Lament

Yawn. I’m bored. Got nothing to do. I’ve been sitting at my desk, writing poems, since morning. I edited this tiny thing a few hours ago. It’s probably not good but I like it because it contains only one sentence.

It is a dark night, and
my eyes ache—
not from the tears I’ve shed
(for out of my eyes have spilled
none)
but from the tears I’ve kept.

When Love met me

Countless burning morns
found me beside a simmering brook
that sang to me, and
danced with me;
I was such a happy fool!

One dreamy summer night I walked
by the fretful hem
of the sea’s blue gown;
when Love met me there, brighter
than the moon that hung above my head,
I gave him everything.
I gave Love everything I had.

Delhi was drenched

I woke up at six yesterday. It was raining outside. Delhi was drenched. A familiar smell stared at me—the smell of Mumbai, of childhood, of a different life.

I stood on the balcony looking out at the cloud-covered sky—familiar, yet strange. And then, I heard the song that the rain sang. The song of the sea. The song of a happy land. The song of nostalgia and heartbreaking joy.

I stood there for a long time. The rain left. Delhi dried itself in the scorching sun. The fleeting vision of Mumbai evaporated in front of my eyes. I was left alone, in a dry land, wondering how many times will I have to leave Mumbai.

Chipped nails

For ‘Strawberry’, who, like me, still doesn’t know what the hell happened.

your plastic smile gives off
a bitter odour in the untimely summer
rain. i
shrug; not for me
things of stolen beauty.

i dip my fingers in a bowlful of words—they
keep me sane. you
bite the notes of rapture that rise in my head.
(and, suddenly, every
place inside me
is anti-utopia.)
splinters of my dappled heart are strewn all over
our little confetti-laden
coffee table.

your terriblebrown voice cuts
through the trace of a twirl.
(it was lingering over
my fretful toes, and now it’s gone.)

i slip into another world, away
from this tirelonesome
reality, and i
start worrying about my
chipped nails.

Something reminded me of my school days yesterday; so, I ploughed through my journal and stumbled across a particularly interesting piece of prose (dated August 2006). I just made a poem out of it, and this is what I ended up with. The expression “chipped nails” didn’t appear in the original piece—I borrowed it from my recent conversation with ‘Bindi’.

Many thanks to ‘Bindi’ for tossing the words “chipped nails” at me, and for dancing with me even after the music stopped. And to ‘Information Sponge’ who, unknowingly, for a second time, made me come across a forgotten piece of work.

Suicide

To ‘Bindi’, who said that the poem was at once “cool and stoney”.

Wonderbloodyful night
Of unsaid goodbyes and shattered eyes,
Of lengths of rope and sharp knives.

Quick and easy.
One. Two. Three.
Justlikethat.

And, maybe, a pirouette or two beforehand
Merely for effect.

I took flight

Gravity reigned around me.

A rose-coloured cloud
Stretched out its hand,
And I spread my wings
Wide open.
I reached out,
Took hold,
Took flight.
I unbecame in the moonlight.

Written in 2006. The first line of this piece has been used, in a different context, in a poem that I wrote earlier this month.

No succulent taste of pleasurable flights

No succulent taste
Of pleasurable flights.
Gravity reigns around me.

Not for me
The comfort of prayer.
In shadowy lanes linger
The watery moon and I—
Two Godless creatures.

No plain thing
I let my story be.
Every sunny note of summer
Embellishes this thing I wear:
The mask of Life.

The old man at the bus stop

The bus was yellow and light greenish-blue in colour. ‘Delhi Transport Corporation’ was written in blue letters on the yellow-coloured horizontal band that was painted across its length. It seemed to be a very old carriage. It tilted slightly to one side, and made a deafening noise as it moved threateningly on the road. It looked as if it would fall apart any moment. Some windows were missing from the windowpanes. Long stains of tobacco ran down the side of the bus. Small brown-coloured spots of mud were sprayed, onto the bus, near the tyres. The tyres were big and dirty. I looked at them spinning around rapidly, slowing down gradually, and finally coming to a halt in front of the bus stop. People erupted into a loud noise. Colourful loud noise. I wondered why they felt the need to talk so much. The ones who were unaccompanied turned to their phones. Everybody wanted to talk to someone. Well, almost everybody. The old man sitting next to me was silently gazing down at his feet, holding his walking-stick with both hands. He seemed to be lost in thought. My interest was aroused. I wondered what he might be thinking about. What could be his story, his take on things, his political opinions? What did he think about those people? What did the bus that stood in front of us mean to him? Was he there to be alone, or was he there to feel like a part of society? Or, like me, was he there just to observe the people and the city, and to walk around and watch the celebration of life?

People were jostling to get into, or out of, the bus. A tall, skinny guy wearing a black shirt was being pushed around as he tried to board the bus. He almost dropped his bag but, somehow, managed to hold on to his cell phone. He was shouting into it. A fat man right behind him had a tattered paperback in his hand. I wondered how he would read it inside the bus. The bus was packed with people. It looked as if it would burst open soon. I chuckled. I looked at the old man, almost expecting him to laugh too. He didn’t. He looked sad. He was an odd sight amid all the happiness and liveliness of the city. I didn’t watch the bus drive away—I was busy watching the curious old man. He had small eyes behind the big glasses he wore. Sparse white whiskers covered his heavily-wrinkled face. He had gnarled, fragile-looking hands with papery skin stretched over brittle bones. He smacked his dry lips often. His head was covered with white, wispy strands of hair. He needed a haircut. He raised his head to look at me—he must have realised that I was looking at him. I smiled at him. He smiled back at me. He was beautiful. This is the real celebration of life, the face of this man, I thought, my God for the day. I looked at the people around us—they were all so eager to reach somewhere, waiting impatiently. Nobody looked at that beautiful creature sitting silently, alone, at the bus stop. I looked at my watch. It was time to go home—I had to submit an assignment the next day. I got up from where I was sitting. I looked at him one last time. The beautiful sight filled me with happiness. As I walked back home, I realised that I was singing—people were staring at me. Wait till you see the old man at the bus stop, I thought.

I often ramble through the city’s streets, watching people and enjoying the liveliness of this charming place. This piece is on a man I saw a couple of days ago.

It was a beautiful place

To a crowded street
My love led me.
And there he stood
As if
Enchanted.

He said it was
A beautiful place.

I laughed at him.
He looked at me,
And smiled.
I met his ardent gaze
And, suddenly,
The busy street became
Beautiful.

I’ve been in love with crowded streets since that day.
I wrote this poem in June 2005. It’s one of my favourites.

On Stars

The cover of clouds veils the most exquisite places in the Universe from human sight. It conceals the effervescent stars which, now and then, peep from torn seams in the clouds and shine upon the parched face of the Earth. The stars lie there, in the endless void, strewn across like pearls that line up on the ocean floor. Chiseled to perfection, they decorate the monotonous and imperfect space. They breathe life into the untrespassed and undiscovered corners of the Universe.

The Divine Song that fills the air of Heaven, and to which God dances, would be discordant if the melody of the mellow music played by the stars was not strung into it, and etched into it, fusing it with the very essence of Life itself.

The stars dance across the fabric of space-time, gently swaying to their own music, and moving gracefully upon the Bottomless Floor. Sometimes, when they are weary with dance and music and play, they listen intently for sounds of Life: the heartfelt prayers, the silent joys and sorrows, the whispered conversations between humans and the Universe, and the blessings of God.

It is the stars that reach out and soothe weary and troubled minds, and ease the burden of the tired souls. They converse endlessly with beings that summon them, and reveal the Eternal Secrets to the ready souls. They sing lullabies at night to rock all the creatures to sleep. Their blessings rain down upon the Earth, embracing souls and guiding confused minds on their journey.

The stars have been there since the dawn of Time. They are the most beautiful creation of God. If Beauty could take a physical form, she would be a bright star. The stars are symbols of Hope. They are always there to guide us, to embrace us, to laugh with us and to wipe away our tears. They spread the message that sorrows are mere illusions and that life’s greatest truth is bliss. They urge us to have fun in life, because that is what they do and that is what God loves to do: have fun.

They are always present above our head hovering like angels, even if the Sun’s glare makes them invisible to our eyes. They adorn the plain garment of the Universe; they shield the lives of those who have faith in them from sorrows, for the strength of the beauty of reality lies in the eradication of illusions.

This is an unedited version of the piece written in May 2005. (Subsequent versions have been influenced by the agnostic views I adopted shortly after I wrote this text.) I have written more readable texts in recent times, but this one remains a favourite.