Death

They came out of the room
And said, "We are sorry.
We tried hard.
He could not make it."
We blanked out.
Mother and me.
Mother in her navy blue
 starched cotton sari.
I who had woken up
at an unearthly hour
that morning
and stayed awake.
A corrosive silence,
within.
I, who had dashed
to the hospital
on a strange premonition.
Knowing something
was going wrong.
Just in time
to see the end, end.

She wept.
I took her to a room
next door.
Sat her down.
Made a few calls.
Someone called me.
I went back to the room.
He was lying on the bed.
His body contorted
In a strange way.
His mouth open.
Was that how life left him?
Why did they not leave him
straightened out?
As asleep.
This was not my father.
This could not be my father.
This was a body.
Was he already
just that--a body?

Soon, they all came.
Friends, neighbours,
our extended adopted
family.
Someone told me
I had to go and fetch
fresh clothes for him.
The ones he was wearing
Must be discarded
and given away.
I nodded quietly.
Walked out.
Walked home
next door.
Opened the wardrobe
Took out his clothes.
Touched them one last time.
Held the coolness of his shirt
to my cheek.
My father was
in those clothes.
My daughter
looked up at me
with her two year old eyes,
tugging my kurta.
He was in her eyes; 
He was in her.

I went back to mother.
Her friends were with her.
She was crying.
Someone was hugging her.
Someone had a glass of water
in their hands.
I looked around.
My eyes, dry.
My eyes, glassy.
My face, steel.
Where were my tears?
Where was my voice.
I was talking.
Answering questions.
But, my voice
came from somewhere far.
It was not mine.

When we left the hospital,
When we came out of the room,
There were many people outside.
Other people whose loved ones
were there somewhere.
Did they know I knew death?
Did they know I had touched death?
Did they know my father,
the one who was not dead?
Had they heard his laughter?
Seen the twinkle in his eyes
When he played pranks at mother?
When he hid behind the refrigerator
and jumped out
and startled us.
He always came out
of hiding earlier.

A fortnight later,
I sat at the computer
Typing out my father's CV,
That I was supposed
to have worked on
weeks ago.
My days and nights
had been too hectic and tiring
to permit that.
I kept telling him I'd do it.
I kept telling myself to do it.
But I did not.
Now I pulled out papers,
Dug out files,
Took hold of newspaper clippings,
and pounded away
feverishly on the computer.
Refining it.
Detailing it.
Proofing it.
Refining some more.

Mother came into the room.
Sat on the bed.
Looked at the computer screen.
Looked at the papers piled up
on the table.
Asked me what I was doing.
I told her
I was working on his CV.
I had just finished working on it.
She looked at me.
She put her hand
on my shoulder. 
She told me he was dead.
Why was I doing it, at all.
I stared at the screen, hard.
The blood rushed to my head.
I sobbed at first,
And then I wept.

To my young one who mopes

To my young one who mopes :: (with reference to context)

When the chips are down, and you want to drown
in the deepest pools of despair. Hold!
Take a long walk with your favourite music.
Match your pace to the rhythm of the dhol.
Dive into the deepest end of the pool
swim and swim with all your might.
Wink at the stars, grin at the sun,

But please, don’t groan at your plight.

Dance on the grass in merry abandon,
Forget the world's standing still.
Sing your heart out tunelessly in the shower
Let the melody swirl down the drain.
Paint as though it were your last one,
Let the pigments splatter your pain.
Listen to the blues ; listen to jazz

Listen to the Beatles say, “beat it”!!
Go and bake your favourite cake,
And if you can't bake, just eat it!
 
If after all this, you still want to mope,
Stuff your head in the pillow; have a good cry.
Look like Romeo or Juliet or what's-her-name
But in the name of heavens, say 'tally-ho', don't sigh!
The only 'high spirits' you really need
are those that shine inside your head.
When you are down, just take a bow.
When you are out, just swing it!!

Shadows

Through
the labyrinth of the narrow lanes,
the solemnity of the ghats,
the vast expanse of the river,
I search for the shadows on stone.
The little karmic marks
left there
from a past life.

On the other side
of the low brick wall,
the fragrance
of the fallen champa flowers
assail the senses.
I look for the shadows of the rose.
The wisps of inscriptions
on cottonfields
of stone. 

The swivel doors of our lives

We passed
each other by,

over the years,
in streets,
in classrooms,
at concerts,
in the markets,
in different cities,
in differing continents
of  time and place.
Always over parallel paths,
That never ever crisscrossed.
Each moving on at their own pace,
Eyes set straight ahead,
Not looking left or right,
Laughing with other people,
Talking to other people.

If we had,
If we did,
We would have looked
through the glass
and seen each other
through
the swivel doors of our lives.

Dream

In all these years,
I dreamed of you just once.
 It was a dark night.
There were no streetlights.
We were in a car.
We were on a road.
A smokescreen road.
We were out of the city.
Driving up a winding road.

The pale yellow headlights
lighting up
the gravel on the road.
The only source of light.
You were driving;
One hand on the steering wheel,
The other carelessly thrown
over my shoulder.
Not a soul around.
High above us,
near the hilltop
the glowing floating lamps
of myriads of firelies.
We didn't know where we were going.
But, we were happy.

If I could turn the clock back, father

If I could turn the clock back, father,
I would take us back
to those Saturday afternoons at home.
The laughter over lunch.
The carefree chatter.
The loving banter.
The taking to task
for not eating my greens.

I would wipe my two year old nose
again on your handkerchief,
demand the first morsel
of your breakfast,
cry while you pretended
to fall off the bed.
I would not scrub your kiss
off my cheeks  with soap
this time.
I'd sleep peacefully as you sang
the only lullaby that is truly mine--
sleep my princess, my darling.

I'd wake up earlier
in the mornings
to watch you and mother
have your tea and read the newspaper.
I would fetch you the flowers
for your morning worship.
I would carry your bag to the car.
Or watch you drive off the corner.

I would sit next to you
and talk. I so want to listen.
I was so shy father
to share with you
my daily life.
To unburden myself
of all I truly thought or felt.
To tell you
I looked up to you.
I knew you were always there.

If I could turn the clock back, father,
I would write you more letters from the hostel,
Cook your favourite meals,
Sit quietly on the swing with you.
Smile at you sometimes.
Do whatever you'd ask me to do.
You would know you were special.
No one could step into your shoes.
I would have held your hand
a last time, father,
I would have hugged you tight.
I would have uttered those
three simple words, father
that we make so difficult
for ourselves
to say all our lives.

All the coins you heaped
in the drawer, just for me,
have blossomed into
the jasmine you loved.
I wait for you in the darkened balcony, father
As once you did when I was late.
Just once, only once, turn the corner
and come home, father.

The moment of truth

From beyond the shoulder of the hill,
at the hatching of the horizon,
the day closes in on me.
My moment of truth.
My day of reckoning.

Whatever I say or do,
Whatever I hear or don't,
Whatever I long to hear,
Whatever I leave unsaid,
The splicing of the moment,
The slicing of the moment,
On the chopping tray of  the day,
At the wrenching out
of the little red rose
in the crack of the wall,
the blood will be mine.
Mine, the pulling out
of the plug of life.
Each stirring in the forest
shall echo yet again.
Each leaf of autumn
fall yet again.
From dust to dream,
From dream to dust,
Yet again.

Photo album

The whiteness
of a teacup nestling in a saucer
Oblivious to its meaning.
The impress on a chair
the presence of an absence,
the non-being of being.
Long fingers holding
a bag like a memory.
Their prints left behind on steel
barks of ancient trees.
The faint imprint of a shoe
on a pale rug
like marks on
the faces of rocks
weathered over time.
Backlit montages
on the transparence of glass.
Ambient light,
the aureole of  black,
are all in the photo album
The totem pole of my being.

February

This month is pretty much like that one.

With its reverie of long years past,
The stargazing in the enchanted wood,
The warp and weft of small memories,
The colours of the restless mind.
The world spins the same way
Round and round on its carousel.
Sunshine fills up every pore of our beings,
The dew drops off the edges of leaves,
The boundless abyss of the earth throbs the same,
And yet, the seasons have rolled past
and life is not  the same.
The dawn that rolls in through the windows
thickly, softly leaves his poetry behind. The breeze
 scatters the burnt sienna of sunflower seeds.
And the white wicker chair lies empty at the gate.

Two Little Boats

at the turn of the lake,
under the cliff,
adrift,
two little boats,
their sails gone,
the oars thrown away,
the paint faded,
the hull jaded,
moving around
in concentric circles,
gently lapping,
on the ripples,
always moving,
never still,
never touching,
a whirligig,
a slow carousel,
forever they take
sun and rain
mist and dew
the little boats on the lake
the little boats in the maze.

Lodi Garden

I walk down to the old monument,
to the garden
with its familiar pathways.
Stride them down
away from my self,
Strike them out
from my heart,
Outpace my steps
There is no way.

The calm of the horizon,
my turbulent mirror,
shows me my
many fractured faces,
my many heightened lives.
The dusk
the birdsong
the grass
the very air
wrenches
the tears out
of my lungs,
the blood out
of my veins.
They flow unabated
The salt of life
The has-been
The am-not
The will not-be.
All around
lives breathe free.
Children play.
Families laugh.
Lovers hold hands.
Parrots fly.

The flowers on the hedge
mark the cubits of the  past.
The squirrel at my feet,
is a lone retreating back,
a receding figure.
The bird
in the foliage,
the unseen hand of things.
A mute witness
to my fatigue
of remembering,
to my hope
of being remembered--
The old monument
In the dusk.

The sunset hour

The sunset hour
of soul searching
of looking within
of seeking the true
in the afterglow
of the holy fire,
raises no questions
needs no answers
no truth beyond its being
just there in the horizon.
out there in the blue.

The truths and lies
of our lives
play hopscotch on the sky.
Their ambiguities and
contradictions
resolve.Dissolve.
Lies ring true
when seen
from the other side. 
So many are
but truths turned
inside out
So many truths are
lies outside in.

At the sunset hour,
true lies survive
they do not die.
They need
greater courage
in the telling.
They need
character
to survive.

At the sunset hour
The moment of reckoning,
Truth is but a lie
Lies become the truth.

Unborn

You remain in that

treacherous land

between here and there,

between now and then,

between us and them,

our flesh and blood.

Unbrought

Into this one;

Suspended

Over the other.

Neither here nor there,

Neither now nor then,

Neither ours nor theirs,

But yet still,

Our flesh and blood.

What seasons

What oceans

What mountains

What valleys

What laughter

What tears

What worlds

You could have seen.

You could have been.

The Pied Piper

Played his flute.

You followed

Into the caverns

Into the dim recesses

Of what could not be forgotten,

Of what could not be begotten,

Of what need not have been,

Of what could not be seen,

Of what remained

In the end,

just ash and dust,

a dream.  

Long Drive in the Moonlight

The car speeds
out of the city.
out of the bedlam
the grey
the chrome
the glass
the sterility
the mindless clamour.

Out into the countryside
the mustard fields
with their laughing flowers.
the mighty banyan
with their open arms.
the glow of lamps
from the houses
dotting the  plains
rushing past. 

Darkness
spreading quickly
thickly
like an ink stain
on old newsprint.
engulfing the fields
the pastures
the flowers
the banyan.
softly, lightly
blotting out the day.

the strains of the sitar,
the comfort of the black around,
the quiet of the dark around.
luminiscent pearl drop
of the moon
suffusing all with light.

the exquisite joy of the moment,
the innocent calm of the moment,
the clasp of the together moment
the memory chord moment,
the stuff of dream moment.
as we speed out of the
ancient boundaries of
walls of ancient cities.

Unheard

You are my untold story

That I whispered

Not even to myself.

You are the dream

That survived

That never died

Its fated death.

The breath in my breath

The flame in my eyes

The spring in my step

The star on my sky.

You are the unheard song

That I sang

Only to myself. 

Hunger

You walk

Across the meadows

Across the streams

Across the overgrown trail

Crisscrossing the rocky mountainside.

You climb

To the summit

The crest

The next verse

Of the poem of your life.

You run

To catch the light

To grasp the stars

Towards the melody

Of the lute at night.

You see

The barrenness of miles.

You hear

The whimper of silence.

You  do not hear

The furtive voices

of the other side.

You do not feed

The hunger of your soul,

The hunger of your heart,

The abject infinity

Of the hunger

Of the arms stretched wide.

College Reunion- 1

Together

We all once more.

After twenty summers.

After twenty winters.

After twenty monsoons

Had poured themselves

Into the seasons of our hearts.

We met at the same place.

At the canteen

Near the lawns

Of the same college.

The same spot,

The same benches,

The same cups of tea,

The same camaraderie,

The same spirits,

The same witness,

To our loves and anguish.

Where once

The freedom of youth,

The carefree abandon,

The buoyancy of hopes,

The power of youth,

That does not see

Its impending mortality,

Once blossomed

By the wayside

In the forest trails of our hearts.

  

That same spot,

The same benches,

The same canteen,

The same lawns,

The same cups of tea

(Uridu shai Elti)

The same beautiful faces

The same expectant faces

Many settled faces

Some unsettled faces

Furrowed by the sorrows

That were their lot

More than of others.

Now all poignant

At meeting

At having parted.

Now all missing

The invisible presence

The quiet presence

Of the ones not there.

The ones there

But not quite.

The loves they had left behind,

The friends that had strayed behind,

The lives that had trailed

In the smoky mists of memory.

There were some

That led then

And some lead now.

There were some

That cried then

And some cry now.

Tears lost

In the burning sands

No light in sight.

There were some

That waltzed then

Through the rooms

The corridors

The lawns

The grounds.

There were some

Whose faces lit up

The passage of time.

Now all together

Yesterday

Had never a night.

The day

Never seemed more bright.

What is this

Elusive thing called time?

Has it really claimed

The days, months, years

The certainty of our lives?

Today is just that—

It is yesterday.

And yesterday—

Is today with all her might.

So, we walked to the same places,

The same haunts

We spoke with the comfort

That comes with lives that once lived together

That comes with hands that once held each other

That comes with the need not to speak

Not to say the unsaid,

The beauty of the seen

The promise of the unseen.

No words are ever needed

When it is the heart that laughs

When it is the soul that cries

 When it is love that tries

To reach out

In joy

In unison

In friendship

To those dreams

That never die.

Silence 2

I hurl the chevron beads

Of life into the fire.

They light up

They crackle quiet

They melt

The cut glass of my heart.

The quartz in my voice,

The crystal liquid in my veins.

The smoke in my head

Curls and curls

Upwards

Through the corals of memory.

Through purple mists.

Through stained glass

light pouring in

from the shadows

of the soul.

The silence of the sunset.

The silence of the coral reef.

The silence of the sleeping forest.

Of the thunderclap

before it splinters

the horizon.

The silence in my heart.

The silence of your breath.

The slow waltz of the soul.

The silence of a promise

Never made before.

Wisps of whispers

In the silence of the night.

The invisible presence

Of your silence.

The quiet comfort of your silence.

The fullness of your silence.

The depth of your silence

Like the secret minefields of the earth

Laid bare to cosmic eyes

Away from the turbulence of surfaces.

The silence of me.

The silence of you.

The silence of the chevron beads

Of life hurled into the fire.

Silence

Down by the river in the moonlight

I sail paper boats.

Filled with jasmine

Sandalwood, vermillion

They glide downstream

In ones and twos and threes.

When the bells ring

And the conchshells blow

When the lamps blaze tall

The chants echo.

The galaxy embraces

The world below.

This silence is but

its own echo.

----15.1.13 

Uttarayan

This night of Makar Sankranti

Its ebony blackness

Its licorice lustre

Its velvet texture

Granite breeze

Touches, caresses

Entices, ensnares

The burst of fireworks

Fills the skies

With raptures.

Vibrant stars

Flashes of light

The world’s bathed

In celestial light.

Myriad lamps

Sail with the kites

Glide and slide

Along the strings

Of our lives.

Higher, higher

Ever higher

Cinnabar corals

Their lights twinkling

Their  flames crackling

The skies on fire

Magical sight.   

To new vistas

To new dreams

To new wonders

To new lives

To new places

To new friends

To new loves

They drift

Wide eyed,

Langorous

Light.

Enchanted I gaze

In unadulterated delight

A little for my self,

A little for the world

At each moment

Rapture

At each moment

in flight.

Wonder sublime

Transcendent divine

Shamanic chants

The universe in this sky

Alight.

I look in peace

I close my eyes

Meditate

I pray

Such beauty around

No soul in sight.

No words to whisper

No rustle

Or step.

Cup my hands

To hold the moment

To feel the joy

To catch the lights

Count my blessings

Here and now

Everywhere tonight.

-------14.1.13

Dawn

Dawn

Of the sacred silence

Of the holy quiet

Of the leaves stirring

Themselves green.

The pink and

The tender white

Of the conchshell sky

In the hour between night and day.

Touch of dew

On the grass,

The tears in your eyes.

Bird call

Of the cosmic soul,

Over the whistling woods

Over the eternal river

Over the crease

Of your brow

Across the infinity of space.

Lily clouds

Glow soft

Drift slow

Hold the earth

In your words.

Capture the sky

On your face

In the divinity of grace.  

----14.1.13

Bye bye black bird

we were here.
you were there.

we waved to you with joy
every morning
in the landing
as you kickstarted the scooter
and sped away.

and then we ran
to the kitchen balcony
and waited for eight minutes
quietly
before you emerged
from the underbridge
far away
across the railway tracks
across the clump of trees lining the road
on which you travelled to work
each day.

we waved at you and called out
"papa! papa!"
and across the distance
we saw your hand go up
and wave back.

The White Gas Balloon

winter sunday afternoon
Kankaria lake
double decker bus ride
pink icecream cone
papa, you gave me
a little white gas balloon.

a blue polka dotted balloon
that slipped out of my three year old fingers
and flew up up away
a speck in the sky
gulped by clouds.

now that you are there papa
have you found my little white gas balloon?

These dark days of December

these dark days of december
unfailingly crawl through the fog
of other months
in muffled thickness.
how should i go through the day
that took my dad away?

the man still talks to me
through the mist of time.
in the inimitable cheerful way
that will always be to me, my dad.

why do i recall the final few days
and flog the insides of my head?
this month entombs me some more
each year.

Summer air

Steering wheeled hands teasing,
Stereoscoped song, blasting
a mood out in the open air.
Soft whispering mouth seducing
Silkroute word into word,
Ripping
A kiss out of summer air.

Reach out to you

Now here dearest---
Do I say more?
What more do I say?
Words, after all,
are redundant in a way.
And yet, letter after letter,
Word after word,
Thought after thought,
Love for love,
Love after love,
Reach out your way.

Fog

Songs unsung.
Dreams undreamed.
Love miraged.
Beyond our reach.

Rewind this life.
Rewind this song.
Rewind this dream.
Rewind the dawn.

In the dawn,
In the mist,
In the hours before waking,
In old forgotten niches,
We belong.

Half

Half remembered moments
Memory mosaics
Faded footprints
Unexpressed yearnings
Many unuttered words
Half-formulated equations
Of half-baked potions
Is there any magic in the air?

Step back

Step back.
Step away.
From webs that ensnare.
From souls laid bare.
From eyes that share
My solitary wares.

Step back.
Walk away.
To laughter unsinning.
From anguish undimming.
From voices that care
To take me there.

Come, sit with me

Come, sit with me
Awhile, on this waiting culvert
Taste the nip in the air,
Breathe deep the musk,
Tremble to see
My forlorn company
In this orchid dusk,
Taste the nip in the air,
Awhile on this waiting culvert
Come, sit with me.

Untitled

When I am gone from here and now,
When you will also go somehow,
Where will scatter these sun-gold rays,
The ashes of our sunflower days?

Share

Don't stop sharing with me.
I long, I love to hear
you pour out your
cares, woes, memories,
joys, laughter;
There
I am one with you
at last, at long last.
Hold on to me fast.
Love and longing, bitter-sweet--
Don't stop sharing with me.

Absence

If I were to go

Away, someplace, you know.

Will you step into

this empty room

this emptied-of-my-presence room

                and feel my absence,

the absence of my presence?