the purple dream

I looked at the stream
Standing on the bridge,
And the dusk fell
On the water's ledge...

The stream looked velvety
Like a purple cloth
Spread in the wind
As waves flowed;

I looked at the sky,
As if a dream,
Immobile earth
And a lovely stream;

I thought I should,
Stand on the bridge,
And wait for the dusk,
To lay complete siege;

Just then my eyes fell,
On a cottage afar,
And someone standing,
At the door, left ajar;

But how can I leave
The velvety stream?
Even if its unreal,
Just a purple dream...

the little mother

I looked at her curious eyes and curly hair...
'Who are you?'
She asked, looking up to me...

With tattered clothes and blood all over me,
She might have taken me for an evil, I thought...

But her curious blue eyes,
And floral frock...
And innocence...
I just mumbled-
'Don't be afraid ...I'll cause no harm to you'
And I tried to smile, a friendly one,
But my jaws were broken and it pained
Even to flash a smile to a little girl...

She came near,
Probably she felt pity,
Seeing blood oozing from various spots of my body...
'Wanna have a chocolate?'
She stretched her tiny palm
And I at once noticed a violet wrapper of friendship...


'Are you a soldier?'
She asked, seeing blood and the huge back pack;
'No...A traveler...'
I said;

'How come a traveler be bleeding so much?'
She asked, the little girl with blue eyes;
'Cause I have been plundered on my way...'
I said;
'But...are you not strong?'
She said, looking at my young face and vigor still left in eyes;
'Yes I'm...'
I said...

'Take it'
The tiny woman gave me the chocolate,
I put the whole thing into my mouth, starved as I was...

'Want some more?'
The little angel asked...
I don't know what were there in her eyes or her voice...
But I felt, I've found my mother...
I nodded and my eyes became vaporous;

The little girl ran towards her home
Through the cornfields, the meadows, the marshes...
I looked at her two small braids dancing as she ran...
I started to cry...
I thought I found my little mother;

the danseuse

I was sitting at her first floor hall
Beside the big glass window,
In a cloudy evening,
Waiting with the hot coffee mug in my hand,
While she sat before me,
Bottle green saree wrapped around her...

I noticed how her red stone studded earrings swayed
Every time she moved her head
To nod or just to smile...

I looked at her posture,
Sitting like a swan,
Majestic..
 Her eyelashes were long,
Her eyebrows were pruned,
Her hair was braided with some kind of ribbon...

She looked so much homely,
Like those women of yesteryear,
Who spent most of their lives in kitchen
And labour beds,
The rest of their time on either chewing betel leaves,
Or listening to the radio...


Sitting infront of her,
I thought of those women
Of bygone era...
Red sindoor  on their forehead
Dazzling like a sacrosanct mark...

But then,
Suddenly the rains came pouring,
And saw the homely woman removing leaf by leaf her conventionality...

She opened the window
Put her head out,
Closed her eyes...
And the rain fell on her as if to bring out her self
That had been kept confined for ages...

She let herself drenched
While I, shamelessly watched,
The swan turning into a peacock...

Then...
She tucked the aanchal of her saree into her waist,
And removed the ribbon from her hair,
To help the black stream take the fullest fall,
And...
She started tapping her feet on the marble...

The rain turned violent,
The windows rattled,
The long coconut trees swayed...

And she took the centre of the hall,
Her eyes bore the joys of life,
And the cold moist wind moved into the hall like gusts of sea waves,
Spraying little jets of shiver...

She started dancing...
I sat there still,
And watched the peacock in full flow...
The thunder and the lightning
Only gave cadence to her work,
And her whole body glowed
With indescribable energy and light...

She danced while it rained...
And the sacrosanct mark on her forehead,
Took the shape of a tilak...
A long red mark shiny,
As if it proclaimed victory...

The mesmerizing victory of a danseuse

Musafir

'You seem to visit some places quite often...'
She remarked, seeing him standing at her door;
His dusty clothes and thick beard
Bore all the marks of being a Musafir ...

'Yes...its like gravity... they pull you in...'
He said, standing at her door,
Uncombed hair, muddy shoes...

The salty air of the west
Kept running through him
And he looked at her,
Simple in her housecoat,
And blue slippers...
And the long black hair pin peeping from behind her bun...
And a face that looked pleasant and happy...

'Won't you come in?'
She asked,
And he was ushered into the house...

A neat living space with shiny glass wares on the big oak table,
And the carpet on the wooden floor as new as those in the stores,
And the big plasma thing on the wall,
And plenty other signs of well being...

He did not move much,
For he was embarrassed of his wrong shoes, full of dust,
And the crumpled shirt and soul...
He just stood there;

She had gone indoors,
To bring something for him...
It might be the drink for his dry throat,
Or something else...

He thought it was time for him to go away,
The way he arrived like the bolt;
He felt he was not supposed to be there,
In that neat living space with couches tempting;

So, he turned to the door again,
And he would've gone-
Had he not met himself on the photo frame...

A Black-n-white boy in baggy trousers and the smile on his lips,
Standing by the woman ten years younger;
(Who has gone indoors,
To bring something for him...)

He looked around,
Pushed the photoframe into his hip pocket,
And ran out...

He ran and ran
Till he reached the yellow cornfields...

He ran
Till he couldn't see the door...

The paperback writer...

He writes the whole long day,
As if he was born to write,
All that came to him,
The flowers, the trees, the broken heart, the flimsy shadows on the wall...

He writes,
Like the determined clerk on his desk,
Piles of paper strewn across  his bed,
On the floor, on his body, on his mind...
Papers all around,
White, pink, yellow, black...
Papers of different shades and shapes...

He writes,
About memories real-
Of child and women,
Of men and villians,
And the unreal-
Of forbidden treasures
Of Divine temptations...

He writes,
Like a man dispossessed of earthly warmth,
A pen on his hand,
And a mind on flight...

He writes...
The death wish once,
The love story next...

He writes,
Like a man blinded by sombre darkness;
He writes,
Like a man who has just seen the sunrise...

Last night when the Northwester came...

Last night when the Nor'wester came with the petals
Of yellow and red,
I was only thinking of you dear...

I saw you coming to me with the smell of rain soaked earth,
Dressed like the fairy,
With tiny leaves stuck carelessly into your flowing hair black,
And the pollen grains all over your slender body,
Yellow and red...

I saw you walking across the fields green,
-Those play fields of my childhood,
Where many rainbow afternoons we spent,
Under those sprawling trees with dark trunks,
Gazing up to the canvas of the sky
 On which someone painted the riot of colors...

I saw you standing at the gate of the temple by the river,
That temple ground where many evenings we spent lying on the grass,
Smoking happily away our indulgent time;

I saw you bent down on the rails of the jetty that went far into the river,
Your head suspended in the air,
As if you were planning for a jump into the turbulent waters;

I saw you on the Avenue,
Walking past all those little insignificant spots
Of our nocturnal rendezvous;

Last night when the Norwester came with the petals
Of yellow and red,
You came dear,
Like an ethereal lover,
Covered with pollens...

Last night...
The Norwester came,
And you came thereafter...

The Bus ride

Finally it came,
The last bus of the night,
For me,
Like a monster- one eyed,
Ugly dents all over his body,
Bearing marks of his careless sloppy movement,
And the radiator grill with broken teeth on display...

The monster stopped
Customarily where I was standing...
And I hopped in,
And collapsed on the grumpy seat
Which shrieked every time the monster jerked
As it ploughed down the uneven road of the night...

Tired as I was,
At the end of just another usual day
With usual share of usual nothingness,
The eyelids of mine were heavy
And they were about to be closing down
My vision for the night...

Just then the air brought in a fragrance
Not keeping with the late night bus,
For it reminded me of spring mornings
Of flowers and bees,
Of birth and creation...

I opened my sleepy eyes
And saw the bright sky
Draped in autumnal blue,
Seated just before me,
By the broken window;

The passing streetlights
Cast an intermittent burst of hues on the sky
And I saw how the blue turned green, yellow, red...
I looked at the change of colour...
And...
Goodness me!
All of a sudden,
The one eyed monster, carrying me within its belly,
Started gliding on the road of the night,
Like an automobile of the future,
With no noise, no jerks!

 I lost my sleep,
I was wide awake-
Witnessing the bus ride of my life!

8th march

I never wanted to see you that way
Dancing as you are, 'babelicious'
Embracing the pole ,
Paints all over your face
To woo the gaping men like me,
Full of bestiality...

On eighth march,
As you go international,
I am pained,
To see you on the billboards in skimpy clothes and lot of paints...
You don't need all these false adornments, dear,
For no one ever heard of goddesses wearing mascara or lipgloss!

A still picture

I could see her walking through the woods-
Swampy, moist, green, invigorating,
Staring at her brought relief
To my tired, burnt eyes of the city...

Blue jeans, backpack, white tee, sneakers,
Move away from me bit by bit;
Following the trail,
I move,
Amidst the woods,
Stretching my ears to get to the tune
Of the white tee and blue jeans humming all her way upfront...

The road was narrow, uphill,
Full of the adventures of the wild,
And of trees of unkown smell,
Yet so calming...

And I moved slowly,
Unaccustomed as I was,
To the region and the trail...

At one point she disappeared
From my sight,
I looked all around,
Only to see the trees standing like
Ascetics buried in deep thoughts;

I thought I should call her by her name,
But the trees...
They stood firm,
Like philosophers from the past,
I felt it would be a sin
To call her from behind,
To break the wild beauty of the place;

So I stopped
And forgot to call,
I just stayed back,
I just left the trail untouched by my feet,
I just waited...
For I knew that it would be a sin,
To create a furor,
In the midst of silence so pure...

the eighth year...

There you are,
Dressed in golden,
Resplendent under the flashbulb,
So happy and near,
Just by my skin,
The picture of perfection,
Smell of sweet flowers in the air...

Eight years have gone by,
Eight long years,
Eight short years...


Ninety six months,
Or, sixty nine thousand one hundred and twenty hours-

Of love and separation,
Hugs and slaps,
Tears and laughter,
Kisses and bites,
Eating and starving,
Acceptance and denial,
Enmity and friendship,
Truth and lies...

Ninety six months...
Eight years...
And still a poem for you...

An empty empty world

Sitting by the side of the flowing stream,
Reddened by the last rites of the Sun,
He was reminded of the emptiness all around...

Empty boats anchored to the bay,
Empty trees standing like phantasms with branches set across like frail fingers of the starved,
Empty land with no sign of human habitation...
An empty broken pot lying desolate...

He looked up to perceive the sky,
Cloudless and bereft of stars,
Spread like a low canopy of darkness,
And he heaved a sigh,
For within him he was ground by the void,
Within him there was a black basalt stone pressing hard,
As if it would lead him to asphyxia...

He felt the unnerving void engulfing him from all directions,
A 'void' of being loved till death by someone,
An emptiness filling up him from within,
In an empty, empty world...

Remember me?

'Remember me?'
He said, in a hushed up voice,
As if he was not sure of himself;

'Of course! I can!'
She said, full of vigour,
And  with an element of being surprised...

'How are you?'
He asked, still timid,
For within him he had that guilt,
Of being a fugitive for long...

She laughed,
But the sound of laughter had all the stings,
To pierce him through, silently;

'I'm sorry!'
He said,
As the guilt rose like a ball of fire,
Burning his flesh, his soul, his mind...

'You're late...'
She said, calmly,
Like a woman of ice,
Cold, lifeless...

'Some ten years late...'
She added,
And laughed out again;

This time around
The laughter was not stinging,
For it sounded like a muted cry of the heart,
Deep as the deepest and darkest well on earth,
With the wails and tears kept well out of reach
For ignorant  men like him;

'Have a good day...'
She said,
Before hanging up;

He stood there,
Nevertheless, with the phone stuck to his ear,
As if he had become deaf, forever ...

if

If I were a bird,
I would have flown to you
Just at that sunset,pinkish evening,
To sit on your window pane
Through which the last few rays of dying light,
Usually enter your room...

If I had been a bird, somehow,
I would've woken you up,
With songs of our collated memories
Of being united for brief moments-
Those brief moments of eternal joy,
And an union of souls...

If  I could be the wind,somehow
I would go straight to your apartment,
And ram on your glass window
Till you would open it and let me in...
And once ushered in,
I would've blown the coolest air into your brown tresses,
Only to see your flushed reddened face,
Full of coyness and love,
And those strands of brown hair,
Covering your eyes with a playfulness...

O  How I wish
 To be that bird or the wind!

Estranged

Barring the soft bluish glow of the screen rectangular,
It would have been dark...
And I would have groped my way on,
As blind man does
In broad daylight;

Barring that glow,
I would have been alone-
I wonder,
Like that lame man on the street,
Sans friends...

Barring that presence in absence,
I would be estranged...
I wonder,
As I press keys real,
To get to the unreal-
I go green,
I go red,
I go grey...

Barring that glow,
I would've never been so colorful,
Green, red, grey...
Barring that,
I would've been only pale-
As pale as the worn down structure
Just two blocks away-
Full of cobwebs and dust,
And an unkempt garden,
And a path untrodden for long;

A distant eerie place,
For the estranged, I guess...

The gift

'You told me once
That you would gift me your longest poem
In an evening when the sky would take
The colors of the new bride, remember?'
She said wistfully...

'Yeah...'
I replied which sounded like a whiff of air,
Passing by uneventfully, like the breeze of summer;

'Brought it?'
She asked, with all eagerness;

'Nope...'
'Nah? why? then? why have you come back?'
She asked,
Her voice trailed
And soon got drowned in the rustle of leaves
And, I looked at the western front, red;

'The storm is brewing...we should get back...'
I murmured...
'No! I want the gift!'
She stamped her feet hard on the ground
And I thought, I heard a  little girl's sobs, somewhere ;

I looked at her eyes...
Her beautiful, large, tearful eyes,
And felt so helpless...

'There will be another day...'
I tried to soothe her...

She remained silent,
Looking at the western sky,
Where the red met the black...

The wind rose, finally,
Not like a raging bull striking terror,
But the music graded perfect,
From the soft  kind of a tremble,
To the bellowing one,
Spreading the Gift all over...

'Hey! Got it!'
I cried out loud, impromptu,
Running to hold her from behind;

'I'm the sky,
My love!
I'm the drops of water-
Shot at you from all angles!
I'm the chill
Running through your wetness!
I'm You!'
I shouted
Holding her on my flooded self...

And soon it rained,
Horribly....

Blinding us,
Enveloping us,
Burning us...

It rained for hours,
So white and so pure!

waiting for the finale...

Forget all dear!
As the night turns to dawn,
Just hold me tight on your bosom,
To make me part of your misty morn;

I know you are tired,
Age seeping through your veins,
But just let me die young,
On your lovely embrace;

I know you are enraged,
Unable to forget the past,
But hold me tight dear once,
Till the short night lasts;

You might be feeling hateful,
Sleeping with an enemy like me,
Believe me, I never let you down,
Only a storm gripped the golden sea;

Time will have the final say,
Don't fret over things small,
Love remains undaunted,
Surviving the mighty Fall;

Still you can give me a kiss,
Or plant sleep into my eyes,
I wouldn't mind dying on your lap,
As the night rolls the dice;

A new dawn breaks the doom,
As my mind leaves me afloat,
On an empty cot, just you and me,
Like in marsh, a stuck-up country boat...

And somewhere the music will play,
'Last dance with Mary Jane'
And I will just lie happy,
Waiting for the dark to wane;

Bring 'em back!

They come out suddenly
Like rabbits of different colours,
Restless, unpredictable, random...
But as soon I set my eyes on them,
They run away...

I also run after them
Yelling all the time:
Don't leave me...see! I'm me!

But they don't listen;
They run to the holes
They run behind the thickest bush,
While I pant horribly
And finally resign to my lonely hut,
Breathless and flushed
And bruised on several places;

Those cuts and bruises
Will heal, I know,
But how can I bring my rabbits back?
How I miss those soft cotton balls
Playing on my lap
As I recline at the end of another useless day!

The Rainwoman

'Have you forgotten all those days?'
She asked...
I looked at the screen...blue, fluorescent,
Like a glowing wonder gadget in my hand,
Amidst darkness thick as the darkest cloud bearing loads of rain...
'Hello! are you listening?'
She asked
As if she was shaking me up from my slumber,
Her voice was choked;
'Will she cry?'
I thought, alarmed, somewhat,
And put the phone on my ear again...
'Yes...I'm all ears'
Said I, trying to bring myself back to the unreal real;
'I want an answer!'
She implored...
I knew what could her pleadings lead to-
Rain...loads of rain falling from the darkest cloud of the century...
Flooding me, her, the river ghat, the bridge, the tea stalls, the football grounds...
Rain....
Rain with huge drops of water,
Would make the country deluged,
And make even the uneven,
And uneven, even...

Whirlpool

'You've remained the same...'
I remarked, after a long drawn silence,
That like a flowing river,
Kept the distance
Between two desperate shores...

'Really?'
She asked,
Dancing her eye lustrous brows,
And the long eyelashes,
Full of hidden humour,
At my candid observation;

'Only...'
I started to say something but
My voice trailed,
As I looked at her painted, glistening face,
So young and yet so old...

'Only what?'
She egged on,
The twinkle still in her eyes,
And the humour still playing hide-n-seek
On her slippery cheek...

'Nothing!'
I said,
Trying hard to sweep aside the rush of bygone memories,
Crowding every bit of my crumpled soul...

Then, she came closer,
Taking my soiled palm onto hers,
As if my palm was hers,
In the most effortless manner,
And murmured:
'You've been wonderful, all through, like a dream, only, I drifted away'
So saying, she stopped.

O How I wanted to steal a look at her face, her eyes,
'Were they brimming over? her lustrous eyes?'
I thought;
O How I longed to kiss her,
'Was she sad?'
I thought;

O How I wanted to keep her close,
To get the scent of the long forgotten memory,
Yet I lacked the courage,
Fearing another apocalypse!

'Why are you so coward?'
She asked with a strange fervour,
As if in a fit,
And shook my shoulders,
Trying to jar sense into something non sensical;
'Why can't you claim what is yours?'
Her voice pitched higher,
Like a shrill sob,
Stirring the silent stream
Flowing betwixt us...

And I felt dizzy
At the tumultuous energy of a rising whirlpool
Within me;
I thought
I would rather die,
In that whirlpool...
I thought
I would rather become
That rising whirlpool!

maa...

Thinking about her is just like
making a revisit to the past ingloriously peaceful,
Little things which carry no value otherwise,
Come to me with multiple connotations-
of love, affection, pride and refuge...

Little insignificant things-
the smell of kitchen soot,
or, that of the known talcum flakes...
a dab of cream on the face upon some wintry morning,
a benign smile,
an all knowing stare,
an angry face with all heart's pains painted straight,
a wait at the table for the arrival of her little prince,
an act of self effacing defense...

Little things done without any strings attached,
only out of love,
-pure, undiluted;

Little things that meant so much
That once you start missing them,
you simply cannot forget your associations with them,
You miss them forever!

O mother!
why left me so poor?
why left me blinded?
why?