Now that you are gone
I try to make a search
Of you in your works,
Your writings, diaries, scrapbooks,
Your memorabilia,
And how I find you more
As a product of that time turbulent,
When people had lesser earthly hankerings
And more of camaraderie,
When the air had all the fervour of revolution,
When eyes of you and your peers
Had all the dreams of liberation,
And hope ,
For those half fed, naked, starving humanity,

Ah, those were the times,
When you wrote on walls ,
Slogans and songs,

Till hurried steps of black boots
Came like hoofs of nightmare
Through sounds of gunshots
And mist,

Time that got changed too,
And when peace came
It had wreaths
Upon its breast,
Of doomed youth,

Now that I see those pictures,
Sepia , grey,
How I get carried away
To those times,

How can I get the smell
Of smoke, tar, tea,
How in blurry eyes
Your youthful vigour
Do I see.

Father

Writing something about you is like
Trying to make a swim through a sea,
Through wave after waves of memories,
The first distinct smell of you
Had the that peculiar mix of tobacco and shaving cream,
The first distinct touch of you had been to feel your palms a bit roughened,
And to feel how those lines on them had withered the ups and downs of time-
Partition, independence, state of political instability, carnage , emergency, flood of seventy eight , hartals, strikes, lockouts, bandhs,

Then your smile , never too loud,
Just a sweet candid one, 
And your angst - silence spreading over clouds of even more silence,

Your writing hand curved and sparkling
Your fountain pen dipped in ink - your poems and stories, your sessions of debates and discussions , Marx , Lenin, Engels, Tagore, Vivekananda, Aurobindu- all turning like lively figures standing before us as if saying their words,

Your recitation of poems ,
your acting at amateur theatre- glittering dresses, swords of tin,

And then ' Krishanu' and literary adda over cups of tea,
Mail posts arriving with your name printed  all the way from foreign shores,

You teaching me cycling one spring day
You cooking special dishes,
you drawing a beautiful sketch of a train passing through the curves of hills,
You taking us to evening show of a flick - shown for charity -  A Satyajit Ray masterpiece- an adaptation of Ibsen ,

Now as time has moved with its winged gait,
And as age has come and sat like a philosopher queen
Just betwixt us ,

How I just think of you
As a tree old
With stories written on its bark.

The leafless chinar

In the shade of chinar tree
Like two birds who had flown over a sea
The boy and the girl gathered quiet
Drenched softly by the fading twilight,
The girl coy and a bit terrified
By shrill buzz of gunshots bright
Whispered her fear and longing too
To her man, her hope, her beau,

'Don't you anymore join those men
Who are fighting for years and dying in vain'
The girl with tears in her hazel eyes
Pleaded to the boy with whom she has ties
Of love and hope and all those little things
Which amidst despair only joy to her bring,

'I know how much you are worried about me
But as long as there  is this chinar tree
We will come here every evening , dear,
Why those gunshots you falsely fear?'
The boy told the girl putting his palms on her cheek
As the evening slowly turned dark and bleak,

Suddenly they found some shadowy figures
Circled around them with fingers upon triggers
' Who are you? What are you here doing?
Don't you know there's a curfew this evening?'
A man from the group shouted in a voice gruff
His face looked poke marked and remorseless , tough,

The girl shuddered and was about to cry
The boy was thinking of  a fitting reply,
He searched for the pin under his vest
Unhooking which he could put all to rest,
' Run away , you, my dear, my life...'
Saying this he pushed the girl and made a dive
At the man who few moments ago made the query,
A blast deafened all and in the dust all got buried;

The girl who was pushed away to a safer side
Soon after the dust settled found how the blinding light
Had taken away all including her man,
Strewn like unrecognizable parts upon the land,

The girl shouted in horror and grief
Under the chinar tree without a leaf,

Many years after the incident the tree
Remained standing  leafless like a forbidden memory.

That tree

Things had changed greatly
I say , since we have left our summer days
And went to farthest shores, away
From our home town,
Still once in a blue moon
When anyone of us happen to pass
By that park surely
Even in the dark he or she
Would  find that tree
Which we made our companion
Upon whose branches we had swung
And sitting upon them how we always looked at the distance
Finding the lazy motorboats gliding on the river
Or a bunch of workers going home in the noon day heat
Walking briskly,
And those chimneys which stood like grand towers
Belching smoke which went up to compete with clouds,

So many other trivial things how we did notice
Amidst our games of hide and seek
Or mere gossip,

The day would wane and before we would return home
We would take a leaf or a bloom
As pretty little souvenir,

We picked them
As we picked tales too,
As we sought our summer refuge
In the big tree.

Smell of lavender

Coming back from work, Sreemoyi was sipping her evening tea, sitting at her favourite spot- the window of her bedroom from where she could see as far as golf course which appeared like a lonely but distinct patch of greenery amidst the buildings of the city.
Come evening, when the city would deck up in shimmering lights and far away when the bridge over the river would dress up in tiny dots luminous like a beauteous damsel in a flowing gown, Sreemoyi would just look at cityscape as visible from her window. The window to the world outside.
If it rains she would try to sit there for awhile till Riddhi would come home.
Despite being married for eight years, her marriage to Riddhi had not brought any child to her lap. She and Riddhi could have explored other possibilities but with the passage of time , the eagerness to bring a child home had died down considerably. Riddhi being always busy with his office tours thought it to be quite suitable not to extend the family further barring they two. Initially she had implored Riddhi to explore other possibilities , from medical to adoption . But she had noted how Riddhi had accepted their destiny and how he never showed any utmost sincerity on his part to make a family proper. So they had lived so far like two persons sharing rooms , living together, doing their respective works, a married couple. Sreemoyi also perhaps thought it a way to lead a life without hassles of bringing up a young one.

But the season of rains brings in sometimes a slight tinge of melancholy, specially when she is alone in the flat with no works to do at home.

The season which makes the world greener, fertile and colorful, makes her often to think of her past.
Just like this evening.

Sipping tea and playing with her strands of hair by her fingers she was looking absentmindedly to the scenery outside.
It had rained heavily in the afternoon. Now  the rain having receded, a cool breeze was blowing. Sreemoyi suddenly thought she got a smell of lavender.
Lavender was the scent of body powder that Bodhiswatta wore in summer and early monsoon afternoons.
After the final class at the university when they would walk side by side till the main gate of the university campus, sometimes the whiff of air would bring the scent of lavender from Bodhiswatta.
Sreemoyi recalled how one late afternoon suddenly they were caught unawares in a storm followed by heavy downpour. They took shelter in a makeshift abandoned tea stall near the gate of the campus. That evening the rain kept them waiting at the shop for half an hour almost. That evening brought them closer. They talked, laughed and chuckled. The warmth of their bodies standing close and wet brought strange feeling in her. In Bodhiswatta too. Sreemoyi could never forget that curious sparkle in Bodhiswatta's eyes.
That evening which opened new vistas for them apparently could have been a really memorable one , had love blossomed in them .
But even before it could have bloomed proper, Sreemoyi's parents brought Riddhi, an executive engineer working in a multinational construction company.
Bodhi was still a student then with his widowed mother and two sisters to support by meagre means of giving tuitions to students.
A private tutor can never vie with an executive engineer.
Bodhi called his quits.
He started avoiding Sree despite her pleadings.
How miserable she felt then.
Oneday out of agony she even insulted Bodhi calling him a coward and a loser.
But Bodhi being Bodhi only smiled. A helpless smile. A heart wrenching smile.

Then suddenly he disappeared.
Literally he disappeared. After the final exam Sree went all the way to Beleghata to Bodhi's rented house. His mother and sisters were there and they informed Sree that Bodhi had left the city looking for a job.
Sree was given an address. A postal address.
Sree wrote at least three score letters before her marriage to Riddhi. No reply came.

Seven or eight months after her marriage, one evening, Sreemoyi was returning home from work. Riddhi was with her too.
At an eatery near Russel Street, where Riddhi stopped his car to takeaway some food home, Sree got out of the car and was waiting on the pavement before the eatery.
She noticed someone looking at her.
A man simply clad in a white shirt and grey trousers who came out of the eatery stopped a few yards before her to light a cigarette.
After taking a puff he just looked at her.
At that precise moment Sree's eyes also fell on him.
Bodhi!
She thought she was seeing ghost of Bodhi.
The man neither smiled nor moved. He just kept on looking at her, quite strangely with a certain air of idiocy.
Just then Riddhi returned.
As Riddhi asked Sree to get into the car, she looked at Bodhi through the corner of her eyes. For a moment she thought she would ask Riddhi to wait a bit. She thought she would call out at Bodhi and introduce him to Riddhi. 

Riddhi was already at wheels, the engine was purring.

'What are you thinking?' Riddhi asked her, finding her standing near the door , somewhat perplexed. 

Bodhi had taken a walk by then through the pavement.

The neon light that flashed the name of the eatery in sparkling orange and red had drawn magical patterns on the pavement, on people passing by, on their faces, backs. 

Sreemoyi noticed then how the neon sign made wonderous patterns on Bodhi's white shirt. 

Sree was suddenly taken aback by the ringing of the bell at the door.

She glanced at the watch.

How she had spent two hours sitting at her window thinking of non sensical things.

Riddhi had come home.

Sree rushed towards the door, cursing that smell of lavender.

Oft I long for

Oft I long for that sweet late evening
Of a delicate aromatic spring
When you took me to your home
And gave me that ambrosaic potion
To drink and savour all night,
To feel how the buds wake up after being kissed
By first rains of the season, freshened,
To get that first hint of heaven
Reaching which one can only get the calm
Spreading all over one's mind and soul,

Oft I long for that memory enlivening
Which took me to find the hills and valleys and bushes
All gradually becoming a part of me,
As if I have been given a strange fulfilment
A view of the world so savoury
That can never ever leave me,

Oft I long for you
And when I do not that do
I perhaps dream of mountain streams
And leaves green drenched by sparkling drops of dew.

Love at dusk

Love at dusk

After many days took the road
Winding as it flowed
Away from the crowd as we thought
We could be somewhere where poetry wrought
Little things into a different rhyme
We arrived where the sky kissed the line
Of horizon gently almost making no noise
There we stopped with songs poised,
She held my hand and whispered soft
"Is it not beautiful that we have stopped
Here where no one is there to intrude us
Is it not a wonderful way to pass
Our little hard earned leisure?" I looked into her dark lake like eyes
And felt got all the pleasure
Which I yearned to get  her face with colors of dusk set
Looked so soothing, calming and filled
With love that only a night rose could seal
In her petals fragrant and blue
How was I killed by that murderous view!

She let my lips touch hers candid
And to feel the moisture in the air
She wrapped me in an encumbered sleep
And to lay my heart for her bare.

Just a love poem

Losing myself into you
Has oft brought me to a sense
Of fulfilment perfectly due,
As perhaps a bud feels dense
Breaking open just at the cue
Of the morning's mildest light-
Pinkish and orange hues
Whence touch the sky bright,
And I think I turn a flower true
Blessed by love of you,
Your smiling face I then reflect,
My petals drenched by dew
With sweetness of pollens set
Greet my blossoming new,

Losing myself into you
Has oft brought me to the brink
Of an overwhelming view
Of life and love in which I sink
Haply as ever as someone lured
By something inexpressibly wonderous
Something that is deep and pure
Quenching all human thirst,

Yet people driven by vanity
And pride of being modern
Discard love and poetry
Without knowing how they turn
To decadence and pity
Which only their souls burn.

Father of Syria

'Stay here quiet for awhile'
The father had told his girl with a smile,
The day had been usual, a Syrian kind,
Some people were starving, some looked desolate, almost dying,
But the father till then that didn't mind,

And then just a sudden jolt, a cry,
What did came swooping, a drone ? A fly?
'Gas!' someone yelled, 'bomb!'cried another,
Down the street ran the father,
He had left his little one, only daughter,
Beside the shop, beneath a tree,
The smoke couldn't make him see,
What was happening and why?
But he heard surely her cry!

Minutes passed like moments of shock
The buildings had turned into rubbles of rock
And mortar and debris of bricks,
The father from the dust his daughter picked,
She was gasping, was not she?
The father in the smoke couldn't see,

People he saw running like ghosts,
Sooty, grey, figures unrecognizable most,
And he picked his daughter up,
Was she breathing? Or had she stopped?

The way to the hospital looked miles away,
The father with the girl in arms in dust swayed,

Many more like him had been there too
Totally taken aback, without any clue,

Thousands of miles away in conference rooms
The modern kings and queens
Saw 'live'  those pictures of doom
And conjectured and debated over the crisis,
Who had done so? Rebels or terrorists?

Meanwhile the Syrian father with daughter in arms
Ran through smoky dusty street
Not knowing to whom really his girl caused harm.

(On April 4 2017 chemical attack on Syria killed at least 70 including twenty children, leaving hundred injured .)

The Mystic Mariner

The Mystic Mariner*

You have taken charge of the ship
And dared to venture out
To the ocean blue and deep,
Braving all storms and gales,
Like a sailor who knew it all
How to make a voyage without fail,
Wonder I seeing your spirit so bright
Had you been a disciple of Ulysses
Always searching for new shores of light?

You oft served me as a towering flame
From far guiding me through hurricanes,
By your words, deeds and rhymes,
You have remained oft like an implement
A beacon, a weather cock , a wind chime,
All fused into one, a superb force
A fatherly figure who opens the doors
And windows too of my heart and mind
So that more of wind and light can I find.

(* as a tribute to Madan Gandhi ji , written as a part of a TSL venture on NaPoWriMo)

Saaqi

Saaqi
#saaqi

O Saaqi, when I come to your tavern
Don't you keep me thirsty for long
As I have come to be intoxicated
By your brew, the one for which I'm so fated,
Pour me a cup of your sweetest wine
And let there your music shine
For without your heavenly liquor
How can I in dreams fly far
Away from all the noise and din
Come Saaqi, fill me to the brim
So much so that words do come pouring
From my mouth like music ringing
Sweet, succulent and devoid of pains,
Come Saaqi, give birth in me that lyrical sense,
With which can I sing a song for you,
A song laden with a poetic view
Of all that appear oft so prosaic,
Saaqi for you must I take
A plunge into the beauty true,
Saaqi I know I can do it only for you.

Where I come from

Where I come from

Where I come from
Is a place of magic
As oft seen by children
A land of fairies and goblins
Surrounded by trees smelling like incense
And flowers which bloom there
Spread colors fanciful and wild,
How there have I lived for years
Always like a curious child lost in dreams;

Where I come from
Is place by the river
Where the morning breaks with chirpings
Of birds waking up in woods nearby,
As I see them flying high in the sky
My soul gets winged shape too,
I fly with them by my mind
To distant places to find
Serene blessedness spread
Like mist of early winter,
In spring the place becomes even more beautiful
Songs of earth there float
In autumn when the leaves the trees shed
I watch them being carried by the breeze,
Till they come to my porch
And lay there quiet drenched by light,
In summer the pilgrims there arrive
From places unknown, walking days and nights,
They sing their way making the air
In musical chanting wrapped,

Where I come from
Is a place filled with
Awesome splendour
Ageless as I keep on
Finding life  there in its
awe inspiring magnificence.

A poem written by a poet, religious intolerance , necrophilia and allied things

Poet you have done it right
As a very very modern poet should write
Fusing elements that you have found
Floating in the thin air ; quite unbound!

You dared to put into your lyrical grace
Things that we the people oft do brace
In our daily lives, filled with false pride
Our acts of violence, vendetta and verbal jibes,

Some one talked of doing unholy things
Ghastly and diseased thoughts which bring
Shame in my blood, angst in my veins,

And I ask myself, am I getting poisoned too?
Am I losing my mind, slowly becoming death?
Am I making a compromise with intolerance?

But then , poet, you are a learned man,
You have written many things, seen through plans
Of political flagbearers changing attires
- One coat glittering for a ball,
Another subdued one perfect for a Fall,
Nehruvian hats, non nehru caps,
Saffron shirts guarded by black cats,
And so on and so forth happening oft,
Poet, don't say you're naive and ignorant of
How political affairs are handled here
Even that do I not seriously care,

But where is there that musical magic?
Where is there that piece of literature?
Poet, you got up in your sleeve
Several tricks with rhyme and motifs,

Come , pour them more in this muddled time,
Bring to fore the artistic sublime,
For that is what we can always claim to be true,
More than anything, the eternal view,

A yogi proper is a difficult find,
Necrophilia can only please the cursed mind,
A poem even more beautiful can perhaps make
A statement just, bold enough to unearth mistakes
Of the past, the present and even of our forefathers,

Now, don't say poet you do not know
Where from the wind of truth really blows,
And where does it really go?
To which frontier? To which heaven's gate?
Where a poem differs from the mundane rest?

Spectrum

When he was born I remember how had I dreamt
Of him becoming big, oneday like other kids,
Ryan had been the eyecandy
Fair with pinkish hues on his cheeks,
And how we tried to build our little things around him,

Our world was around his needs,
And he would rarely talk back,
Even when he was three years
He would only shout and scream,
I asked my spouse
Oneday after gathering enough courage
To face any truth
'Is he okay?'

We went to the doc,
And again I asked the same thing
'Is he okay?'

The doc nodded his head
Somewhat dubiously,
'He is, I'm afraid, in the spectrum'

'Spectrum?'
'What spectrum?'
My spouse asked him,
She was having beads of sweat
On her forehead
And on the tip of her nose,

'Gosh...we are so lost'
I thought I heard my wife almost cry,
Was she wailing?
Prehaps,

Then on
We are living on the spectrum
Of light
Punctuated by dots of inexpressible silence,

Silence was the key word of Ryan,
He remained silent,
Ages grew,
The trees in our backyard grew too,
Ryan turned ten,
Silently,
Almost stealthily,

Then oneday...
(Probably that day was Sunday,
I was reclining on the sofa,
Ryan was sitting beside me with a scrapbook)
I noticed (quite nonchalantly)
Ryan was drawing pictures!

How wonderful the drawing looked
Full of colors
As if a rainbow had descended upon his scrapbook!

I looked and looked
The spectrum of colors
Filled me.

To Derek*

To Derek*

"He saw the poetry in forlorn stations
under clouds vast as Asia, through districts
that could gulp Oklahoma like a grape,
not these tree-shaded prairie halts but space
so desolate it mocked destinations." In the world where poets and so called intellectuals
Throng like unashamed swarm of bees
Seeking honey,
You stood like a monumental passage of grief,
You talked about home and exile,
Black women with shiny foreheads
Resplendent and oily,

The people in New York called you
The Mighty One,
A poet who had been profound and complicated ,
To me, you are as long as your poems
Which made me travel to torqouise seas and white sands,
Palm trees I heard roaring in the air,
In your words the world seemed restless yet strong,
Passionate yet morbid,

You have made me find beauty in distant lands,
In wings of pelicans
And candy floss shaped clouds.

(*this writeup is dedicated to Derek Walcott, the poet extraordinary)

Tiasha , me and poetry

Can an evening be
A thing of beauty?'
Tiasha asked me,

The lake before us
Caught all the hues that passed
On its  water, a picture of dusk,

I looked at the scene
Calm, still and serene,
And wondered what it did bring,

'Surely it can', ventured I
As a possible reply,
Looking at the colorful sky,

Tiasha looked at me
Her eyes speaking quietly
Her love , her unsung poetry,

'What did the evening
To us really bring?'
She asked, almost singing,

'Love', I thought I should've said
'That really the evening made,
That really sky before us laid, '

But then I those words left
Unuttered, not expressed,
I just in my heart them kept,

Tiasha being what she always had been
Perhaps gathered traces of them from the scene
And my hands to her face she doth bring

And then she kissed on them gently and soft
Like an angel perhaps, straight from heaven dropped,
Making me unburdened, as if held aloft,

I felt I had become a bird then
A creature winged, devoid of pains,
Ready to fly with her,  my lovely maiden,

To faraway lands, distant shores,
Where evenings such always colors pour,
Only to find love more and more.

Love, let's be selfish

Love,
There can be a lot of wars around
Cries and sobs and tears
Somewhere in Syria there might be heavy deafening shots
Of bullets, bombs , shells,
In another part of the globe
There might be riots
People might take swords in hands
And get engaged into carnage unholy,

Still
Leaving all of them aside
Like two selfish beings
We can always cycle down to that field
Where the sun shines soft
Caressing the grass and the trees,
There, love, we can always hug each other
Forgetting everything,
Like two very selfish beings,
There you can always hold me tight,
In my ears you can always drop words sweet,
And I can always hold your lips
Onto mine,
Savouring the moments,
There , love we can be selfish
Till the world will learn to be selfless,
Till our love teaches the world
The essence of tranquility.

The dusk was slowly settling on the street
Facing which two friends sat
The aroma of coffee filled the shop
And they had so many things to share betwixt them,
Small but significant things,
Like their joys and peals of laughter,
Undiluted, pure, uninhabited,

The dusk looked perfect
Devoid of any ornamentation,
The dusk looked human,
All too human.

We remember

Ah! Even after so many years
Still how one can hear
Cries and sobs and screams
Of millions teeming
Half fed, beaten black and blue
Before gassed without any cue,

Ah! Even after so many years
Still how can one hear
Wails and pantings and dirge
Of people in blood and mud
So horribly painted and greased
Before their throbbings of hearts ceased,

Forever,

Ah! How still how after so many years
One can their weepings silently hear.

The warm wintry sun and we

The warm wintry sun was going to sleep
When thinking of you I walked a few miles
And reached that place where we did keep
Our little secrets like  simple things
A smile, a laugh, a kiss and a pat
And some very very personal belongings
Your diamond nosepin, my tattered pocketbook,
A key chain and a peacock shaped ring;

The warm wintry sun was going to sleep
When following your trails I somehow reached
That particular place where we did keep
Our simple little unforgettable things-
A scene of our heads resting upon other's,
A saffron red sky painted like a flame,
A musical flight of a dove's white feather,
And many insignificant inconsequential names.

A night to remember

When the moon came down upon me
One night as it shone the most
I thought you were there just beside
As I got that whiff of scented rose,

Love which we both bore in hearts,
Then we perhaps both felt strong,
And the moon yellow, large and low
All that quietly witnessed for long,

The night had thus beautifully turned
Into a delightful hour of communion
You and your thoughts when laid bare
All my  pent up  passions young.

Mail woman's lover

Mail woman mail woman
Where do you go?
Is it not painful for him
To stand waiting
For you in chilling snow?

Mail woman mail woman
Where do you go?
Has the day not ended
And the evening descended
With light turning low?

Mail woman mail woman
Pedal down you to that place
Where waits your man
Half frozen braving cold
Only for your sweet embrace,

Go there and plant a kiss
Right there on his parched lips
And say a few words warm
Into his ears soft till they will glow,

Mail woman mail woman
Where do you go?

Picking berries

When the air is so ripe
And berries when hung red
From those branches of our trees
Why not we go picking them
Tasting their goodness
So filled with the scent of the wild
Moist, juicy and sweet?

Do they not welcome us home
And tell us not our wanton pleasures
That we savoured for ages
In our hearts like the way
We fell in love ?

Granny's kitchen

Have I ever told you
My granny had been a wonderful cook?
And how much we longed to go
Our vilage home where she had stayed
All the summers and rains and winters
Only to savour dishes she us served
And her lipsmacking delicacies;

When in the afternoon we got tired and hungry
Playing around, sweating and out of breath,
She would just give us a call
And we would run, scampering,

On brass plates came piping hot
Food made by her,
As we started gobbling hungry as we had been
She would sit beside us right on the floor
Sometimes fanning us if it were summer months,

I would try to sit near her
To get some extra helpings
A bit more than others,
A spoonful of pickle or a larger piece of fish,

She knew perhaps my hidden thoughts
And always remained so condescending,
Dropping a big dollop of tamarind sauce
As if by mistake on my plate,
And I would just smile at her
While she pressed her lips and winked at me,

Her kitchen was her place to pour
All her love and affection for us
Through her tireless works, her foods,

Her kitchen was her very own world
Filled with aroma of spices and dry fruits,
How many times we tried to steal
Cashew and nuts from containers there
And how many times were we caught
By her (for she would get the noise of utensils or jars moving in her kitchen
Even if she would be yards away),

Granny's kitchen was our place to be
At the evening too,
When we would gather there
To listen from her stories and tales
As she would spread a mat there
On the earthern floor for us to sit,

How many evenings had we spent there
Dozing off to sleep while listening to the adventures of the princes and kings,
She would then perhaps call our parents
To carry us off to bed,

And even while we were fast asleep
We would be dreaming of the kings and queens
And would be thinking that everything happened before us
Right there at the kitchen,
Sometimes in our sleep
We even got the smell of spices
And that unmistakable scent of granny-
Her betel leaves.

Come friend, lets go there once again...

Come friend, lets go there once again
Where once we haply went
After a long unending summer-
That summer which us scorched and burnt
And brought the sultry heat right into our souls
Drying them, almost making us parched,

Out of that, remember mate?
How we went away like leaves
Blown away,torn away almost from all those things

That brought us down, 

O how we flew 

Carried like birds , 

Feathered things 

Borne by the light 

To that place 

Where silence talked to us like our forgotten selves

Whispering us to remain awake all the day

Only to grasp the meaning of our journey 

So made ;

Come friend, lets go there once again.

An aubade for the river

To that place where the river
Slows her speed to take rest
Once in morning's wintry light
There caught the misty sight

Few birds which caught the morning's hue
Woke up from their sleep with moist dew,
And feeling the light upon their wings
They perhaps for the beauty did sing

And the river as quiet as an enchanted lass
Held her breath for a while as she passed
With soft, slow and silent steps
Morning as her with charm so draped.

Let there be, freedom from want *

Let there be, Lord
That freedom from want
Which would make not
Discrimination betwixt us
Based on our color of skin
Or find divisions , in between
Us, negating all that uphold
Feelings that are human,

Let there be Lord
No strife, no curse,
No carnage , no bath of blood,
No death due to hunger and pain
And unmitigated love,

Let there be, Lord
Freedom from want
And nothing in between

Let there be
Only that joy pristine
Of thanksgiving.

(*Note: the painting attached is titled "freedom from want" , done by N.Rockwell, 1942, based upon a speech by U S President F.D.Roosevelt)

Isn't it wondrous
To get into the woods
And feel how the light of the day
Turn every tree joyous and gay?

One November evening

One November evening
It had been a November evening
When he arrived at the town
Only to meet her, one last time
Before leaving forever... She told him she would be there
Right at the Strand near that big
Colonial facade of that century and half old building
The distinct landmark of the town,

He there waited for her
To turn up
And she kept her words

The dame of his heart
Wearing a red skirt and black top
She there came,

The air had smell of rains
Somewhere it might have poured,
When she came near
He just looked at her face
Glistened as it appeared
By drops of water...
He felt the drizzle in his heart
Somewhere very deep inside

She gave her hands for him to hold
Her hair smelt so much of lavender
And her palms were soft like cotton

He muttered his undying love to her
She told him that would perhaps not stay once he would go away... Time and distance take away everything
That what she told him,

Many summers and winters and springs
Have gone by since then... Still that building colonial stands
And November comes with
Smell of lavender,
Still he can her see
In red skirt and black top
Looking at him,
Her face glistening
Drops of rain
Like little beads of pearls
Hanging from the end of her hair.

Let me wander through the mist *

Let me wander through the mist
Of early winter months
When dew gather soft
At the fringe of leaves,
Like dreams of the night
Soothing and calm
Being awakened fresh by the morning's cool breeze,

Let me wander
And gather all the nascent things
And turn them into love of my soul
Only to make the world around us
More beautiful and pied

Let me pay my obeisance
To that kindred spirit
Which turns lives of us
So magnificent
Only by the grace of the eternal
The non transient form,

Let me be merged
With the silence of beauty .

(*Note: this poem is a tribute to a wondrous work of my friend, a poet and writer and publisher, Gopakumar Radhakrishnan)

She and the night sky

Know not how but whenever she arrives
I can hear her from far,
Her silver anklets I hear
Ringing like a fascinating music,
Her smell can I get,
Sometimes jasmine, sometimes lavender,
Sandalwood too,
Know not how but whenever she comes
I can feel her arrival,

That night too,
Even before she came,
Thought I heard her footsteps,
Felt a sudden flow of breeze
Flowing into me, my heart,

Looked around,
The terrace was empty till then,
Barring me,
Under the enchanting sky
An enchanted self,

Then her did I see,
My object of so many words
Forming prose and poetry,

'So you came...after days so many...'
murmured I,
Looking at her eyes,
So curiously made
Like a pair of youthful vivacity,
Her eyebrows danced a bit,
Playful as she appeared,

'Thought of me? '
She asked,

'Yes...'

'How oft?'

She was definitely inquisitive,

'As oft as this life beckons me to
Look around me to feel your presence
In your absence...'

I said,
Without any pretensions,

She came closer,
Looked at me,

I found how the Starry Starry night
Wrote song of longing in her eyes,
Cloudless, clear, much like the night sky
That watched us over, like a witness.

Morning road, autumnal vines and post card from provence

Morning road, autumnal vines and that postcard from Provence

The morning had that sweetness of mellowed light
And breeze cool slowly flowing across the golden fields of ripened corns,

Much like that favoured postcard from Provence
It had all the colors of the wild
And shades interfusing lighted space,

The morning had memories of losing oneself to the beauty of life
As captured by the pristine country road,
Not faraway a loco perhaps chugged
Making whistle which only accentuated the lust of wandering in mortal souls,

Like a postcard from Provence
Blissful, serene , restive,

The morning how brought one
More close to colors, lores and free spirit of a day, blithe and Pure.

Still remember the day

Still remember that day

Still remember that day,
When we stopped at the fringe
Of the city, descending from the car
You stood looking at the sky
Getting usually painted by the setting sun's glow,
An electric pole with crows hanging on wires
Only stood as an aberration to the otherwise beauteous composition of a sky as it appeared,

You were singing soft ,
If I may recollect,
A song of late seventies
Which narrated how pairs of lovers
Thronged in the city square
Braving odds of all kinds,

I , leaning against the bonnet of the car
Thought of taking a snapshot of your wonderous silhouette,
Your hair that you left unbound
Flew like a garment of silk,

How I again fell in love with you
Your songs, your silhouette,
Your silken hair smelling like lemon leaves,

O how again I fell in love with
The painted sky, the vast meadows,
And our youthful escapades!

Down the road

Down the road
Down the road
Through the farm
At the end of summer
Happy and warm,
Would I go following you
Till the sky would catch
That festive bluish hue,
And till the birds would care to sing
Songs old wrapped in newer meanings,
Down the road
Through the farm
At the end of an autumn
Just before the beginning
Of a beautiful wintry setting,
Would I go following you
Till scenes would come to view
And till they would cause a rise in me
Words placed in rhyme, like a half forgotten tune ,
Like ringing shape of ancient Poetry.

Ode to the flutist

Ode to the flutist

When the dusk descends soft
Lending the earth her superb inimitable grace,
How oft I think of you , Lord,
Your tune , your smiling face,

The homebound birds as to their nests fly
Chirping sweetly all the way,
How I think your flute I hear
Keeping me fully swayed,

When the dusk spreads the hue
Of orange and red so beautiful
How I think oft of you Lord,
As I get sublimated in the cool,

I think of you and praise Thee,
And your flute more I long to hear,
How then I find me merged
As my soul to Thee I with ease bare,

I think you and only you,
The one and the Potent one,
Your face how then mirrors the world
And with you how I get entwined.

O Lisa!

O Lisa! How you have been
Always rendered as some one inspiring,
Grand , opulent and in dressing gown
How you have been made the belle of the town,
Stylish, in vogue , always on shine
Not a renaissance painting but a newer design,
Poised, witty , fingers folded
Just for this age , perfectly moulded,

O Lisa! How you have been made and remade,
With paints morphed, reshaped, relaid,
No other dame could with you vie,
O Lisa! How looking at you , youths still heave sighs,
How you still not fail to ignite dreams
Of painters, artists, poets, it seems,
How they all still love to work on you,
You eyes, cheek, lips and your worldly view,
How still every day people try to explore
Your mystery, Myth and Beauty more,

As I once again look at you
I know by heart all these paintings few
Can only make you all the more enchanting,
Cause  you've transcended the form of a mere painting.

How many times, love,

How many times , love,
How many times, love,
Have I found the sombre feel
Of Himalayan range,
Upon you so beautifully sketched,

How many times, love,
Found I the fragrant blooms
In your garden shining
In early rain drenched morns,

How many times, love,
I lost my senses all
In thy Beauty so Divine,
In winters, summers and the Fall,

How many times, love,
Have I tried to adore you,
In paints, poems and lyrics,
In molten wax and honey dews.

For Martin,

People who came to the beach town
Had always searched that man with hair brown,
Martin as he was known to all
Had always listeners around him, big and small,
He would sit on a canvas chair
And strum a song in his guitar,

The songs sung were always full of tales,
Of yesterdays and also of modern Fables,
Of princes and kings and sailors,
Of politicians and men with valour,

He sang them fluid like a gust a wind
He sang them gaily only to bind
People around him who came from near and far,
He would sit just on a canvas chair
And shake his mane like brown brown hair,

Many years after had Martin gone
To another land perhaps in search of a song,
They put a chair of canvas on the beach right
To make him unforgettable , for days and nights,
And they had placed a guitar there too,
In name of Martin and his songs so true.

At the hut by the River

At the hut by the River,

At the hut by the River
Spent hours of lustful days
Till the dusk came sweeping cool
Amidst the songs of gnats,
Twas such a plentiful life
To get soaked into the pervading Bliss
Of nature's profound stillness
And it's soft soothing kiss;

At the hut by the River
Spent childhood and also youth
Watching oft how seasons came
Like moments of Love, Beauty and Truth,

Found there all that had been said
Years before my birth,
Found there what it meant to be
To get aligned with the Eternal Mirth,

That Mirth which people sought
The Myth which got ancient leaning,
That Joy which the Lord had planted
Into forms with inherent meanings,

Beauty is what the truth is
And so is what the Eternal one,
At that hut by the River's side
Got floated in waters like a  white swan,

And poems came like ripples soft
Right onto my breast,
And words came like murmuring of
A cool flowing silvery cascade.

Autumn in the forest

Autumn in the forest

Simply treading through
The greenish hue
Of autumn brought so many memories,
Of finding a glimpse of a stupa
Seen through the gaps of trees,
And hearing the gong of bells
Cutting through the mild mist,
All of them came , like a beautiful dream,
Sunlight falling through leaves,
Slight murmur of sweet breeze,
All had Autumn in them,
Distinct, known , felt afresh,

Simply walking through the thick foliage,
Oft how takes one back to days,
When fragrance of blossoms
Covered one's senses.

At thy door

When the evening comes
I arrive at thy door
Where from vines
Simmering love pours ...

The window

Every day , specially at dusk
She would come there, unasked,
Only to look at the wide spectacle
Of green slopes of hills as upon them fell
The rays of setting sun , making them wonderous
Every day, there she would come, to spend few hours,
Looking at those trees and listening to murmur
Perhaps of the flowing restless river,

She would with her senses devour
The beauty of hills and overwhelming Nature
And then when the sun would go hiding behind those hills
She would stand there still
And hear the songs of crickets too,
She would catch the evening's hue,

And after that when the night fell
And the moon would cast its silvery spell
She would let the beams come and caress her
Her face, her dreamy eyes, her limbs , her hair,

The window served as her companion true
As she would come there to have a view
Of the world around her, and also the world within
The window gave her always the perfect setting.

There's something in those lanterns*

There's something in those lanterns

There's something in those lanterns
Which they took in their hands
And went into the garden
To catch fireflies and glowworms
With them went their lustre
Glowing faces of their primordial beauty,
And when they there stood with lanterns
They looked like angels without wings
Making a descent on the sweet earth
To bless all with songs of Love and guileless Innocence,

There's something in those lanterns
Which they took in their hands
And walked slowly as if floating things
Without having any wings,
Their faces had all the beauty
Which could make onlookers resplendent,
Such was their charm
Such was their magnificence.

(*Note: the painting attached was done by Charles Courtney Curran)

Thinking of you

Can't recall exact how many days or months
You have remained far away from me,
By and large, silent,
Like that night beautifully quiet,
But then when the sky becomes dark
And rain come in spells, like bouts of fever,
I think of you,
You , whom have I placed at the altar
And prayed for days and nights,
Whom have I yearned for,
Like yearns the parched land for drops of water,
To quench its insatiable thirst,

I think of you,
Your return to the land of mine,
Making it green, wet and fertile,
Yielding,  to make it grow like acres of vegetation,

I think of you,
Your return to poems and Prose
And paintings and all that make me
Productive ,

Can't recall when the last time
You spread your charms over me,
My breast, my limbs , my body,

But when the breeze carries home
Scent of moist earth,
I think of you,
As my daisy
Blooming wonderous
In my soul

Come, sit, and stay still*

You have rushed a lot
Through the woods, slopes of hills,
Now when the day is ripe
And the sun is out,
Come, sit,
And stay still,
I will sing a poem to you,
I will caress your braids,
With leaves will deck you up,
Cleanse your flushed face,

You have rushed a lot
Through those woods, hills,
Now when the day is ripe,
And the sun is peeping at us,
Come, sit,
And in you let me find myself,
Immersed.

(*Note:  painting courtesy:  Michael Godfrey)

When winter came

When the wintry morn slowly came,
Looking out of window , without any feign,
Saw the Tree spreading wings,
Of her branches singing lost songs of her springs.

(Photo credits: Amitabh Dhiman)

Spread at the horizon*

Spread at the horizon *

Spread at the horizon
When the day with his dusky maid meets,
At that rendezvous , when they come together
To each other greet,
I think so much of her,
My ethereal Lover,
Her songs I think I hear,
Carried to me by the cool moist air,
I think of her face , her eyes, her voice,
And that mere thinking with so much of joys
Fill me from top to toe,
Spread at the horizon so colorful ,
I then perhaps with reverence bow
Before that sense which brings me every day
At this time of the day, to find her beauty and aura and Grace,
To look at how the day invariably comes
To meet his dusky maid,
Just before evening arrives,
Just before the sky gets another dress,
Just before little Celestial flowers bloom across
The big vastness of the limitless space. (*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached done by Karla Nolan)

For that bud, encumbered in sleep

For that bud, encumbered in sleep,

In petals wrapped
Encumbered lies the dream
Of the bud , sleeping
Whilst wet westerly breeze
Upon its feathery shape
Caressed soft,

The rain knows how to make the bud turn an object of beauty,
The drizzle knows how to sketch
Lyrics upon lips.

Out of bounds

Out of bounds

That pebbled path leading out of the cottage gate
With sight of hills and a placid lake
Often takes me away to a faraway place,
A morning is perhaps there breaking out,
Away from the bustle of the city,
Where sings the nightingale
Songs of dews that fell
Smooth and almost imperceptible,

I look at the vastness of glory
Of nature weaving a sacred sublime feel of a story,
Of someone after getting lured by the beauty
Sits quiet so visibly enchanted,

I look at the slopes of green
And the rays of the Sun spread through mist,
A poetic journey to the Unseen
Divine presence ,
I try to feel each and every part
Of the day so becoming
A part of imagination ,
Reigning unvanquished, supreme,

And at that very moment,
Like someone being magically charmed,
I go into a flow of a river, a stream,
Of words , coming out spontaneous.

Wish you give us more*

Wish you give us more
Of your words which paint pictures
Of guests arriving crossing the border
And we welcoming them with handmade wheatcakes ,
And taking care of all their pains,
Of chinar leaves falling slowly
Upon the earth moist and sleepy,
Of rivers flowing making sweet murmur
Amidst woods where we can always go ,
Of missing the touch of hands, of our lost friends, forgotten relatives,
Of sunset yellow gradually getting spread
On the sky , a prayer like , orange and red,

Wish you give us more
Of your golden words, lyrically wrought,
So much so that we upon hearing them
Forget how the day goes by
To embrace the evening
And how the evening also slips away
Into the music of intoxicating nights.

(*As a tribute to Gulzar, on his eighty second birthday)

Evening Sky*

Evening sky *

Often around this time of the year,
Evening sky comes down upon me bare,
With fiery saffron colors so draped
Making me from my works escape
To that vast land of green, a plain
Where I get rid of all my feigns,
The birds which take their flight home
Drenched by the evening light so being borne,
Remind me of my going back too,
To match the orange and bluish hues,

I then think of my return
To the land serene as it turns
My heart, my mind my soul blessed
Around this time of the year as the sky gets dressed
In tranquil silence noiselessly eloquent,
How then  I think of dusty roads that bend
To that beauteous natural existence,
To those trees, huts , human settlement
To that river, lake , woods meaningfully dense,

I then think of days passed
In singing songs of Love just
Praising ways of men to God
And ways of God to men that last,
For months , years, decades , centuries,
How to that greenery my mind then hurries,
Only to make out ways divine
Encumbered in peace a  thousand  inexpressible lines.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, done by Sally O Neill, courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei)

For that girl *

That girl who stood with her back
Turned to the light,
Showed her ignorance to the world,
Her back with all those curves,
Had passages of my desires,

That girl who stood with her back
Turned to me,
Showed me how feathers wrote
Candid verse upon her soul,
Which perhaps I missed in shaded alleys
That we had walked through all our lives.

(*note : upon a painting loosely based, as attached, done by Rex Beo)

Sita

Sita,
How you were tested and tried
Not once , but several times,
How you after being abducted
Persevered all that happened,
Living alone homeless , without your husband and kids,
How you had withstood that life, held captive,

And after many years,
When the battle had been fought
And won, when much of blood had been spilled,
When the earth was clouded by shooting arrows and spears,
When cities were set into blazing fire,

Sita,
How you thought perhaps all was due
To your honour,
That the wars were raged and men proved
Their thundering skills, their admirable valour,

But when the dust got settled,
When you were taken home by your husband,
How you were put to a test again,
How you were to walk through the flame,
How were you asked to prove before all
That while being away held captive ,
You had not gone through any fall,

How did it feel Sita? At that time?
To stand before all and declare
That you had remained what you were,

How did it feel when thy Soul burned?
How did it feel when thy honour was thus upturned?

Every love is so long distance

Every love is so long  distance

Every love I met
Had been turned
Long distance ones,

Interstellar kind,

If I am at one hemisphere,
She is invariably at the other,

If I am gathering flakes of moon
She is right at the wheatfield, golden,

Every love I met
Had turned into
Late night phone calls,

If I am all in day light,
She is under the quilt
Yawning before sleeping off,

Every love I had met
Had made me traveler.

For lilies on bloom

Come away , where the lilies bloom fair
Singing songs of mist in the afternoon's sweetest air,
Come away, where the meadows beckon and greet,
Come away, where dew drops on leaves and petals meet
Like silent drops of Divine blessings,
Come away, to that beauteous scene
Where lilies bloom tender and wild
Come away, to feel that drowsy numbness mild,
Come away, O you human child.

On that Abbey and that river*

Five years after when he visited the place
With his sister, to find how nature had dressed
His mind and heart and soul,
He found profundity of the river
How before him did unfold,
He noted in that wonderous quietitude
How the Abbey for ages stood,
And how amidst green , those meadows and Hills,
He discovered Divinity in purest form dripping, distilled,
Then he found also the flowing human course
Flowing much like that River, from its source,
He then boldly there declared
How by being the lover of meadows, woods, mountains,
He had found the Blessed state , the fair,

Those thoughts made him more of a poet
Perhaps , who out of the mechanised world,
In the serenity of nature , by his mind, dwelt,

O how the Abbey and the River beside it,
Gave him joys which he cherished,
That pristine, incorruptible one,
How there he flew after five years like a Swan,
Only to savour more of Nature's Beauty,
Only to make out Divine Piety.

(*Note: written upon the famous poem of Wordsworth titled 'Tintern Abbey'. The painting attached is on Tintern Abbey.)

Come, love,

Come,  love,
Come, love, when the night is so alluring
And the sky when had got the hues
So Starry and so blackish blue,
Come, love, to the lap of nature
And break into singing

Making me sleep on thy bed of dreams,
Come, love, put thy hands on my breast,
Putting at rest all the worries and woes,
When the night is so charming
And the sickled moon is diving so low,
Just within our reach,

Come , love,
Plunge me into thy softness more,
As the sky the night's Beauty
By twinkling things adore.

That small town where Aniruddha once came and made home

'The town had remained as it had been...'
Aniruddha thought as he walked down the alley,
Shops had grown in numbers though, as it seemed,
And the spring had decked the outskirts,
With flowers blooming , kept in pots and pans,
Population had grown too a bit,
Aniruddha thought as he took the street,

'Curios? Want them Sir?'
Aniruddha heard local lads asking him,
'Leather jackets? At price rock bottom?'
He looked at those hanging garments some,
'No...' He replied and kept walking lazily,
A few paces away some urchins were playing with glee,
With a pup running in between their legs,
They looked at him, their curious tiny eyes upon him pegged,

'Hotel? Guesthouse? Warm water bath?'
Men like brokers him asked,
'No...' Aniruddha nodded both ways his head,
He was looking for a hut instead,

'Do anyone know Bahadur Singh?'
He asked, not really knowing
Where Bahadur had gone,
After so many years, alone, like a stray leaf,
Aniruddha heaved a sigh, deep,

Just then he heard someone saying,
'He could be found at the end of the alley...'
Hearing that Aniruddha turned to the direction without delaying,

And following instructions he arrived finally
At that hut , just behind the shop of aunt Sally,

It had remained as it is,
That same hut, that same small garden,
That acre of grass, that open verandah,
And that sight of gulmohor trees,
Two of them standing there like guards,
Tall and handsome and large,

'Bahadur , are you there?
Can you me hear?'
Aniruddha asked, standing before the two trees,
A mild soothing spring filled breeze,
Came to caress his hair, his face,
Aniruddha stood there , as he tried to trace
His words echoing in the faraway hills,

A man appeared soon, white hair, white beard, turban green,
That was surely that old Bahadur Singh,
'Can't recognise me? ' Aniruddha asked, the old pair of eyes blinked,

'Hey you, Ani babu? Here? '
The old man flashed a smile generous,
As Aniruddha noticed little drops of tears
In his eyes,

'How are you? Never thought to find you,
After so many years, see, I have kept my promise,
To come right here, once again, with spring extending its sweet lease...'
Aniruddha said,

Bahadur Singh ushered him in,
Into his hut, and gave him a welcome warm,
With hot soup and momos some,
And that chilli sauce and tomatoes sliced
Dipped in vinegar and bellpepper , diced,

After the meagre meal he took in,

The conversation between the two did begin,

They talked of being friends , separated by age and place,

They talked about how once they perils of the woodlands braced,

How they both worked for conservation

Of Mother Earth and rivers and animals,

Old Bahadur Singh, despite age, was still eager,

To work with Aniruddha with more vigour

To create a better surrounding there at that small town,

As the duo started to talk, time flew by ,

Gradually evening came, with darkness faintly lit

By candles, lamps and the clear Starry sky,

Aniruddha thought this time he would not go away,

He thought this time he would in that town stay

Till he would be able to open a school for those children parentless

And small hospital for those who starve most of days,

With Bahadur Singh, by his side, he could do anything,

Aniruddha thought, suddenly remembering,

How that man saved his life by fighting against a wild mountain bear black,

Which came down upon him, as once he hit that off the beaten track,

Into that woods not far away,

Aniruddha thought he could easily in the town stay

Till he would make that dream of his true,

The evening was getting chilly and blue,

Bahadur Singh had by then brought Ajay there,

He had started singing strumming his guitar,

Songs of Love and friendship and fun, 

Aniruddha thought he had another life begun.

Aura*

Sometimes when piercing the bleakest sky
You arrive like a new moon
Silver all over you,

I get drenched by thy light
And the world too,

Sometimes when you rise
Against the dark
Naked like a moon

I find myself intoxicated
By thy ambrosaic potion
And the world it seems
Beautiful than ever,

Silvery flakes of moon
Then fall into my room
Of Heart,
And I just get dyed
By your sacred aura.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached done by Paolo Damiani)

For Noirita

Many days have passed , Noirita,
Since you have gone away to the distant land,
Your postcards, sent from that land exotic
Reached me oft delayed, still they reached with pictures of your journeys
To different places there,

Ah those pictures sent had beauty of your days
Spent at the church yard
or at a big square right at the middle of a town,
Or at a fair where you stood before a shop
Buying items of Adornments, a clip, a brooch perhaps , a hairpin,

Then that postcard of the river
And a small bridge right over it,
You standing there, your hands rested on the bar of a bike,
You flashing a smile as shining as a spring morning,

Then that picture of a path through a forest
Turned burning orange by the magic of autumn,
Oaks, old and ancient , standing there
Like big statues, monumental,

Many days have gone away Noirita,
Since you have sent me the last post card,
Perhaps you have forgotten to write
So busy have become your days and nights,

Perhaps you have again fallen
In love,
Perhaps you have made home there
A sweet home with long curtains at windows,
And cosy couches at the living,

Perhaps you have grown a garden there too,
Right in front of your settlement,

Perhaps there had grown beautiful blossoms
To attract the birds and the bees,

But, Noirita,
How can I ever forget
Those bushes and myrtles
Which I have explored
With you in the greenness of our youth.

Having coffee with her

We were sitting by the window glass
Overlooking the street
A bit blurry after a spell of rain,
We sat there having no real hurry,
The hall had the quietitude too,
Just that we wanted to savour,
She was slowing turning her spoon
Into the cup of coffee steaming ,

And we talked about many things,
Usually it started with queries made
And answers to them, relayed, 'How was the day? '
She asked me,
Perfectly windowside as we sat
Through the glass the town looked blurry,

And mind you, we had no hurry,
Whatsoever,
She poured sugar cubes one by one,
Into coffee cups of her and mine, 'So far, so good' I replied,
Rain was stopping there, outside,

The hall was quiet

For us to talk , 'How's yours?'
I asked,
Customarily,

She took a sip,
I could see her face,
She was taking the aroma of beans ,

Coffee ,

It triggered more of our memories,

She talked of having black forest
Somewhere faraway from the town,
Sitting on the rooftop
Watching the birds flying
Across an autumnal sky,

I talked of my take
Of caffeine , java,
I recalled, 'Was I there with you too?'
She asked, 'Surely'
I replied, 'I had been there at that rooftop too,
When you munched that sandwich
And watched those hills
And those birds spreading wings
Carried away by the autumnal breeze'

I added,
Knowing she could always carry me,
Like I do,
Everywhere,

Outside the rain had receded,
The glass having those little rivulets drawn upon it,
Was beginning to get clear,

The vision blurry was getting cleaned,
I could see her, biting her lower lip,

I thought her face looked tantalizing,

Redness of her lips
Kept my eyes upon her
Transfixed,

We were never in a hurry,

I held the cup, steaming
She was sipping slowly hers.

The reader and the narrator

Of all the images that had stayed
With me , of her, so to say,
Is the one of her sitting at the threshold
With a book , reading stories (which she told
Me quite oft, afterwards, ) of Love and romance,
And the light of the day upon her hair as fell by chance,
Making her silhouette all the more beautiful to watch and admire,
Of all the images of her,
That had stayed out , magnificent,
Much like her own self,  resplendent,
Which not only bloomed like a flower
But also made me oft to love her,

How many times words came out rhyming
Out of my lips merely by finding
Her , sitting quiet, serene and soft,
How by seeing her I sang with ease, full throat,
How I told her too all those sights and visions
That flew within me like a perennial motion,

She , knew every bit of my expressed thoughts,
She knew perhaps every bit of my inexpressible words
Yet she remained as if she had been ignorant,
Yet she had  tinges of pinkish hue upon her cheeks, like paint
Of her affection held at the tip of a rain drenched leaf,
Only to make me feel her love hidden deep
Beneath the upper crust of our friendship,

Of all the images that had stayed
With me, of her,so to say,
Is that primary feel of her sitting quiet
At the threshold of a door, caressed by light
Of the day that fell upon her , her hair, her face,
Her gown, white with an embroidered lace,
And she reading a book of stories , of Love,
Which she oft narrated to me, afterwards.