THE EXPLOSION

Around the single spotlight

Danced whiskey waves of fire

The Blue Ocean set to light

A string of pearls, gleaming and bright

Another time, I shall whisper into your ear

Of phantoms and spirits, rides and ghost towns

But today I shall go to sleep alone.

It seemed like a jigsaw fell into place

Fell and broke into a million pieces

The life just seemed to fit

It fit a little to fine to sit

Explode did I

Into that single spotlight

Memories and passion whiskey waves of fire

Blood froze in my veins, turned to Blue Ocean light

And I rose, from the single spotlight, amidst strings of pearl.

THE FLOWER

Dark vines grow through the flower
A sharp fear piercing peace
The fear of no return from abandoned love
The reality of this terrible knowledge
The vines thaw in the warm wombs
Of the flower with its nectar sweet.
In through her they grow,
Where no insects pollute,
Where the sweet nectar remains undepleted.
The longing that rests for that far-away friend
Awakens with every one of the vines’ piercings.
The one that loved, the one that loves
Whose touch is held on to tightly
In the memories of that soft flower.
Tears have no meaning, screams no words-
They shall forever be ignored.
The friends of the flower say:
“Omnipresent are the vines.
A triumphant flower is the one that blooms
Through these wretched things.
And for this, there is no time for tears.
Thought and tears are weaknesses.”
Drown your nectar, they say, and fill your womb with stones.
Maybe the flower is weak.
Maybe the vines shall destroy her.
The only way out was to confide, she knew.
But the flower is proud, she is; although soft and supple.
Easily broken, but not one to give up.
But she cannot take the only way out.
Her pride prevents her from proclaiming her weakness.
Although she knows the vines affects all her kin.
The only friend who understood, far away..
She too alone, away.. but supple and strong..
The flower wouldn’t let another love her
She’s blind to all offers of comfort.
The vines pierce sharper, blinding her some more.
The useless tears well up, but are simply swallowed back.
The sweet nectar ripples, gushes,
Threatening to pour out.
But that shall never happen, she knows.
Her barricades against the loss of her innocence are strong.
At least she’s aware, of her vines, of her dangers
And she knows, she’s not alone in the garden.

OH SO IS LIFE!

A billion times it must have been, I have lain against this tree and wondered where I was. A grand array of thoughts run amock in my giant sized mind with all its hidden passages and locked away storerooms; and I wonder about perspective. Where am I, I think again. And what am I doing here? How am I to go from here, to the place I’m yet unaware of? I close my eyes and drift away… with the comfort of the knowledge that life has a plan chartered for me.
A dozen bountiful corridors run alongside. The main gates are closed. The bricks seem endless but there are some grooves. Should I climb them and risk falling to get a glimpse of what is inside? But, why should I look inside at all? What if I look inside and it scares me; or by the sight of it, I die? I stand still, looking into the infinite eyes of the corridors, trying to glean meaning out of them…
As I lie here, today, under the tree, I feel life is the same way. A measureless thing. But, my human sense does not let me accept that as fact. Be it the fact or not, I’d like too see myself as something significant in that space, as something with the power to destroy or create those corridors... but infinity is something I cannot comprehend; and ‘overcome’ comes way farther behind!
I’d like to believe it’s all just an incomprehensible dream, and that soon I shall awake, and hold the powers to whatever lies in ‘reality’, or that it’s just a dream…and it matters not what happens here. Much as I’d like to believe all this, something comes in the way. Maybe it’s the ‘reality’ of the branch swaying way up over there, the heroism of my great leaders, my own sense of ‘being alive’… and beyond. And I wonder about perspectives!

THE ROAD

There was a road, all stones and thorns
This saw on it, a girl starting her walk with horns
Her face swelled with untested pride
But the road knew who was master; its laughter it did not hide.
With the first step, the girl said ‘Ouch!’
The road told her here she won’t find any couch
She grimaced but the pride still stayed
A little shaken but not yet laid.
The road she’d come to was no joke
At the most wonderful beings, fun it poked
Despite being an ugly, twisted path
It knew who was ruler, and a ruler has wrath.
It looked with pity, at the silly proud child
Who was so sure of the journey, thinking it’d be mild
It saw many such; and each made it to the end
But how dear was the journey, and how proud was the end?
With a smallest of its thorns, it can draw out her life
It even has the power to give her years of stony strife
It shall do what amuses it the most.
It was the supreme master, the most supreme host.
The creatures that tread on it, understood its nature well
They told each other ‘Life’s not fair, so let’s not dwell’
It was happiest when it heard these words, oh so true!
And it enjoyed harbouring these creatures, who had understood its cue.
They were also the most entertaining.
Some were so proud, never understood it’s their life that’s fleeting.
Some even said as they walked by, that they would clear this dirty wild road
All it did was laugh at them, their ambition was indeed bold!
The girl was walking on, with many groans of pain
With many pitiful wonderings, about her superior partner in the game
The road loved this ignorance the best, the illusion of them being players
The game was its, the turf it laid out. The road was the single sole player.
Half its fun was in creating that mirage
That convinced the mere pawns that they were real players in an entourage
That they had real choice, and real power
When all it had to do for them to come crashing down was remove the cover.
Sometimes, some of them, the best of them, realised
And without so much as a raise of its thinnest thorns, they fell into the lair it had devised
That was their end, the end of their path
It lazily wondered up to where this pompous girl would last.

BHARGAVI

YOU'RE A PUPPET.

There was a playground
In the distant haze
Where the puppets were made to swing
There they played to the heart’s content – of their master’s.

There was a factory
In the rising sunshine
There, they were made to work
There, they lost all their sinew.

There was a house
In the sweeping darkness
There they were made to sleep
Till their masters awoke, and chose to play again.

There were some naked clothes
That they were made to wear
For eternity, for they were made never to tear
Until their masters chose to play them bare.

There was a deep black well
It was the shell of their lives.
There they were made to drink, or dive,
Or die, is so was their master’s choice.

There were some pretty yellow bowties
Which their masters willed them to put on
And when their masters got angry with their wives
The ties miraculously turned brown.

There was a neat broad ballroom
Where they were made to dance
It was even here, that they were dumped
When their life was chosen to be lived and ended.

Once they were dumped,
Or drowned, or ghastly killed,
The thoughts that they never had in their lives
Surfaced from deep in their mutilated bodies.

But the only thought that reigned
Even when they were dead and useless
Was that of their masters saying:
YOU’RE A PUPPET. YOU’RE NOT YOUR OWN. YOU’RE A PUPPET.

The Hand of Death

I sit by the cold fireplace
Watching the burning out embers
The wide windows behind me
Opening out to the garden outside
So wide and so green
Yet chilly all the snow makes the trees
My mind forms patterns in the dying embers
The gold, among the ashes, they tell me a story
My toes are becoming numb
And the house is getting dry
The wide windows creak open
A gentle wind sweeps in to meet me
The curtains beckon it in
Dancing their colourful dance

I turn away, inching closer to the dying fire
Away from the unwelcome guest
Unwilling to give up in the warm comfort
That kept my toes from becoming numb
I am too stiff to go close the doors
Unwilling even, despite the discomfort it causes me
There is some comfort in movement, however cold
It illusions me of some other’s presence

And then it came.
A severe chill runs down my spine
I feel a cold hand on my shoulder
My eyelids close as if they have a will of their own
I want to see who it is, but I can’t
The hand, that of a woman’s I think
Moves across my shoulders
Down my arm, over my fingers
And holds my fingertips, as if drawing or giving life…

My breathing’s smooth, clear is my mind
I know there’s a presence behind me
I can feel my body moving
In accordance with its loving, or loathing touch
I have no fear, only peace.
I can feel the embers becoming colder
They now tell me a different tale
A tale, not of gold, but of grey in grey.

The hand is now over my cheek
My hair is swept back
The curtains are still beckoning
The garden is still as cold as snow
The numbness has moved up
My eyelids feel like they are no longer part of me
I lay back, the wind treads my face
The guests take charge, the host goes to sleep
To sleep with a cold caressing hand
That may caress to love, or caress to kill

Angel of Loneliness

As I walked past a thicket of trees
I saw an angel, look from the shadows, at me.
There was no face, simply a form
Maybe it saw the sorrow, the face so forlorn.
I paid no heed
Walked past the thicket of trees.
But the angel followed me in my mind
Its voice calling to me from near behind.

Does it hurt to know you’re the only one
Who you can talk to, to whom you can run?
Does your heart freeze when your lips reach out
Only to find cold hard glass meeting your pout?
Do you cry when you hear them say they love you
And to know that none of them understand, will ever know you?
Do you think of us angels when you lie alone
Wishing someone was there with you, long for our loving form?
Does the sinking feeling embrace you, and all you feel you lack;
And wanting an embrace so badly, do you embrace your very enemy back?

All these simple truths the angel stated.
And in a gentle voice, this it related:
Dear child, I’m the angel of loneliness
To provide you, in sorrowful times, some warmth and friendliness.
Cry you do, hurt you do, I understand
But being one of the human race, all you can withstand.
Us angels knew sorrow too, and betrayal and hurt.
But in time, we threw them away and they blended with the dirt.
Left pure we are now, and clean
To help the beloved humans to do the same, and live their dream.
Sweet child, being touched by one of us, I assure you
You shall soon come clean, with no speck of dirt and brand new.
The things that haunt you shall flee
And in time, just like us, you shall be free.

IT TOUCHED MY HEART..

Its surprising the things that touches one’s heart. Notice that when you say that something touched your heart, that something most often happens to be very trivial.
Today, when I was walking down the road, I saw this girl of about ten, clearly from the poorer classes, walking with her head lowered, presumably because it was shaved clean. She carried a steel tiffin carrier in one hand and wore blue Bata chappals. But she had on an absolutely lovely violet pleated skirt and a white shirt with little pink satin flowers. Maybe the dress was dirty, but the way it looked on her, and the way the skirt swung softly about her hips as she walked, touched my heart. The little thing was completely unaware of the effect she had on me. She, on the other hand, was shy and embarrassed of her shaven head. The head mattered little to me. She was a thing of beauty that had touched my heart.

This incident was what led me to thinking today of how small things, very small things make a difference to our lives. The effects are definitely not too evident, but as they say, drops of water are what ultimately form an ocean. These incidents, be they minute observations or tiny feelings, are all there in us, and form an intrinsic part of our personality. A beautiful song, a smiling child, a setting sun or a swim in the pool; or a curt remark, a look turned away, a smile not returned, or an opinion not considered. All of them small little things that we smile over or get over in a few minutes. The incident is done and closed without a second thought; but the impact remains for life.

When you think back, taking a moment to comtemplate over the things that have happened to you in your life, what are the first things that come to mind? Is it the major oppurtunity you lost or the diamond earrings that your parents gifted you? Is it that crucial exam which you failed or the ek-lakh-rupaiyya party that your friends threw for you when you got selected to go abroad? Or is it those wonderful twenty minutes you spent with your dear friend every evening in your potico, the cool breeze on your faces; or that handicapped man who selled vegetables every morning in front of your house, and who invariably smiled at you when you waited for your bus?

The little things are what touch one’s heart; a sweet word of kindness, a genuine note of enquiry, a beautiful picture, or a heartfelt compliment. Each one of us looks for the humane in this world of competition and acheivement. While winning is important, kindness is way dearer to heart. Just as while losing can leave you sore, a curt word cuts far deeper.

MY BEST FRIEND AND MY OTHER WORLD

The lulling sway settles
Chasing away nagging thoughts
Peace settles slowly, softly
Spreading over my consciousness.
Sleep smiles at me soothingly.
Gently rocking my mind as in a cradle.
Singing to me a lullaby of all-pervading peace.
My eyes close softly.
I welcome the sensation.
Far from the world outside
Far from any tumult or compromise
Is full rest, with just myself.
My constantly working mind stops recording its endless thoughts.
Giving in to the one thing that
Always has the power to console it, calm it, love it.
Sleep is my mind’s mother.
It always unburdens its worries.
Momentarily to forget them
In the long run, to sort them.
Sleep is my mind’s best friend.
It always comes to me unbidden.
But despite all it is to me,
I do not understand it; it gives me no chance.
I forget myself, when I’m under its sway-
My world, my worries, my joys, my burdens.
I enter its world, every time, every night.
But when I'm awake, I know not how it is there
Just as when I’m there, I know not how it is here.

My only plea to thee, my dearest Sleep,
Is to never leave me.
I promise I’ll be sane enough to not drive you away myself.

THE HOUSE

Haunted is the house
By mutilated thoughts,
By broken dreams of those who lived,
By the blackened hearts of some others.
The twisted minds of the denizen still float around;
Reflecting horror in the old smooth walls.

The innocent nature of the criminal thoughts
The covered up stacks of depraved acts
The unimaginable atrocities inherent in each that lived
(committed by or commited upon)
Ever-pervading the dusty, silent atmosphere of the house.

Occasionally, a gust of wind blows.
Disturbing sleeping memories.
Awakening atrophied Justice; renewing life to Her.
They seek redressal - the then tormented.
The spirits of the old masters uncontrollably laugh.
They are long gone. No redressal shall ever happen.
Although their spirits live, they are free -
Haunting the yellowing corridors, laughing mirth.
They are unbound by any guilt: it died with them.
Yet unsettled souls, unsettling too,
eternally awake in the house.

The house is the constant observer.
Of the deeds done, tormented souls, tormenting ones
that live long past their life.
Through shadow and light; day and night;
silence and cries; truth and lies;
Stoical it stands, the old wise house.
It shall never utter.
The day it shall perish, so shall the memories.