(176) strange

       ( 176)     Strange

It is strange to see sex and search sestina
in the eyes of sacred and celestial ,
just as to see the essence of the Vedas
in the welter of the loitering pig,
Isn’t it strange and cynical to expect
the rhythm and speed of the violin
on the saxophone and sit back
to comment with authority
upon the artifact with the lack
of even basic knowledge?
Is n’t it strange that Lost Paradise
was redeemed by the blind Bard
with a unique poetic vision
to be restored to the skeptical
humanity? Isn’t it strange that
a long uncertain rope walking
with not closed eyes leads to an
extended land of Faith and miracle?
Is n’t it strange that things are
happening and happening
much to the chagrin of the people
who denigrate and dampen your
Spirit? Isn’t it strange that the
Unbending question and question
many -----already designed by the
the unseen, only to be passed off
as a question mark.

I am

I am I am what Iam and what is expected of me, I cannot be what I am not, I can see everything unseen, I can fly and view on the winged wings viewless, for those with unflinching loyalty and unquestioning faith I am the life-safer and life boat, Why, I am the life extended in my devotees’ being. The unreasonable, unthinking remorseless, attributes sex and Shape to me, Ariel windy, fire and water uncontrollable and the cheap get crestfallen to get stored in the slot of sinners tainted with stigma, Benign and Blessed are those who crave for my Graced Love with everlasting devotion.

It was a sleepless night

It was a sleepless night It was a memorable sleepless night indeed, Not with those of eyes of searching looks, not craving for the embalmed love of bygone days, nor for those embraces of missed romance, but many a nights’ similar plights of lost love, truth cupped into twisted tales, tears wetting those cheeks, those tears were not from mere eyes, but from the heart’s softest corner, love lost long, long ago, even displaced by diabolic dehumanized ones crept to shake the roof, A recollection of a sordid episode of a child Crying and battling with life, a severe bronchitis Somewhere a call from the God of Death, The child is heaving a sigh of relief from those dissatisfied devils, backdoor intruders for lifelong gain, you were only a mute witness to the drama of assertive argument and sin sickening pell-mell. It was a sleepless night when I had the feel of the dead innocent child embodied into my being asking for justice and it was the sleepless night that a call from the Above whispered ‘endure, endure, and endure.’

The unguaded street

The unguarded street These morning strolls in the main street, at the dawn, the rays of the sunbeams as if the seer through the magic wand measures the future of the curious, dispel the darkness with the zoom of the lorry laden with the vegetables from the garden of the village, to the fair, the serenity of the atmosphere paves the mood for the writer and the artist, the singer who hums the tune, the street is not guarded for no cops till nine when the traffic increases and the polluted, wind- laden dust raises mounds of misty clouts to blind the innocent passerby. Now the street is amply unguarded, for the swarm of flies from the litterbin buzz around to prove their agility, now the street is typically unguarded, for the roadside maker of dish and fast-food counts the snippets to be plundered by the seasoned hungry.

The Bed

The Bed When a severe backache pokes me like a pointed dagger which the smooth floor, wherein I lie resists, I take recourse to a bed, where my partner, my hardbound dictionary weighing heavy befriends my pillow, the ill improvised bed is more conspicuous by the absence of the master through out, the cover is besmeared by the ink marks, no flowers, no aroma, no incense, creativity, my Goddess, awaits me in belated hours, the quill flows on: This pain mocks at the quill for the intermittent distraction, tonight I am off with my master, the door is barred, lights are not off. Lights are not off, for the devil not far off, defeated, turns off.

Why? why? why?

Why? Why to probe into the ‘whyness’ of Select things you are eager to know, when you yourself do not know why is it you are doing so, The answer is that your why is followed by many ‘whys’ it is like seeing the origin of the name of God, who is the first inventor? Why probe into the question Who created God? Aren’t you aware that you are belied by your own eyes? Why do you probe why the woman only is gifted to carry the child and not the man, why? Why? why? Why is that that a child is born not of one single entity, but of union of man and woman, be it regal wedding, marriage legalized, or accidental Collocation or total surrender? why the sun rises in the East, that sets in the West, the ‘why’ of many things is not your concern, oh! Man, beware.

Every drop of blood--

Every drop of blood --- With every drop of blood shed, be it from the black or white skin, or red Indian or mixed race, what is spilt is not the vegetation consumed by or the animal flesh raw or cooked, pounded or fried fish or chicken assimilated into colored essence or what we call blood, with every drop of blood shed is the milk of mother’s cared affection, flowing into thews and sinews carrying the ancestral heritage.

Nothing is more gruesome than---

Nothing is more gruesome Nothing is more gruesome than to get the message try and try, to make your life insipid, nothing is more appalling, than to be powerless before the stark villainy masquerading that overpowers the reason, nothing is more horrendous than to see the truth hidden and allowing things to happen, nothing is more torturing than to be a slave in your own roof, the concubine of your husband reigning like a queen, nothing is more painful than to have the belated revelation that you were beguiled in the past, for ulterior motives, After all nothing is more sinful That God and God sent is the butt of ridicule and victim of man’s treason and treachery.

Walking in the rain---

Walking in the rain….. As I was walking in the rain, holding the umbrella with one hand, umbrella tilting and twitching, When the other hand a bunch of books, my treasure, my livelihood and my bread bereft of which my existence would have become a meager no better treatment than an ant, I feel the sprinkles of rain water on my face as if to rejuvenate my spirits lost and forlorn, taking me to the days of English summer, a lily by the pond, nods as if to preach the nuances of life, like the belching cow should you look back in anger the harsh realities around you, just as you trample upon the decayed leaves and peel of oranges and tomatoes thrown, tightening the grip of books, lest they should become one with them, I climb up, up the staircase, back to my study, back to my reading room.

(171) somewhere far off...

     (171)    Somewhere far off…..




Somewhere in a far off local temple
when the bell chimes, moves to and fro,
also moving people alike in a mood of
mixed reverberation and piety
not in words of cacophony,
but rhythmic chantic of verses,
in tune with the devotees’ prayers
the incense of camphor and jasmine
with the sandal paste and coconut,
Somewhere in a far off open place
of many stone pillars bespeak of the
ancient existence of the local deity
worshipped with all neem leaved
dancers and rice ball offerings
sweetened by jaggery, to fulfill
their long pending vows
authenticated by age long beliefs,
Somewhere there, not in a far off place,
yet away from the humanity’s loud
interplay, there sits a woman wan with
Yesteryears of spring and winter in her life,
befriends a woman in the cloud, in the sky,
slowly passes off into sleep, eternal sleep.

(170) silenced to what not....

    (170)   Silenced to what not….

when, what I think as my deft fingers
were cleaning those tartar and stain
on the white china teacups, by my sink,
shining and polished as one would be
tempted to store water as the tap is on,
my eyes were enamored by the paintings
of pairs of paramours dancing in their
native attires Rajastani, Gujarati, Bengali,
should I hold them or throw them?
I was silenced to what not.


The lazy mistress of the house,
accumulated dust and treasure alike,
fashion and fancy and cuisine comfort
blinded her civic sense,
she became obstreperous and fractious,
I was silenced to what not.

when clamor and clutter in a
high minded way suppressed facts
like gun powder wrecking families asunder,
posing the upper hand of honesty,
I was silenced to what not.

(165) You

   (  165)   YOU


You are the spike at the center of the wheel,
the wheel of fortune governing the humans,
dumb, the devil and daring
the wheeled chariot, parading the vast,
that carries the lord Supreme who purveys
the universe, caring His loved and lost,
you are the keel of the wheeling chair,
You are the feather soft to fan for the child,
you are the god sent shelter to cover
abandoned and forlorn
You are the ashes in the urn to
remind the impermanence,
you are the being in the fairy,
you are the Faith for the avowed believer,
you are the filth and dirt and waste
for the nonbeliever,
like the chicken covered in the baskets,
you protect the innocent and needy,
You are the poem plain without imagery,
you are the poetic artifact replete
with pun and parody, simile and
You are the breath, lifeforce,
You are breathless and flat,
You the essay to attack the vile
and ribald, and robust,
You are the thread ruling the
kite and the boy propeller from
the flat ground below,
when you are misunderstood
and misconstrued for a zero
life is amiss and chaos.

If life is like a bubble

If life is like a bubble--
It is the month of November,
sudden pale of gloom and gathering darkness
through my window amid the thunder and
lightning piercing the multistoried apartment,
I finish my culinary work without a finishing touch,
hurriedly climb down to catch the direct bus,
sharpened spike pokes my sandal wet, in the
downpour, my umbrella gets unfolded,
the poetic sentiments vie with the manifold
bubbles, bubbles form to break into fluids of
running water, I get stranded to watch
the running times get impounded in the
Running water, a mirage of letters getting
blown before my eyes in the computers,
we come under the category no work no pay
Scheme, can I say no work no food to my
aching body?
can I call my Creator, and
ask Him to amend all the governing laws?
a young boy puts a paper boat in the water,
for him bubbles forge into buoyancy,
the downpour of rain pulls me back home
to use my paper and quill
to convert of bubble of life into a perennial flow.

The black crow on the white window

The black crow on the white window

When I was looking at the window,
the white window before me,
of my personal computers, my friend,
my recent addiction, sudden warring shutters,
propelled by the wind and storm,
Struck by the sight of a bird with a bone,
A black crow swept past me, sat on the computers,
Pecking the strong bone perhaps
thrown away in the clutter,
Persistently clung with the beak,
bold and bravery is its motto,
It looked like that; the crow looked like that,
Pecking and looking at me reassuring
that I have no business to drive it away,
now coming down to have a look at the window,
A peep into the letters, as if to codify,
The piece of bone by the tender feathers now,
Still a look not deviated,
When I pressed the button enter,
it flew back no cawing, with
the same bone and brouhaha.

What remains...

What remains...

What remains is not the poignant memory
of your sweet smile amidst taunts inflicted,
insults heaped like stones one after another,
for you did not want your siblings to know,
to share your predicament, servile at home
because of a nasty intruder, crafty and callous,
to share your prime possession, your happiness,
your conjugal love, an outcaste in your own house,
when the hungry, debaucheries, hawks ruled roost,
you helpless onlooker of the vile drama put up,
put up with the privations, none to console you,
at times fighting a loose battle with the deadly
venom of the cobras, counting your days to the grave
oh! When you were relieved, when death embraced
you, when your cruel husband reveled in the
embraces of his concubine, to whet her hunger
and fill her coffer she by backdoor entered,
a woe to mankind she is and a curse to womanhood,
oh!what remains is not the burnt ashes of you
kept in the urn to be immersed in the holy river,
what remains is not your saree, to be vied
by those ingrate wretches your daughters,
the shameless intruder’s daughter in the same
roof more dogmatically, claimed the only remnant,
what remains is not the memory of
earthenware utensils for the valuables were
embezzled by the pelican monsters,
what remains is not the old photo of yours
a semblance somewhat like you which
was hung by me on the wall,
oh!mother, what remains is the inerasable fact
none can equal you; none can compete with you,
what remains is the fact that the hungry pigs
continue to welter in the ditch until choked .

(168) Run run run

     (168)     Run, run run
Run, run with sweat and gasping breadth,
Run with the goal of unceasing and untiring,
Run like an antelope in the wild, wooded,
chased by hunting dogs and growling hyenas,
run like the nonstop time and your destiny,
that follows to run after you despite the
bottleneck of your pursuits and balance,
we run though the maddening crowd
thronging the ration shop,
to be entitled for a ration card,
all for the rotten old rice with
wriggling worms predominately
surging just as the battalion,
run to the temple climb up the narrow
steps to reach atop, pray for the
Preyed upon,
We even tend to make the gods run
We the principled run, run until to
Reach our destination, yet not to run away,
Not to run away.

(169) Between this breath

      169)    Between this breath.....


Between this breath and the fragile body,
fragile for what is the barren frame
without the breath or life force
whatever you my call it,
that wears the indomitable soul
or the uncouth lazy verve less
human or entity whatever you call it,
the flesh which is embellished with
foppery coupled with fineness,
what passes on is only a vague
ephemeral show that blinds our
eyes that misleads our thinking,


Between this breath and the papers
on which flow the poignant sentiments
or the seasonal fecundity
ditty, at times gritty and granular,
what passes on is the imprint of
your alert mind inviting the double
readings of perverted thinking,


Between this breath and your existence
Surveyed by the vile and good,
balanced by patience and enduring,
what passes on is the life led or thrust,
but the life lived by you.

( 164) The God of all things.

   (164)      The God of all things


The God of all things, all pervading,
whether you sit on majestic throne,
with a rod of scepter, keeping the laws
like a regulator turning this left and right,
else things will be in a rust and crumble,
or beef or flesh of a fox gored by the lion,
be it in the form of green leaves sprouting
or stem shooting, or leaves withered like
dead bones to be powdered,
oh! The God of all things
creep under the sofa like a fairy,
or a merman fishing deep in the Blue,
be the form of fire emitting fire,
Fire destroying fire and livestock,
fire engulfing straw and crops,
Canonfodder and sugarcane,
Oh! The God of all things,
You hide in the hinges of the door,
or through the rills of banister,
You spread on the thatched roof,
hidden underneath like a proof,
God of all things, be you the life giving
Source of the embryo in the womb
of the mother,
oh! The God of all things, be thou the
Spirit of sanity, sensibility and sanctity,
in any man envenomed by
undue doubt and calumny
when poison in cup of wine,
poured by the mistress,
or  a woman of close-knit  bond,
The God of all things,
You are the ultimate
and things profound and Divine!

Gobbulle gobbulle 158)

Gobbulle gobbulle  158

I want to gobble a bottle of plain soda,
To quench my thirst in the hot sun,
After rummaging the library in the city,
Sweat and sweat and sweat,
Search after a theme of fine humour,
Ran down to a shop of snacks
Gobbled and gulped a bottle of soda
In turns and twists,
of plain water, wet my skirt through my jacket,
the gulping sound of water down my throat,
the note of gobbulle, gobbulle,
the rhythm of fine humour,
fun in the gulp followed by many hiccoughs,
gobbulle and gobbulle.

Graying into green 140

Graying into green  140

Upon the graying of my hair, the roots getting weakened
I am inclined not towards dying, scratch the cerebellum
to get dragged into the past of agitation and anxiety,
of mixed ignorance, desperate roving and curiosity,
like a bewildered pilot in the sky, in the mid air,
Can’t afford to get stuckup, surfacing neither,
yet diving, delving, into the past, the green memory
Is bitter and painful, takes the crushed bittergauard?
an inevitable therapy, gulping the stigma at one stroke,
keep counting the unaccounted devils’ disciples,
dismayed at my folly believing every nonbeliever of
the conscience, I log off from my computer to
make a trip towards my counter side, how heartening
to see the fields of sugarcane and plantain leaves,
the farmer’s wife offers the curd rice with the mango pickle,
the speeding squirrels and the rats from their improvised moles,
is it a fear of survival or a free play in the interface
of the paddy mounds, I know not,
At times we too crave to escape from the inevitable rut.