the drama turns into petty commonplace reality as the winged creatures take off for something less tangible than the real world.

who knows?fate clicks dramatically well when photographic memories don't!

ah, such a pity!

not now

i shall think of oblivion when i am sixty.

Here I am seated
Amidst endless seas
Beneath the blue dome
Within the bounds
Of careless freedom.

Here I am washed
By your absent dreams
Which held promises
Long ago; not here,
Not now.

Here I hold sway over
My estate on rubbles
Of million dispersed 'I's
My fragmented self
scattered like quanta.

Here the leaves gather
and salute aged Nature
Around my dusty feet
Finding comfort and peace
In autumnal austere strength.

Here I pick up rags
Of silhouettes and shadows
And string them with dusk
And evening skies
Of nomadic freedom

Here we separate, branch out
And then bond like one
Amidst green foliages
Of shady cypress and
Tall Eucalyptus trees.


Here we isolate and mourn
The death of rootlessness
And slowly, unwatched
Away from scrutiny and eyes
The gypsy heart grows.

scrap

Written in delhi in some bitter cold december evening. A scrap of paper folded neatly and tucked inside a diary. Scribbled names and nothings and limericks at the back. Every drop of ink carried memories of the cold night with the cold wind.

Tamarind sunsets and multilayered evenings and streetwalks and cardigans and fog. Misty taste of frost and shadows and figures strutting along the streets. The verandah was cold and switching over in contrast my cold fingers held the hot mug of capuccino. Beyond the veiled glass, inside the womb of the room, I could see pooja drying her hair. Hot water..mmmm…I draw in the scent of the warmth of a hot bath. Then I opened my eyes to find her hurrying me to finish off my cup of brewing comfort and join her in the symposium preparation for tomorrow. I gulped down fifteen minutes of leisure and siphoned in 84 mm long smoke generator. Sigh!

One day I shall be that mist, that frosty cold, that december evening.

I shall make you numb.:)

countless

How many streams must I cross

Before you learn to swim across

El Nino of turbulent times

How many roads must be walked

How many of them should intersect

And lie love locked till you hear them

Calling you from the depths of my eyes?

How many flowers should be born

‘to blush unseen’ and how many of them

should garland you when your sensitivity dies?

How many times should I rock your cradle

So that you sleep peacefully amongst rubbles

Of creepy lonesome nights?

How many rain clouds shall it take

To bring in monsoon for you?

How many times will the church bells chime

Before they cry ‘hallelujah’ and kiss

Your footprints compassing the new journey

That you embarked now.

How many love songs shall it take

To wake you up?

How many lullabies to hush you to sleep?

How many deaths shall I die

To live your life again?

"Srabono gogono gheere, ghono megh ghure phire,
Sunyo nodeer teere rohinu pori---
Jaha chhilo niye gelo shonaar toree."

the nightscape erodes
as minutes tiptoe in hourly silence.
time begets time.
the rugged pile of consciousness
is at its brightest and wakeful best
at the phantom hours.

this is not my world.
this is not my reality.
this is far far away
beyond silent waters of blue seas
and dusky evening sky
away from sweetness of love's symphony,
miles away from agony,
away from angst, pain, hopelessness.

this is where i am elevated.
feel not heart, fear not mind;
think not, see not, hear not, speak not.
this is where everything stops.
your wheel ceases rotating
my cliched existence
amongst piles of mundane everyday.

here you are not my lord.
you cease to be my fate.
i, finally, take up the reigns,
i am your destiny henceforth.

i know i have realized this before
i have spoken this ten thousand times.
uttered them in solitary pristine glory,
alone, many times.
in childlike wonder, in blind resentment to you!
this is also unique like the ones before.

Tell me now stranger, if I serve myself

In delicious ambiguity on your platter

Would you taste me bit by bit?

Would you gulp down my consciousness

Of eternity in seconds to come

Ticked in time by magenta sunsets?

Tell me now, tell me a little of your forefathers

And how you metamorphosed into the strangeness

That I see today, that I see now.

Tell me how you lived and how you laughed

And how you loved--

Tell me all of them scratch by scratch

While I measure myself.

Tell me tales of the seagulls

And how they flew overhead

When you embarked on your journey

Of ten thousand miles across light years

And seven seas’ ugly lonesome nights.

Tell me about the northern lights and the winds

That blew my slumber away in dreams to come.

Tell me now, for I long to hear them

From your lips, from your eyes.

Your voice creeps into my ruggedness

And wakes me up; stirs me down

Like a cup of freshly brewed coffee

That is how you taught me to measure myself.

And I measured this stark consciousness

Dressed in satin and silk from the Far East

Elegant as the regal attire, delicate as the dew drop tiara

And I measured myself and grasped the meaning

Of the wondrous look in your eyes

That I am priceless!