'Where did he go?'

'Where did he go?' - a first draft

Over a month now,
I miss him
Where did he go?
My aaku koora person,
my leafy vegetables vendor
For three years now
His feet have marked our road
His voice has given the morning
Its verdant smile
Except for a rare day

Body as puny as a child’s
Skin the colour of bitter chocolate
Coarse dark hair brushed back,
When not subdued by hair oil,
Stray to the forehead in spirited tufts
Or stand up on the top of the scalp
like a coaled peacock feather
One hand polio-stunted
As small as a child’s
Dirt winks from under the fingernails
He walks his bicycle
All bones with its rattle and clang
Calls out in a voice strong
As a brawny young man’s,
‘Aaku kooralu amma, Aaka kooralu …
Methi, palak, kothmir, karve paak…’
The call marks time – a half past eight,
Or earlier
So much coziness in this routine
That seldom goes awry

On nippier mornings
He sports a child’s school sweater
Navy blue with white bands
The colours have aged
Frequent washings squeezed out
Their freshness
A handloom towel
Knotted around his head
To keep the cold at bay
Is his drab crown
On rainy mornings
A plastic bag like a jester’s cap
Shields his head
Its crushed transparency
Mottled with raindrops.

One day, I tell him,
My aaku koora person,
‘Take this kadipatta
It’s from my garden
Sell it
Make some money for you.’
Hand him a capacious plastic bag
Overflowing with aromatic leaves
Appetite stimulating charms
In abundance
He looks at me in disbelief
The widening smile festoons
His crinkled face
And I, who would have
Someone pluck stars to festoon
The doorways of my life
And light up the thresholds
Of its festive moments
Feel humbled … for several lifetimes.

Where did he go,
my aaku koora person?
To his village I hope
Or to some other colony
To offer his leafy freshness
I thrust away all fears
About his well-being
And ask God to bless him
Who blessed my mornings
with fresh offerings of greens
And more

'My word strain to touch ... '

words ... silence (first draft)

(Friday, 06 November 2009)

My words strain to touch
the hem of your silence

Too human your silence
Too ill my words

No greater folly than this
to seek the healing brush
from a garment
fringed with worldly cares

Tassels

Tassels

(Sunday, 15 November 2009)

The tassels of your silken silence
stroke my words
lull them into stillness
Old flusters twitching in my words
put to rest finally -
that's the hope
The tussle between
your silence and my words ends?

'I tell my son'

'I tell my son'

Thursday, 05 November 2009)

I tell my son,
'When i was your age,
like you i did rage
now when the spirit whimpers
i simper,
say, 'All the world's a stage ...'.

Move on, dear friends,
don't pause to critique this page
:)

'when i was four'

'when I was four'

(Thursday, 05 November 2009)

When I was four
my heart did glow
with home-grown joys
Now it sears
with borrowed fears

When I touch fifty
with smiles thrifty
I will dole out frowns
At fifty
How nifty!

'smile ... frown'

smile ... frown

(Thursday, 05 November 2009
For a smile, swap a frown
bury the frown deep down
make it wear a tipsy crown
Heads turn to say,
"Someone new in town!"

'My words are sandbanks...'

'words ... silence'

(Wednesday, 04 November 2009)

My words are sandbanks
Your silence in spate
washes over them
Yet nothing of it
seeps down
Dommage?
I guess

Triolet

Triolet (my first one)

(Tuesday, 03 November 2009) at 22:43

A daily sampling of poems should be the regimen
Should you wish to craft poems, not blindly dart
Many poetic forms know, no gaping at each specimen
A daily sampling of poems should be the regimen
Read, feel more, what will not suffice is acumen
The going tough, from the ABC of this art, start
A daily sampling of poems should be the regimen
Should you wish to craft poems, not blindly dart

'Cloven hopes'

'Cloven hopes'

(Saturday, 31 October 2009)

Cloven hopes
Dreams leave
Grip on life
slackens
a little more

'despair'

'despair'

(Friday, 30 October 2009)

No one dabbles in despair
It takes you by the throat
Leaves you high and dry
Now release that choked cry

'dreams' - four short poems

A thicket of self-doubt
A dampness spreads
sunny hope bereft
mildew layered dreams


Dreams hang limp
On a day sun-charged


Dreams –
Sodden leaves squelch
Under feet
On a day sun-thrilled



When you go digging
For the bones of a dead past
Leave my deathly still dreams alone

They might wake up to new life
When no one skirts their spaces
With suspicion

'Face'

‘Face’

On my
spruced-up face
layered with
the borrowed glow
of an illuminating cream,
a thought smudge
appeared
and
spread.

'Thought bogs'

Find yourself
being sucked into
thought bogs?
Yank yourself
out of it!
Use thoughts
as ladders
to survey
other thought spaces.
Or, sometimes
as a slide
for a
zipping glide
I am
facetious?
Heck, no!
Time
to sample
thoughts
delicious?
Inhale the aroma
slowly …
be wary
of the ones
too well garnished,
but prepared
of ingredients
fallacious.
Dubious,
you look
at me.
Find
my thoughts
capricious?

The first page of my novel

30 September 2004
An image followed me relentlessly today. It was part of a dream. And I can make no sense of it. I must have fallen asleep briefly – there is no other explanation for it - while reading in the afternoon.

I’m waiting for a concert, perhaps it is part of a Carnatic Music Festival here in Paris. I have great expectations from it as if it will mean something significant for me in an intensely personal way. The evening comes. Almost everybody is seated in the concert hall. I’m nearly the last one to enter. The musicians are introduced; they tune their instruments - a benign assurance of something splendid to follow or the usual preface to the recital. There is near perfect silence and the stillness of anticipation. The vocalist mentions the ragam and the talam. It is Ritigowla—one of my favourite ragams—it’s going to be a beautiful evening, perhaps one of those rare lustrous moments that leaves its lingering glow on the humdrum ones that follow, making them easier to accept.

And then, soon after, I hear nothing. I’m slightly perplexed. I wait patiently for the silence to melt away. It remains. It is too complete, absolute and unremitting to be real. I look at the musicians: the singer, the tambura player behind him, the mridangist and the violinist. They are all performing but I hear nothing. I focus on the vocalist. From the expressions on his face, his lip movements, his shake of the head, his absorption, his keeping of the talam with his right hand by thumping on his thigh, I know that he is singing the composition. I look at the people around me, watch them. I know they can hear and seem to be enjoying the music. Why can’t I hear anything? What’s wrong with me? I stuff my index fingers into my ears, pull them out and repeat the act several times in order to clear my ears. No sound enters. I discreetly clap my hands before me but the clap is a mute gesture. I clap a little harder. I hear nothing. My neighbours glare at me. I look at them bewildered.

I shrink into my chair and press hard against its back to contain the incipient panic. Then I close my eyes hoping that if I shut my eyes my ears will open up. Guardedly, I thump the right armrest of my chair with the open palm of my hand and, as I do so, I incline my head to the right to catch the sound. Silence—thick, seamless. At first there is confused fear, then agony, anger and gut-wrenching frustration with each passing silent desolate moment. I sit there petrified in my soundproof, soul-negating world. Delirious panic seizes me as I realize that something that can make me feel exquisitely fulfilled can never be mine even for a moment.

The memory of this horrible dream circled inside my head the rest of the day, potent and untiring. Leaving me as enervated as the other one I keep having where I am ceaselessly engraving a script on invisible walls. Why? Because I want to record and save memories but that is not the way to do it. The nervy etchings that a sense of loss makes cannot nurture future moments. I know that, yet I persist.

My experiences of Ganesha

My experiences of Ganesha

Sunday, 07 September 2008 at 14:21
Different experiences of Ganesha or Vinayaka

January 7, 2007; Sweta Vinayakar

During our week long travel in the Tanjore region, we went to Patteswaram, a temple that Rama is supposed to have visited for getting rid of his Chaya dosha or the stigma of reflection. From there we went to the Sweta Vinayakar temple in the Sivan Tirukkovil. It has the sweta or white Vinayaka. It was dusk by the time we got there and, as there were just a handful of people around, we got an uninterrupted darshan. Although this was the case, I could not see the image very clearly, no matter how much I bent forward or how intently I peered into the sanctum. At that time, I did not realize that my long distance eyesight had weakened. I was disappointed that I could not see this singular image of Vinayaka. Ganesha or Vinayaka is a much-loved god who inspires the modern artisan or artist in a unique way and lends himself very easily to being depicted in different ways and forms.
My first experience of the contemporization of the Ganesha figure was in Mahabalipuram. In some of the smaller statuettes, he is shown with a keyboard before him. Since he is a scribe and a scholar this comes as no surprise. It is his location in the present day world and thereby his greater accessibility that makes us smile. Two months later, in Mangalore when we walked into an arts and handicrafts emporium I saw an interesting bronze Ganesha. Like the hand-rickshaw pullers of Calcutta, a strapping Ganesha was pulling a handcart in which his vahana, the rat, is sitting very comfortably and regally, the only difference being that the poor rickshaw pullers have an arduous, backbreaking and ill-paying job whereas Ganesha seemed to enjoy his labour. This reversal of roles between Ganesha and his vahana was quirky and funny. The rat stands for all the difficult and unmanageable problems that Ganesha keeps in check by riding him. Here the problems have a joy ride. I think the artisan was not aware of this little twist in interpretation when he conceived this bronze piece.
As we know, Ganesha was created by Parvati using the turmeric paste with which she had anointed herself. I remember reading in the book Myth = Mithya by Dr. Devdutt Pattanaik that when Ganesha receives the elephant head from Shiva, he becomes the means by which Shiva the ascetic, the inward-looking hermit, enters samsara and participates in it as a householder. With his lower part created by Parvati or Shakti and the upper part created by Shiva, this very likable deity brings together in his form the contrary forces and worlds that Shakti and Shiva represent.
I have also learnt that the Puranas give different accounts of Ganesha’s origin. According to one account, Ganesha is said to have been created by Siva alone, on the appeal of the gods and the sages. After hearing this prayer of the immortals, Siva looked at Parvati and when he was contemplating how he could fulfill the wishes of the gods, a youth of extraordinary beauty came into existence from the radiance of Siva’s own countenance. On seeing his beauty, Parvati was jealous and in a moment of anger pronounced a curse on the captivating youth. She said that his beauties would be soon gone and he would have an elephant’s head and a large belly. Siva then called the youth his son and named him Ganesha, the chief of the ganas (hosts). Each part of this elephant-headed, ample-bellied god is rich in metaphorical significance.
Ganesha is a very accessible god, easy to please and venerate. I remember that when I was doing the ‘Art of Living’ course a few years ago and, on one occasion, after the Sudarshan kriya, when we were asked to meditate, the image that leapt before my inner eye and stayed there, was that of Ganesha. A young and playful Ganesha kicks a ball all over a meadow. He does it with grace and style and the delight on his face is writ large. That evening his pleasure was so palpable to me that I smiled openly. Each time after that, when I tried to meditate, this image followed me or, perhaps, I was reluctant to let go of something so delectably amusing.
Since childhood, I have known the Hindi expression ‘Sree Ganesh karna,’ meaning to start something new auspiciously with the appropriate puja and prayers. However, I had never seen Vinayaka sthapana or the installation of the Vinayaka image in a home before any ceremonious event like a wedding or an upanayanam, the sacred thread ceremony. I finally got to see Vinayaka sthapana being done in the month of May, in the house of a relative, several weeks before her daughter’s wedding. It was essentially a women’s event and a minimum of five married women were required to participate in it. All of us rose very early as the muhurtham was at 6:53. My relative did her usual daily puja and then chanted the 108 names of Vinayaka.
Some preparation preceded the Vinayaka sthapana. We placed a small stone grinder, that is, a grain mill, on a clean piece of cloth. The grinder was adorned with kumkum and turmeric. Nine threads coated with turmeric paste were tied around the stationary bottom grinding wheel. “Why nine?” I asked. No one had a clear answer. Then someone said it might have something to do with the navagrahas. Whole black chana was placed in a large steel thali or kancham next to the grinder. A mortar and pestle with whole turmeric was also placed next to the grinder. On a soft new handloom towel, a kilo of rice, whole turmeric with sprinklings of kumkum and a few coins were placed. At the time of the muhurtham all of us took turns to grind the black chana which had to be put in the circular channel in the centre three times. The grain mill did not have a wooden stem that we could hold to turn the upper stone so we used our hands to rotate it. Two women had to do it together. We enjoyed ourselves immensely as it was more like playtime for us. Our mini exercise brought back memories of earlier times when there were no mechanized grain mills. The chana that had split into uneven halves was then gathered and tied along with the rice into a neat bundle. These would be used sometime before the wedding to make undralu or rice rava (semolina) and Bengal gram balls. Eaten with hot ghee and maaghai, the sliced mango pickle, these are divine.
After this procedure, one of the women made a Vinayaka from rice flour and thick turmeric paste. This little idol was placed on betel leaves and delicately adorned with kumkum. Although clumsily shaped and too tiny to have any distinguishing features of Vinayaka, devotion and love for this deity, made all the women believe that they had created Vinayaka and ceremoniously given him a place in that home. After this Vinayaka was placed on a clean plastic sheet and around him were placed little mounds of vadiyalu made from washed black gram dal batter, spiced with cumin, asafetida and red chilli powder.
The preparations for the wedding could now be initiated. This ceremony was a miniature version of all the preparations for the festive cooking that would take place around the time of the wedding and during that occasion. Vinayaka was successfully and lovingly installed and, from that moment, he would overlook and facilitate all the wedding preparations and arrangements.

Ganesha doing Shiva linga abhishekam

December 4, 2007

I was anxious about a family member’s health. Whenever I am anxious I either embroider or listen to music. While in India now I either visit a bookstore or a handicrafts emporium. I hate getting caught in traffic so I decided to go only up to Secunderabad’s main shopping area. The choice was between Lepakshi and the Cauvery Arts Emporium. Since I spotted a parking spot right in front of Cauvery I settled for that place. As soon as I walked in, a man in his mid-fifties, I presume, (I later learnt that he was the manager) asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. I told him that I just wanted to look around and had nothing specific in mind. Then I asked him for a panchloha Ardhanareeshwara although I was certain, for no good reason, that they wouldn’t have it. The brass and the bronze idols were arranged on a large table-like place, a little to the left of the main entrance. They caught your eye as soon you entered. I lingered there for a long time unable to decide whether I wanted something in brass or bronze. The bronze pieces were very few but the workmanship was far superior to that of the brass ones. Of course there was a considerable difference in price too. A 20 percent discount on the quoted price made the bronze idols even more attractive. I looked at the two bronze women with a lamp for a long time, wondering if I should pick just one of them. On the display shelf opposite, Rama, Sita, Lakshman and Hanuman looked large and impressive from a distance but a closer look was disappointing. Sita’s form was stolid and her face had no ‘kala’ or charm. The reclining Buddha was satisfactory. The nartana Vinayaka or the dancing Ganesha was well made but too small. The manager stood nearby waiting patiently for me to make up my mind. He remarked a few times, “Madam, this is a very good price. If you order a piece like this, it will cost you more than double. Don’t hesitate to buy it.” I wished that he would stop breathing down my back and give me time and space to make up my mind. I wandered away from the spot and went to the first floor to look at their export section. Downstairs again, I looked long and hard at the brass and bronze figures/ idols, figuring out which appealed to my eye and pocket both. Then I suddenly spotted a piece that had escaped me altogether. It was a seated Ganesha doing abhishekam to the Shiva lingam. I picked it up and was struck by its beauty. I hadn’t seen this form of Ganesha before and, although it may not be unusual, for me it was singular because I had never come across Ganesha doing an abhishekam – a son’s ceremonious offering of devotion to his father. I knew that this was the piece that I wanted. After discount it would cost me a little less than Rs. 3000. It was an extravagance I could ill afford at this time but I didn’t want to let go of the magnificent piece. I had also discovered it at a very propitious time. It is the month of kartik or karthika masam, as my husband says it in Telugu, and, at this time of the year, it is considered good to visit at least one of the well known Shiva temples. I hadn’t been able to accompany my husband on his recent visit to Draksharama, a Shiva kshetra. This bronze idol of Ganesha doing an abhishekam was an auspicious sign, a vicarious unexpected fulfillment of a need to visit a Shiva shrine. I was holding the beautiful shrine in my hand.

While the piece was being polished and packed, the manager stood next to me and barraged me with questions in quick succession. “Where are you from? What is your name?” I hesitated to tell him my name but what choice does one have in the face of a pointed question. I did not know how to shrug him off either politely or rudely. “I am Priti.” “Priti?” he said, surprised. He beamed. “That’s my daughter’s name.” Are you working? If you are not working, what do you do? “I used to teach. Now I write …” I chose not to elaborate. “What is your caste?” I had no desire to answer inquisitive questions of little relevance to an absolute stranger. I moved away from him just a little bit, making my disapproval clear. He gave instructions at this point to his assistant to hurry up with the packing. He spoke Kannada. He’d been very curious about me and I was at a loss to determine why he wished to place me in terms of region, caste and work.

The Ganesha is an exquisite piece made with splendid attention to detail. It is a work of love and reverence. It is an uplifting prayer in bronze. Adorned with different kinds of jewelry – necklaces, waistband, armbands, bangles, anklets, chains around the ear, tika, intricately designed band for the forehead, an elaborate hairdo, a thick braid reaching down to the hips just like the Kuchipudi and Bharatnatyam dancers have, a sacred thread, an angavastram and a veshti whose fine folds can be seen individually – this is Ganesha. He is seated with the left leg folded under him. The right foot rests firmly on the floor, its heel touching the inner thigh as the leg is bent at the knee. The back arches inwards at the waist and this gives the hips a very attractive filled out curve. The deity has been given a very shapely form and so it is aesthetically pleasing apart from its religious dimension. Thus seated, Ganesha is doing abhishekam to the lingam. With the help of a pot or kalasam held in his right hand he is bathing the lingam in a devout manner. He exhibits the grace of a dancer while doing this. Going by the thickness of the liquid poured, it could be honey. With his left hand he holds the front end of something like a kavadi that rests on his left shoulder. From the rear end of this kavadi is suspended a rope holder or a woven frame that holds a pot of some sort. Ganesha seems to have stopped during the course of his journey or pilgrimage to do this abhishekam. It is a piece resonant with rich meaning and engaging beauty.

It was stolen from my home some time in January. The piece was precious and dear to me for several reasons and now it is gone. It stayed in my home only for three to four weeks after I bought it and I miss it not just as a work of art but as something that enhanced the meaning of my moments each time I looked at it. I still wait for it to reappear on my shelf miraculously.

Come back to your ‘self’...

After all your wanderings with

Memories that rummage through
old words for comfort,
that gaze at forgotten pictures
for traces of frail links

Hope that shops for trinkets
or leaps to hold the moon

Despair that shovels up
old hurts and failures,
that lives among sighing shadows
that thin away only to re-form

Dreams that droop and drop dead
or trickle away and dry up,
that perforate over time
or become brittle

After all your wanderings with
these

Come back to your ‘self’,
the still centre,
the only true refuge
from all restive driftings.

'Tread softly ...'

Yes, bare your teeth
But
before you bend down
to bite off my fancies,
know this –
smooth shape-shifters
they will spiral away
like smoke
rainbow-coloured.

Feel cheated,
Jolted
Do you?
'Tread softly for you tread on my dreams'
And
I will trip lightly on yours
More -
I will ransack my buried good wishes
to pour golden blessings on yours.

The door

The Door

One passage leads
to another
Each narrow –
with cramping thoughts
Finally,
a wide, wide passage
Its walls stabbed by time
make faces at me
as they whisper
the histories of those
who have walked here before.

The passage –
its niches naked,
its air heavy
with dreams gone stale

Self-doubt stalks me.
How will the passage end?
Will I make it to the end?
Then I discern a door
in the far distance
Its precise form and colour
unclear

Excitement quickens my steps
Then fear numbs them
The door, the door
Have to get there,
have to get there
I chant the mantra

I am there
with dreamlike swiftness

A door in solid wood
Painted a sprightly green
where sun-yellow spots
sport unchecked
What joy!

I sit near it,
afraid to touch it,
push it open
The door looks jammed
Is it?
My mood darkens
I spray the door
a gruesome grey
with fears and
negative thoughts
I sink and sink
into hopeless stupor

Then, an inner voice,
low yet clear
rouses me
I listen

I slam the door shut
within me
that leads to the arid space
of stifling self-doubt
And, with a firm hand
open the green door
to a world that knows
how to renew itself,
and guards this secret,
for those who seek it,
with zealous alacrity

'Fool'

Fool
don't drool
over yesterday's feasts
Each day brings its own treats
sometimes in drab wrappers
to test you
How cool!

Fool
why the tear pool
Each day brings its own array
sometimes in an ordinary tray,
(to test you)
of hand-picked cherry hopes
Ain't it cool?

'Wow'

'Wow'

Scooped out
thought's rotten core
Stuffed it with
raisins of delight
Varnished its exterior
with hope
Wow!
How presentable!

Such
sweet hoaxes
she coaxes
are okay

day ... night

day ... night

The thought blob spread
and stained the day

The thought's twisted threads
entangled the day

Come visit me
in my dream,
my muse,
sing a lullaby
and sedate the night.

Images' - dedicated to each friend

Images' - dedicated to each friend

The soft breeze nibbles at the leaves
The wind swooshes around them,
whips them, no hurt intended
The drizzle tickles them deliciously
The pouring rain strikes them,
prepares them for rough times
The still air lets them be
while the sun pours and pours
its light and heat

And I watch their changing fate,
with abstracted distance sometimes,
with empathy sometimes
Then cache these images
in a safe corner of my mind,
to be revived
for ennui-discolored moments
or moments that drone

If you find these images
precious,
my friend,
come visit
And I will put them
on display,
just for you
Do believe
It's true

'When the wind whistles ...'

When the wind whistles a Kalyani
Should I sit up and listen
or whine about someone
who needs a pummeling
for spewing foul words
to keep his sense of the holy
that's fast crumbling
in a major bungling
of creating the Divine
in his own cracked image.

'When the breeze sings ...'

'When the breeze sings ...'

July 14,2009; today at 9:28am

When the breeze sings an Aarabhi
Should we sit up and listen
or crib about someone
who needs a drubbing
or
has a rotten inside plumbing?

'Ablaze'

'Ablaze'

Today,
the day has worn
its sunny garment,
with its pale lining,
inside out.

And
she flaunts her
flaming orange dress
and sets the pale day
ablaze.

kalam

kalam
Today at 12:35am

Kalam kho gayi
syaahi sookh gayi
kaagaz raakh ho gaye
shabd bikhar gaye
purane lekhon par
dhool ke dher ho gaye

Aur hum
waqt ki raftaar
se chonk
kahin simat ke
ruk gaye

In brief

In brief

A tyre bursts
The sound crashes near my ear
My dreams explode

The sun blazes full blast
Sucks the dewdrops in a trice
Wipe away those tears

I wish I knew art
You love art, and are artful
Where shall we meet?

Rain slashes the air
Wet dog whimpers for entry
Rain's in, the dog's out.

'Tomorrow'

Who knows
if tomorrow

will sing a happy tune
and dance like there is no tomorrow

will swat invisible flies irritably
pounce on every innocuous earthworm

twiddle its thumbs idly
or flounce about busily

sit meekly with a finger on its lips
or plan devilish mischief

will spill and stain the day
or gather rainbow colours to adorn the day

will clatter in and out noisily
or curl up and snooze prettily

will snarl
or smile sweetly

will gather thorns
or rosebuds

will fancy an elegy
or a eulogy

will growl a fanged ‘hello’
or gift a honeyed ‘hello’

will stonify
or melt a heart

will wear a disfiguring frown
or a beatific smile

will cold-shoulder my dreams
or bless them

will bring charred images
or trick out the day with fresh ones

Whatever it does,
I must remember,
a lot depends on
how I prepare for,
and receive,
each tomorrow
today.

बंद किवाड़

अगर इतना भी पूछना
गुनाह हो जाये,
'तुम कैसे हो
या तुम कैसी हो?'
तो शब्दों का सहारा
लेना छोड़ दो
उसके दिल पर दस्तक करो
प्रेम से
देखना दिल के बंद किवाड़
खुल जायेंगे
जल्दी नहीं
तो कुछ देर से

काश यह विश्वास हमारा होता
काश इस उम्मीद का सहारा होता

'Today'

Today
my heart wears blinders
my head a cage-like headgear
my intuition wears 'suspicious' chains
and the doors of perception
are barred -
tarred?

'come, look for me'

When the day darkens
to a grey-blue hue
and the night smiles
to see her pale imitation,
come, look for me.

When the clouds conference
in fused hordes,
and I hold up my palms
skywards
for a sprinkling of grace,
come, look for me.

Chikmagalur - trees - a few images

May 9, 2009
A resort in Chikmagalur – (notes from a person who wishes she knew trees and flowers better.)
It is a wet morning after four days of bright sunshine and warm days. Drizzle, drizzle, drizzle for about two hours. After a late and lazy breakfast, I take a walk on my own, leaving my sister-in-law and friend behind in the swimming pool. They are like kids delighted to just be in the water. I feel the need to be on my own, with trees and plants as my only companions and partners in solitude.

It is a quarter past eleven and the rain has stopped. The sun is out. Mild its feel. As I walk the path away from our room, I recall what I had written about trees a few years ago and know that I feel the same even now:

I want to feel the height of each tree, vicariously experience its shade; feel each branch, its stretch, its curve, its reach; I want to feel the peculiar nature of its wood, its strength, its inner resistance to nature's changing moods and vagaries. I want to outline the shape of each leaf, run my fingers along its surface and experience its texture. I want to know the different kinds of leaves - thin and papery; thick, smooth and glossy; young and tender; tough and coarse; long and slender; large and wide; like needles but silky soft; velvety; furry; stiff; pliable as fine muslin; satiny; sandpapery; deep-veined; fine-veined; with serrated edges; with curling edges….

The air is refreshing, cool. And the earth is wet wet wet. It is thickly covered with pale grayish brown soggy banyan leaves, twigs, broken branches. In some places the chocolate brown earth flaunts its rich fertile hue.

I hear several birds I do not see. My eyes strain to look through the plants, peer into the foliage of the trees but these feathered creatures remain tantalizingly concealed.

The path I take is lined with banyan trees, hoary guardians of perennial wisdom and profound mysteries. Their shade is deep and widespread. The coffee plants grow under them. The younger leaves of the plant are glossy green with curvy edges. Smooth and pliable. When the leaves hang down from the branches of the coffee plants, they look like so many open palms lowered in an offering. Or, is it the bhumisparsha mudra? On one plant I see a new leaf at the edge of a stem. Upright and eager, it takes in the light and fresh air. My eyes linger on the tiny coffee beans - closely clustered green beads or a secret clique sitting bunched together to formulate strategies. A close-knit community – a rarity! Whatever it may be, I gladly take in their fresh green colour, their small round firmness and rejoice in nature’s pleasing variety.

The third row is formed by the silver oaks – tall and robust with the pepper creeper moving valiantly up their trunks. The paan-shaped leaves are a dull bottle green – firm, rather stiff. I trace their prominent longitudinal veins with my finger and marvel at the fine network of smaller veins.

I see a banyan tree so huge that its trunk looks like several elephants’ legs fused together. Then there are two trees growing from the same base, very unlike each other and going their separate ways. The healthier one has leaves which are a bigger version of the tamarind leaves and white flowers with fine thread-like petals. The second one’s trunk is scooped out as if eaten away by some inner rot or disease. A part of it is just a sad shell and yet it has the will to survive, with its two feet planted firmly on the earth. I salute it.

I see two inseparable trees – embracing. Or, if you, my reader, like a less pleasing description – an unflattering one – a tree with a greenish white trunk forces itself onto the other one with the brownish black trunk, which is coarse and scaly. It clamps its heavy form onto it. Long lasting happy union or an unalterable undesirable close connection – reader, choose whatever suits your passing fancy or deeper proclivity. The tree with the paler smoother trunk has sprightly green leaves that taper to a fine point. The darker one has ovate leaves with a rounded front; the leaves are duller, thicker than the ones of its fairer companion or adversary.

Walking further my gaze rests on a robust jackfruit tree. On the earth squats an over-sized jackfruit – a weary slouchy thing. A huge unseemly thing, unable to manage its own weight.

Retracing my steps part of the way, I turn left into an uneven side path where the touch me nots creep undisturbed on the ground. For the first time in my life, I know what a touch me not or chui-mui looks like and really experience the shyness of this sensitive plant. My finger gently touches the tiny fern-like leaves with purplish edges and they fold up, shrinking from my intrusive touch. The touch me not has been touched by the rain and it accepts this graciously.

A pleasant surprise awaits me further down the path. There are clusters and clusters of the tummichettu, or tumbe guda (in Kannada, or Leucas aspera), one of the plants dear to Ganesha. With its grass-blade-like leaves and tiny white flowers with a jutting out petal-tongue, it is a beautiful miniature plant. I am thrilled as I have never seen so many of them. In fact, I began to know of it only after our return to India nearly three years back. And last Ganesh Chaturthi, my leafy vegetables' vendor had generously handed me a small bunch for the puja.

I look at the young Halvan and orange trees that shield the coffee plants and move on.

As I walk back to our room, I recall the chopped off trees - their lifeless forms, stripped off branches and leaves. I saw these on our way to Sravanabelagola from Bangalore. The road was being widened in several places, hence the trees that were in the way of this 'impressive' and 'public-serving' project had to be cut. These long-standing glorious forms now looked like hapless mammoths. Like defeated Titans they cut a sorry figure. Here, I was glad to be surrounded by living breathing ones.

नज़र आता नहीं

नज़र आता नहीं

पथरीली दीवारों से घिरा
बगीचा नज़र आता नहीं

इस पागल शोर के बीच
संगीत सुनाई देता नहीं

पेड
आम
कोयल
कूक
केवल शब्द
इनका अनुभव
संभव होता
नज़र आता नहीं

असीम आकाश
घने बादल
बरसात
पहली फुहार
मट्टी
महक
भीनी भीनी
राग मेघ
इनका अनुभव
सामने होते हुए भी
दिल को बहलाता
नज़र आता नहीं

'Retrieved Images'

‘Retrieved Images’

A narrow winding staircase
going down to a circular room -
domed ceiling,
so many doors
glass, opaque black.
What lies beyond them?
Doors open magically,
one by one.
Each offers a different view:
sandy desert – endless expanse
stony desert – pebble-studded,
others speckled grey
with hurtful edges,
rolling plains – a delightful green,
blue mountain ranges –
rugged and aloof,
and then the sea –
a dark brooding grey.

In the distance
an island of sharp jagged rocks
with perilous faces.
Wakeful spear-like hurts,
these rocks.
This island surmounted
by an abbey –
a forbidding cluster
of Gothic towers,
each vying with the other
to rend the sky.

Inside the abbey there is a figure – a nun – me. She is wearing a grey habit, a black veil and black shoes with straps and a small buckle. She is young. Her name flashes before me – Therese. With a candle in her hand she is walking in the very deep heart, the most reclusive centre of the abbey. Time and again she pauses. Stands still, very still. Her eyes seem to penetrate the stone walls. She listens to the sound of the sea – taut and alert. She listens to the sea that tells a dramatic story of upheavals. The sea roars, bellows out its caged fury. The waves gather force, greater force. They hurl themselves against the rocks, crash, pound the abbey walls, aspire to reach the towers in frenetic foaming urges. Beleaguered by the demonic waves, the monastery frowns darkly, looking more starkly grey and bleaker than ever before.

She listens and listens to the voice of the incensed waves, the voice of the troubled waters of a choppy sea. She reads their intent and remains calm – thoughtful. Shielding the timid flame of the candle with her hand, she moves through one vaulted corridor to the next. A solitary being, she glides past empty meditation cells, chapels, chambers, prayer rooms…. Not for a single moment does she wonder where the other nuns are. A fleeting memory of a Mother Superior, a wise benign woman flashes before her, and she smiles. A comforting hand on her head - hand that senses disquiet, rising doubts and guides with gentle nudges. This memory suffuses her with warmth. And she smiles. Then she turns her head to listen. The churning sea swells and swells. The mad waves bellow and dash against the rocks, against the high walls of the abbey. Waves rise and fall – an unleashed force that thrills in its own power. Magnificent and horrific.

Clenched forms, in dismal rumbling silence, the towers stand upright and solemnly defiant. And then – one by one they submit. The unrelenting waves lop off their proud heads. They fall like cardboard giants.

She hears the infernal crash. Crash after crash after crash. No fear. Just a held-in-breath wait. An intense listening for the inevitable moment. Her lips move in prayer. Her face lights up with awed wonder. The waters invade the abbey – the blinding charge of hundreds of wild horses. They engulf her – a serene praying nun. Now, just a doll, tossed about, swept away by the waters. Buffeted by them, sucked into them.

The storm’s fury spent, the sea is calm – saintly serene. It brings up the body of the nun, cradles it, and deposits it gently on the shore. Not bloated. Unscathed. A blanched dead form – more at peace than ever before.

A young man spots the body from a distance, rushes to the shore. Dark brown hair, dark intelligent eyes, the faint beginnings of a beard. He wears an ochre brown loose garment that reveals his sinewy legs. It has the look and feel of jute fabric and is held in place by a thick cord at the waist. He recognizes the dead nun as someone he used to know. Is stunned. He takes her in his arms, bends over her lifeless form and tears stream down his face. He weeps and weeps. Grieves and grieves over the untimely death of someone he used to know. How is he connected to her (to me), I cannot tell. The nun’s spirit speaks to his soul, “Do not grieve for me. The death of this body is not the real truth, the ultimate reality…. Hence, do not grieve. I am at peace.”

In a flash the young man’s face is replaced by my son’s face. I am startled. Then smile gratefully for this precious connection. For this gift of a renewed knowing.

Haiku - an attempt

Night’s murky curtain falls
The wind wails, whispers dread songs …
Wrap dreams in cotton wool


Brown leaves burning
Red hibiscus sees prancing flames -
Will this fury abate?


Parijata blossoms
Fearful of the sun’s fiery stare
Fall, kiss the waiting earth


Juicy watermelon
Inviting red. Slake thirst –
No, not a mirage!


A glum plum
Plastic fruit tray dull red –
Shall we ignore it?

'The Angry Wind'

Perhaps appropriately, today's prompt is to write an angry poem. That is, a poem about someone or something that gets angry. Could be a person, animal, or even them there angry clouds. As usual, I'm excited to see which unexpected directions y'all take with this prompt.

‘The angry wind’

The wind whipped the lone tree,
slashed it in places,
shook it like a rag doll,
dashed the nascent fruit
to the earth,
snapped branches
tore the leaves,
swept them away,
in gusty rage.

Its fury spent,
it howled –
low, eerie.
It moaned,
it moaned.
The piteous moans
seemed to say
to the tired tree,
‘You birthed my anger,
caused it to blow
all over you,
by standing
in my way.’

The tree spoke,
‘My piteous form
reminds you
of your anger.
Makes your angrier.
You have done your job.
I will do mine -
Stay rooted.’

'Brown'

For today's prompt, I want you to pick a color, make that the title of your poem, and write a poem that is inspired by that color.

‘Different experiences of brown’

I think of you
when I think of brown in its different forms.
No, not really!
But that’s okay.
Let me fabricate this story anyway.

When I see
pensive brown eyes suddenly sparkle and dance,
forgetful of silenced dreams,
coloured glass bangles on a sun-burnt arm
of an old woman wink and flash,
a kindly elder firmly clasp the thin brown hand
of a child nursing a scratch,
an old man, his skin the colour of baked earth,
sport a fawn T-shirt and walk a jaunty step,
I think of you.

When I see
the muddy brown churnings of a river in spate,
the dull brown of the earth thirsting for rain
the taupe gray of trees stripped of leaves
the dusty brown of the hills in a sun daze,
the dirty brown palm fronds and coconut shells
dashed to the shore by the contemptuous sea,
I think of you.

When
the heady aroma of roasted coffee beans
fills the room and fills me with coffee desire,
the tender sweetness of toasty chestnuts
reminds me of winters in a different land,
someone begs for a hint of cinnamon
in a cup of inviting hot chocolate,
a child licks the golden brown honey
off of a warm brown buttery toast,
a friend craves for caramelized walnuts
and pears cooked in sweetened red wine,
I think of you.

When
terra-cotta horses, elephants and birds proudly stand
beside bronze and brass statuettes of deities
on a mahogany display cabinet,
and uniquely cajole your attention,
I think of you.

I think of you
when I think of brown in its different forms.
No, not really!
But that’s okay.
Let me fabricate this story anyway.

'All I want is for you to know'

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem with the following title: "All I want is (blank)," where you fill in the blank with a word or phrase of your choosing. Some example titles, then, could be: "All I want is to eat fried chicken"; "All I want is world peace"; "All I want is for everyone to tell me I'm beautiful"; or "All I want is a handful of quarters."

‘All I want is for you to know’

All I want is for you to know
that I will never cease to grow.

When the sun gathers its light
and gently falls the night,
and days add on to days,
and months swell to years,
should you pause to look,
you might see me
in a more generous light.

All I want is for you to know
that I will never cease to grow.

'She walks in haughty'

For today's prompt, I want you to take the title of a poem you especially like (by another poet) and change it. Then, with this new altered title, I want you to write a poem. An example would be to take William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow" and change it to "The Red Volkswagon." Or take Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter" and change it to "Why I Am Not a Penguin." You get the idea, right? (Note: Your altered poem does NOT have to follow the same style as the original poet, though you can try if you wish.)

(Byron’s ‘She Walks in Beauty’)

She walks in haughty.
An ego gone potty!
Oh dear, oh dear,
do you her fear?

She spits rapid fire.
You stoke her ire!

Her need for praise dire.
Should she a flatterer hire?

Her life in a nasty mire.
Should she her god wire?

For her songs, no buyer
Not one in this choir!

When we of her really tire,
push her into a quagmire?

Rotten thing to do sire!
Won’t dissolve her ire.

Instead, give her a lyre.
Save her from ego’s fire!

Will her pride retire?
Easier to deflate a tire?

She walks in haughty.
An ego gone potty!
Oh dear, oh dear,
do you her fear?

"When ... "

Today is Tuesday, which means two prompts.

First prompt: Write a love poem.

Second prompt: Write an anti-love poem.

Simple as that.

When

Your silence ceases to jar
Is like a melody heard in dreams
Or a new raga sung differently each day
And I am detached.
Won’t you then look for me?

When

I create a poem or an embroidered motif
Not in anxious search of your ‘regard’
But only driven by the need to create
And I am still.
Won’t you then look for me?

When

I see an old man hobble to the temple tree
Gather creamy white blossoms for his puja.
A child pours his offerings into his palm
And I am touched.
Won’t you then look for me?

When

I see an old woman with arthritic fingers
Knit a sweater with coarse wool. Baggy.
Her grandchild wears it and says, ‘Trendy!’
And I am glad.
Won’t you then look for me?

When

I see Ashoka trees from my window
Upright, clothed in leafy clinging skirts.
My spirit soars with their upward thrust
And I am thrilled.
Won’t you then look for me?

When

Vacantly, I look at the dark dark sky
Merge with the dark dark sea
The waves hurtle, lose force, bathe my feet
And I am unstirred.
Won’t you then look for me?

When

I renounce even this need
That you look for me
Turn away from the drumbeats of your silence
Give a deaf ear to the din of my own words
Who will you find
if you come look for me?

"Mottled Brown"

"Mottled Brown"

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about an object (or objects). Though you don't have to confine yourself to straight up description, I do want you to focus on object and/or make it a central piece of your poem. One of the more famous poems of contemporary literature does this wonderfully in William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow."

“Mottled Brown”

Ages ago, hungry fingers
search lustily for a story book
in a forgotten cupboard.

They find,
No, easier to say -

I find
a mottled brown hardcover copy
of Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge.
My fingertips still carry the memory
of the binding’s grainy texture.
On the first page, my father’s signature,
Like a bird in bold flight.
My heart still bears the impress
of Larry’s healing touch,
his endearing freshness….

I turn
the yellowing pages
(their sickly pallor is okay by me)
that beg for a gentle touch
lest at the edges they crumble

I lose
the book
my lovable companion
with an unappealing look.

I wait
and wait
to re-find the book
I sense
its pages might crack now
at an indiscreet touch

If by some glad chance
I find it,
with its aging spine
and sad pages,
I’ll hold it to my heart
and then …
within it I’ll place
an embroidered bookmark
with cherries red and luscious
surging with sap
full and audacious.

Why this, you may ask
To intuit the answer,
feel it, is your task.

“The sharp edge of a razor
is difficult to pass over…”
Look into your heart.
All is inscribed there
my winsome rover.

'So we decided to sit up ... '

For today's prompt, I want you to take the phrase "So we decided to (blank)" and fill in the blank. Make that your title and write a poem. Some possibilities include "So we decided to plant a tree" or "So we decided to burn a hole in the sky."

So we decided to sit up and take notice of life
Snatch the tail end of vanishing dreams
Get rid of past’s stories…endless reams

Contemplate ‘the reach’ beyond our ‘grasp’
Work towards it here and now
For you know
how the vagrant heart can dart
in moment’s of present distress
and saunter in stretches of dewy grass
(all illusory)
of a fake dressed up past

So we decided to fix our gaze on the present,
lest we pin all our hopes on a future pleasant
and doze in the hammock of a moon crescent

And then cry, ‘Treason, Treason.’
When things fall apart for no reason?

So we decided to sit up and take notice of life
Bury the regrets of a defunct past
For this moment may vanish fast.

'Friday or Monday or Sunday, does it matter?'

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about Friday. Do you like Fridays? Despise Fridays? Of course, you can also write about something that happened on a Friday--or write an ode to Fridays. Or, as you know, I'm all for seeing you attack this from an angle I haven't thought of yet.

‘Friday or Monday or Sunday, does it matter?

Friday or Monday
or Sunday, does it matter?
Can’t say that Friday wears
a special face for me now.
Or fills me with expectations
special.
True?

Well, almost true….

No longer working,
with a son at college far away,
I can create a Friday mood
when I choose:
a play, a concert,
a dance recital, a discourse,
a movie, a book store.
True?

Well, almost true….

Each day brings its mixed fare.
For you to separate grain from grit
and change the day’s fixed writ.
Each day offers the Ugadi chutney
(the New Year special chutney),
with its different ingredients:
tamarind juice, jaggery, salt,
chili powder, fresh neem flower,
raw mango pieces.
The different flavours of life:
sour, sweet, salty, spicy,
bitter, sharp and tangy.
So choose your flavour
or blend of flavours
for each day.
Can one?

Well, almost true….

On Friday too
the bitter challenges of life
can catch you unawares!
So decide….
Will you let these have their way?
Cramp your style?
Or wear a smile,
forced at first,
to sweeten your day?
Is this true?

Well, almost true….

Anything can dampen
your Friday evening spirit.
Anything can hamper
your Friday evening plans.
So why not let go
of this Friday evening wait?
Not fall into the weekend bait!
True?

Well, almost true….

Preachy this, I agree.
Why this tone,
you cannot see!
Well, yesterday’s poetry prompt
was not a joy
but an ill-timed decree.
Practice before you preach,
you say.
True!

Well, almost true….

This Friday evening’s mood
was far from free.
Good things seemed to flee.
So I say,
Take each moment, each day as it comes,
A day’s worrying face sometimes a song hums
And another day’s look of cheer in gloom slumps
True?

Well, almost true….

'Every day, I wonder ...' Or 'In random arrangement, thoughts that appear routinely'

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about either a specific routine or routines in general. Maybe something related to taking out the trash each week or washing the dishes every night--or something more bizarre (yet still a routine).

‘Thoughts that appear routinely … randomly arranged’

Every day …

Wonder if I droop
Who will make the soup?

Wonder why the sun shines
When my day whines

Wonder when my hibiscus will defy
My doggie’s playful digs and say, ‘Fie!’

Wonder about
Mind with useless thoughts crammed
Heart with useless emotions jammed

Wonder about stranded words
The wanderings of migratory birds

Wonder when I am with ‘poem a day’ obsessed
You think I am by some spirit possessed

Wonder if in poems I dabble
Will you groan, ‘Oh this babble!’

Wonder if what I write
You consider trite

Wonder if I lose serious focus
Will you say, ‘Stop this hocus-pocus!’

Wonder about past lives
About future lives

Wonder when this circle
of life and death will end
Should I ask God
a shy missive send?

Wonder when all go away,
Will you a little longer stay?

Wonder if I should be grumpy
When I feel dull and lumpy

Then I routinely pray
To begin with hope each day.

Don’t wonder, I say
How to live each day
Smiles count
The blessings mount

'A fanciful belief some have ... '

Prompt #1: I want you to write a clean poem. Take this however you wish. Clean language, clean subject matter, or cleaning the dishes. Of course, some twisted few will automatically link "cleaning" with hired hitmen. That's okay, as long as your poem is somehow linked to clean.

Prompt #2: I want you to write a dirty poem. Take all that stuff I wrote in the first prompt and twist it upside down. The opposite of clean is dirty; so, do what ya gotta do to produce a dirty poem. (Gosh, I hope this challenge doesn't get too messy as a result.)

This Day 7 poem was written in response to the above prompt.

‘A fanciful belief some have … ‘

Clean the face that gives dirty looks
Clean the tongue that no opposition brooks
and innocently hurls filthy bricks

Clean the fingers that rake muck for others
After all we are all brothers
Tomorrow we shall use sparkling scrubbers

Clean the hands that pilfer honour
Clean the feet that trample honour

Clean the mind that suspects and plots
Clean the heart that distills poison … dot dot dot

In dirty politics clean the dabblers
In a dirty game clean the squabblers

Scrub the mind squeaky clean
Wring out the dirt from the heart
O how the clean emotions nicely squat!

Why put all these super clean images to test?
I will lay me down to rest.
A clean dreamless sleep is best?

'O Siva, O Mrityunjaya'

My landmark poem

Kanchi Kailasanatha Temple
Missed seeing Siva here
as Kalasamharamurti,
as the vanquisher of Time/Death
on two previous visits.
Now a third visit!
Why so many visits
people ask with a quizzical look
foxed by this ‘sacred’ obsession.
‘Nothing of the kind really
I mumble.’

Something impels me to go there
see the sub-shrines so still
with their invisible rishis
meditating ceaselessly
through the clamor of changing times

I adore Siva as Mrityuanjaya
(one who has conquered death),
as Kalasamharamurti
A strapping body
From the top knot
the unleashed magnificence
of wild flowing hair
Arched eyebrows
The expression of the eyes far from fierce,
somewhat difficult to read what the face
eroded by time says
Full lips
Strong shoulders
The left leg bent at the knee
valiantly placed on a low pedestal
The right leg
like a slanting pillar planted firmly on the earth.
The thrust of the trident
like the clap of a million thunders
merciless
invincible

Where is Yama or Kala
as helpless as a rag doll
as puny as a toy bear
Not crushed under Siva’s left foot!
Where is the lingam
with the mark of Kala’s noose?
In short, where is Death,
the impotent one?

Is this after Yama’s release
from under the foot of Siva?
For death’s work has to go on!
I see Markandeya
Yama’s victim
Siva’s youthful devotee
A half-kneeling figure with folded hands
just below the dread prongs of Siva’s trident,
looking up at Siva’s graceful soaring form

Released Yama or Death
invisible here
in this sculpture.
That’s what I feel.

I stand before the murti and pray:
I fear not my own death
But the death of those dear to me
Release me from this fear
and fear of fear,
O Siva, O Mrityunjaya.

'My tree - name missing!'

For today's poem, I want you to write a poem about something missing. It can be about an actual physical object or something you just can't put your finger on (like "love" or "the spirit of Christmas" or something). – Robert Lee Brewer’s prompt for day 6

‘My tree – name missing!’

With the labour of Hercules
(diverting the river Alpheus)
as its backdrop,
my tree labours to rise from the earth
old now and struggle-weary.
Its trunk inclines heavily to the left
and grows to a stumpy height. Pauses.
A hoary deity
it gives out four arms sans attributes.
Has the earth absorbed them?
Or, Time harvested them?
Its four arms,
branches to be precise:
One moves heavily to the left
sapped of life-force
(or surviving on a weak dribble),
sags downward to collapse on the moist grass,
then pulls itself up to slant upwards
defying its own death-wish;
the second one sculpts itself
into a shallow hook
and stops abruptly mid-way;
the third rise higher
with tortured twists and turns;
The fourth shoots up straight
upholding the collapsing honour
of its fatigued family.

A creeper adorns
the short trunk
in a filigree of stems and leaves,
the only lively ornament
of this haggard beauty.

I saw my tree draped
in autumn’s bewitching sadness,
in winter’s somber gray.
And in early spring
when the rest of the garden
was rousing itself into new life
(I abandoned it in summer, for no reason).
But my tree forever heard
death’s dark call,
or so it seemed to me.
Its only sign of life,
dark bean-like pods hanging
like so many tarnished earrings.

For three years I asked its name
on each visit
(I must admit, very few)
A lost traveler hungering
for a definite sign
I asked
the gardener
the security guards
the visitors old and young.
Each saw the tree
called its novel form
by different admiring names
but none knew its real name.
An amused smile at my eagerness
a shake of the head,
an earnest apology -
I got these,
but not my tree’s name.

Revisiting the garden
two years back
I chanced upon a similar tree.
And … with grateful eyes
read the name of my tree
on a simple sign.
Blessed, I wept with joy
to find this precious new link
to my tree.
My tree now named
will remain nameless for you,
till you tell me that you
treasure it as I do.

'Mohini my doggie'

“Mohini my doggie”

Mohini my doggie
likes her biscuits soggy

At night she digs up the earth
of uprooted saplings there is no dearth

She frowns on the rest of her ilk
and dines royally on humble rice and milk

She loves roti and ghee
To see her waggish face, that’s a small fee

She rests on the floor under the tap
I say, “What a cool way to nap!”

When we get back from a movie late,
she greets us at the gate post-haste.

She is as common as they come
Yet to send her packing would be dumb

She was a stray
Now she’s here to stay

When did your silence first ...

When did your silence

first distrust my words?
first circle my words with grave disdain?
first puncture my words to show their bloated emptiness?

When did my words

first dim their power to suit your silence?
first lose their full-throated voice?
first slink away guiltily from your silence?
first feign feebleness even when fully charged?

No matter how much I polish my words
or spruce them up,
they will never have pedigree,
or be good enough for the durbar of your august silence.

So don’t ask me when my words
became what they are now.
Pointless this overload of questions,
this tilting stack of memories.

'The problem with ... '

The problem with unpleasant memories
is that they never set you free

The bad ones like leeches
suck the life juices out of the self’s innermost reaches

They prance around with hideous masks
Who let them in, only a fool asks

The problem with bad memories
is that

if they come in hordes,
into your peace they make grave inroads

if you are in their thrall
you cannot hear the present moment’s clarion call

they stick to you like soaking wet clothes
and that for sure ill bodes

if they get a foot in the door
your present lies squashed on the floor

if you submit to their sway
be warned, you will have hell to pay.

if you tell them timidly to scoot
you will see how brazenly they hoot

In surly seas you welter
your life scurries helter-skelter

The problem with unpleasant memories
is that they never let you be

Outsider

One sullen morning
I stood outside my own door
like a stray dog

With benighted eyes
I stand outside my true self
immersed in false gloom

The other side of the river

The other side of the river

This land of a short stay, hopefully:
It is a featureless land – flat, bald. There is nothing here – not even stunted warped trees, or shrubs, or thorny bushes, or bramble, or scrub, or dry bristling grass.

The colour of this land is an unchanging drab gray, like an overused murky mop. No day, no night, no dawn, no dusk – just this unchanging gray. Yes, even the deep dark of the night would be something – a respite – but, no.

It is full of stale recycled air that chokes on itself.

It is full of feeble sounds that have lost their original full-bodied tenor.

It is not even inhabited by restive shadows that congregate and part only to meet again in restless union. Even that movement would be something.

There are no loathely shapes here, no uncertain forms shuddering in and out of life.

There is a listless stillness, a dull dragging solitude.

It is a tired land moving heavily to a slow, slow, slow death.

Anyone who makes the mistake of stopping here in this land crawls torpidly in a changeless state of non-existence that is neither life nor death.

But there is a river – wide. One half of it is turbid, a grimy gray. The other half is luminous and sprightly, with moonbeams strumming against it merrily.

There is a boatman with averted face. He stands rigidly on his small flimsy boat. I want to cross the river to the other side, the bright side where my Baba lives. Yes, lives and waits for me to cross the river and offer homage at his shrine. He waits for me to break free from the insidious claim of this land on me. Just because I fear the boatman, I hover uncertainly between life and death – a fearful shadow.

If I could see the boatman’s face, glimpse some sign of life in him, I would venture nearer.

He is most unlike any other guide, I say.
But guides come in unlikely shapes and forms, sometimes un-genial, even ugly.

Can I trust him, Baba?

Come, He calls. Trust Me.
This land of light and hope and fruitful work waits for you. I wait for you.

You, my muse...

If my god has clay feet,
you, my muse, have soiled feet.

Just because
I go down on my knees
and with outstretched arms
entreat your disappearing form
to turn around
and look at me just once,
you spurn me.

My writing drags its feet
reshuffles old images
stokes tired metaphors
rehashes borrowed lines.
How can you not see this?
How can you not care?
I was once your favourite ward, remember?

When I have gutted my own words
or pounded them out of shape,
will you then smile
to see this nasty piece of work?
You left me.... while invoking you
I offered not the gallant orchid
but the homely hibiscus?

My god has clay feet
and you, my muse,.. a swollen head.