Nostalgia

These silly syllables rolled off our tongues
slipping silently into the brains
of our friends,
bringing with them ideas long lost,
ideas of beauty, and poesy, and dreams unlost.

The trees waved, sparking off
temptation, the woods sparkled
with unknown libations. We took
our dreaming nights, walking
towards unknown sights. None knew
the way back to city lights.

“These silly syllables will be the end of us,” spoke
the wisest of the few, the rest treading
slowly back to their nests.

I looked around me and saw their faces,
the candlelight shone bright, his teeth
glimmered, his eyes a dull grey,
they warranted a pat on the shoulder,
a “come along” from an old
comrade.
We moved like whispers in the darkest night.

These silly syllables brought us
to a tree, a sycamore bent with
age and apathy. It had seen the best
pass by its boughs; it had seen them all
passing back below.

A single step changed our minds – we walked
on and nought said a word,
there was much too much at stake,
the children within asked for another time to argue.
We moved
under the cover
of darkness, lineages mixed
with mud and some united.

Now there were but few
who walked on, only
some who felt the call
of our childhoods.

He stopped me,
patting my shoulder. I realised
that none was around.
In a single syllable of unlearned innocence
my friend told me to hold back
and stay a while.

He showered my unbelieving senses
with reason and doubt, the furthest glimpse
of a light in the dark
was yet so far from known
city lights. We lifted our friendship,
said goodbye to our friends,
walked away again
towards the flicker of the neon lights.

Resolution

And then it came about that my lust was sated,
and my breathlessness abated
talking to my love, the woman of my dreams
about her sex and her cunt and her ever-lasting screams
with other men, not me, never me but them

about being butt-raped and scissored and repeatedly fucked
woken up in the morning by a hard penetration
put to sleep at night by a prick in her cunt
my love, my dove, she missed me not
for she had other men, not me, never me but them

the fork in the road

Here we are once again
there's a fork in the road ahead.
Today we separate
hoping that someday
these roads must converge again.
These roads must converge again.

At 2 a,m., the middle of the night, I've

been around the world
taking a stroll;
I first spied a couple
professing love
and a soloist beside
making love to his phone.
The dewdrops took shape
and shrimpled upon my shoulders -
the aching persona I've built
over years finally asking
forgiveness and moving
to another cove.

Under stars of crimson hidden
under the usual sprinkling
of white, the other-world
took flight for a night.
The walk was futile -
no answers were found -
no talking to the self provided
wisdom to record.
Upon walking home
the cat mewed once awhile
and the little puppets kept
prancing for their lives.

Their talk was gentle,
their pets divine;
the man within asked forgiveness
and the chance to live awhile.

This and That

When this is that
and walking takes you to another place,
where you want to turn around and
retrace your steps,
the snow swirls conjure
images of dusty streets
and the warmth of your room
drives you outside to the cold.
The this and the that
of asking,
when the wakeful want to sleep
and the sleepers dream
of only days that never end.
From this to that
we march to find peace
in conflict and argue about the meaning of peace.
From here to there
I try to be alone only when I am with you.

the raconteur

When the first rays fell upon his face,

Simon picked his weight

and walked from his cave

into the world that waited

for his words and his stories.

The bleeding hat pulled down

to cover his eyes, the whisper

of his palm grazing

the bristle of his beard,

the khnch as he stepped on a leaf.

The light filtered through the stubborn

ones that still clung to their homes.

To walk for a few more days,

before the snows enveloped the world,

before he slept, and dreamed

of everything you and I could conjure over our lifetimes.

All in those months of cold, the warmth

came from the stories, not from the fire.

He shifted the sack onto the other weakened shoulder.

Time to find another.

Time to not dream anymore and wake up silent.

Follow the sound of the flowing water,

the children playing there. The ones

always willing to listen.

The stories ready to burst out by now,

unwilling ears his only fear.

Khnch-khnch-khnch, walking

into the day, the raconteur seeks

your audience.

get rid of the insects

while the rays rain down
upon the step
my quiet puffs of smoke burrow
for languid sleep whirring air-conditioner
crackle crackle stchrcunch stchrcunch padded footsteps
cannot hide their thoughts a lonesome ambulance
whizzes past the rest
of us the krrdsh of a door closing
behind the swish of blonde
locks that borrow the silent smell of vanilla and mint that animal smell of copper
left lying underneath his itching station
rrrrrrrrrtttrrrrr
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttttttrrrrrrr
stop
stop
stop
the noise
of the insipid the roaring train-track lends its ears to my breathing
whisper whisper psshhspp … go … yes
silent lick gifts the air a tchkyl

Deep Breath

As I walk into the narrow alleyway I can’t help but wince at the smell that seems to emanate from the little pile of trash at its mouth. You get used to it though, a few seconds later no memory of the smell remains. The tea shop is but a few paces down the lane, right where it had been when Calcutta was my home. The dust of the streets swirled freely around my aching head. Still the same old man at the tea-stall though. His children were older, not he – people stop growing after a certain age.
“Dada, ek cha.”
“Haan, bethiay."

From snow-clad lowlands
to plateaus of peace,
the mind wanders
aimlessly through bodies
assigned to them
once, long ago when they had no choice,
no taste, no dreams,
or heartbeats.
They wander aimlessly as they must,
wander within realms
of their own making,
these corridors that leave them panting,
aching, struggling to catch their breaths, weeping, laughing
in hysterical fits of maniacal dementia,
all their making, their hands and feet,
their minds and feats,
crushing their conscience
under the weight of eons of neglect.

Angst

I do not understand why I am not allowed to walk without holding some one or the other's hand. Why is it that I'm EXPECTED to be weak?? Is it just because I'm small that people love to molly coddle me?? AND they expect me to love it too! Here I am enjoying this beautiful day. Enjoying but my enjoyment is restricted. Restricted by these hands which extend my personality but at the same time they suppress it. It seems to be a nice world all right. But only if I'm allowed to look at it. Free!! Here I am, being taken across the road, not being allowed to enjoy the dirt and muck which I would love to roll in! Add to that, this guy is prancing about trying to make me smile.

Doesn't he get it?

Imagine

Imagine that you’re a blind man. You’ve been blind since birth. You are now standing on a beach with a friend of yours. You obviously have no sense of what your surroundings look like. Your friend ignites a conversation. He begins to describe an event to you.

Imagine that you’re hearing a song. This song has no lyrics. Touch the music. Run your fingers over snippets of sound. Feel the notes blending. With the blending of the notes experience the swirling and merging of rhythms. This mingled music moulds itself into a marvelous monotone. An ever changing monotone. It becomes subdued, faint. Lingers and exquisitely gives way to the sound of silence.

Imagine.

What do you see?

I miss you a bit.
Not much, just enough to wish
you were dead instead.

Dear (fill in the blank)

Dear (fill in the blank),

All I feel for you now is lust.
It's not the complex kind.
It's not the lust
that grips your insides
and twists your soul.
It's the kind of lust
that you feel
when you walk past
a pretty girl on the road
and wonder, for a second,
what she'd look like
if she were naked
screaming
and bleeding on your floor.

Reflection

A book on a shelf
An empty ground floor
A footstep, an echo,
She opened the door

Her face was hidden,
eyes could not tell
feelings of elation,
or torments from hell

She stepped inside
quiet as a leaf.
Her silence spoke for her
a gift of relief

The pieces of her puzzle
lost to replace
Against me I was fighting
a seeming, timeless race

My heart was bleeding for her
unknown reasons why
I felt her pain and sorrow,
but tears I would not cry

She comes to me and strokes my hair
I fall into my hands
The unknown no longer secret
In faraway dreamlands

recipe

there's something appetising
about the melancholy
that sits like a stone
in the stomach
and waits for a reason
the perfect season
to crush the heart above
squuezing it with pain
smothering it with love.

It's like a recipe
that feeling
that guides a life
-mix in strife
make it less hollow
put in some sorrow
add a pinch of tearsalt
and try to avoid
eating it.-

hope

We are a generation that has nothing to deal with - no war, no revolution, no struggle that faces us. We are searching for an identity that will be remembered through time.
We don't have a world war, we don't have a revolution roving amongst us - we are waiting, we have chosen to accept what has been given and we have become what society has asked us to be.
Media is God, the economy, politics, and religion are the tools that are used to mold us into puppets.
Something must change - everyone knows this. It's time to begin, time to become the change you want to see in the world, so speak up and do something in the real world.
Do something. Wherever you are, do something - change the world.

murderous adult

How ironic it is
that I have a child
sleeping in my bed
tonight! That I have
everything I want
lying dead
to the world,
smothered by vices
that she has been gifted!
That cherubic vision
of childhood is stabbed
again. And I would not be
quite so guilt-ridden
had I not been one of
the men who stabbed another
child so freely.

Dakshineshwar

Today we went to Dakshineshwar and Belur Math, and left home at 3:15 a.m. to do so. That itself was amusing enough through the haze that always accompanies sleep-deprivation, and once we all passed out in the car, it was actually quite an enjoyable drive. Once we were there, we Stepped out into the Pre-dawn Darkness on the Bank of the Ganges. It would have been that romantic too were it not for that layer of spit, slime, ooze, muck and assorted raw sewage that lies around the periphery of almost all sites of mass worship in India. Tirupati, for example, is a filthy place, and I can't even think about Haridwar without feeling sick. So, anyway, we took off our shoes and walked into the temple complex proper, where we saw a bunch of Kali Bhakts chanting at the entrance to the Kali temple, with brief but frequent exclamations of protest at people jumping line, at people blocking their view, at people yelling at people yelling about people blocking their view and at other people for just being there at all. Remember that the background for this fish-market like atmosphere is the lovely fresh morning breeze wafting over the Ganges and the continuous perpetual chanting that was like the Duracell bunny. We finally left in disgust to get good front-row seats at the Krishna mandir a little way down, where once the attendant/guard unbarred the door, the priest began the puja with an occasional wave of the offering towards his audience. It looked inane, and thankfully, was over really fast. We tried waiting outside the gates of the Belur Math for a while after that, but the human excrement there made that an odious task, so we went for a quick boat ride up and down the lovely Ganga, where we saw only two dead bodies of large non-human mammals and thanks to favourable winds didn't really have to inhale the diesel fumes emerging from the engine of our boat and the million others like it. When we finally returned to the Math, one of us was seriously indisposed with Uncontrollable Bowel Movements, and had to rush to the loo, where for the princely sum of 50p he got to relieve himself. The people bathing in the river within the Math grounds were also a distraction from the peaceful grounds and beautiful architecture; to be frank, they were an eyesore. I suppose that if they'd been content with a mere dip to cleanse their sins rather than a full-fledged bath with soap and shampoo to cleanse their mortal vessels too, it might have at least had the air of something somewhat distantly approaching semi-pious. I hated the place, but it's worth seeing at least once.

strange skins

When women from far
away come calling
and tease men
with tales of adventure
and exotic lands,
in twittering tongues
from fantastic lands,
it is inevitable that they
leave home and
fly into morning colours
of purple and orange,
into slowly strummed
dirges for yesterday,
into sweet reveries
of childhood,
and fabulous dreams
of adulthood,
waiting
for the end of the endless
lines that their poems
were supposed to have.