(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.

Will you come tonight?

Will you come tonight?

will you come tonight?
like an ethereal minstrel
to pour the melody of oaken flute
of solace and soothing words
into our distressed soul,
and the tired bodies- me and my son,
lurk in a corner, need
your feather touch of comfort,
will you come tonight?
will you come tonight?
like a piercing gush of wind
blowing the tin plate on the
open terrace of the flat,
will you come tonight to make
love and romping romance?
as scandalized by them, when
truly you are unseen and
Shapeless and devoid of sex,
Will you come tonight to gore
the horrendous and view the weird?
Will you come tonight?
to watch the shutters of the
departmental store down but
still the humanity rush to make
the last minute purchase of curd and
cucumber for the next day,
for the salad on the plates,
to counteract the heat and sweat,
will you come tonight?
to sing lullaby
to many unborn babies,
in and around the environment.
Yes, you will come tonight,
And many nights to come
to protect the inmates of the house.

The night is tough

The night is tough

The night is tough,
the night is indeed to-u-gh,
the cool breeze through my window
Through the embroidered curtain,
also fails for the trees fail,
the cute little friend,
my pc does not cooperate
for my fingers refuse to ply
on the pure white keyboard,
a timely gift by my uncle,
as sensible people are wont to react
keeping in tune with the times,

The white majestic key-board,
Neatly truncated with black letters,
just as a beautiful white neck,
ornate with black crystal necklace,
is momentarily idle on the table,
the usually roaring beach is calm
and the surrounding trees
are sedate and withhold the branches,
a sadism and cessation to keep
mankind in tantrum,

The night is tough
for only creatitivity and serenity
Pervades and anything pure and good
is tough and uncompromising,
the night is tough,
for there is no uncouth flavor of mundane
distraction and there is no bestial
for there is no man in the house,

The night is not tough,
for my inspirational thoughts
fly back on the wheels
for I am drowsy and fall into sleep.

160) The path

   160)   The path


When I am on the road grueling
on the prospect of a pathless journey,
sweat and struggle make me
run like a wounded elephant calf,
yes, the young calf, timid,
runs towards a pit
to fall to escape the wrath of the giants
of forest, such sights are familiar to me,
Me ,too the sight of a path is dim and distant,
in the thick forest of multi paths
negotiated by spiraling trees and fences,
the elephant the panther have
hidden behind some bushy plants,
peep out after rocky bombs stop pouring;
you counteract many a thorny bushy vile,
just as a knave wandering too many paths,
or a pig weltering in the slime,
too many paths ill suited,
you swoon to select a path ,
the business of path finding is
laborious and eluding,
I go to the clear pond where
the swan sways boat like and the
grazing cows by the green border
clear my inhibitions,
the path of Nature is the path
Preferred and practiced.

It is not the road not taken - a transcreation

It is not the road not taken - a transcreation

It is not the road not taken,
I encounter the same madding crowd
on the same intriguing paths,
much traveled;
I feel the same hurried footsteps
of humdrum men, amidst the deep
Breadth of the blue,
the same food prints on
the sands of time's eternity.

Yet I miss your pearly laughter
tinged with vibration,
craving for a niche in heart's nest,
I am alone here pining and plodding,
devoid of celebration of life.

Hunger, when I was only ten

Hunger, when I was only ten

I was, young, ten, tender, ten only,
Not old enough to know the travails of
Poverty,
Hunger ate me alive,
When I starved hunger ate me alive,
I ran home from the school,
Ran faster than my body could sustain,
gulping water from the street tap,
The speed was breathless, speechless,
Straight ran into the kitchen,
To see the firewood was drenched,
For the thatched roof was leaky,
As if to shed tears for the desperate,
I, helpless, curled up in a corner,
Cursing my existence,
Befriending the cute kitten.

Who was my best friend?

Who was my best friend?

When hunger ate me alive,
When like the mischievous group
Of orangutans jumping from
One tree to another,
My belly was pinching poked
By the insides, when food was
Available in scarce, when shops
Were closed due to blackout,
When I could not enjoy the merry go
Round in the park and the prattles of
The children for my utterance each
Minute was construed a prank
by many wiseacres,
when my frantic phone call
to a life long friend was
turned down with a cold nod,
his being away at once for an
urgent purpose,
when currency urges to turn a concubine
to the much coveted wife’s position,
when kith and kin looked askance
when I retired voluntary, in the
matrimonial markets money alone plays
a roll more effective than the
roll call of many factors,
when buttermilk suffice both my
hunger and anger, I kiss the jar
when the shady tree was felled down,
Unauthorized and untimely,
the axe of the cruel hand was to be
cut off in a scuffle,
Kidneys are purchased and
Bargained and sold it was a
Rude shock for the unexpected,
The negative factor and the
Realization of the reality
To open my eyes in the future
Is my best and lasting friend.

Tonight is an unusual night 136

Tonight is an unusual night  136


Tonight is an unusual night,
for after the day’s hard labor
and the mute witness of the mindless
actions of men over many dumb and
desperate, deviled, my mind questions
my self, why should I be silent?
It results only in the thanksgiving,
to God for this.
Tonight is an unusual night,
for a view from my balcony
takes me on to many sights
when on the other side many
Sightless sigh for the depravity.
Tonight is an unusual night
for the land is wet and the
breeze carries the dampening
aura of the soil and pleasant
augury for the passersby.
Tonight is an unusual night
for I could view the aircraft
playing hide and seek and the
wink by the wheels, make me merry.
Tonight is an unusual night
for my pen records how the
Small and silly think they are
Good and wise in this generous land,
for the land which they tread upon
bears them too with patience

My glasses

My glasses

When I see through my dust-laden looking glasses
For want of a soft, hand kerchief, handy and embroidered,
Not the libidinous one playing havoc in cherub like Desdemona,
This cloth was dropped in the moving bus, how much of wants
and wishes to be fulfilled, I see, men and matter are
Sandwiched between what not and where;
Nearby a bunk a lanky boy in rags selling a lottery ticket
To recharge the battery of his living, lacking the education
even minimal to blame the society or discreet enough to
convert his birth to his advantage, not vile enough to
blame his parents to have brought him to this soil
of adversity and bonded lab our, cannot but think of his
sister with myriad dreams of her future but scratching her
hair domineered by lice and dandruff, soon a stern call
from her step- mother to fetch a pail of water from the
adjoining well, failing which not a drop of tea to quench her
thirst, I bend down to pick up my spectacles, fallen on the
mound, only to see the scratches, so much more to see through
the distorted lines, somuch to see through humanity
so profound to understand the living space.

What mythological creature are you?

What mythological creature are you?

What mythological creature are you?
Are you born with siblings, meant to
lead an ordinary life of marry and tarry,
or preordained to be a sage to preach and protect
the prurient and purblind and purvey many,
unseen, yet seeing and shelving,
just as the roaring waterfalls you are
Uncontrollable and warring and curing,
Is your birth ordained by the divine?
or disdained by the growing, numberless,
or the summing up of all heaven’s blessings
slated for this earth, you can be roped by the fire,
Unaffected, unscathed, dive deep into the water,
Redeem the one from sinking and submerge,
Sing the songs and shrink and shrivel
Yet move less as a stone, making miracles,
Like the revolving flower of rose petals
On the God head are you the trinity
The creator, protector and destroyer.