In a metal canister! Far up above the oceans!
On a journey that, a few centuries ago would have taken,
a few generations to go.
The Science and Technology that you trust to work -
pushing you into skies.
To Vandith, on the occasion of his NZ trip
To Vandith, on the occasion of his NZ trip
We bask in the joyous Sun and lay by the beach, yet,
the sea we see is relentless. The sea is infinite.
It was born tearing stones, from volcanic rains,
finding its way as calm streams cutting mountains.
Its billion flavors in their delicate cycles,
making concoctions of mimicking compounds,
churning simple gradients into cosmic possibilities -
gently breeding holy potions, letting life be.
The air we breathe, the plants that she lets grow.
Like a mother holding us in a kind balance.
With every tide teaching us lessons anew -
patting us in waves and nudging to explore.
The fresh waters she sends through clouds – as rains
for us to drench and play, and as rivers she reaches.
As lakes and ponds she morphs, as snow she calms,
quenching Earth in its love, giving reasons to go.
The sea is relentless. The sea is infinite.
Commissioned by 9 in Gokarna
‘His summer sketches are a must see!’, ‘The
compositions are nothing like what we have seen before’,
‘Way ahead of his times.’ – the famous critic claimed.
The word was out and all the enthusiasts
flocked to see the him paint – at the Tuileries Garden.
Near a favorite bench, away from the crowds,
like always – he set up his canvas, and prepared
his paints. He was hoping to have a calm study session.
He was imagining a Sunset over a lake,
the lake in soft ripples, surrounded by pines.
A couple in their thirties discovered him.
They recognized his long hair. They dared not
to disturb him. And then, another young man
also found him. They all watched him in reverence
and from a distance, as the artist immersed.
He soon realized that a crowd was standing behind,
watching him paint – speaking in whispers.
At first, it troubled him – for fame was new,
but then, he liked the attention – it is only human.
He smiled at them and someone nodded back.
They were eager to see the painting complete.
In a slow ballet – the pines trees, the ripples,
the Sunset appeared, and the crowd finally figured it!
They gasped as they saw a genius in it all.
He turned back – confused and misunderstood.
The painting felt incomplete to him.
He persisted. A hundred more delicate strokes -
dangerously close to over doing. And then,
adrift the lake, midst the shadows – a canoe emerged.
But no one else noticed – the twinkle in his eye.
I wish I told you,
that you tingle me inside,
with your little long looks
and honey dew eyes.
That your smile calms me,
like a white soft pillow -
where I can finally rest
and stare back into you,
for curious warmth.
But I drift. Lost in dreamland
of finding you – I fade.
There are days, when I wake up,
and punch myself, for having it,
and losing it all.
What will never be – is you and me.
Perhaps love will find us both,
If not each other – someone else.
I watch the Sun go down,
I see the Moon awake,
and listen to the river gently run,
The people are hustling.
The boats are sailing.
The geese are flying North.
Even the strollers are going,
And I sit – by the riverside,
relishing the world go by.
It is about finding a taste -
An exact taste of delicate food.
A yearning for a specific kind,
of a simple gravitating composition.
A flirty sweet, a zestful sour.
A texture melting to reality,
A mouthful of symphony,
Food that makes you happy.
The young man roamed the streets searching for a taste.
A taste he could not describe but wished was understood.
He tried the best places, he tried the best they had.
He tried till he was full, and it felt so empty.
It wasn’t his song and his hunger was stolen.
Aisles either side filled with books,
dangerously overloaded by their weight.
‘Byron, Keats, Neruda, Emily … ,
Frost, Shakespeare, Wordsworth …’
Like a child searching for a rare sea shell,
her eyes jumping between titles,
‘Not in the classics. At least not yet’,
‘Perhaps in an another section.’
And she walked to the new arrivals.
A million authors softly reading their works,
incomprehensible and intoxicating lines -
A paradise of treasure chests.
She stopped at a thin white book,
“A little less meaningless”, the title read.
With a nervous smile she pulled it out.
‘So … how was your first day?’, she asked.
Life goes on eh, Calvin?
You have all grown up now,
You have made new friends I see.
I am left here, piling dust. Forgotten.
In all the vanity,
If life ever finds you alone,
I in your quaintness,
for an adventure, await -
your imaginary friend. Forever.
The dying foam was dripping off her, wetting the floor beneath.
She held her unfinished whiskey and picks an old thick book,
and glides across the room to the fireplace – the only light in the room.
The whiskey spilling at her sway, yet gracefully remaining in the glass.
Like a girl plucking a flower, she listens to the crackling sounds of fire,
Opens the book and calmly puts it into the fire. The room suddenly dimmed.
The fire hushed. Its dying cries echoing in her eyes – reflecting.
But slowly a new light soared – beaming warmth into her, as it burnt,
She walks then to the thick brown curtains and pulls them off.
A blinding light rushed in. Ten thousand fireplaces at once! And through
her hair, over her water drop crystalline body, a Sun filled the room.
Like a bud, she opens her eyes, and half smiles. Over the mole side.
All his strengths would not matter. His wisdom was useless with this enemy.
Amid meadows, scores of people that he loved stood behind him,
he guarding them, like he had in all his life, never looking back.
The wind was blowing into him. He, who was the bravest of them all.
The people he fought for in all years, comrades who owed their lives to him,
were all helpless watching. Not one, not them all together could help.
Hastening his heavy breaths, raising his face, slowly drawing his katana,
He opened his eyes, facing his lone last battle, he stood no chance.
“Oblivion! Here I come!”, he yelled, as he ran towards the setting Sun.