To the Poem...

You think you are invisible.
You are wrong.

I know that you are

hiding behind time...

I can see you when

Time is moved

by Sisyphus' hands.

I can see you when

He kneads the clayey wood

and the trees grow a little

I can see you

when He dims the Sun for the night               

and the skies glow a little

Whenever trees grow,

I catch a glimpse

of your blue green eyes

that behold the beauty

of the universe.

I do not know who you are.

For you come to me

In whispers. In

broken words that

ring in running waters…

All I know is that

knowing you is

knowing me in your words.

And meeting you is

meeting every bit of me.

Sujāṭa

When you stirred

And waited
For the rice to soak in sweetness
Did you know?


Still when the cardamom
And cloves 
Wafted out in invisible smoke
Did you realize yet?


That an entire Kalpa had held its breath

And watched                         and waited

While your fistful of rice

Cooked and swelled in your hearth

That

Your cardamom and cloves

Still waft today

And the words

From the Mouth you fed

Are whispered even today...

a million pyres
embrace fire

as myriad members
declare sovereignty
and cement the fate
of my body

they build ramparts
around divided life

monuments of high taste
true symbols of strength

master pieces of Death.

Absent

You are present
in your absence. But
were you present
in your presence?

I stood behind a curtain
of anger.
Naked.

Anger? Anguish?

You were free to choose.

You were wanted.

Your presence required
your absence.
My presence required
my presence.

You are the wind
that makes my breath.

Impossible love
is but made of love.

Indifferent
Now the wind fans me
out of pity.

When did my breath
change into Wind?

When did you grow
your own lungs?

Scavenger of love

Proofs
Of all those drafts
Bearing an idea of "us"

Proofs
Of those accidental turns
That your imagination took

Ruins
Of all those roads leading to me

Foetuses
Of love that was aborted

Decay on your heart's floor

And I become the scavenger
Who is paid twice

Once
In your pain

Once
In all those possibilities
Where your heart muttered
My name.

During the day
Our works save us from each other.

Television blares me out of your mind.
I chop vegetables. I peel away your presence.

We sleep, far away
right next to each other
Recalling memories
of fog-filled unreal times
when my prince had your face.
Me, your princess
dressed in joy.

And we sang the song of love…

How did the the many instruments of our song
begin to fuse into a monotone?

And the words that spoke of love

learn to speak a different language?
And when did my fabulous white gown
shred into a fog so dense?

Questions like these
paint our walls now.
Where a very present white
uncolours itself.

a river flows…

now a river flows like it always did. seen. dipped in. quenched from. nourished by. cleaned by. grown out of.

now a river flows by, like it did always - what is left of it. and what became of it. waged upon by unfriendly waters. carrying forth unasked baggage. and sands from every shore.

the same river flows now. incessantly. fed by rains and unknown springs. or majestic glaciers. for as long as forever. fighting your memory with its new waters. constantly. so that it remains the same river. that flowed there. then now and forever.

an ode to white

walls silenced under white

voiceless

and blind

stand testimonial

to the ebb and flow of life…

 

white white white

this inescapable sight

that paints the walls of the inner eye;

our sorrows muffled under

pangs of laughter.

fog that is white

sometimes the moon too?

silver white!

white

that dresses the skies

and our whispers alike.

white:

unred, unblue, uncolored,

white that isnt green

white the bosom of a page

studded in script

white that listens

when asked to speak

white

us washed off our sins.

a morning by the well…

walled water

bitter breeze

rippled thoughts

september skies

tons of tadpoles

tadpoles that grow up to be

frogs in the well

unless

they take the stairs

an afternoon heard

from the window,the sound of wind. almost voice-like. and then, silence. silence? or the aural void that replaces the wind? television talks. just as it did since dawn. the clock ticks overhead and holds an unending conversation with the table clock. a distant vehicle blares and another and another. birds sing.  the next best sound after silence. the beep of an incoming message. occasional giggles and quips from the drawing room. melodrama unfolds on the television. and silence falls. again. the keys click as i type. and life flows, dull and grim without the music that is silence.

At a poetry reading session

words.
mazes of words
whole streets of them.
a swift drive through
one of those localities
never fully seen or understood
words
that capture
that dreams are made of
words
wish mine were like yours
words
the choicest words
picked from a garden full of blossoms
words
your words
have built my dream house.

Unpeopled,
Healing under silent shadows
As soothing winds tend to aching parts;
Wishing, the burning light
Freezes in its height
And the blanket of slumber

Forever weighs upon.
Streets bare it all
And embrace Night.

At the General Ward...

A man shall walk out on one...

Only, he had come in on two. Pray his good humour didn't dwell in the parted limb.Worse still - some walk in never to walk out.Death is more on the prowl here than  elsewhere....

A mother showers her love on her son: a young man who would most certainly have passed off as no more than some aimless vagabond should he be seen elsewhere. A dutiful wife feeds her ailing husband mouthful after mouthful.A child is seen tailing her mother running on some errand or another. A man wanders baring his upper torso that is burnt on the flip side.The "BATHROOM" on one end of the ward calls for an act of courage to get into. A huge fan stands facing its entrance supposedly to keep the pungent odour to the "BATHROOM". Some choose slumber over waking life while some others stare into it - their strength dribbing out drop by drop.....

A stool screeches here and there. Fans swirl noisily overhead. Conversations too fuse into this singular noise. A noise that seems to keep on a fight against fear - making one numb to reality.

So that, in the mean while one could grow those special gills that can
breathe in the hope that wafts in the air...silently...always.


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