fell...
On us like silent dew from the space above so unreachable...

When fire caught me...

'Nothing is going to stop me
From coming back to you...see!'
She said...sort of announced
When upon knocked opening the door
Her standing all drenched in the rain I found...
'What a surprise!'
I muttered blinking twice...
Couldn't believe my own mortal eyes...
Drops of water were on her hair
Like little diamonds they decorated her fair...
And her saree was all so wet...
Her lips also had a moist red...
I stared at her for a few minutes long...
'Manner-less host...won't you welcome me home?'
She smiled and said pressing lips...
I knew in suppression her secrets she keeps...
So ushered her in...asked what should she take...
Tea...coffee...darkest chocolate...
She smiled sitting down on the couch relaxed...
And looking through the window the afternoon outside...
Dark...cloudy...sad like a lost love affair...
Combed her fingers through her hair...
As if she had come all the way
To sit there before me wet and gay...
The smile in her lips was so double edged...
I just sat there somewhat dazed...
Then the thunder cracked...
The house went sudden all black...
I went up to light a fire...
But instead fire the doom caught me there...

The horizon...

Standing on the hill
When the runaway kid
Watched the distant mill
And the road that to the town leads
He was full of glee...
'Finally I could the horizon see
As clear as the red yellow line...'
And his eyes with wonder did then shine...

'How long will it take
For me to meet the daybreak...
Right at that bend of light
Where go to rest all the kites
After the daylong tireless flight
For how many years would one walk
To reach that band...if one walks non stop...'
The kid wondered aloud still staring lost
At the prospect of reaching his oft dreamed spot...

Then he finally started the walk
Straight from the hill...the comforting top...
He walked...in rain or shine...
Amidst hails...lightning...snowflakes fine...
He met countless men women and trees...
He travelled through deserts and blooming valleys...
Through long courses of streets...
Through plains covered by mossy leaves...
For how many years he didn't count
He was so much to the golden horizon bound...
His hair grew quite long
Like a sage he became at age too young...
The more he travelled the more he knew
Horizons once met bring horizons new...
Finally under a big green shadowy tree
He sat to unravel the horizontal he...

the rear view mirror...

O this mirror for rear view set
So many shadows flowing met -
Shadow of someone's legs without shoes
Red nail polished idly rested for a view...
Someone's giggling wild lipstick smudged
On white shirt, the mirror reflected large...
Someone's cloudy darkened face
The mirror captured for a while... apace...

O this mirror for so many nights
Witnessed silent suppressed fights...
And then when from the murky sky
The moon rose somehow to catch a sigh
The mirror took also a fleeting note
Of words gulped down someone's throat...
And then one autumn whence the sky was blue
The mirror recorded how laughter flew
From someone's mouth almost unstoppable...
O the mirror has so many stories to tell...

A palette ful of love...

Haven't said anything
To you ,made no commitment...
Only when the redness
Of the sky draped
Your long slender shape...
I did break
Into poesy spontaneous
As if the river Bheas
Had got recovered...
From being dried...streamless...
I did break...
Into words so many times...
Much like the copper bells that chimed
The arrival of a faraway breeze...
Took no oath...made no promise...
But trembled like new born leaves...
In anticipation of glorious dreams...
Of life on sprout...
Of water filling deserts without doubts...

And on some rare occasions went into trance...
Visualising drops of rain choreographing a spriteful dance...
On the streets of my palm...
Crisscrossed fatelanes and lovelanes some...
And in a more heightened state
Made time travels to the iron gates
Of the past intercepting the present tense...
Touched and felt by skin moisture dense...
Also then quite curious a glow was born...
Deep underneath the Atlantic ocean...
Gradually the light from mellowed got vibrant
A splendour of colors did erupt...
Witnessed how into ocean palette full of colors submerged...
And...and...
I became a painter...
By God!

Hiroshima...

That mushroom
Grown and spread...
An evocation to the dead...
Perhaps can't be seen...
Now that the city is clean
And glossy tiles and growing green
All had put a layer of happiness
Now one can't find even miniscule trace
Of ashes...grayed hair...rigor mortis...
Lakes filled with stilled floating fish...
Of children lifeless in perambulators...
Of fusion-fission sending jitters...
Of flowers discolored in a wink of an eye...
Of grass burnt like hay...pavements black dyed...

Another August six comes to find
Nuclearheads stacked up in horrendous lines...
In arsenals...warehouses...kitchens of power
Cooking a deadly concoction...O dear!

midnight rain...

With a top note of pomegranate and freesia...
And vanilla orchid securing the middle
Midnight rain...started to unwind
Before my eyes...a sizzle...

First I gaped and then smelt
Into me musk and cashmere wood,
With martini glass when you melt
Just where I speechless stood...

Midnight rain grew dense
From a drizzle to a white blinding feel,
Through the smoky blurry bluish lens
Waves of balmy floral lapped a thrill...

And felt I was finally freed
From all real sores and pains
Planting a kiss on your closed eyelids
Threw imagination out of chains...

Life of a hamlet

The hamlet had its own charms
Small cottages...haystacks...barns...
And little roads and lanes and streets...
Tiny children at a small park would in the afternoon meet...
And their cries...laughter would echo back...
A mountain range, overlooking guardian, in lighter black...
And through the hutment a rivulet ran...
A small bridge over her made of rough wooden planks...
Everytime would anyone pass by it...
It would breathe a long drawn screech...
And there were trees -old pines tall...
Their shadows on the streets would in daytime fall...
And walking through that shadowy turn...
Women of the village from woods would return...
Bundles of firewood balanced on their heads...
They would walk silent tired like dead...
But in the evening...when the men would in inebriated state...
By the bonfire sing songs of autumn late...
The otherwise placid life of the hamlet
Would rise above the deathly silence...
The songs would reach high and above
To mix with the night air dense like newly found love...
And the distant guardian of the mountain...
Would also go to sleep without pain...
Knowing life in this small tiny village...
Would bloom like beauty ,age after age...
The night would gradually descend
With lullabies sung by mountain maids...
And the sleepy village under the stars and the moon silver
Would have a dream again of day another...
Thus with time life would also flow...
At the village by the rivulet murmuring so...