They say, "

They say you'll know when it happens,
you'll feel it in your gut, your insides
will churn and your breath will catch
in your chest and your heart will go
aflutter with this, that and whatnot.

That your eyes will look beyond all,
through untransparents and into the
undecided, unsure, unpredictable and
unprepared for unknowns and yet
they will not blink of any doubt,
only seeing the light of hope and faith.

Faith, you'll surprisingly discover that
you never knew or believed you had.
You might not have been selfish but
you might never have seen or thought
yourself to ever be selfless, caring
for yourself only the second most.

That your greatest fear will no longer
be the loss of life, but the loss of
this warm luminous flame within
which continually strengthens this bond
which is now the new definition of,
Your life. That's when they say-

You my friend, are in love.

The Rightful Funeral

Under a shroud of rainforest mist
lies still the corpse of a time.
The trees stand in a silent mourn
in wake dripping fresh dew tears.
The funeral is yet to happen for
it isn't certain yet, who will
perform the final rites of passing.
It is uncertain even, when it'll happen
if the funeral is ever to happen.

Funerals are after all an invention
of humans. And this death was
due to the arrival of humans
into the forests which only knew
survival, and nothing of possession.
But that has forever changed.
Thus, the end of a time, an eon
of simple live and let live,
of taking only what was needed.

Now begins the time of possession;
of want beyond mere needs;
of desires beyond just survival.
There will be discovery, revelations
innovations and inventions. 
There will be the invention of funerals,
to mark and commemorate endings,
memorialize passings and loss. And
more often than not, forgetting any or
every lesson, an end might've taught.

The mist shrouded corpse of that time past
was never laid to rest, seldom is recalled
for it has never had a funeral; forgotten
amidst the possessions and inventions.
It roams the path of humankind,
haunting its footprints of progress, 
a discontent, dissatisfied spirit, a melancholic
wailing wind of warning in its wake
seeking peace at the hands of the ones
who never realized its end,
never laid it to a contented rest;
who never gave it its rightful funeral.

Luminous Silence

Of a profoundly haunting,

bewitching silence,
Casting a slow lull over the soul
with their fathomless depth
of mystery and confessions,
with their spell of call to dive
and swim ceaseless laps of
indefatigable ardour,
of impassioned enlightenment,
and of an absolution of peace
of which even the deepest space
will be envious;
of a contentment which sparkles
with an awareness of ambition
fulfilled by sheer will of the self;
of a twinkle which is yet unspoilt,
unblemished by time and the times
off its endearing infectious innocence;
of fair empathy and patient justness
rooted in the wellspring of
The Mother's generous Gaeaic womb;
of the relaxed reassuring sighs of
the cosmic blinks of waxing and waning Luna;
ever conversing in that primal language
of luminous silences and yet I wonder how
they can be of such moving eloquence-

Your smiling, blushing eyes.

She Loves Paper Flowers

Loves me
loves me not.
Loves me
loves me not.
No petals will suffer
this cliche for me.
Why should they?

Loves me
loves me not.
Loves me
Loves me not.
She loves origami
and I've folded her
a paper flower.

Fold one,
she loves me.
Fold two,
she loves me not.
Fold three,
she loves me.
Fold four...

Fold ten,
she loves me.
Fold eleven,
she loves...wait!
But I am sure,
I love her! And she
loves paper flowers!

Final fold, yes
I love her.
I see her after class
waving her students
a smiling goodbye.
That paper flower
no matter what,
will forever belong to her.

Hunger

As if a vortex of vacuum

swirls within the stomach,
it sucks in one's being with
patient urgency and
relentless persistence
until, one offers satiation-
hunger, the primal force
driving all life.
Hunger itself however,
is never hungry, needs nothing.
It is only the creator of
that need which none can ignore.
It is only the fuel to fire
the embers which keep life
warm and pulsing.
If hunger creates this need,
then what creates hunger itself?
Hunger is born out of the need
which hunger itself creates.
It is a snake
swallowing its own tail,
living as much as, it dies.
Hunger is that circle of need,
perpetually beginning
at the point where it ends.

A Bottle Full

After days of dry monsoons

the clouds finally decided

to emerge out of their patience.

Giant droplets had

begun to paint the dry earth

of the courtyard in fragrant patches.

Everything was getting washed,

looking all new; thirsty nature

was seeping into a cool sigh of relief.

The tin canopy of the verandah

rattled with a staccato drumming,

water streaming down its folds

in dancing parallel lines, framed

by the old wooden doorway

swaying this way and that

with the breeze through the trees

to the tune of the tin roof with

the flash and boom of the thunder.

The rich aroma of ginger-pepper tea

brewing in the next door’s kitchen,

unhesitantly fusing with the petrichor

made me waft back through the years.

Those old, unhurried Hindi film songs

on the radio, with my mother

humming along as she cooked.

Just then, the neighbours’ kid,

must’ve been five or six;

wobbled out barefeet into the rain,

a rainbow umbrella in one little hand

and clutching something else

in the other with great care.

It was a little glass bottle.

With much concentration,

she undid the cork and kept the bottle

on the driveway tile, under the rain.

With the best patience a toddler can muster,

squatting down next to her precious glassware,

waiting for the rain to fill it up, she looked like

a bright bobbing flower in the grey twilight,

a little pause of innocent colours

as one tired season ushered in the new one.

The bottle now full, focusing gingerly, with

her little tongue out, she put the cork back in

And ran back inside, shouting with excitement-

        ‘Maa!’

I heard a faint sneeze and sniffle in reply.

And then in the most joyous of voices I hear-

        “See, I got you a bottle full of your favourite rain!”

The Breeze

The ocean around that island

where she lived seldom calmed down.

The island itself was almost never visible

to any living eye, except perhaps

to those November birds on their way to winters.

It was always misted over with fine salt spray.

It was a tiny island of sand,

a little patch of grassy earth and

that old, twisted and gnarled oak,

Which had no reason to be there, but still was!

She was thankful for it though,

for its branches were her home.

Every morning she would leave just at dawn

to visit the little kids on an island a few hours away.

Just for a few minutes she remained there

basking and warming in the midday sun,

before she turned and returned

back to her own oak and her own island.

It seldom rained where the kids lived,

but every day they smelt its hope in those minutes.

For every day, the breeze would collect

the heady petrichor off her salt dampened

patch of oaken grassy earth, and fly it across
those ocean hours, a beacon of a promise to be kept.

The Answer Question

The body lies trapped in the soul’s snare;
choking it inch by slow inch that merciless sprite
neither lets it die nor does it kill.
Wonder which grudge is it holding upon.
Such a sudden, vicious clutch at the throat
that the body thrashes desperate
praying for the breaths to cease.
The wily soul however, keeps it lassoed
with that final breath.

Eyes forget to blink, staring in terror as
the soul sharpens its claws, deliberate
and malicious on the millstone of time.
It’ll be one of those days again, when
every layer of thought will be scraped raw
plucking and snipping the seams of memories.
May it just rip out and uproot all feeling,
cast them into that smoldering inferno,
forever turned into black ash, never again
ever to be sensed by the body.

Smiling with diabolical coldness instead, the soul
one after the other, meticulously lines up
a glaringly exposed, stark naked parade of
every plucked feeling, every incised memory,
in the sadist flickering of that infernal light.
There’s no respite behind eyelids shut tight
for this graphic tirade brands itself
as a sizzling retinal scar, marked forever
if ever at all it heals, though with every intent
to eternally fester, an oozing wound.

Amidst every grip of its talons, every choke,
every rip of its claws, every frigid smile of its
devilish lips, amidst every thrash,
every scream of the tortured body, the soul
had not uttered a single word
nor made the faintest noise. Nothing
but a cold unwavering maniacal stare at
the Body, slipknotted with that final breath.
At length, in reply to its every question
the Soul simply whispered its own-

          “Now, why should this mirror terrify you so?”

Nebula

Remnants of ancient red giants,
Sparks from young supernovas,
Wakes of celestial voyagers-
Stardust, long adrift in nothingness
Desperately seeking community
Warp across space by unseen forces
Restlessly gathering at a galactic horizon.

A playground for gravity-
Irresistible attractions,
Collisions upon collisions,
Innumerable nucleic explosions,
Countless unseen implosions,
A raging cauldron of entropy
Threatening to rip itself apart.

And yet it is an aspiring whole,
An undiscovered singularity.
Soon there will be a stable warmth,
There will be a unique radiance,
A peerless stellar energy.
Soon,
There will be Light!

Phoenix

“Her heart’s turned to stone;
Could at least shed a tear!”
That’s what everybody said
Some with sympathy,
Others with sarcasm and
Most with insensitive indifference.

No one knew though
That her eyes
Weren’t always barren.
Back then they’d brim over
Even in little joys.
One fated day he left.
Why and where? Unknown.
No talk, no letter nor a goodbye.
He just left.

Comprehension beyond any attempts
And no semblance of any reprieve.
Patience, perseverance, trust, hope
All collapsed brick by brick, burdened under
Pity, blames, sarcasms, comments
And the hollow noisy rumour mill.
Once the dam was breached by the tears
They just flowed and flowed away
Leaving behind nothing but a desert.
Indeed, she’s stone-cold on the outside
But within her, rage cataracts of emotions
And questions.

     “Thoughtlessly, it is he who left.
     Did his heart ever hold him back?
     Ruthless he, merciless he, emotionless he,
     Then how am I the stone-hearted one?
     He forsook that love, forgot those times,
     Those memories, the laughter et al,
     Why am I the one who’s stone hearted?
     I simply loved, seeking nothing in return.
     Then why should I endure the smears?”

     “My eyes shall not always remain barren.
     But not a single tear, I swear
     Will be shed in waste, especially for him.
     The stone which the world’s turned me into-
     I’ll hammer, chisel and carve out of it a new me.
     No longer would I be reflected in societal mirrors,
     But in the mirror of my own making;
     Only I'll bear witness to,
     The resurrection of the new phoenix me.”

Moss

Mine is the oldest room of the house,

It has come to smell of an age now.
In the back wall, years of seepage
Seems to have been arrested in time;
Covered with season upon season of moss.
Blue green patches here and there
Give way to slivers of faded beige paint.

For the past few minutes, off my work

My eyes have been held by these
Seemingly formless stains.
A bounding rabbit here,
Breezy boughs of the banyan there.
A corner appears to be a green Kashmir
While a camel trudged tired along the floor.
As if that verdant moss had painted
Her entire imagination on that old back wall.
It’s unlikely that the moss is aware of this,
Perhaps she did it all instinctively.
It’s in her nature after all, to trail moisture
And keep growing with it.

For a moment though, imagine
What if she too is aware, sentient
Breathes like we do, wonders like we do,
Emotes just like us, imagines just like us.
Perhaps like a little child- innocent, unbridled,
Speaking her mind, doing as she feels.
Such fun it must be to shape one’s fantasies
Just as pleased, sans any inhibitions,
Unhesitant, express one’s inner being
For everyone to see;
No shame, no restrictions nor any fear;
Living life only on one’s own terms.
As if all world’s a stage, and one’s playing
One’s best part, with such passion and immersion,
Unaware of everything but that moment with the self,
Beyond any applause or critique.

How I wish
To be just like that moss,
With a back wall of my own,
Splashed with the soaring hues of
My unshackled spirits.

---------------------------------------------

Original Hindi post

Rascal!!

She hasn’t yet arrived

And already speaks of leaving.

All I could do was

To just sit on that high wall

Reading her text after text.

‘It’s been quite late, isn’t it?’

‘Been waiting since long?’

‘Am just on my way!’

‘I couldn’t help it...
Was confused about which saree should I wear!’

‘It’s the chrome, green bordered one...you’d like that won’t you?

‘I got to be back home by 6; Ma’s home today.

Any later, she’ll be suspicious.’

‘We made chikki* today!!!!!’ Will bring you some tomorrow. 

You’ve never tasted my cooking after all!’

‘Sitting on a wall today, you Rascal!
How am I to climb it up in my saree?!’

I jumped down smiling to myself.

The watch was merely 5 minutes away

Before it had to reach 6.

She appeared elegantly mature in saree,

Till the moment her smile broke out,

Eclipsing her maturity

With a priceless naughty blush.

She sat down on the lawn just there,

I walked towards her.

Amidst the fresh green grass

A bright sunny blossom in full bloom.

She held my hand firmly in hers

Soon as I sat down next to her.

Trailing her dainty fingers tenderly

Across my tremulous fingertips, she said-

“Rascal!! Now come on, drop me back home!”

*Chikki is a traditional Indian sweet generally made from groundnuts and jaggery.

A Muse, if ever...

Deep

    Black lake,

    Inky night,

    Your eyes.

Steady
    Warm sigh,
    Deep light,

    Your gaze.

Bloom
    Spirit touch,
    Tender red,

    Your lips.

Caressing
    Warm moon,
    Tender rain,

    Your smile.

Stealing
    Coy dawn,
    Hued thrill,

    Your blush.

Sweet
    Chaste dew,
    Honey gold,

    Your voice.

Listening
    Steady wisdom,
    Eloquent whims,

    Your speaking.

Shy
    Tremulous lips,
    Halting breath,

    Your whispers.

Enchanting
    Nectar notes,
    Fragrant stay,

    Your singing.

Reveals
    Silk wave,
    Ink locks,

    Your hair.

Porcelain
    Cloud step,
    Dainty fair,

    Your feet.

Hold
    Sure warmth,
    Soft promise,

    Your hands.

Sure
    Pure belief,
    Waiting fire,

    Your touch.

Primal
    Pacific expanse,
    Rhythmic vigour,

    Your heartbeats.

Unhesitant
    Heady light,
    Tender true,

    Your kisses.

Flaming
    Giving desire,
    Willing dive,

    Your passion.

Walk

Pages keep going by
Lives keep turning over.
Moments fall layered like white snow,
Time freezes right here instead of passing.

Feet await the arrival of horizon,
Sleep flows dry off of aging eyes.
It has been an age since it has rained here,
The breezes too are caught tangled in old branches.

Moon’s silver still shines just as
The sun warms luminous.
The days however arrive at wrong addresses,
While the nights keep missing their turns.

The voices are kind of heard in the calls,
Their meanings but, are no longer understood.
The touch of feelings has been numbing,
Nerves tired out, are leaving to go sleep.

The dreams of the hands which were held till now,
Fingers have begun to peel them off.
The eyes which as such were never felt with a gaze
Wonder why now their face can be seen.

What had begun like a page, blank
Crumpled and folded within wrinkles,
That yellowed scrap of paper walks on to
​​​​​​​Drown away oblivious in the ink.

The Void Third

The voids are two-
One of the heart,
Other
Of the mind.
The former, for fulfillment
Seeks only to give,
Lives to serve.
The latter, however is
Selfish.
A Black hole
Giving nothing,
Except for news of
That final destination,
Within oneself.

I despair,
For I carry them both
Dreading the day
The voids collide.
Which one prevails,
Which perishes?
Only known to one;
I am bound in knots of limbo
Within the void third-
Loneliness, a damp
Echoless silence, one
Oblivious to its own
Lifeless existence and
Of the existence within.

The Third void refuses
To reveal.
Alive am I truly or all I do
Is just pretend to be?

Dusky Dawn

The dawn sky today
Rose like that of a late dusk,
Just like the one I saw last evening.

The night had trickled by awake

While the morning suggested instead

That the night had held time within,

Which perhaps tired of always passing

Found a quiet corner and slept.

The moment I left home today

Was the same as time opened its eyes,

The dawn thus, appeared just the same

As yesterday evening’s dusk,

I had seen sliding down the glass panes

Of that distant horizon of murky light

Along the returning footsteps of a long day

On the way, I walk back home.