Where I was Born…

      

An instance of my favourite poem, She rhymes with my last lines;

Like the first drop of monsoon that touches my nonchalance.

The sacred halo of embrace from my lady or may be the lotus-laden calm of the lake.

She is all the tear of estrangement and all the pain clandestine.

Who watched me at the zenith of happiness, the dismal abyss of solitude.

She is the soft glance of my beloved and her unspoken repentance.

The early morning prayer, the torrent of a river I know.

She is the half-empty plate of boiled rice that was never half-full.

The grammar of greed and gluttony, the virulence of hatred, conscience locked up in a room.

She is the impatience on the road of retaliating individualism.

The blue blemish of historical agony facing times to come; the sloth and sag of the Want-Got bridge.

The bleeding heart of the untamed youth; the abode of sorrow in the corner of my child’s eye.

Victim of mistakes of whimsical old men and selective obsolescence of facts.

She is the proud face emerging from a wave of angry procession.

The alluring gesture of leadership and the vacant lap of a misled mother.

But my dream began with Her only to end in Her. For She is the longing called India.

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Stars Don’t Twinkle on The Moon

Labyrinths of mystery,

And vales of silence

That listen only to your heart.

 

The end of logic.

The trickling river of coward spirits.

Sensibility bridging the gaps.

 

Lying on my pillow of self-satisfaction

And the bed of soft sunshine;

Hiding myself with a bed-sheet of blood;

Like an iron rose that never withers.

 

Selfish is the gene that swims across my veins.

Sudden surge of raging hormones!

A child playing on the virgin snow;

The stifled cityscape of my land.

A circus of fluid dynamic streamlines;

The belching wrath of civilisation;

Thanks to the outspoken silencer of my car,

The stylish puff of my silent killer,

The exhaustion of a dreamy-eyed chimney.

 

With a blurry vision I still see…

The drops of humanity holding hands;

Different gods of different colours,

Fusing into one thin line of water.

 

I long for a mud-house on the moon.

But I’ll never take you there,

’Cause the stars don’t twinkle on the moon.

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The Cigarette

  Invisible Mockery

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My usual puff before I resign to ‘Bed’fordshire.

I sit myself down on the swing and add motion

To the still air.

 

The matchstick with the noisy flame

Emerges out of nothingness.

I light the light of all lights.

I initiate the end.

 

There is insouciance in my lips, my fingers

And the bewildered cerebellum.

My closed eyes are those of a somnambulist

Who loves to wake up in dreams,

On a practiced urge to get closer to them.

 

The eyes, half-bitten by slumber

Refuses to give in.

The white paper that surrounds the fuel of tobacco

Catches fire, or rather, the fire catches it.

 

As it makes its way into itself,

Oozing out an orange that is brighter than the fruit,

It commemorates the end with an epitaph of grey.

 

A thin black ring is the base of the volcano I see

Between my trembling fingers.

The orange cuts through the white

Encircling it from one side.

 

Before it does a full circle, another stream of lava

Pours in from the other;

So enthusiastic to greet its countepart.

Belching out circles of thin air,

Confusing themselves into the hidden laws of fluid dynamics.

 

Together they hug the white into

A promising illusion of incandescence.

I breathe in more air through it.

It acknowledges my effort with a brighter rage.

 

It gives me a few moments of giddiness.

I gift it an ever-shortening lifespan.

I take pleasure in its pain.

But it enjoys me more than I enjoy it.

 

Fullstop or Exclamation? : Take your pick

 

 

 

 

 

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