Memory Tap

 

In the hour of dawn when the moon still glowed,

I opened the rusted memory tap. 

Stories dribbled with a sputtering flow

as if woken by hiccups from a nap. 

Some were lukewarm and worth reminiscing. 

Few should have remained like a distant haze. 

Some tasted like a sweet cake with icing. 

Some left a bad taste - could not be erased. 

I switched off the tap for a few minutes. 

But I could still sense the gurgle of tales. 

I savoured all and sundry and tidbits.,

and will not let the flow stop nor run stale. 

As I soak and sink into this outpour-

my sink overflows yet I ask for more.

Shoeshine Boy

 

He calls you with a sweet smile. 

Then knocks on wood and whistles. 

All set to polish in style

with wax, cream and brush bristles. 

He could tell some funny tales

that just don’t  make boots shine. 

He would fix a shoe that ails,

and your petty daily whines. 

He knows every shoe unknown.

Just by the way it is worn. 

Beach Chair

She brings her chair to the beach. 

A flask of hot chai - her friend. 

As the morning sun glows peach,

the moon fades - its vigil ends. 

The sea takes back little sand. 

Her chair slides one inch deeper.

Today, she has time on hand. 

Nature is the time keeper. 

Walkers pass by, wave from miles. 

She squints  her eyes with a smile. 

Ganga

Here rests an old friend in peace

that often eluded him. 

Though he was on a short lease-

Alas! It was further trimmed. 

He lived a colourful prime

of guzzling beers and ghazals. 

Perhaps aware of less time

with a mind full of puzzles. 

He is wheeled on a gurney. 

Thus begins his next journey. 

Ancestral House

A narrow wooden swing went swish and swish. 

The big open windows let in the breeze. 

Here, I never had to demand a wish. 

Nor had to act or behave to appease. 

My grandparents loved to fuss over me. 

I would sleep or pretend to be asleep. 

This old place that would always let me be

where my ancestral roots run sweet and deep. 

The kitchen was filled with jars of pickle

where we gossiped and spiced up tales for fun. 

My grand mom ruffled my hair to tickle. 

Just to see that smile I went there often. 

The house is closed now, not those memories. 

I am still pampered by their melodies

Ants

 

The queen ant sits on her throne-

lays millions of tiny eggs. 

Beside her idles the drone.  

Soldiers march on tireless legs. 

For miles some forage for food,

and bring back the daily bread. 

But sometimes they rise and feud

and seem an army of red. 

But ants toil without bondage. 

They change their roles as they age. 

Shorts’ Cycle

 

The first cloth I wore was a white lungi

wrapped around me as if I would escape. 

Then came the colourful shorts quite funky

with steel zips or buttons of every shape. 

Then wore the school uniform of long pants-

I so disliked for they made me look short. 

For long I was convinced it was a prank,

and waited each summer to wear my shorts. 

Then in my teens I wore cargos and jeans. 

And those formal trousers at my worksite. 

But soon I will shrink back to frugal means

when fashion and trends with my taste collide. 

The dress rehearsals in life will go on. 

I am waiting to put my shorts back on. 

Perspective

 

Old man walks down the staircase-

slowly leaning on his stick. 

Gone are the suits and briefcase.

Just music to make him tick. 

He sees everyone alike. 

Did they always look like this?

Yet just a few he once liked. 

Probably something he missed. 

O! Old boy it is just fine. 

Sit back- have a glass of wine. 

Horn Not Ok

 

On an empty street at dawn.

When not a soul is around. 

I hear a shriek of a horn

as if some wild hounds abound. 

The car speeds breaking all reds. 

Daily run, just habitual. 

Blaring music, no guilt shreds. 

Mindless honking a ritual. 

Hello mister motorman. 

Do not limit my life span. 

Red Lattoo

 

Red lattoo with strings around,

gives it a twist when let loose. 

Whirring with freedom abounds

not just children are amused.

Sometimes it tickles your palm,

and from hand to hand it hops. 

Sometimes it spins down your arm,

and battles with other tops. 

O! Those antics, gymnastics

while dancing on its axis. 

Sedated

 

The old turtle has a white scarf around. 

The English teacher is teaching history. 

Blue roses with green stripes, plenty abound. 

The dead man walking remains a mystery. 

The volleyball has stayed long in the air. 

Gallons of water do not quench the thirst. 

The ghost looks funny with his long blue hair. 

A treeless forest, just golden sawdust. 

Sometimes a lady comes and brooms my room. 

And I can still hear her in the kitchen. 

Deepest is the sleep in the morning bloom. 

Till I hear the beans grind and coffee churn. 

Though an owl hoots to tell it is a dream. 

Here I am real though unreal seem. 

Norbulingka Institue

Stone paths curve around the Buddhist temple. 

A small bridge runs over a tiny pond. 

The winds blow, the streams gurgle and tremble. 

Bamboo trees stand firm like a magic wand. 

A workshop of artists hums with their wares. 

Scent and the sense of purpose are alive. 

Wisdom blends with talent-  permeates the air. 

Age old tradition is brought back to life. 

The Buddha temple has a golden vibe

where the lord sits so calmly in repose. 

Sacred scriptures penned by the ancient scribe. 

Colourful prayer flags flutter in rows. 

With holy chants Buddha is garlanded. 

Here I would be if reincarnated. 

Terrace

 

The terrace has wooden tiles. 

And a black marble platform. 

Here time stops for a long while. 

Just the sky’s colours transform. 

I can see the ocean roll,

and hear the old temple bells. 

The soul goes for a long stroll

while I bask in the wind spells. 

As dawn filters into dusk- 

chunks of ice melt into musk.

Enemy

 

In sports you need a rival

to spur you on and challenge. 

To live beyond survival-

find the essence of balance. 

One who stretches your limit

is not a foe but a friend. 

He moulds you in a fire-pit,

discards the iron that bends. 

But beware of the glass guise. 

Enemy lies in disguise. 

Jabro

 

Jabro lay drugged and sedated on a huge marble slab. He was a 250 kg silverback gorilla. And he was brought here for an experiment - rude and against his rights. But better for the future generations of gorillas or maybe for all the animal species in general, so Michael thought. He was fussing over him. He had developed a chip called NUT which he had inserted into Jabro’s brain. 

NUT would monitor Jabro’s thoughts and stream them over Michael’s computer screen. He wanted to know what or how a gorilla thought. They all seemed to have very inquisitive eyes so Michael knew they could process it like a human being. Maybe not to that extent but still. 

NUT was designed to work like an AI. Just like how a computer is aided and made more expressive with the help of AI, so would this NUT help gorilla think, imagine, and ultimately express more like no other gorilla had ever been able to do so before. Maybe Jabro would start talking.  

He wanted to send Jabro back to jungles before the effect of the drug wore off. The bandages were being removed. And Jabro was now moving slightly and making funny sounds….