To Passion

The knife’s edge looks to belong,
Longs to be a part of you.
Did you know that every glimpse of you,
Draws me closer to my destiny?
Every moment of the way,
From the staircase to the dusty bylane,
Is a splinter.
As you walk up to me,
The knife twirls in my grip,
Why don’t you notice me, even look at me?

Every sunset is a splash of red.
See, this in my hand,
Is a sunset brilliant red.
I have it in my fist,
Turning like the plastic globe,
Hold on to it like a drowning man to his last breath,
This is it, this is it.
This is the color of your lips, the wind against your hair,
This is every throbbing of your heart,
Every gasp of air you breathe,
And this is the clear cloudless sky,
Of your distant, intangible eyes.
See how the knife's blade sways with the wind.
This is it, this is it.

Do you feel it now?
Look at me, does the knife edge,
Seek every drop of your attention?
The faceless people stare blankly at you,
They drift with the wind like sail boats.
This is I. Rooted to this pit.
Recognize me, this is my face,
And this is my poignant gaze.
These are my cruel eyes,
Dark clouds in disguise.
These are my scars screaming, aching,
Every sinew boiling, brimming,
Clutching, Scratching.
Sinking.
I swear by the edge of this knife,
The earth will open up and all its fire,
Will burn you, like it has burnt me,
Hold on to me, this is it,
For you and me.

The Doorbell

Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.

-Inferno Canto III


The doorbell rang softly.
Amidst the din of the night,
Half asleep in bed,
I decided it was a dream,
And began to pretend to sleep.
It rang again like an afterthought,
With the dying smoke of a cigarette butt,
And clung to me like a supplicant,
In dire need of help.

At my door was a traveling salesman,
Dressed in a winter fog.
An eager smile buttered his bready face,
And he promptly said “Hello,
The sun won’t rise today.”
I looked beyond him with doubt.
Yes, the sky was blacked out.
“Will it rise tomorrow then?”
He shook his head like a tree,
And with a grave voice he said,
“You haven’t paid your dues.”
This was bad news.
He left me with a leaflet,
And drifted away like a bobbling bottle,
In the middle of a wavy night.

The fluttering leaflet wailed,
An infant unattended in distress,
An inscrutable voice in every page,
That cried, I haven’t paid my dues.
The dues, the dues, the dues.
The futile sound of my views, your views.
The emptiness of a creaky swing,
That moves to and fro.
Swings higher, swings low.
The sun won’t rise today,
Nor tomorrow, nor the day after.
An eternity stares after a traveling salesman.

Stories

The night was silent,
Except for us, who drawn by the light,
Had hissed sotto voce,
Into each other’s ears.

Even the stones have stories,
And the dark alley with stony walls,
Had a silent story to tell,
One that rings a bell.
A story made of awkward pauses,
One pause beside another,
With their arms around each other,
And then a train of thought,
Interjected by a pause,
Then another pause, then another.

A long pause, suitably long,
A lifetime when you close the eyes,
Sepia memories in soft sighs,
A worn out cloth tinged with emptiness,
Loose threads like fingernails,
Held together by human stains.
A long pause, in the corridor.
Hollow voices look around,
One room after another.
Wake up, they are here.
Sprawled sleeper in a somber bed,
Woken up, his eyes red,
Gropes around the forgotten walls.
Don’t touch the wall,
There are pictures on them all.

Time turns around a winding staircase,
As you race upstairs,
Every step disintegrates.

Every step disintegrates.

Plaintive Cries from the Underground

Through a crevice,
In the soil,
Rose a plaintive cry.
Beat it down gently,
And cover it with mud.

Can you hear it still?
Of course you can’t,
It’s that cotton in your ear.
Where’s it coming from,
Haven’t we plugged all the holes?

From the crevices,
For there were more,
Gnarled hands arose.
Take that, take that you,
Clumsy boor.

What seeds have you planted,
Bungling bumpkin,
Look the plants are out,
To get us today,
Not a moment’s delay.

Run as fast,
As your legs can take you,
But the gnarled hands,
Are waving at us,
Clamoring for more.

Trapped underground,
With loose soil,
Our plaintive cries,
Fall on blind ears,
Our gnarled hands behold.

8 Random Things about me... (From How do we know’s blog)

1. Once in a hotel room in Lonavala, a cloud came in through a window and disappeared through another.
2. Where I grew up as a child, we were on the 20th floor and the wall facing the Arabian Sea was made of glass.
3. Sometimes I have dessert before food. Sometimes all I eat is dessert, especially if it’s chocolate icecream.
4. My favorite cartoon strip is Calvin and Hobbes. I also like reading Dilbert, Tintin and Asterix.
5. I check out the art galleries in every city I visit. I love shopping for others. I love trying out different kinds of food.
6. In my ancestral home we had a creeper plant (bottle gourd) that started in our front yard and went all the way up to the rooftop. I fancied climbing down from our first floor balcony using the creeper.
7. Elvis Presley posters are all over my cubicle. I also have a lovely Beatles poster and a Jimi Hendrix Calendar.
8. I can’t wake up in the mornings. I can ignore the loudest alarm clocks. I can sleep through a barking Bruno. Sometimes when I have to see the sunrise, I don’t go to sleep.

I tag anyone who wants to do it!

To Freedom

Sand dunes will forget,
Every transgression of your footstep.
The wind can live without,
The shrill speech of your silent doubt.
The buzzards will look aside,
And leave your corpse to die.

Shards of hope still hang from trees,
These days they smell of futility.
Perhaps your dismal dance of death,
Is better than eternal complicity.
The parched land will darkness await,
As you plunge into the golden sunset.

(Pic from national geographic)

The Blue Blob

When did you become,
A blue little blob in the sky?
Amorphous and rather shapeless,
Like a memory from the distant past.

Unforeseen like a ketchup stain,
So naked and unmitigated,
A mysterious blue blob,
In a blind lane.

That dripping paintbrush,
Drips blue little drops,
Splosh, splosh on my face,
Wash away every trace.

The blue ocean in a bathtub,
With his pretentious waves,
His hands stretched towards,
The blue blob in vain.

Two Poems for an Old Friend

Old Friend

“I didn’t notice you for so long. But I see that you are chasing me like a shadow.”
“Yes, yes.”
“What yes? Why are you following me like that? Go chase somebody else.”
He stopped for a while and looked confused. But then, as though from habit, he started following me again. So I turned around to look him in the eye. He stood still with his head bowed down.
“Who are you?” I asked him.
“Why, I am your friend. I am an old friend” he replied.
Why had I never noticed him all this while? But if he says he is an old friend, he must be. Who knows?
“How long do you know me?” I asked him.
“I know you for a long time. I am an old friend”, said he.
“Ok. Then you can follow me, I guess.”

He smiled an eager smile and followed me with a spring in his stride. Indeed he followed me so well that sometimes I didn’t know who was following whom. I wanted to speak to him, but I didn’t know him so well. If he is my old friend, shouldn’t I know him too?
“Do I know you?” I asked him.
“Of course! I am your old friend”
“But I can’t remember you.”
He stopped and scratched his head.
“What an idiot!” I said.

This charade went on for a while. Days dropped like water from a leaky tap. Months gloomily collected days like buckets collect water. By now I have completely forgotten him. Sometimes I turn around and don’t even see him there. But he must be somewhere.
“Where are you?”
Where did he go? I remember him sometimes. I hope he hasn’t forgotten me.
“Are you there, old friend?”


By the Stars

In my balcony, they hung the stars,
It hurt the sky and left some scars,
Then they set me to a side,
By the door, and bid me to abide.
Laws and rules – pay attention,
Yes, you – they should suffice,
And the music of the night,
That is nothing but pretension.

The moment they looked away,
The little rabbit ran astray,
Oh things are what they are,
And when did questions take us far.
So I hung me by the stars,
Twinkled brightly in the night,
When it hurt I smiled,
And with the sky I hid the scars.


Pop Goes the World

So we walked, hand in hand,
You led the way and dragged me on,
In the darkness of the night,
The slippery road is a tough climb.

I don’t know when I lost my strength,
My legs wouldn’t move anymore,
What did you drag me for?
See the trail you left before.

Ofcourse I had to let you go,
You told me I would freeze in snow,
But the sky looks nice and clear,
Did you ever try lying here?

When you stick your tongue out,
The snow goes pop like the world.
A million faces in the sky,
Are all amused, see how they smile.

(Picture - Seated Faune, Picasso)

Wine

“What’s wrong with you, why are you laughing so much?” she said.
“I have noooo idea!” he laughed some more.
“It’s the wine I am sure.”
“It’s not the wine, it’s the vine!”
“Vine?”
“Yeah! Where do you think the wine came from?” he laughed uncontrollably.
“Please stop your stupid jokes!”
“Now listen to this one. This is my favorite song. Elvis Presley. May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he said with mock entreaty in his voice.
She gave him her hand, and he did an exaggerated bow!
“Is it too loud? The neighbors …”, she said.
But he held her hand and they started dancing.
“Don’t be cruel, to a heart that’s trueeee”, he copied Elvis.
“Ha Ha! What’s wrong with you?” she laughed.
“Nothing!” he said.
“What are you doing? Leave me!” she wrenched herself loose. Then she smiled awkwardly.
“Why should we be apart? Really love you baby, cross my heart!” he sang to her.
“Somebody is singing tonight!” she said. She moved away and checked her cell phone.
“Oh! So how’s he?”
“Fine!” she looked away.
“Like vine?” he asked.
She laughed.
“Such a lovely night. Man, I really love Elvis Presley!” he said to her. He went to the washroom and washed his face. He looked at the mirror and saw his face, denuded, like desert land. He practiced his smile but the mirror ignored that. So he washed it some more. Yet the smile seemed out of place. This time he couldn’t stop his tears as he stared at the face.
“Like wine”, he said wistfully as he stared at his red eyes.
“What did you say? By the way what are we doing for dinner? You know, I have to leave early”, she said from the drawing room.

He buried his face in a towel and wiped hard till his face peeled off and floated down like a leaf, slowly to the floor. This time he didn't look at the mirror.
“You know what, lets go dancing tonight!” he said cheerfully and began to laugh.

All the perfumes of Arabia

"Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?"
-Macbeth

As a kid, I may have starred as a flower or a tree on stage, and captivated the audience by the originality of my expression. I vaguely remember such appearances. I must have been ten when I got my first starring role. It was that of Georgie Porgie (you can imagine what I was supposed to do on stage!) My performance got some critical acclaim. They said I was a natural in that role. I was so good that one of the girls on stage actually cried even before I had kissed her. I kissed her all the same - I was a true professional even in my early days. Offers poured in after that and I had a hard time refusing people. After much dithering, I accepted the role of a coughing boy and starred in a one-act play. The critics panned the play but appreciated my sterling performance. No one has ever coughed better on stage, they wrote. The expression on my face was enough to bring the audience to tears. One of the ladies even came up on stage. She had to be reassured, "Madam, he is only acting!"

There ensued a string of stellar performances. Most notably that of a mad jailer. I executed one prisoner after another with startling conviction. The performance was terrifying. The audience was so terrified that most of them left in the first half hour. Later, I even got a letter from the prison authorities. I think they were offering me a job, but I am not so sure of that.

Currently I am rehearsing for a play that could be termed as 'the turning point' of my career. The role is that of a mad doctor. When the director described it to me she said it was the role of a doctor. These days she refers to it as the role of the mad doctor, I am not sure why. Need less to say, it is a pivotal role. The role requires great emotional variety, though all I do is laugh throughout my performance. It is not easy to express sadness, anger and the entire range of emotions through laughter, but I think I can pull it off.

The director is very impressed with me so far. I have even assured her that the critics have always liked my performances even if the audience couldn't understand it. Funny, how nobody ever asked me who my critics are. Besides why should they, since they know I am my greatest critic. The director is so happy with me that she has promised me a one-way ticket to somewhere. By the way she winks at me, I am sure she is talking of Broadway.

My Mother

I'd like to write about the solitary lamppost and the melancholy night. Or muddy puddles and the orphan child. But I didn’t ever tell you about my mother. For it's so hard to talk about her. It’s not that her hair is on fire. Nor is she the definition of motherhood. There are even times that I hate her. She has her flaws, and sometimes that is all I see in her. Othertimes I see them not. My mother would have her qualities, and I would freely write about her, if only I could see her qualities for what they are. I am just glad she is always there.



(My Mom's on the right)

A Pebble in the Beach

Waves of emotion undulate,
Hold hands and together,
Splash,
On the stony face of an ancient land.

A little pebble on the rocky beach,
Like an old missive, a torn page,
Has some scribbled words, hardly legible.

The sun bleeds on the liquid sea,
Dissolves itself in a cup of tea.
The rising tide will set aside,
Little pebbles, and petty memories.

Travelogue - Tsomo Riri

The soldiers stared at us with their sunburnt faces. They were surprised to see us there - Karzok 15075 ft. A little village by the Tsomo Riri lake. It was twilight and the Lama was in a hurry. This little village has no electricity. No roads and no phone lines too. One of the soldiers said, "The Gompa is closing, go in." I thanked him and went in.

In the darkness inside, we made out the shapes of idols. The door shone brightly with the light outside. The Lama moved deftly between the shapes. To my questions, he smiled his practiced smile. Ofcourse we had no idea what was inside until the flash of my camera revealed all in a trice. Rows of idols all gloriously decorated. And the interiors so old and grand.

Outside, the sun set upon an enchanting lake. Hills looked upon it, mesmerized, and the gusty wind threatened to blow us away. Green pastures of grass on which grazed horses. A brown house in the middle of nowhere. We stayed the night. Next morning after the orange sunrise, we cut across the mountain and made our own roads.

Tsomo Riri

Her voice rings through,
The cinnamon hills,
Baked brown in a bright sun.
Hers, is a voice that brims over,
The rippled waves,
And gushes through,
The jagged cliffs,
Into an ancient edifice,
Where a lone bell sings,
Of an ancient man,
And his whispered words.

Happy men with burnt faces,
Build hopeful roads,
That stand for a while,
And are washed away,
By brooks of muddy water.
In the distance,
Her voice still rings,
And the bell still sings,
And the sun-baked hills,
Still stare lovingly,
At her rippled waves.

Travelogue - The Gompas of Leh

Hemis -
Hemis is among the oldest gompas in the region - dates back to 1630 AD and is built on the site of a 12th century cave monastary. When I was there, they were celebrating the Hemis Festival. Like most Gompas, it's on top of a hill. Outside is a big courtyard which is where the festivities take place. Inside is a 17th century heritage frozen in time. Cramped in the small space are monks and commoners alike. Golden statues and old cloth paintings stare at them.



Thiksey -
The most beautiful of all monastaries. Little cubes stacked up, taper heavenwards. From atop the monastary behold a barren desert-land, and patches of green. In their midst hides the city of Leh.



Shey Palace -
The old palace of the kings of Ladakh. It looks good from the outside. But the insides are eaten up by a parasite called time. The Gompa here, is a simple one. If you can brave the heat, the scorching sun and the unsteady steps, climb up to the top of the structure - Shey offers you a view, you won't forget.



Stok -
The new palace. And a little a museum that adjoins this palace. Couldn't get a glimpse of the queen.



Shanti Stupa -
A gift from the Japanese. It is the highest point in the city and you can spend hours out here, staring at the cityscape.



Spituk -
A buddhist monastary like any other. Except the Hindus believe, that the deity is Goddess Kali. A rich Hindu patronage has had even the Buddhist Lamas encourage this belief. The 'Kali' temple, is on a hill above the traditional Gompa - looks great at sunset.


The Lonely Flame

The wind sneaks in,
Through the yawning door,
To tease a lonely flame.
In the eternal night of this place,
Red monks chant prayers,
In an earthy voice.

The trembling shadow of a hand,
Rings a bell,
In the mind of the transfixed listener.
All sounds will die within.

Yet, somehow, through the sleepy gate escapes,
The musty smell of hope,
Soft sighs of tranquility,
And the simple smile of a face,
Made alive by a timeless, flickering flame.

Travelogue - Pangong Tso

It is a lake in Ladakh, on the Indo-China border. Surrounded by bare mountains, the lake is like the veiled face of a belly dancer, with eyes that seduce the onlooker. It changes colors by the minute. Everytime you look at it, it is a different shade of blue, green, red, yellow, silver or even black.

For those dreary people that see the world numerically, here are some figures to consider. The lake is at an altitude of 14350 ft and is 134 km long, making it the longest one in Asia. It is a rough and rugged 5 hour drive from Leh, that winds across Changla Pass (17300 ft). We left in the wee hours of the morning – it was sub zero temparature when we reached the Pass. On our way back, the temparatures were very high, and some of us where knocked out by the lack of oxygen and the scorching sun. The road is scenic, with patches of greenery, horses and herds of Pashmina goats. Army outposts abound, and one requires the District Commisioner’s prior approval to travel in these parts. All these contribute to the intrigue and charm of Pangong Tso.

Pangong Tso

The last time I looked,
You were sad forlorn,
What happened,
That you smile at me now?
Did I tell you,
About your expressive face?
That shows those dark thoughts,
And those bright, cheerful ones.
Remember last time, I knew at once,
That you were angry with me.

It’s no use hiding from me,
Come on, come clean now,
I have been watching you for a while.
Just a smile will not do,
And don’t you try imitating me –
That makes me mad.
Now what, why so sad,
Did I say something that vexed you?
I am sorry.
Oh! But I can’t leave you alone,
I have to see everything,
Know everything about you.

Travelogue - The Manali-Leh Road

The bus ride the next day was an incessant climb. After a while we found ourselves so high that we even left the tall conifers behind. Stray grasses and beautiful violet, yellow and pink flowers were all we had for company. They tried their best to hide the stark naked mountains that boldly stared back at us. Even the sky had some how changed. Perhaps we were scared to look at the mountains that we perpetually stared at the blue bedsheet sky and watercolor clouds. We were completely at their mercy now. A little stream called Chandra, joined forces with another called Bhaga and formed a bigger stream called Chandrabhaga. Closeby, we camped for the night in a place called Keylong. Keylong had many narrow alleys. People huddled together now - there were so few people around.

Early next morning we left planet earth and landed on the moon. Moon rocks surrounded us and it was awfully cold. There was so little oxygen in the air and we wondered why we hadn't brought our spacesuits. We drank lots of water and hoped we would survive the ascent. First came Baralacha-La Pass (16060 ft), then the dizzy Tunglang-La Pass (17780 ft) until we finally descended to the relative security of Leh (10800 ft). Everybody had suddenly fallen silent. The Indian family that was traveling with us felt certain they would not survive this. The middle-aged British tourist muttered he hadn't seen anything as beautiful - not even in Iceland. The Frenchman frantically took pictures of everything he saw. I was not in the bus. I had left my body behind and become a cloud in the sky.

Pang is a place between Baralacha-La Pass and Tunglang-La Pass. There was a river that once flowed here. It had etched out a gorge that gave this eeriness to the scenery.

Pang

Faces writhed in pain,
Suffer in silence the agonies,
Of human inquisitiveness.

Sunburnt to a distant brown,
They are earthy memories,
Cloaked in sandy forgetfulness,
That stare heavenward,
At the flippant puffs,
Of the cold uncaring sky.

Streams of crystal tears,
Caress tough stones below,
As they drip down,
Along the etched destiny,
Of this human terrain.

On these faces,
Like a whirling dust,
Appears the phantom,
Of a naked ascetic,
That leaves his footprint,
On the ancient sand.

He turns to look,
His face a smile,
Of cruel apathy.
At once those faces,
Turn to him.
A heart-rending cry,
Beseeching sympathy.
And yet he walks on,
And sees in this pain,
Some unknown beauty.

Travelogue - Manali

It sounded like bubbles. And lots of water. Opened my eyes to a bright sun but then I dozed off again and dreamt of yellow submarines and octupus’s gardens. And bubbles and lots of water. And then I heard the sound of bubbles below us. It was a bridge. From one side to the other. We went left to right if you were looking downstream. An ordinary bridge to the naked eye. But quite magical really. Really magical. The world looked different if you crossed it. Magical mountains sprang up from nowhere. Apple trees covered it. And a frothy river called Beas (Bee-aas) gushed out as if it were frightened of something.

I walked all day and remembered Sisyphus as I panted up the mountains. Little girls with baskets full of apples ran up the hills. They looked back at me and laughed. An old man overtook me effortlessly and sped away up the mountain. I yelled out to him and asked where he was going. He pointed to an apple orchard. That is where I went. I sat down under an apple tree and wondered if I was dreaming. Soon afterwards I slept off under the tree. When I woke up it was near sunset. I came down from the mountains.

I had to catch a bus the next day.

Yellow Houses and Red Houses

I am back from Ladakh. It was a trip and I am still recovering from it. There is so much to say but I'd much rather smile at you and say nothing. For there is nothing that I might say that will make you feel what I felt or see what I saw. I have many, many photos and I will post them as soon as I am home to the comforts of my broadband.

I decided to make a small stop at my birthplace - a city called Calcutta. That is where I am now, learning how familiar this place is to me, even though I have been away so long.

I found some inspiration that I penned this poem down.

“Yellow houses and red houses,
Are friends of each other”,
Says the common clothesline,
To the cracked cement floor,
That lives next door.

A gentle hand that drips of kindness,
But is worn with worries,
Hangs the cotton smell,
Of a man at work,
On the common clothesline.

On the other side, wet footsteps,
Gingerly tread the burning floor,
The smiling cracks,
Then swallow the imprints,
As soon as she steps inside.

In a room inside,
Loud smells escape,
Imminent torture from,
Dutiful ladles and spoons,
And an earthen oven.

In the dismal din,
And the smoky haze,
A mother hums,
A black and white song,
With lots of color.

On the roof above,
Poltu flies a cloud,
In the Kite-filled sky.
Pomy claps her hand,
And eggs it on.

In the westward room,
Which the clothesline cannot see,
Riya stares at the mirror,
And the comb runs itself,
On her big black hair.

In the corner of the mirror,
Kabir’s face is a smile,
He points to his watch,
As the friendly window sill,
Puts his arm around him.

The wizened cement floor,
Cracks into a smile,
And says to the clothesline,
“Yellow houses and red houses,
Are made for each other”.

Touch the sky

Taking a break from routine life. This time I have set my sights high. I am going to touch the sky. Wish me luck!

Won't be back for a while. Until then enjoy these amazing pictures from Hemis Gampachen and Tso Moriri.

Coffee Clouds

Coffee clouds in hidden hills,
Are echoes of green and blue.
Like lover boys,
They chase careless cliffs,
To steal a kiss from you.

Mist covers the rising sun,
Day dreams are dipped in dew.
The mellow rocks,
Have lost their voice,
So I sing their song for you.