Idli n Coffee

Warbler asleep. Winter chill drops by

humming a new melody.

Dews tickle the toes and draw a sigh.

But back in the kitchen pressure cooker chugs.

And soon the idlis roll spiced with steam.

Hot cup of filtered coffee.

The old pals chat before the first beam.

The Painter

The sun throws light over the subject.
The fiery mountaintops
heave and roll along the river bed.
Would a brush tame the wild green bush with new paint?
Artist fills the sheets with a figure,
in all fullness sprawled across,
and the dusk sets in to empurple.

The Leaf

The brittle leaf seems heavy today.

Strong winds can’t make it flutter

nor can sweet spring entice it to sway.

For long it has weathered many a rough storms.

Now it hangs frozen with past fears,

awaiting season’s utter-

a streaming sunlight deep and fierce.

Cafe

Quiet becomes the night when lights dim

as the day’s labour is done.

Would a drink pamper the tired limbs?

A cafe breathes on a cobbled stone street-

Just across jingles a two-men band

with a guitar and steel drums,

and I, with a cold beer in hand.

Lone Island

An old turtle trudged towards the sea-

caressing the tiny shell,

bathing in the sand bowl timelessly.

Years fade the trace but someone would replace-

A sail drifted away from the shore.

The trees sway and bid farewell.

Island, an uninhabited soul.

The Sniper

On a roadside cafe the hunter sits.

The deep eyes skate over the bustling crowd

in search of the hunt that often outwits-

teasing the patience of the hunter abound.

From far, squinting against the hot noon sun,

on foxy feet, arrives his enemy.

Amidst the noise, dangerously silent-

killer watches his eluding quarry.

He uncaps a poisonous needle,

eager to end these endless stalks.

But on a roof-top the sniper waits hidden,

just a trigger away to shorten his walks.

Bullet whooshes across the noisy street,

quiets the killer and his restless feet.

Alzheimer's

He gazes out the window as faces hurry by-

amuse him much for how they wander.

His over-stretched life now stands by.

Tasks that once thought vital now seem trivial.

But old memories in the jar scamper around.

The present - strange and blur.

Could fate lift the lid somehow?

Victorious

Often a flip between virtue and vice.

Forever at loggerheads,

apt to show their sides.

The ills seem fair in an inebriated state.

But the evil trembles with fear

when the malt evaporates,

and the good becomes clear.

The Link

Giri was an ordinary boy. But one fine day, out of the blue, he began chanting Buddhist sutras in Magadhi, the ancient Buddhist language which he was never taught nor he had read anywhere. None of his parents was Buddhist. Giri was five years old then. Tracking down Giri's family tree, a Buddhist monk was found, some five hundred years ago, to be his only Buddhist ancestor. He was a scholar in Buddhist literature. His name was Raghu.
 
The Buddhist literature which Raghu knew and had memorized, somehow got stored in a particular cell of Raghu's brain. Raghu had a son but Raghu died before he could teach his son any of these Buddhist sutras. This brain cell of Raghu's, passed down generations but remained dormant. But since it was a powerful cell, even after five hundred years it came to life when it was passed on to Giri.

One powerful brain cell of Giri's, ignited and activated Raghu's dormant brain cell. Like a man waking up from coma after many years, Giri began reciting Buddhist sutras from Raghu's memory cell. But Giri couldn't understand a thing he was chanting since the language Magadhi was alien to him.


At the age of seven Giri took classes in Buddhism and learned Magadhi. Soon he could translate the sutras which flowed from Raghu's cell. A constant communication between Raghu's memory cell and Giri's brain cell, Giri began reciting  not only Buddhist sutras but also various little things like where Raghu lived, the name of his village, his family and few friends, the Buddhist temple where Raghu prayed regularly. And also few abstract things like a small pond outside Raghu's house where Raghu fed the ducks. Giri wrote all this down. He decided to visit Raghu's village when he grew up. Probably his ancestors were still living there.

 Giri wanted to go to this village where Raghu once lived and see if Raghu's memory cell connected any of the things it saw, which in turn might help and activate few more of Giri's ancestor's cells. 

Dream?

Night falls with weighty silence.

Mind rests, dreams arise

and the thoughts run.

But somewhere in this haze I’m awake.

A red scarf floats

before my overcast eyes-

from the mist you approach.

Metamorphosis

At times you are dared,

and placed in crossroads

to choose an unknown thread

or drown in known discomfort of fear and distrust.

The Nature’s vie-

wagon of ideas hoard.

Soon a caterpillar flies.

Aqua (Dublin)

On a shore the sea bounces on rocks-

there lies a pub called ‘Aqua’.

Huge glass windows enclose the top floor,

display a beach stretched to miles afar.

The yachts sway lazily in a harbour

as seagulls come kissing the window where I sit.

They wait in mid-air, feathers flutter,

momentarily suspended by the gushing wind.

It’s late eve, crowd flows into Aqua bar

for the sun shines and the barrels roll.

Time ticks but I don’t realize the hour,

and a sail sets for a leisurely stroll.

The seagulls turn, rev, dive into the sea,

while a cold, dark Guinness beer soaks me.

Sheep (Tanka)

Counting to slumber

she grazes in winding trails

short tail, woolly coat-

then one climbs over the bridge

others flock instinctively.

Sanskar Jyot Reunion

A sure hand led us

when we were baffled by the studies.

Strict, severe in appearance

but soft and unhurried.

Now, as each master speaks

with unmatched clarity in thoughts-

their actions we can predict,

the styles so imbibed in us.

Time goes back and forth-

old school mates meet.

''Who are you? how are you?'', questions galore.

Memories flow - sour and sweet.

Then, as children, we stood height-wise.

And now, as adults, we click width-wise.

A Dream

A restless day came to an end. I hit the sack, and I dreamt...

A house was full of people. All talking simultaneously. I was sitting on a big swing which was in the centre of a huge room. Small children were running around it. Chatter of ladies and their vessels could be heard from an open kitchen. A small boy was eating a mango. A girl with a cute pony tail,her hair soaked in oil was standing in a corner. She somehow resembled my mom. Two little boys wearing shorts and banyan were holding a big jar of buttermilk. Did they look like my uncles? Maybe. Hazy, blur paintings hung on the walls. The girl with pony tail distributed glasses to all. Suddenly there was chaos and everyone rushed to drink the buttermilk. Children yelping without any interruption from the elders to calm them down. Probably the beginning of summer holidays. Ba (grand mother) handed me a glass of buttermilk filled with ice and her affectionate smile. She was wearing her favourite cotton sari. Her bangles clinked, my eyes blinked. I drowned the glass in one gulp. Someone started singing. Few others joined. I got up went to the washroom. The image staring back at me from the mirror was of my Dadaji's (grand father).

By-lane

Old man and his grandson stroll down the lane

filled with memories of one's-

to other, a worn out trail.

When musings paint not the picture of days gone

nor the boy's mumbling reach the old ears.

They walk in known silence

and holding hands bridge the years.

The Boat Ride

It was a Sunday morning. I took Niyo and her friends to the beach. They chose a spot surrounded by tall coconut trees that stretched high into the sky. And soon they were rolling in the sand. These devils were yet to reach double digits in age. I sat on a rock, took out my paperback and began reading. The girls dug trenches in the sand. Occasionally Niyo would get up,fill water from the sea in her small bucket and splash it over the sand-castle that they had so meticulously constructed. I was engrossed in the story I was reading when a yelp from Niyo brought me back to the beach. She had spotted a fisherman's boat; and now she and her friends were dancing hysterically as if we were cast away on some remote island and a rescue party had suddenly arrived. I got up, and to my surprise found myself waving at the fisherman. He saw us and turned his boat towards us. When he was at a hearing distance, I asked if he could take us for a boat ride. Niyo and her friends weren't expecting this and they were elated. And fisherman wasn't about to disappoint us. He brought the boat closer and we all climbed in. It was a small boat with fishing equipment stashed in one corner. We saw some fishes protruding from a large basket. One of Niyo's friends couldn't stand the smell of fish so she made a face. But she was so thrilled to be on a boat that she opted to sit near the basket. The fisherman started the boat and we roared away. The sea wasn't rough but because the small size of the boat we were hurled from side to side. Niyo urged the fisherman to ride bigger waves. Fisherman obliged. Girls went berserk. I felt giddy. They kept exchanging their sitting places and the boat rocked further. We were drenched. We put our hands in the water. It pushed us back with tickling force, and our shrieks grew louder. Now, I was one of them. Amazing are the ways of pleasure if you can interpret them.

Sun was beating down on us. Few fishermen were returning after the day's work. After a twenty-minutes swirl we returned to the shore. I paid and thanked our fisherman, and we raced back to our spot. One of Niyo's friends had never sat in a boat; either she hadn't had a chance or was little apprehensive. She was glad to have put that behind now.

It was getting hot. Time to leave. I picked up my paperback and told them to pack up. I said that it was getting late and they had their studies and homework to do. They refused to budge. I argued further. But Niyo and her friends had their own ideas. They said that the sand-castle which they had built had somehow other been reduced to sand and they couldn't dream of going home without making another one. They would rather build it in the sand than in the air.

I rested my case.

Summer (Haiku)

Dew rolls down the leaf

scorch swallows before it grounds-

would wind come by soon?

Casino

Dice roll, ingredients bare,

and flavours lure to the table.

Cards hold you with a glamorous stare.

Unruffled faces with a clink of a coin shuffle.

Stripped off his peace,

'double', yells a gambler-

teasing the fate with cubical piece.

Scent Speaketh

Scent of a cent,

the age of wine-

bring wonders and laments.

A hunter salivates, the hunted escapes.

When looks seem doubtful

and tongue beguiles-

scent speaks the truth.

Apology / Eulogy

Here, once a tree stood.

All the artistry can't bring life.

It's wilted to wood.

Fawn hunted for sport,

designs the living-

pleasure from innocent source.

Sun draws the nature,

waltzes over the deep sea.

Moon shades the picture.

In this intriguing nest

am I a miscreant,

stemming the growth of colourful eggs?

We fail to see the paint.

The stroke of His brush

imbibed in each space.

Hang Gliding

Road spiraled to the mountain top.

High and lonely-

geared for a sweet drop.

Deep valley, magical streams appeared tiny.

Fear wobbled over the mighty air

in bird's territory. 

Wings glided beyond aware. 

Timeline

Having been in black and white

I move into the technological zone.

New colours- bold and bright-

I reminisce about the generation old.

Would I have opted for video games then

if I were offered cyberspace?

Would these kids now play them

if otherwise provided open place?

Things joyed us long ago are not yet extinct-

if seen, felt with new set of eyes.

Hands change as the clock ticks,

setting new trends, benchmarks, styles.

Unfair to compare the present with the past.

It's just a timeline that's sped too fast.

Nocturnal

In the night I awake with his squeaks.

Quivering nose he scampers around,

and I with my broom and stick.

The trap with a cheese, an open-fridge.

The race with the rat is once again set-

on my battlefield, on his playground.

He the prankster, me the pet.