(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.