'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.