A morning must bring a poem

A morning must bring a poem

along with the sun

and a night must end with a story.

My grandfather used to say this.

The day he went in search of a pond

inside the bright fullmoon,

stories inside me

oozed out from the pores of my skin

and poems dissolved

in my tears.

For many days and nights,

I roamed this mortal earth

like the cursed son of Drona-

a guilty warrior,

devoid of any pain or pleasure.

When I returned,

I saw a tuberose in his garden

spreading wings every night

to reach the periodic moon,

perfuming my heart.

Contented and tireless in its efforts.

Night watches tuberose's ascent

to embrace a distant dream

and the morning bee hums

love drenched sweet songs.

This morning,

after years of musing,

I felt:

I must bring you a poem

to tell the story of a tuberose

in the garden of my grandfather.

Rajnigandha / Raat ki raani / tuberose

A DEATH POEM

I prefer a comfortable death

a nice, cosy, lazy one.

Say, swimming naked in a pool

and the light in the champagne 

leaves the glass.

May be, I would like to go for a short walk

and see things around me.

Some "hello",

some "how are you"

and death would catch me in a cough.

I don't mind a little excitement though.

Like in movies,

there should be a surprise element too.

I prefer a meteoritic death,

a holocaust. 

Something sudden.

Clear and clean.

I prefer a comfortable death

a nice, cosy, lazy one.

I would like to die

looking at a painting,

staring into Monalisa's smile.

A little ache in my heart

and I change my glance

outside the window.

"There, there goes a humming bird."

I would stretch my arms,

lying on your lap.

Blue eyes.

I take a deep breath

and the ocean engulfs me.

Your face fades

like the ashes of a love poem.

I wish for a younger you,

no grey hair please.

I want the ending perfect,

beautiful.

I prefer a comfortable death

a nice, cosy, lazy one.

I prefer lying on my bed,

eyes closed.

An empty clothes line

hangs on the roof top.

To a Cellphone...

"Hey, don't feel bad.

Don't be sad." She says,

"Take me in your hand

And do whatever you may."

'But you are cold,' I retort

'Cold like the winter night.

Dead. Dead on the metal sides.

You can never please me.'

Hey, don't judge me from my shields.

Look inside.

See the warmth in me:

Hidden voices locked away,

Tap me with your fingertips.

But you are just a slave of mine.

You don't have your own mind.

You do whatever you are told.

No ma'm, Never.

You are never gonna be bold.

Hey baby, no need to be rude.

I am just trying to help you dude.

Come on: Now play me.

Believe me,

Your heart is with me.

Watching, Talking, Singing, Dancing- 

Dancing, Singing, Talking, Watching.

Come, come sleep with me.

But,

But what would I do

When you are gone ?

Who will wake me up

When it is dawn ?

Who will sleep on my chest ?

Who will tell me the time

When I am in a test ? 

What if,

What if, like last Sunday

You stop responding ?

What if, you can't remember my fingers ?

What if, all hell break out 

And God forbid,

I smash you on the ground,

Without a moment's doubt ?

Oh baby!

What would I do

When the cold inside you

And the cold inside me

Would freeze you ?

Baby, baby,

Listen to me,

Stay a little while with me

Before you sister down the store

Comes rushing towards me.

If this is going to be...

If this is going to be my last poem,

I would like this to start with a mango.

A mango I ate yesterday after lunch.

Warm, juicy flesh,

Sweet, delicate,

Yellow moon. 

My heart was at content then;

But my hunger is not yet satiated.

If this is going to be my last poem,

Let it end with a mango,

If not available,

An image of a mango will do.

Put it on another page,

side by side with the letters of this poem

When I am gone.

APPLE

Bring me the first bird

Who beaked into the juicy flesh of apple,

Chirped

And tales of a fruit

Spread like a silky blanket

Around the globe.

Bring me the first woman

Who hold the apple in her naked hands,

Put it in her curious mouth

And the bite took the shape of a serpent,

Bifurcating the earth in good and evil.

Bring me the first man

Who closed his hands round the neck of the apple,

Cried in his wildest voice:

" You are my apple,

The only apple, the golden apple,

The most beautiful apple in the world."

Bring me Antonio

Or anyone from Venice

Who thinks that a 

Goodly apple is rotten at the heart.

Bring me the first doctor of England

Who lost his bread

Because the queen gave away 

Free apples everyday.

Bring me those, first of their kind,

Whose job is to sell apples like hotcakes,

Metal boxes with tiny semi-metals inside

That I can't eat.

Bring me all the apple pies,

Apple cheeks, Apple eyes

And all the Adam's apples of this planet.

Bring me all these first,

Be fast,

Then I will tell you

The story of the APPLE.

Reading a Book

(Dedicated to Billy Collins)

When I finish reading a book, 

What I remember is the name of the author and the book

And vaguely, like the dying note of a sad song,

the theme of the book.

I leave behind thousands of words written

And think about the man who lived, fought and lived in the book.

I caress the cover, the smooth hard paper bound,

I know I have a world in my hand, a world that is not mine.

You wont believe it, sometimes 

The characters take hold of my collar 

And drag me to the time and space

Where it all had happened.

I stay there,

Say for a fortnight or so

And witness the universe changing it's color.

I come back unharmed and unperturbed,

But the feeling of staying

Right in the middle of the plot,

Awakened all the time

Except for a doze of sleep whenever I paused

Remains with me.

When I return,

I generally count the number of stations

I have been in this journey,

This time it was 173.

Let me make tea for you first

Let me make tea for you first,

then you start a revolution.

I take the kettle in one hand,

careful,

my kettle has a crooked tail,

put it on the face of the stove.

Light a matchstick,

a red star on its cover

and the darkness of kitchen ascends above.

With shouts, slogans and war cries in the background,

I keep a constant vigil on the water that boils:

First the small drops bubbling out

then the bigger ones pop in

and in no time, 

I witness a mass movement.

Your talk about Boston Tea Party has no end;

But one thing I know,

Asaam tea is good 

boosts my mood.

I add a spoonful of tea and half a spoon sugar,

no spices, mind you.

I like it raw, unmarred passion.

I see the water changing its color:

Hues of a new sun or a dying one,

I am not sure.

The city bathing in the red colored revolution,

blood spilling over every gutters and sewers around.

You dreamt and told me about once,

I was so scared that day,

I hated all the bright colors.

Today I see 

tea is good for health.

"Hey, wait, wait!

First have your tea

then bring the storm home in the evening."

About Blisters of Defeat

There is no poem about blisters of defeat.

I went to a hill oneday

across gray trees

thick with fatigue.

I broke a finger,

made a stick out of it

and promised not to blink.

Clearing tangles of branches,

cobwebs of history,

I advanced swinging the stick

one way or the other

like an ancient warrior.

Where the stick touched the ground

grayness made way for the green

and patches of grass appeared

replacing worn out big trees.

Breezes that once swelled with my sweat and pain

now became free from my judgements

loitoring around like a jubilant child.

I settled down on a rock of the lost world,

perched on the top of the hill,

opened my shoes.

As I stroked the sol of my feet

drops of dew surfaced,

tickling me,

bringing me back to the

openness of space and time.

I filled my lungs with a gulp of cool air,

saw the landscapes,

the earth I had left in the morning,

" Oh, yeah!" , I sighed,

"It is not about blisters of defeat."

As I sat

As I sat on a chair

At a corner of the street,

Sector 29, Vashi, Navi Mumbai:

Raindrops drizzled down

Like the songs of mother.

First the humming,

Slowly sweeping,

Beats growing,

Louder

And louder;

But never harsh.

Gentle leaves and flowers of Gulmohar

swinging in the wind

adding to the symphony.

Occasional lightning

Reminded me of her laughter,

Red-ribboned maiden girl

Far away in the Western Ghats.

When the pitch waned,

Small onion pakoras faded away

From the surface of a piece of paper

And when I sipped tea

From the mouth of an earthen cup,

The music had left the earth;

Only reverberating

In the wet air around my face.

I dropped the empty cup on the ground,

A thud

And the paper napkin flew away from my hand

Fell squarely on the cup:

A corpse covered in white cloth.

Then I left my chair

At the corner of that street.

Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.


Say, 
I can write, say:
You are here;
The red-polished long fingernails of yours
Shyly resting on your knee;
Palms flattened;
You are sitting in front of me
And you are not quite here.
Your eyes are on the wall clock;
Looking beyond time
And the stillness of your earring
Is unbearable for me.


Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I can write, say:
You have brought me sweets.
The red-colored thinly illuminating paper
Unwrapped;
Opened box of life
And the sweetness is long gone;
Thick fungus has eaten it's way.
May be this is the last thing you have offered me,
May be not;
I know for sure I want to savor them
And you don't let me.


Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I can write, say:
You are collecting your things;
Your purse, your cell phone and few things more.
You are taking my permission to leave
And I am trying hard to see
Few droplets of tears
Forming inside the brown sunglasses;
So brown & so dark
And I fail to see any.


Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
May be, I recognize you,
May be, I don't.
Love is so short;
Memories are so long.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines of all time.




* An attempt to mimic the maestro.

Write

Write.


Write my friend,write.
Write until your fingers bleed
And a few drops of blood gleam 
On the blank pages of history.


Write.
Write until your pen bends 
On the tipsy land 
Of barren trees and forsaken geography.


Write.
Write until the scratch on paper
Is seen from the doors of heaven
And hell too.


Write.
Write till you write RIGHT.
Because that's what you want to;
You need to; you have to
And you write,
Until you are right.

PAPER BOATS

Like all the other kids in school
I liked balloons, sweets, chocolates
And paper boats.

Standing among drizzles
Droplets sprinkling on my face,
I used to set my hand made paper boat
To sail to the ocean
Where a beautiful princess
Cried blue tears
Locked
By the wicked witch.
My boats carried
Promises of all colors
Asking her to be strong
Stay calm
Till the day
When I will come
To rescue her
From the tormenting sea.

My paper boats crashed
In the mumble-tumble of the narrow stream
That flowed touching my school.
My words washed away
By the misty wind
And the bursting stream.
My promises to save her
Tethered
Buried in the pebbles and mud.

Like school kids
I still like making paper boats.
I watch them
Drift
Passing me
My school
Slowly, away from me
Sadly, crashing,
Unfolding,
Removing stains of ink,
Turing into pieces of paper.

ELEVEN

I was eleven then.
One plus one is two;
That's all I knew.


The one who pointed towards the sun
Showed me to see directly into its eyes
Raising chin.
Is now a star among many
That's what Grandma used to say.


Many nights, I found him
Blinking
Sometimes waving his hands for me;
Many a nights, I lost him
Because a bird called me
With many a songs of her.


The one who gave me a parrot
Showed us how to sing
Throbbing throat 
Fair as the moon light.
Is now a bird among many
That's what Grandma used to say.


I remember sitting with Grandma
Under starry skies
I remember talking to the stars and the birds
Under dry caresses
I remember spending nights on her lap
Asking her 
How come one plus one is two ?
Why not three, four or eleven ?
Why not zero ?
Where did my father go ?
Where did my mother go ?
Why aren't they near me anymore ?


You are eleven now;
That's what Grandma used to say.
That's what she used to say.