People praised me way too much.
I rejoiced and closed my eyes-
thought I had a magic touch.
And believed in all the lies.
This haze took time to clear
for these ears were wrongly tuned.
Now I listen more than I hear.
The false flattery is pruned.
Shadows of the past are long.
But loud, the gongs of the wrong.
The midnight train chugged and purred
with just an occasional horn.
The ceiling fans hummed and whirred.
A handful of lights were on.
People slept without a care.
They had toiled hard, and far roamed.
Soon a scent would fill the air.
The scent of returning home.
Some will hang up their old boots.
And some will find a new route.
The summer heat had gone. I had a blissful sleep. Rain. I woke up and left for work at 7.
Taking a rickshaw to the station is a classic.
Rickshaw fellow : sir, please give exact change.
Me : bhai, no! Exact plus more.
He had to take a detour because a tree had fallen on our regular route.
I watched school children walking very slowly to the school. But that is a universal rule and not because of rains. Because they will return home running despite the rain.
It was pouring. My loyal umbrella was doing all its bits to keep me dry. But along with the rains came the gusty winds. And my umbrella occasionally turned upwards as if it was thirsty and collecting rain. All its spokes straining - along with me. So much for loyalty.
The stairway to the station was puddled Squelch! Squelch! Squelch!
I reached the station at 7:12. The indicator showed the 6:47 train would be arriving soon. Rain.
I folded my umbrella and waited - like everybody else. Some were wearing raincoats. Few had forgotten to bring anything. And some didn’t bring one throughout the monsoon! Somehow or other they never got wet. Strange.
I stood at the corner of the platform and looked for my train. I could see few others doing the same. Heads in the air towards the tracks. The train arrived slowly as if through a mist. Like in a dream. It hooted for us idiots to stand back. Though it was late it wasn’t that crowded. But the way people rushed into the train as if it was the last train. Force of habit. There were plenty of vacant seats available, especially near the windows. Summer was over. No scampering for a window seat. But I stood as I always did for the first few minutes.
Rain picked up. People looked out and then at one another. Half smiles. Enjoying the rains but at the same time wondering if the train will reach the destination. No matter how often you travel you will always want an assurance from someone else that this city will not come to a stand still. We have the best drainage system in the world and all that crap. The truth is we are just plain lucky.
People shut the windows but a few let them remain open. Half-checking if anyone dared to defy. College kids were glued to their phones listening to music or scrolling. Heavy rains were just an everyday affair.
I took a wet seat. Some people were already dozing and some were pretending to be asleep so that they didn’t have to offer their dry seats.
After several stops at other stations, the train arrived at my destination with no fanfare. Very much on time though hadn’t started on time.
I took out my loyal umbrella and started walking towards my office thinking - would I be able to get back home even if not on time?
Squelch! Squelch! Squelch!
I still feel I am unknown
though have lived here for a while.
I possess but do not own.
And less I see people smile.
The old streets look new to me.
And colder are the warm nights.
Tell me a place I can be
where I can sense some sunlight.
Belittle not what you view-
I am no stranger than you.
The first sip of whiskey burned down my throat.
It was a bit bitter as expected.
But soon hit me hard and I was afloat.
I drank to be socially accepted.
In my teens it was just random drinking.
In my middle age I learnt to savour-
unaware that I was slowly sinking,
and not doing anyone a favour.
I thought whiskey and I could coexist.
Telling myself it was a way of life.
But deep I sank unable to resist.
My mind and body at bittersweet strife.
Amid the lies and unwanted advice -
I surface to breathe - know wise from the vice.
He looked afraid on the stage.
Stuttered and fumbled for words.
And people were quick to gauge,
branding him a no-good-nerd.
Was he really a fool,
and his stumbling act just guile?
For though his gaffes looked awful,
he could not resist a smile.
Unaware, we fussed and cursed,
this prankster with a purpose.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
