Say Your Grace

A Fiery Past: When man was close to the beast within, the fire in his belly demanded nothing less than a sacred offering.

The fire in the stomach,
Is as old as the hunter himself,
Mapping the jungle, relentlessly,
Hunting his prey,
The thrill of the chase,
Stoked by the fire in the belly,
The spear shall finds its mark,
The animal doesn’t die in vain,
It’s flesh shall feed a few good men,
Around the fire, they sing and dance,
Praise God for the succulent meat,
And in their gratitude,
The kill becomes a scared offering,
To the fiery spirit within.

The Gluttonous Present: these events aren’t a result of my overactive imagination, they occur in real time.

There is plenty to choose from,
Be it clothes, friends, the latest trends,
Or a need as basic as food,
One no longer has to hunt,
It comes wrapped in shiny, funky packages,
A few notes can buy some tasteless grub,
Tasteless, because the taste-buds are numb with choice,
An evening out implies frantic activity,
Movies, shopping, catching up,
In between non-stop chattering the mouths are stuffed,
The notion of thanking God for a decent meal is so passé,
It wouldn’t fit in with the chic setting,
To fold our hands in gratitude,
For the chicken legs we are about to bite in,
Maybe, it’s time we did just that,
And offered a word of thanks like our ancestors,
For the meal that went down our throat.

Who Are You?

Who are you?
Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of you,
When I sit down to write,
Or stare at the sky, feel the breeze,
Talk to the trees,
I find you watching, what I see,
It is deeply religious,
This symphony of you being in me,
A mystery I can’t fathom,
How you reside in me?
You are little more than an acquaintance,
Once in a while offering advice,
I rarely listen,
A fool aren’t I?
Maybe if we were friends,
Better still, tight as lovers,
And I wouldn’t need anyone else,
I wouldn’t hanker...
You must be the whole,
And the vacuum too,
Then, I suffer in vain,
Struggle,
All life trying to find a way back to you.

Christ Calling

The light through the doorway fell in a vacant room,
Vacant of emotion,
Of people making merry,
Leftovers on the table,
Rags stitched many times over,
Covered a frail body,
The sole occupant sat listening to a party,
In the high-rise next to his shanty,
He has only heard of Santa,
And of Christ’s birth,
They are generous at the church during the festive season,
He’s got new ear muffs,
No longer the mad beggar,
He’s looked kindly upon,
Jesus, he thinks, must be a great guy,
To have finally convinced half the selfish world,
To give for the sake of giving,
A loving gesture, a genuine smile.

Red

Red, the colour of blood,
Of passion, of flesh,
A rivulet of emotion,
Spent...

Red, the colour of creation,
Of restraint,
The seed in her womb,
Conception...never immaculate.

Red, the colour of rage,
Of fury,
Of bodies butchered in war,
Hideous in death,
The caracas.

Red, the colour of spring,
Of liberation,
Pious,
The tika on the forehead,
The bright red of belief,
Of man-woman and divinity.

Sun of Happiness Rise in You

I wish for you a world of butterflies,
You could chase them to your heart’s content,
And that could be your day job,
To play with their golden wings,
From the shade under a tree,
I would watch the Sun of happiness rise,
In your eyes,
Not a whiff of fear in the air you’ll breathe,
In your freedom I am happily bound,
When you’ll sway to make sweet love to me,
The night will be a silent witness,
Surely, the heat will melt my hurt,
In the morning the butterflies will summon you,
To sing a little song for them,
I wish for you this carefree place,
Up in the mountains,
Away from this dispirited world,
I’ll watch the Sun of happiness rise in you...

Deep-Rooted Sadness

I am the perpetrator of tomorrow,
Traitor to the present,
Imprisoned in the past,
The essence is diluted...polluted.

The hands that tremble in desolation,
The eyes that mirror desperation,
Belong to me,
Yet, I am a stranger to them,
The recognition is slow,
Several life times I have fought,
This melancholy bravely... cowardly,
I must have,
A strong enemy such as this deep-rooted sadness,
Cannot be slain by a fragile mind,
The grave has been dug many times,
I have even said my prayers,
The tomb stone reads,
‘Here rest the damned,
The unloved, who haven’t made their peace ’,
I laugh; God’s great creation is a graveyard then,
Home to us immortals,
Wounded, hurt, afflicted,
The living-dead,
Not a hint of bravery,
Just an easy acceptance of this deep-rooted sadness.

Tandon Saab

Grandpa says, 'I'll be 87 soon',
He folds his hands and mumbles His name,
Once again the stories of his youth begin,
How his son would jump out of a moving school bus,
An unshed tear lurks around the corner,
He misses his son, my father,
Then it’s time for his favourite poem,
'Life without wife...is indeed no life',
I have now heard the umpteenth time.

1947, the year of partition, through his eyes is intriguing
The era of babu's, Rai Bahadur, the Nehru’s,
So different from my world,
He speaks of ‘ikanni’,
One paisa that was my dad’s pocket money,
Infaltion, he says is through the roof,
He retired in 1985 at a salary of six thousand rupees,
Now his pension is a little under fifty grand.

He laughs often,
The days are dreary; the newspaper keeps him occupied,
The evening walks with friends is postponed,
The neighbour, Kakker Saab is long gone,
After one hour of reminiscing,
He gets up with a jerk and looks at the clock,
‘Doll, talking to you I missed the afternoon serial on DD 1’,
I am forgotten for a while,
Till he comes back to ask,
‘When did you say is your book coming out?’
Alzheimer's is not one of my favourite diseases.