Millenarianism

the political establishes its credo well

so does the economic and the cultural

 

reprehensible personalities ruling and set to rule

going Greek and not Dutch and a new film star each day

 

is the social set for a revamp?

one would never know

 

atleast the religious says so!

To The One

In My Life

Who hasn’t shown up yet

 

When you descend

will the sun be rising at dusk

and setting at dawn?

 

When you speak

will the waterfall sound abstruse

while the wind is on?

 

When you walk

will the lion look stuck

while the jungle looks on?

 

When you listen

will the pigeon seem indifferent

while the man talks on?

 

When you dress up

will the lotus not envy

while the roses flaunt on?

 

When you leisure it out

will all of my friends not notice

while you conquer on?

 

 

In the Garden

Wretched marigolds

peeved at the rudeness of the garden turned yellow

Silly roses

angered at the heat of women burning red

Despicable tulips

shrunk at the thought of men going lean

Pitiful daffodils

laughing unamused at clouds gone berserk!

Poets

A poem is a cover up

It conceals more than what it reveals

What is significant in a life truly lived is the thing that poetry can only pretend to represent.

Poems are an easy way out of the smoulderings of the soul

Never trust a poet.

Poets are brave and very stupidly so

They calculate aesthetic merits and leave harshness of life unfettered.

Being Caged

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?

All I Need

In the dark of this broken street let me say to you. Let me say to you that at the end of the street would face us a deserted mansion. In case you were willing to walk along that far, we sure could unlock that rusty iron gate and clear the cobwebs. While you would light a lamp I could make some fire, brew some tea and we could talk some politics. While you would play with the burnt wick, I would stitch together some old poetic thoughts into one. You would be entertained I guess if offered to gaze at the overcast monsoon sky while braving the humidity and the cricket’s noise.

A monsoon evening leading to a rainy night is no plain an evening. It is the precursor to a lot of dreams, a pile of self-pity and a bunch of romance all entangled into one. I am sure you won’t mind helping me straightening some of that, sitting on the terrace. At midnight we would make some bed and talk about how huts are made with straws, of how ghazals are written and of how lovely do little baby frocks look in old black n white photographs.

At dawn we would snuggle, make some space for dew to settle down. In the embrace would I tell you how lovely things are on a rainy day that ends with an embrace the day after.  Are you coming?

Everyday Longings

The 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”.