July 13, 2016
In every village, there be a small tribe –
out looking for newer pastures.
They, who have a knack for knowing,
of learning tongues unheard,
with their special measures,
and cautious monocles.
Set out to explore – to see the unseen,
braving darkness and defeat,
on solo adventures.
They speak of their journeys,
of trinkets from distant lands –
imploring the commoner to travel,
alluring them with amusing gifts.
Slowly and surely, they move the masses,
to richer farms and better views.
Alas! the villagers take little notice –
of the progress in their lives.
And the tribe goes on – chasing wonder.
November 28, 2015
Ever feel a deafening urge to destroy? –
To destroy something beautiful.
Well, I do and I must murder this man –
he had his chances, and fair warnings.
Call him a fool – a martyr of love, lets say.
I have my reasons, and this is necessary.
It’s not easy to kill a person.
I must plan, I must be careful,
I must break him, till vengeance is mine.
I wanted to see him suffer,
to see him defeated, lost and hopeless.
So, I roughed him into a dark space,
for a long cruel time,
where no beam of light would come.
No sound of bird, or insect be heard.
A gray beard grew on him,
he seemed only wiser.
I laughed at him. He smiled back.
I took a blunt knife and stabbed in his chest,
I punched him on his nose, he bleed more,
bruised his face, and blued his eye.
“Do you have anything to say?”, I asked,
as I choked his throat – strangling him,
he looked into me, and I heard a “NO”.
I was killing him, and yet somehow,
I was the one that was afraid.
And as for him – he wouldn’t fucking die.
October 14, 2015
By the busy market square,
around the corner of Cherub street,
was the warmly lit Gustav’s music shop.
The shop had big glass windows,
held by brown oak wood frame.
Only few people stopped to see it’s insides –
A shiny clutter of intricate instruments,
carefully arranged golden jazz.
Immersed among the instruments,
on a small chair – sat old Mr. Gustav –
with his long gray beard and his pot belly,
inspecting numbers from a worn out book,
as he always did, many times – every day.
You see, business was slow, slower than last year.
He was reminded of something, over his spectacles,
he checked the time and swiftly got up.
He picked his big bass saxophone and
opened the door – a prelude of chimes.
Now was the favorite part of his work –
The school would finish for the day,
and his audience would walk by.
In the commotion of the outsides,
From the other side of the square,
filled with energy – a new life poured in.
Taking a deep breath he tested his instrument,
it’s echoing sound turning many heads,
which quickly went back to their murmurs.
Like a small streak in the vast disorder –
little Timothee ran towards the music shop and
stopped at a distance, by the street lamp, in reverence.
Agape, twisting his legs in shyness, he waited.
Music. Vibrations. Resonance.
A melodious everyday routine filled a void.
April 6, 2015
The turbid clouded skies slowly cleared,
opening curtains to a dark sacred night –
To the princess in her star studded gown.
Her frills flowing in a mystic dance,
announce her presence in subtle majesty,
in strokes of green, of pink, of pale blue.
In ever changing playful streams,
going from nowhere to somewhere.
Sinuous, smooth, sublime, surreal.
The twinkles wearing off her gown,
showering upon us as divine trinkets,
filling our poor souls in calm memories.
Such the melancholy of our lives –
Of beauty that cannot be possessed,
and of journeys that must end.
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.