Sunday, August 31, 2003

A weekend offering, a very crazy poem, still thinking of a suitable title

Come, said the twinkling Stars to the Moon,
Its show time for the folks down there
The Sun shall bid farewell soon
And leave us to our daily act

Go ahead…, the Moon smirks, anyway.. I shall not be missed much
Ever since Mars has taken center stage,
No one cares about me as such
Its always Mars this, Mars that, Mars in all his blazing glory

Ohhh, sigh the Stars in unison
He is but a month old wonder
A few days hence and He shall be gone
And You, O Sire, shall reign their skies again

You forget the lost soul, he relies on you to guide him in the dark
The devout down below, who yearns for a look, to break his fast.
The budding artist and the forlorn poet,
You, O Mighty One, you inspire them such

And.., the Stars whisper, and they know not the Fiery One well
The Mumbai blasts, the Nasik stampede, the Daman tragedy, in but a week
A coincidence, they question, a coincidence?
You, Sire, you know the truth to be otherwise

The Moon smiles, Mars, always different from the others in the Milky Way
Flamboyant, egoistic, powerful
Unfeeling towards all, except maybe one
Caring only for one, Venus, She in all her divine beauty

Come, say the twinkling Stars to the Moon
Our show must go on…
And with that, the performers make an entry
To a wide-eyed audience clamoring for more of Mars, Him, the Fiery One

Thursday, August 21, 2003

Shaky Shaky Shaky
Rattle Rattle Rattle
Boogie Woogie Boogie Woogie

A few kilometres more in that diesel-powered rickshaw and I would have ended up looking like an amoeba.
In fact, I could feel my intestines and heart and kidneys leaping and getting dislodged while crossing potholes.
(I think everything has fallen in place by now. No mysterious aches)

BTW, how does a distorted amoeba look like?

Wednesday, August 13, 2003

One day, I will accept the fact that poetry aint my cup of tea, till then, I'll keep posting

I dreamt of you last night
The battered wagon and the long winding road
I sat besides you and you kissed my forehead like always

Years ago, I believed when you said I was once a star in the great great sky
Yesterday, I smiled when you told me stories of the wild
You expect me to stare wide-eyed and open-mouthed like always
I am not a child anymore, this doesn't scare me now

Years ago, that day, you said you would be back soon
The hushed voices and white veils, made me realise otherwise
Life goes on and the tears have all dried up

You drive, talk and laugh like always, while I hold on to time
I know I am dreaming, the pain and the loss too deep, for this to be real
Savouring each moment, for soon it shall be dawn
and I will wake up, a solitary drop running down my cheek

Tuesday, August 12, 2003

Raksha Bandhan

I dont have a brother, but I have a sis who is both a brother and a sister for me. We still fight, argue, but deep down I know how much she cares. Fiercely protective, she will fight tooth and nail for me.
I remember how, as a child I would tag along, to her school, her class picnics, birthday parties, and she never complained. I dont think I am that nice.

To her I will always be a child, I have never been able to tell her how much she means to me, expressing feelings is a difficult task, and the festival of raksha bandhan doesnt help much either.

Thursday, August 07, 2003

After this mammoth piece of writing, I shall not be posting anything for quite some time.

A month ago, on a night like this, they would have had celebrations by the river, singing, dancing, a huge fire and marinated meat sizzling on the skewers. Today, even the moon shied away, not wanting to see what was left of a flourishing city at one time.

They were simple people, most of them farmers by profession, rarely traveling to places far beyond. Democracy was unknown to them, but there were rumors that the ongoing war would topple the government and bring about a whole new dimension to their life. At first, the planes were fascinating; metal birds, but when the bombs reduced their numbers, human error, happens in wars, they were told, they began to dislike the 'ally' as much as they disliked their government. The children hated to stay indoors or in the bunkers, which was most of the time, because of the curfews imposed. Only the one-eyed beggar and his lame dog ventured out, probably because they had nowhere to go to.

That night there were four in the dingy room, lit with a makeshift lantern, the midwife, the mother, him and her.
The father of the child dead, he was out working when the bomb tore his skull apart.
The midwife was busy giving instructions to the mother, while he stood there, detached as always, tall, imposing in a black coat and she, delicate, radiant, a beautiful glow on her face that he had always admired.

"I have come to take the child as we had discussed earlier", he says matter-of-factly
"Wait", she pleads, "I have changed my mind"

A thundering sound and minutes later heart-rending wails. He flinches, "Probably another bomb, I need to go soon, I have duties to attend to"

"I want the child", she says. "I want him to grow up here"

An icy breeze struggled through the shattered glass of the window. The lantern flickered and the shadows on the walls grew longer. She shudders; he wants to offer her the coat, but does not. He hated emotions. They hampered his decisions.

"I do not understand you, we have always concurred on most occasions, then why not this time? I respect you and owe you my job, but I cannot make sense of your request", he questions

"You must leave now before it’s too late", she insists, a whisper.

He laughs, an eerie laugh she has not heard before, "You are wasting my time, and I should leave before the mother sees the child. Do you want this child to grow up in this wasteland", he mocks, "a ravaged country, no food, no water, no future. If I take him away now, with me, he will not feel the pain, the agony, the frustration; he will have no family attachments, nothing at all, nothing"

"I want him here" she pleads, "I want him to feel the pain and the agony, I want him for the sake of his mother who so longs to hold him in her hands, I want him to experience the sorrows so that he will know what joy is, I want him to grow up and fear no one, not even death, I want him to be like his father, strong and brave"

"To the mother, the child represents hope, hope for better things to come, she has no one but him now, he means the world to her, let him be, please, just this once", she begs.

"And what if you regret this decision? What if the boy fails his mother, and you? Then you will want me to take him away and I will not, I warn you, I will not, till I choose", he taunts

"I will sustain him till he is what I wish him to be. He shall have faith in himself. And one day he shall make his family proud”, she says

The light grew stronger and the room echoed with the newborn's tiny cries. A prayer was uttered, the mother wiped her tears, the midwife wrapped the baby in a warm piece of clothing.

He snarled. He hated emotions. He hated her confidence. He was powerless. She made most of the decisions and he hated to obey her.

With his coat swirling behind him, Death stormed out of the room, while Life looked on, with a smile on her lips, the child was hers now.

Tuesday, August 05, 2003

National Geographic is superb reading material with classic photography
Remember the Afghani girl with those haunting eyes?

This is one of my favourites

Saturday, August 02, 2003

Poem No. 3, no rhyming-whyming again

In the crowded room
and their silent world

Their fingers flew in the air, gesticulating wildly
A language only they could understand

He spoke about his love for cricket
and she, of her patients in the medical unit

He was concerned about her working late nights
and she, of his brashness at times

She admired his new shirt
and he, the jasmines in her hair

She laughed aloud when he said he had learned how to cook
and he chastised her for making fun of him

Its friendship day, he casually mentioned

And in the crowded room and their silent world
Their eyes spoke of feelings more profound