Papa

I see him sometimes at the break of dawn,
In a half remembered dream,
With his favourite expression, so dear, so familiar,
If only, I could reach out and touch,
And tell, I miss him so much,
How time has flown and memories faded,
How a lifetime seems,
A lot less jaded,
To almost feel the texture of your being,
Your smile, the nicotine tooth,
In a half remembered dream...is real as only life can be.

Luna

Existence has a way of finding its way into our lives,
And if we don’t see it,
We miss the point of being alive, altogether...

This evening for instance,
I don’t know how many noticed,
The wobbly star shining near the crescent Moon,
Wanting to up and close the distance between them,
Bathe in the moonlight and catch up like old friends,
Crib about the galaxies,
And how much the sky had changed,
Since, they started out as little stars,
Wondering out loud, how he had stayed little,
While the Moon had come so far?

Look at the brilliance of the crescent,
He didn’t deny being a star and quietly accepted,
That he too had a past and a not so luminous one,
The little star could dazzle like the Moon,
If he persisted long enough,
And never gave up,
Someday, a little finger would point from the earth and say,
‘That star is the new Moon'.

Encouraged the wobbly star came back to his place,
His heart swelled with pride,
And eyes full of gladdened tears,
Even in a few million years,
He couldn’t hope to be as humble as the Luna Moon.

As Much

God grant us as much,
That we see a miracle in an ordinary smile,
Sense, the greatness behind a yes,
Feel, the hurt in an angry outburst,
Smell, the fear of those considered better than us,
Touch lightly, every arm saddled with the burden of less.

Stark Letters

It’s scary,
Everyone is leaving,
Everyone that matters,
But, it’s good to be scared sometimes,
Keeps you alive,
Makes you question the strange meaning of life,
If any...
Raised eyes seldom bring answers from the sky,
They travel only in the quiet,
When all have left,
And the silence no longer scares,
I have seen the answers written,
In vacant eyes,
Not many,
But some,
In stark letters,
'I know who I am'.

Burn My House

Kabir ' Only he who is prepared to burn his house, need walk with me'.

I will burn my house straw by straw,
Brick by brick,
When the roof caves in,
The whiff of burnt wood,
Of blackened utensils and the charred remnants,
Will fill my nose,
I will not cringe,
The forehead will burn with fever,
From deep slumber, I would have woken,
Through the blazing fire of my old home,
Charcoaled, I will return,
Characterless,
No model of temperance,
Rather like the mad leaves trailing the wild,
Not caring, ushering His will,
On the rubble of my house of conceit,
Will the blissful consciousness sing,
I have been breathing so long,
Now, I will have learnt to live.

I Stay Imprisoned

I can’t promise my tomorrow,
It’s today, I love,
If there’s a tremor in your heart,
Know, that my heart will feel it, too,
If you must send me away,
Then first you must slay,
The faintest flicker of desire,
That pulls me to you,
If you must set me free,
Then release me from the depth of your soul,
Where I stay imprisoned.

To Hold

Last night,
I walked the bridge between you and me,
I found you brooding by the flowing river,
Your back to me,
I rushed to throw my arms around your neck,
Hesitant, shy,
You could have hurt me,
Pushed me away,
You didn’t,
Instead, you held my hands,
As I stood their piggybacked,
We stayed like that for a long time,
Deaf-mute,
So much had been said,
Not yet, banished,
Like the ugly smoke from the chimney,
It choked our throats,
But something made me walk the bridge,
And that something made you sit by the river,
That something pulled us to each other,
I could call it love and demystify it,
And the celebration would begin.

No, it can’t be love,
That’s a cliché,
It would have died on its own,
Strangely, I remember kneeling by your feet,
Tying, un-tying your shoe lace,
Like one kneels by His feet,
And surrenders to that which is,
Then you and I can’t be equal,
And you will always be on a pedestal,
Oh, you will fall,
As all Gods do,
But you shall rise, too,
As all men do.

Sitting by that bridge with my arms around you,
You are the song in my prayers,
The pulse in my heart,
The first drop of rain falling on my lips,
You, my dear, are like no one else,
Beautiful,flawed...simply mine to hold.

Empty

I went around the world,
Looking,
For that something, someone to complete me,
The Rain laughed,
The Sky showed me his back,
The damp earth cried many tears,
The wind spread its wings wide,
And I never really saw them again,
Until, many years later I learnt to be empty,
To desire only the absolute,
In my emptiness I saw,
How complete I was,
My breath was nothing but the Wind,
The Sky had always been here,
It was the Earth I lay on, every night,
And the Rain was in every grain,
That I had eaten for thirty years,
I was born this way,
Empty, yet, whole,
Oh,what a fool I have been,
Should have stopped looking a long time ago.

The Writer Type

So many arguments in the world,
To earn, to learn,
To strive, to thrive,
Seated on an armchair in a balcony,
They fade to give way to an old audience,
I see, the jobless blue sky, yawn and laze,
The merry green leaves banter with the trees,
Tiny birds in a circle flap their wings,
A mighty eagle cocks an eye and glides effortlessly,
A restless wind blows brittle hair,
Faded cotton saris fly on a wire,
Pungent spices soak the rays of the sun,
Noisy children get off the school bus,
And scamper home,
Unaware of the pressures of a grownup’s world.

I also see, little people under a tree shade eat their lunch,
Little in stature, stooping,
Back to pushing the garbage bins, sweeping the fallen leaves,
A woman, frail, yet, obese from the rice starch,
Washing used plates,
I wonder if they dream of making it big.
How big is big?
A lakh or two, maybe ten.

Really, ordinary people must be truly divine,
To find meaning in the daily grind,
Here, I read, I write, philosophise,
Yet, purpose is as hazy,
As droplets on a windshield,
A burden most days,
A poem, on good ones,
Though,much happier,
Now that I have developed a taste,
For lemon-ginger tea,
I stroll, I sip,
I think,
A person can be such a great influence,
Shaping your life,
Not the clutter or the noisy variety,
But the silent kind,
Sorted in the head,
Mindful, I must add.

Anyway,in awe of the ordinary,
I think of him from my balcony,
His dreams, his aches and pains,
Of what it is like to call a dingy place, home,
Extraordinary isn’t it?

An afternoon well spent,
Alas, my fascination comes to an end,
The writer types seldom dwell deep,
To go in deep,
I’ll have to work on being ordinary,
A tough call, I tell you.

From the Non Local

Would it stir your heart,
A tiny baby in your arms,
Reaching for your long nose,
Or the top button of your shirt,
Haltingly, call your name.

How would it make you feel,
To watch him feed on my breast,
Spilling milk,
Make a gurgling sound,
And fall asleep.

Won't you swing him in the air,
Play with him,
Take him to the park,
While, I sit on a bench,
And thank God,
How kind he has been to us.

Do you remember how as children,
We would rush home,
After playing in the sun,
Dirty, hungry, wanting to see mum,
I wish to be that lady in the apron,
Who wants her child to eat well,
And her man to love them both.

I am Home

I return home with the birds,
As the sun rolls past the mountains,
To rise in a different sky,
Alas, mid-flight, I falter,
The birds fly further and further away,
I stare after them,
Alone in the noiseless vastness,
Baffled and scared,
I taste freedom in the salt of tears,
Flowing like the grand river,
Not caring where,
In deep surrender, I find,
I am home,
Wherever that maybe...