fArewEll to pAgeS

It was a long and misty flight

Back from the distant realms

Of magic and imagination

Where I bred a child’s perception

To escape the world’s devouring harshness.

Worn out from the journey,

Drawn back to the body, its weaknesses,

The head pushed back into the pillow

Sighing and struggling for breath

Watching the spellbound pages of the open book

Waving a long-dreaded farewell.

To pen it down in lines; what I felt,

Searched around and found all I needed,

But ‘will’ alone vanished somewhere.

The telephone vibrated in a long drone,

Voices and words of chaos coming through,

A heavy sigh; the abandoned painting

Left behind a small space of mine,

Mine alone, on the fringes of dreamy falls.

(End of another book means back to the real world, until I find another escape)

tHe moRNinG aFteR a NigHtmAre

When the morning finally came around, with hurried steps and worried mind I walked to the college. For some reason the good morning wishes of the passersby irritated me. Acquainted faces appeared like blurs in my anxiousness to make sure that my subconscious had fooled me. Finding the face among the many faces I rushed over, the face that I loved,the one I had seen covered in blood the previous night. I didn’t know what emotion reflected on my face when I realized that it was just a bad dream that I had. Some sort of relief spreading from my heart into my slackened body. I was searching for the right words to say as I walked knowing that I won’t find any to express how I felt. I heard my sound calling out the name and saw a pair of cold eyes where I expected some warmth; warmth to refuel my frozen mind with a hug. Ever plunged into cold water without a second thought and found your body recoiling and the muscles protesting in agony? Personifying the world, the lil one walked fast, pulling on her hood shadowing her face, clouding my mind. Again into the dream I fall, not the nightmare, but my own world where I believe exist characters with the same lining as me: myself projected in the ways that I define, strolling about keeping me smiling. 

YearNiNg fOr anOther nOOn

All through the yawning and waking

I waited patient,

In the cold, black dress

Of the vaporous night.

He walks out of the concrete coldness

And into the procreating sun;

Thus starts my fine day,

I’m born; a shadow in the dirt.

Sun, the one who moves it all,

The one who moves me along,

Gives me longing at morn and eve

And spares my wish at noon alone.

With the warmth of the high sun,

In its golden light, he hugs me; loves me.

Memory fails- the time when he sold himself,

His core of existence embedded in me.

Dry union of a few minutes,

Before the wretched world parts us,

The life’s painless, impassive gaze

Makes me yearn for another noon.

haPPy fOOl

A chocolate,
A smoke,
Sounds for the soul,
A vista,
Or the darkness,
Feel of the soothing wind;
And wafting in the air-
The smell of the fresh earth.
Am I drunk?
No, I'm just another happy fool.

bLind thAt I waS

Blind that I was,

While groping in the dark

Found a figure; a voice,

Her hand was smooth,

Her face wrinkled.

Blind that I was,

Didn’t really know

She had faces many;

What my fingers found

Was what I believed.

Blind that I was,

Didn’t see who she was.

She took my hand

Ran it over my own face-

Then I knew who I was.

Blind that I was,

I asked her for blossoms new,

But never heard her go;

Then heard a poet sing:

“Love - She left me all alone”.


[I see the finer aspects of love.Use my eye, see through me, find it in these lines...]

mUndAne RefLecTion

Wanting to see my ‘self’,

I bought a Mirror

For my new city room;

Didn’t pay in cash,

But in bills of love.

In the old rustic scene

The lake reflected, figures,

Though dancing in the waves,

Vast and deep; true images.

Every single night

Before the lullaby of street lamps

I stood before the Mirror;

I laughed, I cried, I danced.

Noticing stains creeping in,

Distorting my mundane reflection,

Never did the thought rise

A Mirror could crack to its core.

True, it did not crack

But instead it blasted,

And its crude shallowness

Left me all alone

To think of blue, blue lakes.

daRk sKieS

Earth is stabbing the sky
With blunt but long knives,
Rows of chimneys spitting tar,
And rays of blood red lights.

Religion v/s Logic?

Unthinking, proud moment,

Trying to find a niche

Among the portrait of saints.

The words of ignorant believers-

Yet, excited- you believe.

Employees in brain starts work,

Doubt comes about-

Does someone hear?

Does someone care

What your words plead?

Will a similar wind blow again?

Should I mourn the habits I lost?

The only prayer I say-

“I never am a sinner

I am just another lost lamb”.

flaShY blUe

1.What simile shall I use?

   What might I address her?

   The name the people endowed

   For the power shower- RAIN?

2.The wet feathers sat quacking

   Blaming her for the rudeness,

   “You wet my wiry net

   And my fluffy lil ones”.

   The warm wings of mother

    Hugged them to her breast,

    A smooth chirp to soothe

    Fear of the resounding thunder.

3.Rising, from among the grass,

   From maggot life to glassy wings

   Climbing up the brightening sky

   The fresh drops- a boosting booze.

   The rhythm of fluttering wings

   Hailing thanks to flashy blue

   For the gift of few hours-

   The simple, joyous life on earth.

pOisoned iNto liFe

                    The coffee tasted bitter in my mouth although it was the best powder available in the market. Two birds suddenly flew up from somewhere and settled on the branches of the Velvet Apple tree, right next to the balcony. Strangely enough, one of them seemed to be advising the other in the pleasant chirping voice. The newspaper boy announced his arrival ringing the bell of his cycle and the printed letters came flying into the sit-out below. I usually spend the mornings of my retired life reading the newspaper, from the first word to the very last one.

                   The photo in the front page registered to my eyes and so did the news below it. The read coloured title read:

“FAMOUS POET & SHORT STORY WRITER ANAND FOUND DEAD”

The photo of the unshaven man had no difference to that of my old classmate in college, except maybe for a few lines of wrinkles that time had sketched. The news cited a short history of the harsh life the man had fought. It said that a small bottle of poison had finally given him the at most freedom, freedom even from the binding body.

                    I felt my cheek muscles stretch in a smile when I remembered the old figure of Anand in college. It was only well after the classes had started that Anand had joined our class, a boy with curly hair, charming smile and a quiet nature. It was a matter of few weeks before the class appeared of no use to him. Within this limited time my jovial and helping nature had already made us acquaintances. His visits to class came to be less in number as the academic year progressed. The rest of the time he went around the other campuses searching for, as he put it, “the heartbeat of the artistic youth”. It seemed I was the only person whom he really talked to, other than answering the stupid questions that people asked him.

                  It was not difficult for me to be the favourite of teachers with my excellent academics and extra-curricular activities. I cherished a civil-service dream that kept me busy throughout. Maybe that was what made me a fan of Anand during those days. He was carefree about his future and lived truly for his art; both of us were lovers of verse and good literature. My practical mind always reminded me not to get lost in the inebriating rhythm of poetry, because the art was not going to help me reach where I dreamed to be. I controlled my own jealous mind with my dreams whenever I saw Anand going about everywhere not even caring to go home. I watched what people defined to be bad habits creep into his life. I struggled with myself not to break the hard found determination being in the slavery of physical pleasures.

                  I always admired and also did proof read many of his works, poems and stories. A little bit of verse flew from my pen too during those times. More than his stories and poems I loved his sketches, which although wouldn’t make much sense to many people, were simply beautiful pieces of art. But he never cared about them except that he kept them for me to see.

                    Time moved forward and change didn’t stay behind. In the race of my life my hand was slowly slipping from the arms of those who loved me. While I read through Anand’s new sheets I realized that they no longer made any sense to my feelings, but I never admitted it. I thought it was that his writings had lost their poignancy. Maybe it was the other way around, my own old poems felt absurd to me that, I still remember it perfectly, I burned them all in my room although Anand tried to prevent me from doing it. I moved into another university for higher studies. With that of all others, Anand’s face also went on being distorted and finally disappeared into the deep oblivion of busy life.

                    During the busy life of a civil servant, I saw mentions of my old friend’s name in the newspapers but never bothered to read further. Never did I feel a need that I should keep in touch with old college mates, why bother? I remember a comment that somebody passed out aloud when a newspaper article mentioned, Anand being arrested for drunk driving which had caused an accident-

“A fine way to waste good talents, huh? Many talented people are like this, you know. They simply throw away what they are given”.

                     It is in your retired life that all the simple things in your busy life come back to you. Even the moments which you thought were irrelevant rolls through your mind and haunt you. The news of my old friend’s death is now dusting up old college pictures in mind. Anand’s love for freedom never gave up on him. No one would ever understand, but I can. His suicide was not a fault; he had the courage to live for so long before he liberated himself from the flesh. I knew because, I had poisoned myself long back, to be in chains. The fear of realization never made me think who won; I always kept my mind in chains. I don’t want to fail; not now when life seems to be a victory.