The rush begins in the mind.
And the hours seem like minutes.
Not a second to unwind-
the clock unkind, and mistreats.
Unaware you chug along
to reach somewhere but nowhere.
In this struggle to belong
you try to be everywhere.
But the living will not care
when you fade into thin air.
The fluffy black fur dazzles.
He watches with half closed eyes
-Someone has come to hassle.
This human race so unwise-
In lazy nonchalant way
the bushy broom-tail he wags.
With a yawn the bear-face sways.
Lo! Arise! The master swags.
He is done with human-time.
Waits for his partner in crime.
My mind churns up old pictures.
The heart beats to memories.
The pain finds joyful mixture-
I breathe slow, deep, and with ease.
How lovely were childhood tears-
blend of mischief and silence.
The exaggerated fears.
And the shy-full secret yearns.
I still can scent their fragrance.
My tongue waits to rewind once.
Slowly I descended into the well-
with water long gone it seemed parched and dry.
Here in the years bygone warm springs had dwelled
quenching the thirst keeping the spirits high.
Steps of stone led deeper into the past,
and tingled my soul with fanciful tales.
How unaware of an abyss so vast
yet a wonderful mix of joy and wails.
But for the bees and ghost eyes of the peers-
my thoughts echoed in the silence profound.
I wished this well had elongated ears
for coins of prayers were scattered around.
The noise above fading, the depth nearer-
I heard the voices in my head clearer.
The sketch portrays what I see,
and not what she truly is.
All colourful yet fuzzy
for unpaintable her fizz.
So I let my brush tinker
to give some shape to my thoughts.
For false paint should not linger,
and depict what she is not.
I dribble, scribble and fuss,
and yet less speaks the canvas.
Chaos reigns at the entrance-
of cars, buses, bikes and us.
The place was our pathway once
now jostles without purpose.
Here one competes for wisdom
for a culture bright, graphic.
Unaware running random
amidst unruly traffic.
Hope the knowledge educates
that learning is at the gate.
Joy and the spirit, the inside man knows.
Bubbles of lust and zest quietly
blows.
But the facade displays not what he is-
forever bottled just the label shows.
Far away now I am from my homeland
with treasure of memories of my prime.
Grateful I am to the land where I stand,
yet heart goes back and forth from time to time.
My road of gentle pace and aimless drifts
tarred with turmoils and peace, darkness and light.
Of twists and turns spiced with numerous shifts.
From financial plight to some soulful sights.
Sometimes I wonder what would I have been
had I not trodden this once unknown road?
But play of fate is forever unseen.
All you need is a wheel of will to goad.
Often unaware these are pleasure-walks.
And though loud it ticktocks, blind is the clock.
I ate the homemade curry,
and flew to the glamour-land.
A new charm, some new worries
but a strong faith in fate’s hand.
I wondered what was in store
as my dreams fluttered in hope.
Knocking on destiny;s door
with an iron will to cope.
Joy or woe of the new dough-
Alas! little did I know.
Gifted with a graceful gait,
armoured with a deep foresight.
Blessed to bless every soulmate,
powered with an unseen might.
They roam the streets, ask for alms,
spreading love, receiving none.
Though teased for their girlish charm-
they are the God’s favoured ones.
If ever you doubt or grouch-
then a king or queen would vouch.
The butter could never resist his tongue,
nor could any mischief refrain from him.
Melodies from the flute tingled his lungs,
and the gopis vied to flatter his whims.
He fought those kings who deserved no pity,
and often beguiled them with righteous tricks.
He found a way in an adversity
when the demons threatened with their gimmicks.
In the great war when the brave Arjun froze-
he revived his beliefs with a dose of Just.
Soon when the archer from his slumber rose-
the battle was gruesome, but was a must.
Amidst the warriors, the shrills, the wails-
Krishna, the truth, showed his might and prevailed.
The aged wine I befriend
to savour the days gone by.
Sip by sip memories blend
till the grapes and stories dry.
But excess of it offends-
what appears mingles with lies.
I search for truth in pretence
while the soul buzzes with sighs.
Often my thirst seeks that touch-
friend or foe I scent not much.
A lady used to sit by the temple where I lived. The footpath was her residence, and a cloth bag her only possession. Occasionally, whenever I passed by, I used to give her some money. She was poor but never asked for it. I never saw her speaking to anyone nor anyone speaking to her. She would wash her face, and comb her hair neatly. And ate whatever anyone gave her to eat. After many years I shifted my residence and settled into a new area nearby. After couple of months I spotted her sitting on a footpath near where I lived. And for the first time she looked straight into my eyes and said - you never told me you shifted. - I was taken aback. I replied - I never knew you could speak- I saw her smile for the first time. I gave her some money as usual. But this time she said - give me little more please. I’m seeing you after so long. - I gave little more and walked back to my house. She put it the same cloth bag and settled on her new footpath.
I would like to see no evil around
but alas! cannot close these eager eyes.
And how could I ever be honour bound
for the truth that glitters is disguised lies.
I have closed my ears to the evil sound
but the blares of the devil are so loud.
I try to be deaf but their echoes hound,
and they are but the laments of the crowd.
I wish no evil from my tongue should roll
for there is much to be said and cautioned.
But my words lay silently in the soul,
and the ills roam unscathed, unquestioned.
So blame me not in this life of disguise-
help me decipher the wise from the vice.
To the poor grieving tongues her ear she lends.
With an armour of spice and sweet to blend.
A romantic soul and a vagabond-
she is my strength from the beginning to end.
Rosy webs knitted the cloth-
adorned a colourful shine.
But some parts holed by the moths
altered the fibered design.
And then appeared a pattern
that wasn’t what was in mind.
The yarn that weaved was saddened
for the truth was hard to find.
Need to tie up the loose threads
lest my half-stitched tales should spread.
I was travelling to office by train. Couple of stations later a small girl of about 6-7 years of age, bit sleepy in her head, got in, and began begging for money or food. Few people gave, few continued dozing, few ignored, and few pretended to be asleep to avoid refusing the little girl. One guy who was standing at the entrance door, called her and asked her name, and then gave her a note of hundred rupees. The girl said thank you and went about resuming her begging. She was about to put it in her pocket when she noticed that it was a hundred rupee note. She was wide awake. But conscience didn’t allow her to pocket it immediately. She went back to that man and said - sir, you gave me hundred rupees. Hope it’s not a mistake. - the man just smiled and patted her head. Off she went dancing and yelling to her mom who was begging in the next train compartment. - mom, I won a lottery. - mom looked at the man who had given her that money and smiled.
I dipped the paint-brush in my reverie.
And found our pictures in the gallery.
Colours that lit us whenever we blushed-
forever I have framed in memory.
Chameleon hides in plain sight
for its prey hovers somewhere.
And to survive others’ might
amusing colours it wears.
Like we who often take charge
of those who are presumed weak.
But as quick to camouflage
when the steps of success seek.
When in fear we disappear-
and incognito appear.
One morning he watched her go,
and held her hand one last time.
He did not let his tears flow
for her smile was still sublime.
He sat, waited and asked her
if what he saw was all lies.
But when he heard no murmur,
with deep sighs he closed her eyes.
He paused his mind to rewind-
drifted to their days of prime
The hot oil poured on my head
spreading its warmth deep inside.
It nestled on hairy bed,
knocked on the bones to reside.
My veins seemed ever eager
as the strains of the day numbed.
The nerves found a new vigour,
and to pleasures they succumbed.
The massage sends a message-
what the old folks had presaged.
Odd old mufflers for the yet unknown chill.
Coffee steamed with the chimneys of the mill.
People exchanged glances to feel alright.
To some - seemed the same as the warm wine filled.
The wool of the sheep lying in her lap,
my mother would make me a warm sweater.
The long thin needles would then go snap-snap
with a smile blessing the coming weather.
Her hands would knit, the emotions would churn,
a steaming cup of coffee idled by.
The spool of memories unrolled and spun,
threads of the past to let the present fly.
Sometimes I watched as she silently stitched.
The design of her thoughts would calmly fit.
Where all my patience would constantly itch,
her piece of art would glow but bit by bit.
At times I wish all seasons to be cold-
just to wear my yellow sweater of old.
My little twinkle is now
of the shining silver age.
But I still remember how
she monkeyed in cradle-cage.
A ride of wondrous sighs,
and joyous tumbles and rolls.
Fooled not be by her looks shy
for they veil a solid soul.
All these years cannot disguise-
mischief dancing in her eyes.
How I want those old days back.
The wild noons and crazy nights.
Not much sought nor much I lacked
but the golden sunrise sight.
The drums rolled soon after brunch.
The guitar found its own tune.
Piano keys loudly punched.
A song from pieces was sewn.
No time’s hand could make us pause-
nor did we play for applause.
Confined to a tiny room day and night.
How my thoughts struggle to show their true might.
People would be going about their ways.
My imagination, my only sight.
I cut my thumb. Blood ran profusely for a couple of months- finding pleasure in finding a new outlet each time. It looked ugly, damn ugly! No amount of bandages, tapes, ointments, powders worked. My initial goal was to make it alright soonest. But as days went by, I gave up hope and concentrated on beautifying it. Forget the pain - I thought - Then I applied turmeric, my father's all time favourite home-medicine. All I ended up doing was making everything around me yellow. Yellow which would not disappear in one wash, two wash, three wash...people around me who were, up till now sympathetic towards me, or rather my my thumb, started giving me weird looks to begin with. and then settled on getting angry outright. - Dear father, please come down from heaven. We have scores to settle. And please take this thumb away on your way up. treat it as gurudakshina-
Finally. my brother-in-law advised me to keep it open and bear the brunt of onlookers. It was so simple but turned out to be genius of an idea. For a few days even I couldn't look at my thumb but then I got used to it. Made people get used to it and bingo! thumb took its original shape and look. The soft, glowing new skin was back on it. Or rather the same skin but it took so much time to heal that I had forgotten what it looked like till I looked at his brother, the right thumb. The thumb seemed to tell me - better take extra care next time around -
It looked beautiful. I twisted it up, down, sideways and it was perfect. Sometimes walking on the street I looked at it so admiringly that people thought I had gone mad. Anyways, everyone accepted it but my cell phone - which had a locking system and would open only after reading my thumb. The phone seemed to say - that's not the skin by which I will let you in. No ways. sorry! -
Wow! the whole world seemed to accept it but this bloody man-made machine. The skin of my thumb looked perfectly normal. I sat back, took deep breaths, and thought, and thought, and thought. The answer came back with a thumping clarity. While all the while I thought that the cell phone wasn't accepting it, it was my thumb that refused to acknowledge it - the software, the system, or whatever crap. Nature seemed to say - just hold on mate. I am still working it. I will give your thumb a perfect dressing, Just chill for few days -
Well - I had been fuming, getting irritated, coming to terms, and finally chilling all these days, it wasn't much to ask for. So I waited, and waited, Waited for nature to works its magic. I didn't try to break into the phone by some devious strategy. I trusted nature completely, always did, and more so now. And true to my faith, and the power of nature, one fine day I held my phone, pressed my, now new thumb, and said - knock! knock! open sesame! And the cell phone opened.
Life is a cube of intriguing puzzles
splashed with vibrant colours and weird patterns.
Sometimes its winding lanes tend to hustle
for unaware of what lies at each turn.
Either you find it as roads of stumbles
or little picturesque pieces of maze.
Sometimes it is a jumble of pebbles
or a riddle that will tease and amaze.
As the paths assemble and colours merge,
life will sparkle with a new dimension.
New layers of designs will soon emerge,
and solve your ever mysterious questions.
Let the cube of life juggle in your hand-
time will side with only those who take a stand.
