Quintet-- They don’t want their abode to miss.

          Quintet--   They  don’t  want   their   abode   to  miss.

To   lay   a   pipe     I dug    a   ground   on  the  road,

Rugged  stones, mud   and  clay   and  anthills

Inside    the  murky ,  dormant   they play   inroad;

Still   they  can  withstand    heavy    bore  and     goad,

Roll  and  roll, they  don’t  want their  abodes  to  miss.

The Motel.

   The    Motel. ( Modelled on inns, with a modern tinge).

The  politicised   Agnostic  platform

Throbs   with   debates   and wranglers

Full  throated    public  harangues,     

The  acoustics   tremble  of  trepidation .

Here, liveried worker in the motel

Meticulously  holds  the    cups  and dishes

For  there,  ekes  out   a   precarious

Living,   sustains    his   meagre  earning job.

There is also  the  modernised   maid

 Uplifted   hair, a  mobile  tucked up

In  her sari, every now  and then

Giving   instructions  to her  daughter.

It is  the doormat she shrugs gently

While  her new  broom   touches  the floor,

The  coloured  mat can   stand three  weeks

Before  it  craves for  washing in the bucket,

Tangibly   by   the  entrance    a  cat, a  puppy

Grimace   at  the  passes by. Hungry  visitors

throng   in , a  Mahatma  Gandhi,  Nehru

and   Mother   Teresa   on the wall  bless  the motel. 

Some contradictions ---quatrains

    Some  contradictions--  quatrains 

In   the squareness  of  this   Earth,  

We  come rounding, rounded  up. 

Nowhere, there is    mound of   Dearth 

Of  spiritual  and cultural   popping   up.

 pine  and cedar  turn  and  stand    opposite ,

grass  and  grass hopper  intertwine,

timber   and  smoke  seem   Apposite,

Satan    and    sardonic   negative    twain.  

Yet, somewhere  there is  a vehement voice .

Candle lamp    and  glow-worm  merge .

At   the  chapel,   there  the  priest   is,

Avowed    notions   Submerge .

In  the   squareness    of   this  Earth,

We   come   rounding, rounded  up.

Yet,  so much  of  tantrums  beneath ,

We come rounding, rounded up.

I

A memory, A Home, and piece of Fine writing

A   Memory,  a  Home,   and  a piece of   Fine  writing.

 A Memory, inerasable, lasting unto   the   last

Precious  moment   of   your  final  breath,

As   fresh  as Lavender,  as  pure ,pristine, holy

As  Altar  of   Vedic     rituals;

A  home   of  ancestral   pillared    conduction,   

With   a  provision  of  tiny  domes for

Sparrows  to  twitter  and   chat ,not  envying,                                

 Lesson  of  reprimand  for  those

Bickering    for   division of    land  and field,

Fiction  beyond  the  Thriller, crime  and

 romance , a  delectable   piece of  poetry,

Heart’s  mysterious   secret identity.

The after journey

  The  after  journey.

Karma    steers   the  chariot, in  slow  motion,

One  who  already  breathed out  is , without   motion

The charioteer ,gibberish  appears,

Every now  and then ,looks back, giggles,

It  is   a  long  way ,  again, to  find   a suitable

temperament   and   Body   to  fix  you amiable,

your   comrade the  SOUL ,already wanders along,

to   shake  hands   with one  to get  along.    

The Ganges is Eternal, Banaras is Eternal.

The  Ganges  is Eternal, Banaras is Eternal.

 Kasi   kshetram(  holy  city),or  Banaras

Gurgling  with  the  waters, Sun’s  rays

almost    horizontal , could  be

They    also   take    a   dip.

Now  to  CLEANSE  the    fossil,

Fulminated  by   the spooky,

Smell of  the  dead, burning   bodies ..

The  Ganges   is  holy, ETERNAL, purifying,

Established     Belief  runs.

I  visit  the  holy  city treading 

The  steps frequented , habituated  

By  the  hawkers,  vendors of

Idols, coppers  urns, sacred  idols

On the steps, in shops.

The  urn ,carrying my grand mother’s

ashes, travels  the cosy A/C coach ,

When  alive, she battling  with  logs

Of  fire wood, tending  cows,

Travels  now   to be immersed

In the  holy  river. She lived   a  life

Of  Dignity, Silent  suffering.

Yonder,  there are many dead bodies,

Many  urns of  ashes getting  immersed,

The  Ganges is Eternal,

Where   Life  and   Death

merge   and   get resuscitated ,

The  Ganges is  Eternal,

Pundits   are   still  chanting,

Vibration  goes  on.

Journeys

Journeys.

It  is  not  a  journey  across  space,

Commitment  and  dedication  involving

The   zone  factor of  risk too,

It is  a  journey   across  your

mental  plane , factual  rhythms

of   cerebellum  quickly  move along.    

That  was the  day , me  seated  in

The  corner  of  intercity express

From  Bangor  to Euston ,

Slowly  the  Sun   warms up,

gobbles  not   the  cloudy bouts, 

allowing  them  to go.

The   glossy  river  on my  left,

foamy  and  dogmatic too:

As  the  train  speed  past,

ancient    mystery is  repeatedly

unravelled.  Rivers  and  rocky

mountains , embodiments of

Eternity’s   monuments, nullifying

Our  dogma of scepticism

agnosticism  too. In Milton Keynes

I see  a traveller  chains  his  child,

 Dragging ,  know  not  why?

Discipline   reinforced this way,

Or  safety ensured,

to   assure  himself,

I recollected in  India,

Fire  engulfed  the

mentally   retarded ,charred  whose

 legs were chained, what more

cruel ,  barbarous , to  those

innocent  victims?

Would   homage  punctual

Every year  retrieve them, dumbfounded?

Watching through my kitchen window.

As   I was watching   through my kitchen   window
Criss   crossed  by  barbed wires   mesh,

Doves, sparrows    and    crows  visit   the

Sixth   storied    window  slabs , peck,

Walk  like  a  security  guard,

 Share  the  food  particles  offered

By  housewives, a ritualistic  process

To  remember and worship the dead 

and  gone.    Belief ,  grand  visitation 

through  these  birds.

 

Same time  a    flash in  my  memory

Newspaper   reports   somebody

Committed  suicide  due to debt

Jumping off   from  top  floor;

Else   where similar case due

to   failure  in  love.  

I   ponder  why  these  cowards

Have  scant  respects for  their  souls

Precious  life , only one

 we know  In this   Birth?   

In side  the  kitchen 

So  much happens,

 Milk boiler whistles,

Hot pellets  of  water

Through  the  whistle  gap,

Boiling  point   is over.

Metro  water  tap    which is

not    closed  completely,

gives    outbursts  of

starting   trouble.

I open  my    refrigerator

My  eye  captures  an

American  emblem,

Toy   aircraft  affixed 

On  the   crimson   door,

Oh! This  American  desire

Is  both   a   miracle and  a  mirage,

A  wonder   working  machine 

and   elusive   stick.

All depends upon  the  deserving.

The  Avatar, embedded or

Seated   in  my  heart,

By  intuitive  turns,

Affirms, work   hard,

Grip   the   quill   with 

diligence    and  flow.

I will  take  you  to

INGGLANDU  AND  AM...ERICA.

The Sky.

THE    SKY.

 Mythically   Vast,   delectably  azure,

Unfold able , cute   and  each

twinkling  star  is  an introduction

to  a   tale  of  bewitching   romance:

At  times , when your mood  is  upset,

 thundering, dark  and devilish,

Satanic   clouds    emitting 

anger  and fury:

When   I fly high in the sky,

 Feel  like   touching  you

 My  friend, my  poetic  aura,

Your   suzerainty,  I worship.

 Imagine,folding  and  bringing 

Into  the aircraft, but  your

elusive , expansive  show

laughs    at my folly!