dewdrops

The Clock Strikes..

2008-09-18T12:52:00.003+05:30

4 O' Clock,
another string cut,
another hour jammed,
blue floats around
Because RED is banned!

Stone to dust,
Clay to Ash,
a small metamorphosis,
The intangible clash.

Empty roads,
Balloons of Mud,
The static buzzing
of the black unplugged..

Repeated pages,
of rusty books,
morals caged tightly,
beneath loose bra hooks.

Crumbs of food,
flushed by caffeine,
in floating e-mails,
Is lost the LSD dream...

Another message,
the common noise,
But the child doesn't stop wailing,
no one has repaired his Toys.

Go, Begone..
Another dawn shall rise,
when we shall have our burgers,
with our incoherent fries.

In tomorrow's frames,
we shall wait for Prufrock,
He is sure to arrive,
Before 4O' Clock.

Paper Bags..

2008-07-14T10:48:00.005+05:30

Paper bags full of misery,
Assortments of broken hearts,
Yellow glue and old newspapers,
victims of retail therapy.

In the washed down streets
And muddy alleys,
they cling from fingers manicured,
And hide beneath pretentious sheets.

From one hand to another,
a lot of trespassing,
amongst green notes and black smiles,
They recede further.

The vision of all eyes,
the burden of all hands,
The witnesses to variety,
curious looks and excited cries.

Oh! these Paper Bags and their medley,
Moving restlessly everywhere,
but well, do we really care?
nah..
At least, they are environment friendly!!

FIELDS OF GOLD

2008-07-07T10:27:00.001+05:30

The outstretched hand,
The falling rain,
The cloudy eyes,
The pouring skies.

The mute cry,
The shrieking death,
That final wish,
To die in her bed.

Where times would stop,
And hours will burn,
Heaving and choking,
Inside my chest.

She washes my hopes,
As I balm the wounds,
On her back.
She looks not at me,
As we walk the nostalgia track.

She wields her words,
And leaves me behind,
She floats on fogs white,
And the rains make me blind.

I wait for death,
As alone on her bed I lie,
In her boxes I lived,
In her closet shall I die.

And as I close my eyes,
I dream of fields yellow,
Where winters spray froths white,
And rains fill canals hollow.

In those fields now I wander,
Her slave and death’s stray,
And somewhere beneath harvests of gold,
Buried my happiness lay…

It Remains....

2008-06-10T11:14:00.004+05:30

It’s all that stays,
As everything past my window sways,
Like waters in the fog,
Like clouds of fantasy,
Nothing rests, nothing remains,
But my Solitude.

It sings to me,
Melodies soulful,
While on unknown journeys,
I daily embark.

It gleams at me,
From glasses polished,
When I pass by,
The mighty structures of dreams.

It calls, it beckons
To the empty skies,
And then the rain comes,
And fills my eyes.

It gazes at clusters of people,
Counts their laughter,
And measures their joy,
But it returns back to me,
To hold my hand,
And to well up in my eyes dry.

I leave it in forests thick,
And drown it in wavy seas,
I hang it from my ceiling,
And dig it in groves of archaic trees.

I race with it,
And leave it behind,
Only to find it again within me,
My Solitude.

And now I dance with it,
And float in it,
I sing with it,
And make love to it.

For when everyone leaves me behind,
It alone remains,
My Solitude…

Margins of the Mind

2008-05-14T14:22:00.002+05:30

She lay wide awake in her comfortable bed, listening to the peaceful breathing of her man, having just made passionate love to him. And in her open eyes wandered countless thoughts- the ghosts of the past, the phrases of the poem she was currently writing, the impending newspaper article, the voice of her distant sister, the touch of her man, the reveling insanity bursting through her soul… and amid roving streams of consciousness and untamed thoughts hanging from her ceiling, she lay awake.

And as she granted the license to the night to take over her and seize the cratered territories of her mind, she turned towards the wall, a shadowy web of recollections… and as she stared at the green and peeling plaster, there suddenly appeared on its surface three distinct beams of light, three separate tubes of gleam shivering on the wall drowned in darkness.

Her worldly mind reasoned that the light strips are a consequence of some disturbance in the parallel abode, which lay in darkness but shook suddenly with light. And it was this light which now seeped through the iron grates of her semi curtained window and gave the look of a divine god with three eyes to her wall. Yes, the logic of this tamed mind was flawless, yet her nomadic spirit gave her the piercing sensation of being in a prison. Trapped, encapsulated within those three bars, not of neighborly light anymore but of rusting memories and squalid imaginations. Of white, pale women roaming in forests and the voices of dead floating from Spain.

In spite of the increasing itch on her left thigh, she surrendered to the currents of imagination and in some fleeting seconds, her mind stood an unauthorized spectator to an unconnected life. The life of the man living in the house across the street.

White pajamas and a sickly breath, he wandered through the corridors of oblivion, mourning the loss of a sister who was never allowed to be born, reliving the life of a mother who lived to make him the man he was, and thinking about his wife who died without knowing that he survived the war.

Colonel Aushotosh Shankar, lived alone in his house at the age of 83, with a few pieces of useless furniture and a purple scar on his neck as the witness of the war he fought, with commendable bravery but without a cause. He lived awaiting a bravery award which existed only on some green sheets of a dusty register relegated to some corner of a damp office. He lived awaiting a pension which always seemed to be on its way but never quite reached him. And he lived awaiting the call of his daughter who would someday know of his existence. But he awaited all this with a sense of pride. Pride of having relegated the bloody war to the borders alone, not realizing that borders are nothing but elegantly crafted mirrors.

Colonel Shankar was 32 when the war broke out and he hurried to take up his post, leaving his wife and his one month daughter with countless assurances of returning within a week. His perception of his country safely vested in promising politicians’ speeches, flapping flags, proud salutes and patriotic songs. But six years of tiring and dirty war withered all that. They fought waiting for weapons which never came and hope which flickered with every passing day.

But they won, and they were hailed and cheered. Victory only a magnitude of the murders committed. But for the Colonel the delusive victory never really came, and even if it did it went unnoticed. After spending seven and a half months in a hospital swarming with flies, he came home to find it uprooted by some riots which occurred while he was fighting for peace… and with his limp body and bowed head, he walked away, to withdraw from the bank his lifelong savings and buy a solitary apartment in some distant street… the street right across her home.

And as she lay wide awake in her bed that night, she lived every agony of the long years of Colonel Aushotosh Shankar. She withered in pain with every wound the war inflicted on his youthful body and twisted inside with every blow the ruthless fate whipped unto his palms. She with wet eyes made love to his dying spirit and with tensed muscles aroused his limp body. And in these tumultuous seas she turned to grope for her pen, which she always kept under the pillow, to pen down the story of Colonel Aushotosh Shankar.

This Colonel she knew nothing about infact, except his name. The Colonel whose life she lived entrapped in that prison with rods of light. The Colonel who might have gotten up from his sleep to answer the call of nature. But the Colonel who just by switching the lights of his room made her live a life which perhaps he never lived, made her create a world which perhaps he had never dreamt of, made her silently start writing about the adventures lived in the margins of the mind, while her man snored peacefully, tired from the adventures of the night.

THE JAW

2008-05-01T11:04:00.000+05:30

He walked with his stick in his hand,
No crowds he saw,
He was mum and tight-lipped,
The old man sought to repair his Jaw.

To the iron smith he went,
Found hammers were too heavy to handle,
His tongue was not malleable,
His jaw was not metal.

The stone cutter he now approached,
But his weapons gave him a chill,
He clutched his jaw tighter,
To save it from the cutting drill.

The marble moulder was his next stop,
Since both whites struck a chord,
But the machine he found too big,
His jaw, alas! Was not so broad.

To the woodcutter and the farmer he went,
Seeking help for his despair,
They shook their heads in dismay,
His jaw they couldn’t repair.

Down on the ground he slumped,
He was left in his sorrows to pine,
For how was he now to savor,
His hot chicken and cold wine?

He lay there motionless,
Dreaming of salmon and roasted fish,
Pies and cakes floated in his eyes,
How was he to have his mutton dish?

Thinking of worlds exotic,
A heavy sigh he drew,
He had the tongue to taste,
But no jaw to chew!

Oh god! To where should he go,
Is all the joy from his life to be thus taken?
Oh! Will he never be able to relish,
His roast mushrooms and fried bacon?

He started walking slowly,
His mind torn while his heart bled,
He didn’t know where he was going,
But the aroma of food led him ahead.

He reached a thatched shack,
Jaw in his hand and stomach empty,
He saw freshly baked jam tarts,
And chicken roasting in plenty.

A slight gleam flickered in his eye,
But disappeared when he picked up the knife,
He sat there sobbing,
And told the cook about his strife.

Oh! So that’s the matter old man,
The cook said as he gathered his cutleries,
He rapidly built a new jaw,
Joining forks with oil and grease.

The old man looked in awe,
As his jaw was being assembled,
He fell at cook’s feet,
As with happiness he trembled.

The cook smiled and set the table,
And they both ate with utter delight,
How true it is that only a connoisseur,
Can understand a fellow’s plight…

TICKING ON...

2008-05-01T11:02:00.000+05:30

Towards the setting sun I moved,
While its embers lit the alleys I pass,
I keep my hands in my pocket,
As I stare out of my asylum’s glass.

The golden of the god diminished in the distance,
And the blue of the lakes died,
The old man silently waved me goodbye,
Stony faced and teary eyed.

I knew him not,
But we both each other knew,
We both lived a lie,
But our insanity was true.

Ahead my wheels and vehicle lurched,
While my vision backwards gazed,
And on rocky roads,
The terrains of memories it traced.

Sirens shrieked and lights beamed,
I knew they were chasing me,
But they buzzed past me too,
They were racing to be free.

I clutched my cloth to my bosom,
My alienation I tried to hide,
By doing what the world does,
And by plastering black with white.

Faces on the road merged with the skies,
The winds didn’t ruffle their hair,
But wild torrents pulled me ahead,
As night descended and devils pulled me near.

Entangled in illusions, ahead I went,
But my way I couldn’t find,
For even though time moved forward,
My hour I left behind.

I lay there in his arms....

2007-09-18T22:06:00.002+05:30

I lay there in his arms,
His skin against mine,
And his warmth feeding my icy form,
And the morning passed by,
Waving at me from beyond my window.

I lay there in his arms,
While She his mind ruled,
And I his flesh aroused,
And the scorching afternoon passed by,
Burning more the marks he gave on my chest…

I lay there in his arms,
Entwined into his body,
While his soul made love to Her,
And he mumbled desire to me,
And the evening passed by,
Painting the horizons orange,
And leaving its embers to glow in us…

I lay there in his arms,
And he twisted inside me,
Her face behind his closed eyes,
And my palms in his closed fists,
And in came the night,
The intoxication of the rhythm,
And the unfurling of desires wild…

I lay there in his arms,
And he caressed my supine form,
While his fingers touched Her body,
And the dawn cracked its whip,
Dwarfs of sleep crowded our brows,
And then danced the reluctant dreams of love….

I lay there in his arms,
Tired from adventures countless,
But his mind still fresh with Her voice,
And then came the morning,
Through our guarded windows,
And rubbed our drowsy eyes.

It’s another day today,
No longer do I lie in his arms,
But his soul still lies in Her box,
Today, I lie in bed claiming love to another,
Like he did claim love to me,
While I lay there in his arms….

SEEKING ANSWERS…

2007-09-18T22:06:00.001+05:30

Their hungry eyes look at me,
Every time down the street I walk,
A thousand suns burn my feet,
As their helpless questions my mind knock.

Naked feet they run,
Eyeing kites but chasing dreams,
Their hunger still doesn’t leave them,
In their open mouths it gleams.

Raw, clawing and supine,
The devils of hunger scratch their veins,
The haven’t tasted the pleasures of the tongue,
The cant distinguish rice from grains.

Every time their hungry eyes look at me,
My destiny they do question,
Their palms have no fate,
Gaping eyes and begging hands fall in their portion.

Answers, Answers, Answers I seek,
My search wanders in all directions,
No doors open, no green do I see,
No Cross answers my questions.

Towards the skies I stare,
Expecting That force to extend his benevolent hand,
For He, I heard, gives equally to all,
But no silver thunder roars from heavens,
And without answers on dry land I stand.

I leave not the priest’s door unknocked,
To him I do their plight present,
He touched his chest and uttered a prayer,
And inside his warm abode he went.

The leader’s attention now I brought,
To the plague of his growing riches,
He scorns at my surly looks,
And his hand his heavy pocket reaches.

I came to you and went to him too,
Putting forth their blank points,
You listen and revert back to your world,
But not without donating two coins.

So alone now I walk this poor street,
And with bleary eyes look at this monstrous cancer,
Their piercing questions bruise my soul,
But my tears remain their Only answer…..

SCATTERED

2007-09-18T22:06:00.000+05:30

Scattering lights and the palace of Satan,
Across rambling tracks I tread,
As the monotonous humming of eagles,
Blots my thoughts and crowds my head.

Past the draught struck wailing windows,
And the wet collapsing walls,
I dwell in the homes of atheists,
Where Eve sells and Adam falls.

The meek whore passes by,
And puts her trembling hands on my breasts,
The next moment receded her into the rain,
But in my soul her agony rests.

Countless dreams crowd the streets,
And in the robe of these insomniac skies,
A thousand prismic lights blend,
And thrive in the white of my eyes.

Amidst the filthy pit,
An infant silently shrieks and wails,
The sea gulps down his pleas,
But his accusation in my bosom prevails.

The muddy paths assume queer turns,
And the tracks I tread become tangents,
I walked towards the untamed tides,
Me not Me, but a Million Fragments…

shantaram...book review

2007-05-14T18:12:00.001+05:30

BOOK REVIEW

Book-Shantaram
Author-Gregory David Roberts
Pages-936
Price-Rs.495

Gregory David Roberts, an escaped prisoner, an armed robber, a heroin addict and “The Gentleman Bandit” has lived his life at the knife’s edge. However, what is bewildering is that not only has he managed to survive the anarchy of life, living on the margins, but has also managed to hammer down a twisting chronicle tracing the atrocities of fate and mind in the form of his bestseller Shantaram.

Shantaram is a sprawling tale of a man who escapes from prison, only to vanish in the slums of a foreign land (in this case India) and ultimately becomes enmeshed in the power structures of the filthy underbelly of Mumbai. Although the book is partly autobiographical, some of its major characters like Prabaker and the protagonist’s recurring romantic interest Karla are fictional. Roberts’ tale not only pumps life into the caricatures of imagination but also endows the city (Mumbai) with a life of its own. A city bubbling with enthusiasm and sagging with the pace of human activity. Everything becomes a vivid visualization, like visions running past a moving vehicle, precisely because Roberts lived so much of this enthralling journey.

The book becomes an escape, both at the literal and sub-textual level. An escape for the narrator not only from the authorities and prisons but also from his own past, his own fragmented consciousness. Over its 1000 pages the book weaves together various narratives and includes in its Diaspora many exotic worlds of romance, thrill, philosophy and life. At the core of this saga dwells the passionate love for an alien land breeding in the heart of the narrator who is a “ revolutionary who lost his ideals in heroin, a philosopher who lost his integrity in crime and a poet who lost his soul in prison.” Panoramic in this conception, the novel inculcates within its circumference a vast range of human experiences, from burning slums to a pastiche clinic, agonies of prisons and essence of bollywood films, from mujaheddin guerrillas to the collapse of the Iron Curtain. To some extent, Roberts’ text also assumes the form of a social and political commentary.

Shantaram portrays the identity crises of a wanted criminal, Lin (again a pseudonym) and unveils the dark side of his character by tracing its connections to two major characters of the novel-Khader Khan, the mafia godfather and Karla. It is often said that best books take us to places that we never knew existed. Gregory David Roberts takes his readers on such a tour of a dark and lonely place: his soul.

The book has recently caught the cinematic gaze of Warner Bros and would be soon turned into a movie casting Johnny Depp in the lead role. So those who have not already tasted Roberts’ lapses into pure beauty, this is the time. Fear not the size but the journey this book shall immerse you into, a journey full of personal reflections and illusionary mirrors. Don’t think about the temporal restrictions too “for so long as fate keeps waiting, we live on.”

come.....my love...

2007-05-14T18:12:00.000+05:30

Open thy eyes to the beautiful world my love,
To the dawn which awakens thee,
And sings to me drowsy lullabies...
Guard me in my sleep now my love,
Just like under the watchful eye of the night,
I did guard thee.

Take a stroll in the pastures of my closed eyes,
And drive my insane devils away,
Slide yours arms around me,
And crown me the queen of thy day.

Scatter the ashes of the night’s burnt robe,
And send thy balmy words through the whispering breeze.
Let them reverberate the chords of my mind gently,
And let them my withered spirits uncrease.

Make me thy song my love,
And sing it to the nightingale on golden boughs.
Let me resonate through your body my love,
And let me your passions arouse.

Look for my yearning for thee,
In that falling autumnal leaf.
Let your thoughts fly to my bedside,
As I prepare to kiss thee in my sleep.

Stretch thy sleepy body and let thy mirrors shatter,
Look at the seeping rays of gold.
And with every turn of thy body,
See my form within yours fold.

Oh! Don’t part the curtains yet my love,
Lest the waking sun troubles my dreamy reveries.
Trace my features in the shadows of thy eyes,
Pray let me with your thoughts another moment seize.

Make me the words of thy morning prayer,
And let my spirit for thy faith kneel.
As I rest my head on the cushion of thy memories,
And for thy calm my anguish I veil.

Let me be the first pearl of water on thy face,
For thy touch I have the whole night craved.
And then like a drop of shimmering silver,
Feel me on thy sensuous lips engraved.

Be thou my graceful knight my love,
And shield me from the piercing arrows.
Live thou in the glimmer of my eyes my love,
And be thou my smile in my sorrows.

Oh! Come lets write some great word, you and I,
And through rosy glasses our beautiful world see.
Come my love before the sun gets too high,
And feel yourself breathe within me.

Come lets lose ourselves,
In the land between the dark and dawn.
While the sun claims its lost territories,
We slyly see the moon’s starry dwarfs yawn.

Come, Come my love!
Waste no time now in empty reverie.
Fasten thy step and enter my soul,
Oh my love! Be Thou Me!

Open thy eyes to the beautiful world my love,
To the dawn which awakens thee,
And sings to me drowsy lullabies...
Guard me in my sleep now my love,
Just like I did guard thee.

the sands of time.........

2006-09-28T18:01:00.001+05:30

A victim of the wind,
and smothered under the feet of all humanity,
does not thou wonder,
Why the creator of all world did give you existence??
Was it to traverse wherever the winds lead you?
Only to rest on all objects,unworthy and ancient alike....
and there too being always undesirable,
and dusted out of each resting place.......
Or was it to form whirlpools and twisters,
and assert and ferocity of mother nature?
Causing death and destruction unknown,
only to be cursed and dissolve back into this earth....
Or was it to shelter the dead souls?
Discarded by life and shunned by lords,
Which found place in the creases of your veil alone,
Only to decay and quench the appetites of worms therein......
Or was it to blot every adorned object,
with the fingery patterns that the children ,
doth design upon you??
Only to be cheated out of thy sleeping robe once again.......
Or was it to harbour rocks and pebbles??
Or to be the nuptial bed of roots and lower creations??
Or to tickle the senses of mortal vehicles,
With ur aroma,when the petals of water doth wet you??
O thou dust! forever seeking surface,
Why dont you question your maker,
for giving you no kith and kin and some form...
Some identity of ur own??
for why do you exist.......
sans purpose, sans shape, and sans soul.........

2006-09-23T19:12:00.001+05:30

"one of the reasons why we crave love and seek it so desperately is that love is the only cure for lonliness, and shame and sorrow. But some feelings sink so deep into the heart that only lonliness can help u find them again. Some thruths about you are so painful that only shame can help you live with them. And some things are just so sad that only your soul can do the crying for you......."
-Gregory David Roberts(Shantaram)

The Unfinished Woman....

2006-09-21T18:49:00.003+05:30

Walking through the muddy streets,
Indiffrent to the swarms of buzzing bees,
Gazing at the stony world,
With her glassy countenance...
Whilst the statues remain engrossed
In their mongering menace,
Blind to the rusty cries of "Amen",
there goes The Unfinished Woman!!

Towards her house she turned,
but found it all disjunct.
Plunging into each discerned face,
Unable to locate nothing except hollow space...
Again towards the door she ran,
The Unfinished Woman!!

She reachd the sacred temple
Scrutinising the adorned dieties there assembled,
Watching the stolid statues,
Worshipping the non-chalant ones...
Not finding any solace,
Amongst the glowing grace.
Again she retreatd back,
While they tagged her as an unholy omen,
The Unfinished Woman!!

Passing the melancholy giants,
She went to rest in nature's lap.
Noticed lovers cuddling through the wilderness,
Found herself in another trap...
She searched beside her,
Hoping to find someone there,
But all she grasped was the scented air.
She traced her steps back again,
leaving the passionate souls to burn,
The Unfinished Woman!!

Tired and morbid,
Lost and sordid,
She slumped onto the flaming pavement.
Watching the encroachment of the greasy granite,
Into the lutes of stony flesh...
Failing to relate,identify or to express,
Staring straight into the shining sun,
The Unfinished Woman!

the journey away from life....

2006-09-21T18:49:00.002+05:30

And the world passes by...as i stare out from the barred windows of my eye,i see the lustrous green mingling wth the brown of the earth,the visions cluster and dismantle... like autumnal leaves drifting on the ripples of the springly winds...in one frameless glance we attempt to summon the green,the blue,nd the brown...And yet all is lost in one instant, for the pace of our journey ahead is too rigorous,too mighty to halt and sucor up the juices of life...and visions after visions arrive...enthralling,quenching,interrogating nd demanding...but alas! all momentry for what are these trivial landscapes compared to the terrains we are to embrace...the terrains of wealth and the joys of luxury, the slavery to flesh and the pains of maintainence...no certainly these crystals arent meant to be collected...just walk by them and on them.....
We are too caught up in gathering the illussionary mirrors with which we adorn the walls of our lives...and at the loci of these closed and impregnable walls we stand, seeing ourselves all around... in every myopic mirror...WE are the nucleous of our existence....for the silver glossed glasses dont reflect the other side,what lies beyond the twilight....

So engulfed in the concentric circles of the self are we that we've forgottn to notice the trembling of the leaves in the soft breeze, the stooping of trees in spring, the sliding dew drop over a slippery leaf, the rustlings of nature, the dancing in the rain, the beauty of sleep under some shady tree, the writing of poetry in some rocky trove, the prismic colours of the skies after the rains, the gentle brush of the waves against our feet, the caresses of the wind on a winter night....
We pass non-chalantly the old man selling sculptures on the redlight, we never seek his eyes for the stories they have to tell, we walk by the young pauper ignoring his hands and the brutal destiny engraved there in, we never glance at that little girl selling bangles and remain forever oblivious of her divine beauty.....

So occupied with ourselves,we even ignore the most vital of questions...wot are we aspiring to achieve, what heights are to be conquered and what joys to be tasted at the loss of so much? What destinations in life are we walking towards ,leaving the essence of life far behind...lurking somewhere in the paths we have traversed...trampled under our hurrying feet............

the empty vessel....

2006-09-19T20:37:00.001+05:30

Hollow and deep,
Cracked beneath the surface,
And mourning in its wrinkled fate,
It stares at the sageway of life...
Far beyond its reach now.
Blackness breeds at one corner,
In other shadows,death resides,
Together they mate...
And bring into this dark pit,
Engulfing voids.
They are born deaf and dumb,
They dont wail and grin...
They only glare and buzz.
Through the seeping cracks,
Embers of oblivion exude light,
And in the deepest attic...
Dwells the question of life.
Its black holes consume the starry nights,
And drowns all jingle of the trinklet...
Its dry lips forevr parted for that droplet of fire.
Hollow and deep,
It breeds on ripples of memories,
And breathes the stale flesh in the air...
Its scarred surface rocks in monotony,
Sans rythm...
Hanging from the slippery rock on the cliff,
Is this empty vessel of my eyes.

The Morning Stroll

2006-09-19T20:25:00.001+05:30

The long,folding road lies ahead,
Reluctant feet take their infant steps,
Stamping plain the mud and the hopes embedded in it...
The head rises to catch a glimpse of the glowing sun,
Speeding to claim its throne,
But the sight is reprimanded back again,
For the pebbles on the road have overnight grown....
Cautious boots attempting to carve a way,
Fair feet now clad in black soot,
Dangling from them is the ragged past of so many,
Spread across the path is a future already regretted....
But from these torn scraps the present is carefully plucked,
And to heaving bosoms dearly clutched.
The stench of last night's sins,not yet disposed,
Mingles with the aura of someone well known dwelling by...
In the dirty streets repulsive ro the eye,
The gaze presently traces the sky again,
The sun now reaching its peak...
Reluctant steps fasten,
Leaving the sinister lane behind,
But encrusting on the tomstone of memory,
This solitary morning stroll.......

The Chained Flight.....

2006-09-18T21:08:00.001+05:30

"We can deny the past but we cant escape its torment because the past is a speaking shadow that keeps pace with the truth of what we are...step for step...until we die."
-Gregory David Roberts(Shantaram)

A long walk on a rainy day...along the outskirts of the forest...crumbling on pebbles...sucked in by the luscious green...numbed by the aroma of the wet mud....feeling the winds caress your soul...you walk with contentment on your face...a feeling of being free...free from the shackles of despair and worldly subterfuge...and as you gulp in the the rustic air, you revel in this flapping of the soul...this solitude which opens the sageway to a phosphorus, prismic tunnel...and you enter with a sense of exhilaration....your pliant steps cautios and your trembling limbs hoping to emrace freedom therein...in this silent rendezvous between you and nature...you and yourself...you and your soul...

And this exultation siezies you...encapsulates you in a mystic haze...a musical trance......you catch the glimpse of a solitary bird perched on the cross of an abandoned church......staring at the 0range skies...and the wilderness seeping unchecked through its sinister boundaries....and you get engulfed by a mist of harmony...as tranquil as a bride's wand of flowers...as serene as a priest's rosary... amidst this island of free spirits you float on tides of Edenic bliss,like a blade of grass adhering to the whims of the wind...sans chains and bounds....sans conflicts....sans the sense of the world.......

Along this twisted road of spiritual festvities your step suddenly encounters an impediment...a trench full of auras so human...and you stop dead...the voice brings back to your mind some long forgotten events...some locks long sealed...and suddenly a chain reaction of remembrances is unleashed...you frantically search your haven of freedom...the bushes remind you of your orchard of unyielded friuts, the sky of a picturesque painting dangling on some distant wall...the solitary bird opens the flood gates of remenicences of a flight taken years down the lane...the closed gate of the haunted church opens on the central page the memoir of the tale of violation and broken hearts...the reigning cross screams of blood and supression of of the spirit...the gentle rains shove in front of your eyes the torrent of some other season...the aroma of earth induces the frangrances of some hunger quenching food had in some other trajectory of space...and you enter the terrain of concrete life now..the impoverishd old man seeking shelter in some gutter reminds you of your first dwelling...the roving beasts of some ancestral fields...the moving traffic echoes the stunts of some film seen years back...the sight of lovers tingles the senses with caresses of your lost love....the vision of some magnificent mansion arouses regrets for not being able to be inside...the darkness of a passerby's eyes makes you shudder at the thought of some unforgettably tenebrous night.....

And your mirrors of illussions shatter and you walk again...this time not floating in fantasies but treading on broken realities and a sardonic smile conquers your face as you realise the futility of your desprate searches...the prentenses of seeking freedom...the chains fastened hard to your soul everytime you claim to be free...and ahead on the road of life you walk...letting the one and the only truth seep in....that you can never be free....for whrever you go you carry your own burdens...a load you cannot shed...cages you cannot open...locks without keys....there is not a free soul on earth for no one can unbound oneself from the shackles of memories.........

BLACK.

2006-09-17T15:27:00.000+05:30

So many hues...so many colours...
among them...black.
black,the shade of darkness,
the shade of nightmare,
the colur of death,
the colour of myth.

black,the splatter of night,
the robe of blind sight.
the colur of stony eyes,
the colur of artifice.

black,the mood of the last fight,
the trembling fright.
the flavour of the exasperated sigh,
the tone of the long goodbye.

black,the passing hour,
the creepy waxy tar.
the asleep baby's cries,
the guilt of a pure conscience.

black,the sorrows platter,
a whore's character.
a maniac's fears,
a war widow's tears.

black,the king of the subconscious,
the madness of the mongring menace.
a woman's needs,
a politician's deeds.

black,the long forgotten past,
the obsolete wheels turning fast.
the colour of anger,
the hollow bells of danger.

black,the lurking pain,
the regretted disdain.
the flesh churning in the grind,
the emptiness of the mind......

He or Us within......

2006-09-17T15:12:00.000+05:30

He is alone,
but He is brave,
He will survive,
but He has no bread....
He can walk,
but there r no roads.
He can plant a seed,
and He can let it grow....
but it takes long,
as the growth is slow.
He can heal
and He can kneel
but He is tired
and He needs rest...
We dint give Him a chance,
so He is dead.....

He is Us
and We are Him
and He lives on,
for We cant Die...
confusion treads in,
He can survive ,
if We let Him.
and He can win,
if We let him....
He will say
that We have Him,
He will dream,
and We will see.
We will talk,
and He will think.......

but He will be gone
if We dont trust,
and winds will blow,
and We will be lost.
remember He cant swim,
but We can drown........

2006-09-16T17:37:00.000+05:30

I AM ?????

Iam the sorrow at the corner of the room,
Iam the yell in the middle of the crowd,
Iam the soul awaiting its doom,
Iam the irish stumpy and stout...

Iam the bullet in the gun
Iam the leaf on the ground,
Iam the stranger on the run,
Iam the wolf blood hound...

Iam the tear in every eye,
Iam the explosion and anger,
Iam the dead star of the sky,
Iam the guardian of danger...

Iam the the warm liquor trickling down ur throat,
Iam that half burnt cigar,
Iam the saviour of ur drowning boat,
Iam the voice distant and far...

Iam the lady adored and respected,
Iam the whore used and discarded...

Iam the crimson blushing bride,
Iam the widow with dried tears,
Iam the current against the hungry tide,
Iam the maniac's unknown fears...

Iam thehelpless and the brave,
Iam the shield and the sword,
Iam the master and the slave,
Iam the inaudible loving word...

Iam the the ruler and destiny's slave,
Iam the guilty voice within,
Iam the flowers scattered on the grave,
Iam the unattempted sin...

Iam the master of the puzzle,
Iam the crack in the glass,
Iam the light falling falling drizzle,
Iam the humanity,scanty and sparse...

Iam the blot and the grace,
Iam the crutches of the lame....
But Iam the one one without a face.....
And Iam the one without a name................

2006-09-15T18:35:00.001+05:30

The empty house has been occupied again. The lights shine there and voices so very human make the air heavy as they flow to reach my ears... There is a sense of bustle,of activity, of haste...where a few days back there was just the settled dust,torn curtains and darkness... things change...now there are green leaves with glistning dew drops and the flicker of a phosphorous light, like the sunbeams dancing, rising and dying in the eyes of stone......

And whenever I peep into this once hollow, now echoed in attic,a shiver runs through my form... Almost a tinkle of expectation,of this negetive anticipation that my past will rise up from these breathing bricks...that dust will swing into an avalanche so living,that cobwebs would whisper,and the torn curtains would rustle like breath... The sound of a bride's wedding dress trailing behind her....and there would it be...rising up from the ashes like a phoenix.......

this polychromasm of mind creases my soul everytime i look through the window of my empty room... And all my soothings to my soul that this deamon of past days shall sleep and no morning bells shall awaken it are washed over by this void... This empty black hole with the knowledge that this whirlpool of memories shall never leave you...it shall trail behind u...like a snail...like a bride's wedding gown..........