January 23, 2015
As fate would have it,
or perhaps, for choices he made,
he found himself on a deserted island.
The wild riches of the world he owned,
he owned them alone.
In the day, he buried in chores.
By evenings – he’d relish the Sun –
and its shimmering over the sea.
But he dreaded the nights.
For nights were dark.
And so, he kept in his cave –
a small flickering fire –
his warmth – an airy light.
He’d watch it dance and frail.
His kindle for sleepless nights.
Sometimes, it faintly made it.
A rare driftwood kept it going.
He feared it wouldn’t last forever.
And would guard it with his life,
against gusty winds and rising tides.
He thought of others like himself,
Stranded on other islands –
also alone, or alone with others.
He wondered if they too had a light,
If theirs too – was just as bright.
[Notes: Inspired by ?]
December 29, 2014
I, a traveler, often leave.
But each time as I reach my destination,
after all the jostling, the queuing,
and breaking free to exits,
in that exhausting moment –
I see strangers waiting,
with flowers, tears, hugs and kisses
to welcome their loved ones.
Skimming glimpses at exiting crowds,
by hairstyles, by gender, by clothing, by age.
Anxiously happy. Nervously smiling. Fidgeting.
Sometimes, by chance, they look into me,
for a brief blink of a moment,
searching for their love in me –
Hoping it was me, and quickly dismissing.
And in those eyes, at that instance,
I see a warmth that kindles in me –
A yearning for a place –
A place that I will reach.
October 22, 2014
I know of madness because I am an insomniac.
99 sheep, 98 sheep, 97 sheep. Sheep and sleep rhyme.
Is that why? A wordy puzzle to fool my mind?
Absorbed in self praise they are – the fools I mean,
Drowning in pools of apathy, proud and partying.
May be they know something I don’t. Who knows?
Sleep now, wake up early, and fried eggs for breakfast.
That reminds me, that new restaurant this Wednesday?
Must try something new. Double it with a movie? Hah!
But remember how we are – a sucker for company?
That one … never mind silly, I know me crazy.
Why do I do this to myself? Why am I unkind?
Relax, let go, sleep now, think of the sea, of the sky.
Of cool sands, of scents from the unsubtle winds.
What’s a sheep doing on the beach? or is it a goat?
What’s the time again – Too late to repair?
Must eat early, must eat less, must exercise,
Please! that’s one last thing I have left – a good taste.
Calm down, sleep now, all is forgotten come morning.
The itch doesn’t go away and another night burns.
Stumbling, sleepless, here we go again – into the day. Mad.
September 17, 2014
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
December 6, 2013
‘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.
September 20, 2013
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.
July 26, 2013
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.
July 26, 2013
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.
May 28, 2013
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.