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Right There

Right there in front of my eyes does the light of my world keeps evolving into shades that I have always been left to register. I have found it tough to open up. As I hold on, shades vanish and hues devolve so as to match changed backgrounds. Honestly, on occasions I have felt abandoned and left to wonRatder if living in the world is akin to fighting a battle where one never belongs to an army or to a group where everybody else is ready to lay their lives for the slightest of cause that is dear to you. The army however, as it turns out, is always there for the opponent to support and the team, ever willing to ditch you on its promises. It is unacceptable to my humble spirit that a universe that promised sustenance to my existence could choose to be this partisan against my stakes. What is beautiful however in this injustice is the fact that unruliness does exhibit a pattern. I am not the only one. Millions others before me have and after me shall have to brazen it out, though not as successfully or terribly as I have. Things around me – squalid objects, toothless images and mobile technologies speak of a desire that makes them succeed in acquiring indispensability. I refuse to lend a ear and to learn. That’s what I have come out to be. I am no different!

Heart

Being Caged

images

You would know if you have spent a night all by yourself in the countryside. How the dampening moonlight quivers around the eyes while delivering to the ears packets of rhythmic noise from a wedding party on miles away. In the lonely sheet of helplessness where you lay uneasy, these parcels recreate the many weddings you have been to in the past. So, the groom must have arrived and his feet must have already been washed. The guests must be feasting somewhere close by. The band must still be playing for the over enthusiastic friends of the groom. One of these would shake a leg to the whiskey in his head. The percussion strikes all too gently for its intensity and its distance. Listening to it you relish the charm of being by yourself. Loony bird nights.

Feels like a street say from somewhere in a dusty town, The sun has set. The street is fast emptying while you continue staring at it from the street side bench. Chill sets in quietly and the hands reach for the warmth of the trouser pockets. You wish that the town permitted you a night out on the street without anyone questioning or offering shelter. You wish one of the home-bound vendors could take you along for a meal and his biography. Tales of his white female buyers would be delicious dessert. The vendors leave, the bench begins to hurt and you get up only to find a reason to go back. To that pending assignment or to that regular TV show.

You are awake on a rainy midnight and are in a hotel room close to the sea. Sleepless and aroused you think of the book to read, Turn a leaf and dream aloud yet again. A sea is so much about life and warmth. Yet you don’t have access to any of it. May be because you don’t belong. But the scene from the window tells me that the ones who belong too are leaving for their huts. Their baskets and stands rolled up in one. Who does the sea belong to then if it has to spend the night on its own. May be I am only being jealous of people who don’t really own the things I am now yearning to own. Doesn’t everyone go to sleep night after night? Leaving the groom and the bride, the dust and the bench, the hotel and the beach-all to themselves?

Heart

Everyday Longings

imagesThe day comes to a halt for us. I part with the oars held weakly in my hands. As distance from you grows with the sleek wooden sticks wading across the clear, turbulent mass of water, eyes well up with sights of nothingness and bleak. The stream arising out of the lachrymal well spills over into the lake. The palms cannot do the needful being occupied with rowing me across to shores far away from you. The salty stream then dries up leaving a trail on shallow cheeks.

Myself at the helm then attend to the events and invitations from distant shores and the crescendo of the just concluded embrace loosens its grip. As eyes dry up, the depths of the sea throw up novel mysteries, whose ability to frighten and amuse begins to win over the malady unleashed by departure. With the sharks I then smile faintly and talk, on the erring oars I frown and to the sail I cheer “Keep it up!”. I now look for my face in the waves and comb my hair in the wind. I have been ill shaven and crass for the entire day.

Come the other shore, I look back and see you tending towards him engrossed in adulation and about to kiss. The spell is finally broken for the day. I anchor once again with a resolve to not return tomorrow in the same direction. Fatigue suddenly gives way to disgust and the mind begins to philosophize and pity oneself more than the world. I calculate my life, weigh people and my feelings for them in balances, love them when they are nice to me, loathe them when they don’t seem to care. My claim to fame in all this daily routine is the sturdiness of my sail and the resilience of my boat and my swimming skills. The current in the waves has thus far always been favorable. It should be rightly said about love that it comes to you only when you are in the mood for it. It vaporizes in the face of chaos as it approaches and quite surprisingly delves into anti amorous textures when my expectations are countered or reciprocated with love that is not meant for me. The loathing that sets in is as ephemeral as the love that ruled a while ago. The next morning is here and I have woken up fresh and lively and I jump once again to swim across the pool. To meet you once again and to embrace life that keeps the day going. To foolishly tell myself the wise thing once again, “Today could well be my day- the day I spent dreaming of all of last night”.

Heart

My Rain

Rain of LoveIn the cloud of my rain

was nectar attenuated

it was laden with tar

that had stiffened in the heat

Stirring vigorously was the spoon

and a cluttering sound it made

and the rain fell drop by drop

quenching the river

When it was sunny

the honey was granule

the nectar stale

and the river polluted like hell.

Heart

With

A Sadhu in Varanasi, India. Français : Un Sâdh...

 

With

A Potter man’s hands

And with a Watch repairer’s eyes

I wish to hold and see

 

With

A Professor’s pen

And with a Doctor’s Needle

I wish to write and pinch

 

With

A Manual Scavenger’s Head

And with a Banker’s Calculator

I wish to ferry and count

 

With

A Priest’s Cloak

And with a Chef’s Nose

I wish to cover and sniff

 

With

A Wanderer’s Legs

And with a Sadhu’s hair

I wish to traverse and knot

 

Your silhouette, your giggles

Your mass, your fragrance

Your territory, your being!