I was told the twinkling star
Was you, Watching from afar
Over us, a guardian angel
For our life, thus dreams sell
And are bought by an innocent
Child, still untouched, unbent
By adulthood, maturity,
By the cynical, cruel city.
Growing up, whenever I felt
Lonely, at times when joys melt
Into nothingness, to the sky
I looked, told myself not to cry,
For you were there always
Twinkling in that special place
In my heart, the father I could
Never know, with me who still stood.
That last solace is alas no more
With me, on life's craggy shore
Waves relentlessly beat, eroding
Deep within my heart the thing
Which secured me, kept me calm
Like an often repeated psalm,
Hidden is now your twinkling star,
Smothered by smog, unseen from afar.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Tales from a long lost summer
I recall vividly the year you arrived
In the midst of an unusually hot summer,
(The hottest in twenty years, said the papers),
With just a duffel bag slung over a shoulder.
My parents jumped when they heard the doorbell, even though
They had been sitting in the drawing room since morning.
I remember thinking it was strange
That no one had told me you were coming,
But then, no one tells a twelve year old anything.
It was a summer of dusty days and windless nights.
I remember hating you the moment you stepped through the door,
Your painfully thin body, your grimy clothes, your lanky hair,
Your lopsided smile, and the bar of chocolate that you offered me.
I hated that I had to give up my room for you,
(Privacy is sacred to a twelve year old)
I hated that all day you just lazed around,
Reading books from dad's closet I was not allowed to touch,
Or watching the Godfather series endlessly on VCD,
Movies that my mother happily watched along,
(Though I'm sure she did not understand a word),
I hated that she cooked eggplants day after day,
(Which you ate off your fingers, every last morsel)
Even though it was one dish I could not abide.
I must have lost five kilos that summer.
Or the way you talked to mom deep into the night,
The screechy Sahgal records that you played,
It was the summer I discovered my mother sang well,
While you listened entranced with eyes half closed,
And my father with a smile like an orphaned child,
Hovering uncertainly on his lips, looking strangely aloof,
Unsure of the ground that he walked upon,
An air of brittle fragility around him,
As if a mere touch would break him into a thousand pieces.
He did not even take me out in the rains,
Another reason why I remember the year so well.
And then, one fine autumn morning, with leaves brushed golden,
While yet maintaining a tenuous hold on life,
You were gone,
Just like that.
Dying of cancer, the mutinous cells in your veins
Had been multiplying with reckless abandon,
For the past two years.
This I was told,
Just after you had died,
And the house had become my own again.
But that you had begun to die,
In bits and pieces,
Ever since that day twenty years ago,
When my mother got married,
This I came to know,
Only much later.
In the midst of an unusually hot summer,
(The hottest in twenty years, said the papers),
With just a duffel bag slung over a shoulder.
My parents jumped when they heard the doorbell, even though
They had been sitting in the drawing room since morning.
I remember thinking it was strange
That no one had told me you were coming,
But then, no one tells a twelve year old anything.
It was a summer of dusty days and windless nights.
I remember hating you the moment you stepped through the door,
Your painfully thin body, your grimy clothes, your lanky hair,
Your lopsided smile, and the bar of chocolate that you offered me.
I hated that I had to give up my room for you,
(Privacy is sacred to a twelve year old)
I hated that all day you just lazed around,
Reading books from dad's closet I was not allowed to touch,
Or watching the Godfather series endlessly on VCD,
Movies that my mother happily watched along,
(Though I'm sure she did not understand a word),
I hated that she cooked eggplants day after day,
(Which you ate off your fingers, every last morsel)
Even though it was one dish I could not abide.
I must have lost five kilos that summer.
Or the way you talked to mom deep into the night,
The screechy Sahgal records that you played,
It was the summer I discovered my mother sang well,
While you listened entranced with eyes half closed,
And my father with a smile like an orphaned child,
Hovering uncertainly on his lips, looking strangely aloof,
Unsure of the ground that he walked upon,
An air of brittle fragility around him,
As if a mere touch would break him into a thousand pieces.
He did not even take me out in the rains,
Another reason why I remember the year so well.
And then, one fine autumn morning, with leaves brushed golden,
While yet maintaining a tenuous hold on life,
You were gone,
Just like that.
Dying of cancer, the mutinous cells in your veins
Had been multiplying with reckless abandon,
For the past two years.
This I was told,
Just after you had died,
And the house had become my own again.
But that you had begun to die,
In bits and pieces,
Ever since that day twenty years ago,
When my mother got married,
This I came to know,
Only much later.
Sleeping dogs
In my closet, books-
Dog-eared, moth-eaten,
Faded print, yellowing words,
A touch turns
Brittle pages to dust,
That slips through my fingers.
In the closet of my mind, memories-
Of brittle, moth-eaten times,
Like sand, if only they would slip away-
Though hidden deep down
If dusted off, where would I run,
Its best to let some sleeping dogs lie.
Dog-eared, moth-eaten,
Faded print, yellowing words,
A touch turns
Brittle pages to dust,
That slips through my fingers.
In the closet of my mind, memories-
Of brittle, moth-eaten times,
Like sand, if only they would slip away-
Though hidden deep down
If dusted off, where would I run,
Its best to let some sleeping dogs lie.
An alamanac of my being
Every morning I wake up,
Empty my bowels,
Brush my teeth,
Shave,
Drink some coffee,
Read the papers,
Solve the crossword
(Quick always, never the cryptic),
Rush to office,
Conduct meetings,
Sign correspondence,
Write file notings,
Issue orders,
Meet people,
Till night falls and I can delay
Going home no further,
Log on to the net,
Watch some TV,
Listen to ghazals
While counting the stars,
(Thank God they are so many),
Have sex once in a while,
Read,
Or try to write poetry
(When everything else fails),
Evading the territory of dreams
Till deep in the dead of night,
Until sleep sits heavy
On the eyelids
And I can avoid it no longer.
Happy I am indeed,
If happiness is merely
The absence of pain.
Empty my bowels,
Brush my teeth,
Shave,
Drink some coffee,
Read the papers,
Solve the crossword
(Quick always, never the cryptic),
Rush to office,
Conduct meetings,
Sign correspondence,
Write file notings,
Issue orders,
Meet people,
Till night falls and I can delay
Going home no further,
Log on to the net,
Watch some TV,
Listen to ghazals
While counting the stars,
(Thank God they are so many),
Have sex once in a while,
Read,
Or try to write poetry
(When everything else fails),
Evading the territory of dreams
Till deep in the dead of night,
Until sleep sits heavy
On the eyelids
And I can avoid it no longer.
Happy I am indeed,
If happiness is merely
The absence of pain.
Another day begins
The demure night stands at the threshhold,
A lover ready to depart, yet lingering
for a few moments more, the imposter day
devours her slowly, while the sky
blushes at the edges.
In the half-dark light, shadows
appear real, reality decieves the eye,
Its a time for illusions and phantoms
to walk the streets, a time for stories
half-begun, and legends laid to rest.
Bylanes begin to breathe, breathless
stragglers falter at shops that rest
at dawn, thin lines of smoke
curl upwards, staining the sky
with a bitter hunger-smell,
Homes are rolled up on pavements,
Newspapers fall like rain on waiting doorsteps,
Steam from sweet, warm tea, alive
like the body of a loved one,
sizzles in corner shops, as dogs chase
women at municipal taps, gurgling
as they grudgingly part with a thin stream,
Like benediction from an ungrateful God.
In a twelfth floor apartment, the first rays
of dawn filter through the blinds, illuminating
her face, as she stretches languidly, rubs
the sleep off her eyes, and also
the last traces of a dream, dreamt
long ago, and repeated ever since,
every night, a dream fragile like camphor
that evaporates with the sun.
Shedding her sleep and dreams, she rises,
Sustained by the night, resilient yet again,
She draws the blinds aside, allowing
stories to drift away, the day to pour in.
Haunted no longer by ghosts of the night,
The city wakes up in her eyes,
Another day begins.
A lover ready to depart, yet lingering
for a few moments more, the imposter day
devours her slowly, while the sky
blushes at the edges.
In the half-dark light, shadows
appear real, reality decieves the eye,
Its a time for illusions and phantoms
to walk the streets, a time for stories
half-begun, and legends laid to rest.
Bylanes begin to breathe, breathless
stragglers falter at shops that rest
at dawn, thin lines of smoke
curl upwards, staining the sky
with a bitter hunger-smell,
Homes are rolled up on pavements,
Newspapers fall like rain on waiting doorsteps,
Steam from sweet, warm tea, alive
like the body of a loved one,
sizzles in corner shops, as dogs chase
women at municipal taps, gurgling
as they grudgingly part with a thin stream,
Like benediction from an ungrateful God.
In a twelfth floor apartment, the first rays
of dawn filter through the blinds, illuminating
her face, as she stretches languidly, rubs
the sleep off her eyes, and also
the last traces of a dream, dreamt
long ago, and repeated ever since,
every night, a dream fragile like camphor
that evaporates with the sun.
Shedding her sleep and dreams, she rises,
Sustained by the night, resilient yet again,
She draws the blinds aside, allowing
stories to drift away, the day to pour in.
Haunted no longer by ghosts of the night,
The city wakes up in her eyes,
Another day begins.
Coincidence
As that unique fragrance
of roses, with a hint of jasmine,
A subtle undertone of grassy meadows,
Mixed with moonlight and the musky
smell of your sweat, wafted towards me,
Overpowering the ripe smell of an open drain,
Women selling flowers, rotten vegetables,
The heavy stink of unwashed bodies
and dreary desire, that hung low like smog
on a busy Bombay street, one hot
and humid afternoon, I knew
It could be no one but her,
No one at all.
I just knew.
It had been fifteen years and more
Since that fragrance had seeped into me,
That heady brew that recalls still
Moonlit days and sunny nights,
Spent doing nothing, absolutely nothing,
With her head cradled in my arms,
Her fragrance enveloping my dreams,
Sweating with clouds making love
In the sky. An eternity later,
On that overflowing street in Bombay,
My heart leapt to my throat,
My pulse played a drumbeat in my head,
After fifteen years,
I had to remind myself
to breathe again.
The street fell strangely silent,
As over the mass of humanity,
Vegetable carts, autorickshaw fumes,
running, falling, scraping my knees,
overturning carts, bumping into cycles,
leaping over children, abusing
and being abused, I rushed towards her,
Till she was within reach
of my fingertips.
Liz, I whispered, dear, sweet Liz,
Laughing, crying, sobbing, screaming, stammering,
Liz, Liz, Liz, her name over and over again.
She turned around, with incomprehending eyes,
Eyes that were black and not a liquid brown.
I remembered too late,
She once had said,
The perfume she used,
Was favoured most by women,
All over the world.
of roses, with a hint of jasmine,
A subtle undertone of grassy meadows,
Mixed with moonlight and the musky
smell of your sweat, wafted towards me,
Overpowering the ripe smell of an open drain,
Women selling flowers, rotten vegetables,
The heavy stink of unwashed bodies
and dreary desire, that hung low like smog
on a busy Bombay street, one hot
and humid afternoon, I knew
It could be no one but her,
No one at all.
I just knew.
It had been fifteen years and more
Since that fragrance had seeped into me,
That heady brew that recalls still
Moonlit days and sunny nights,
Spent doing nothing, absolutely nothing,
With her head cradled in my arms,
Her fragrance enveloping my dreams,
Sweating with clouds making love
In the sky. An eternity later,
On that overflowing street in Bombay,
My heart leapt to my throat,
My pulse played a drumbeat in my head,
After fifteen years,
I had to remind myself
to breathe again.
The street fell strangely silent,
As over the mass of humanity,
Vegetable carts, autorickshaw fumes,
running, falling, scraping my knees,
overturning carts, bumping into cycles,
leaping over children, abusing
and being abused, I rushed towards her,
Till she was within reach
of my fingertips.
Liz, I whispered, dear, sweet Liz,
Laughing, crying, sobbing, screaming, stammering,
Liz, Liz, Liz, her name over and over again.
She turned around, with incomprehending eyes,
Eyes that were black and not a liquid brown.
I remembered too late,
She once had said,
The perfume she used,
Was favoured most by women,
All over the world.
Unbearable Nights And Listless Days
The heart beats on, an old
grandfather clock that goes
tick-tock, tick-tock, never straying
from its destiny, till the spring unwinds,
And it finally stops,
Forever.
Forever,
Just another moment in time,
With a void on either side,
Unbridgeable, unmappable, unmeasurable,
Holding within itself
Unbearable nights and listless days,
That follow each other,
Relentlessly.
Relentlessly,
The ennui stains the sky with nothingness,
As in search for fulfilment,
Ever-elusive, I sully
A virgin paper with the wet stain
of words.
Words,
Useless, bereft of meaning,
March across the minefields of my mind,
Turning yellow with the ink
yet to dry on paper,
Their music lost, they breathe their last,
Even before they are born,
With none to claim their hollow shells,
Poor orphans.
Orphans,
We all are, our existence still-born,
Tied to today by the slender thread of life,
Afraid to sever it,
Wary to unravel its knots,
Taking comfort in the morbid monotony
of unbearable nights and listless days,
As predictably, the heart beats on,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,
Like the old grandfather clock,
Always five minutes behind.
grandfather clock that goes
tick-tock, tick-tock, never straying
from its destiny, till the spring unwinds,
And it finally stops,
Forever.
Forever,
Just another moment in time,
With a void on either side,
Unbridgeable, unmappable, unmeasurable,
Holding within itself
Unbearable nights and listless days,
That follow each other,
Relentlessly.
Relentlessly,
The ennui stains the sky with nothingness,
As in search for fulfilment,
Ever-elusive, I sully
A virgin paper with the wet stain
of words.
Words,
Useless, bereft of meaning,
March across the minefields of my mind,
Turning yellow with the ink
yet to dry on paper,
Their music lost, they breathe their last,
Even before they are born,
With none to claim their hollow shells,
Poor orphans.
Orphans,
We all are, our existence still-born,
Tied to today by the slender thread of life,
Afraid to sever it,
Wary to unravel its knots,
Taking comfort in the morbid monotony
of unbearable nights and listless days,
As predictably, the heart beats on,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,
Like the old grandfather clock,
Always five minutes behind.
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