December,
to me is the Spring time
of memories -
December to me
the birds of
memories flying back and forth,
December to me,
a ****-tail of sweet, delicious,
painful memories, emotions.
Recall me those misty
nights,
the whole city,
awashed with frothing milky light
the blue expanse up above
with stars mischievously
glinting with joy and the moon
casting quiet smiles
upon all the
children of God on Earth.
Recall me those days
walking along with him down a
straight tarred road
like a ribbon unrolled.
Both sides lined-up with
flats embellished with
colourful, flashing, scintillating X'mas stars
bunches of balloons, festoons,
chandeliers
X'mas cradles,
twinkling X'mas trees
like stars up in the sky
both he and me
wrapping shawls around
our coats
hand in hand
sharing honeyed memories and dreams
overflowing emotions
like rivers gushing forth
cracking jokes
witty he was
tongue-in-cheek he was
forcing me to
burst out laughing often
but
in the din of hooting
local trains
running to and fro non-stop
along parallel tracks
outside the flat walls
umpteen of the night-walkers,
love-birds like us
the middle-aged couples
the old-age love-birds
though rare just a
trickle
passing to and fro
in the piercing cold
joyous, rejoicing, such
piercing needles of cold
thrusting into our skin
all indelibly imprinted
on the tender walls of
my mind, his mind.
Now
after years since we
got separated
both at far ends of
the world
while the world
awaits excitedly with
unlimited patience
the birth of Infant Jesus
in a cattle shed at Bethlehem
with the angels
flying to earth from
heaven
conveying the message of
the arrival of
Saviour of mankind on earth
to liberate man from sins
to purify his soul and mind
yes visualising me very much
the X'mas carolls
Santa Clause with the
accompaniment of drum-beats
all sweet things
of the past
reach to his mind
reach my mind
memories never fail us.
December to me is
the Spring time of my memories
with him
December to him is
the Spring time of his memories
with me....

His youthful days in the city
have robbed him off the names
of flowers, plants, various
species of birds,
insects and animals
barring a few.
The names of the ones he was familiar
with during his childhood
days and teens
unfortunately are forgotten.
The surging crowds,
the speeding vehicles,
the trains blaring their
horns like tigers roaring and long hours
lost due to journeys
and round the
clock duties in which he immersed himself
to be precise, the mechanical life
spent in the mechanized ambience of
the cosmopolitan city
all took away from
him the  attractive
colours and fragrance of  various flowers,
the serene, calm and beauty of
the sylvan  surroundings
the pure air
the flowing streams which
gurgling  like girls wearing
anklets while walking
the early morning melodious music
of nightingales,
the chirping of birds and the music of crickets
have got lost in hustle and bustle of the
city life.
Now he in his
village sits alone
sadly and with aching heart
those invaluable gems of the days
he lost colouring his
days in the city……..
‘I have to learn from the beginning now,
sadly many invaluable things
have already vanished with the offensive of industrialization………’
-he told himself.

Faces and names
we like or detest
refuse to leave us
though we want them
vanish from our memory
which however
disappear from the recesses of our mind
like a few sentences
written over the sand of the sea-shore
are wiped  away by
the surging waves within seconds.
Faces and names
we love, like hate or fear
however are etched on
the walls of memory
in other words
our minds like bloating
papers absorb them
within split seconds.
Beauty or personal magnetism
are not the criteria
If so,
how come rough,
wicked and wily faces
stick to the walls of our minds.
There are no apparent reasons
to explain why such a
puzzle or could we call it phenomenon
lingers which is subjective
subjective only…….

Once,
a young man started
scaling the highest mountain of knowledge.
His one and only
aim was nothing but
conquer that mountain
before others forge ahead of him.
With the passage of years and years
reaching the half-way mark
his store-well of strength,
will and determination
gradually started drying up
which forced him to
abandon his mission
return to the point
from where he began scaling
up the mountain.
Like a rich man turning bankrupt
due to unexpected collapse of his business
the person who dreamt of conquering the
mountain of knowledge
could never fulfil his ambition.
Conquering the highest
mountain remains beyond the approach of each person on the face of earth…….

Riding the crest of popular wave
he found himself
catapulted to the throne of
the leader of the nation.
A visibly moved he,
sporting a beaming smile
addressed an ocean of cheering crowds
waving hands, displaying ‘V’signs
delivered a prolonged speech
driving his subjects drunk with joy unbound
like his predecessors who one by one
occupied the saddle
riding the crest of popular wave
made themselves endearing
to hundreds of thousands of masses.
They too delivered
fiery speeches with sugar-coated
pledges and promises
to wash away the grime of corruption,
terror and violence
elevating the masses to
a plain of sky-high dreams,
happy days of prosperity and hopes aplenty
unfortunately the suffering millions
found themselves taken  for a ride.
Now a new man in the garb of
a benevolent leader
in whom they reposed their full faith
the one and only reason being
public memory always remains short.
Election after election, ruler after ruler
who make false promises of new dawn
push their subjects to the abyss
of hardships, poverty, deaths
thereby  snuffing out
the flames of sweet morrows.

Despised and hated by majority
loved, feared and respected by minority
the malevolent dictator is always at the
mercy of a silent majority
which ‘he is unwilling to acknowledge
simply because of his loyal forces,
the so-called minority
the obedient dogs
always wagging their
tails before their master.
But when the silent majority
reach the bottom-line of their patience
they turn eloquent
gather under one umbrella
fight against the loyal militia
until the eloquent majority
arrive at the door of victory
and dethrone the dictator.
The boot-lickers of the ruthless dictator
flee for their life leaving their master in the lurch
who by that time will be chained
and imprisoned and brought to justice.
At last freedom knocks on the door of the nation
which was under the iron grip of
a merciless ruler
and a new era is born.

Hurdles, hurdles all the way
many a hurdle jumped
countless await to be jumped.
A short relief after each hurdle
it’s better than no relief.
Hurdles, hurdles all the way
many a hurdle jumped
countless await to be jumped
if a man/woman with much effort
jumps all the hurdles.
Then lie a long path
sans without hurdles
straight at times
long winding at other times
hair-pin curves at another times
Relaxation not allowed
and no turning back permitted
albeit the path is
littered with sharp stones,
thorns and ***-holes
barefooted is each man/woman.
Hurdles, hurdles all the way
many a hurdle jumped
countless await to be jumped
intricacies of life are strange
none knows what is yet to follow
each second, each minute, each hour
human beings are in a state of
suspended animation.
Hurdles, hurdles all the way,
many a hurdle jumped
countless await to be jumped….

In the sunrise of his life
cool, breezy sun enveloped his body
planted kisses on him,
fondled him, elated him.

In the noon of his life,
when the sun was at his peak
a fresh life rushed down his veins
like a stream
made him vibrant, energetic and dynamic
dreamt and wished an everlasting
noon throughout.

Time doesn’t have a stop
dragged him to
the precipice of sunset in his life
and like the sun loses his steam
towards  the end of the day
slowly, slowly
moved down in the western horizon,
he too lost his verve, vigour and virility
and was pushed into
a corner of his existence
with no sign of turning back……

Winds of change have begun
blowing across the nation
Winds of change have
started uprooting the
venomous trees of dictatorship.
Centuries and decades of
one-upmanship, slavery and
corruption have started
facing threats of extinction.
Dreams of bright morrow have started
brightening the eyes of
mankind
whose eyes were gradually
losing glimmer of hopes
and confidence.
Rivers of
blood might be flowing
in the not too distant future
lo and behold, all for
a better world, thus
we need to believe.
Listen to birth pangs of a new
era, a new beginning.
For all gains, some losses
ought to be expected.

Look, the child is sunk
in the sea of deep slumber
face down on the sea-shore.
Clad in his glittering,
exquisite red shirt
and tight blue jeans
and black shoes
he might have reached the sea-shore
without informing his elders.
See, he is always fond of
the vast expanse of the blue sea
which must have prompted
him to run away to the sea shore from home.
No one knows when he
reached the sea-shore.
One thing is certain
it was hours ago.
Wandering down the sea-shore
for a long time
under the blazing sun
he might have got tired and exhausted.
That might have led
him to fall asleep on the sea-shore
face down on the sand.
‘Aylaan, Aylaan, Aylaan’ -
somebody, perhaps his father or
some other elders from home
was heard calling him in a frightened voice
which was approaching nearer and nearer
from a long distance.
Naughty Aylaan might have
played prank on his elders.
In the meanwhile
a glum-faced, shocked  
soldier came near him
and saw his  lifeless body.
No gentleman, he hasn’t bid farewell to the world.
He’s sunk in deep, deep, deep sea of slumber.
Sure,  after sleep he will
wake up with a smile in his lips
‘See, I was playing
pranks on all’ – would be his response to all.

Down the flotsam and jetsam of the city
on a fiery sunny day
wandering along the
streets of the cosmopolitan city  
I was praying earnestly
for a secluded, serene, calm and tranquil corner
of the city which is ‘far from the madding crowd’
where silence, peace, coolness reigned supreme
in order to release the red hot lava
flowing down the volcano of my fretting and fuming mind
since more than an hour.
To my surprise and embarrassment
some unseen force led me to this Hall of Silence
to the music of silence.
In the pin drop silence
where almost hundred
people had assembled and meditated
I too joined them and took my seat in one
of the concrete chairs and started meditating.
How long I sat there, no idea
But I experienced the comfort of peace,
tranquility and serenity.
From that day onwards
I ensured that I should be there
whenever I get an
opportunity to be there seeking an outlet
from the rough and tumble of the city………

In the sunrise of his life
cool, breezy sun enveloped his body
planted kisses on him,
fondled him, elated him.

In the noon of his life,
when the sun was at his peak
a fresh life rushed down his veins
like a stream
made him vibrant, energetic and dynamic
dreamt and wished an everlasting
noon throughout.

Time doesn’t have a stop
dragged him to
the precipice of sunset in his life
and like the sun loses his steam
towards  the end of the day
slowly, slowly
moved down in the western horizon,
he too lost his verve, vigour and virility
and was pushed into
a corner of his existence
with no sign of turning back……

A dove with olive-branches
between its beaks
was flying from afar.
A hawk perching on
the branch of a tree
was watching the dove stealthily.
It was an accidental coincidence that
the dove espied the hawk
while flying nearer and nearer.
He with olive branches
between his beaks
was calm, quiet and fearless
flew closer and closer to the hawk
and perched beside him.
He looked askance at the hawk
meaning ‘why are you
sitting here’?
‘That is none of your
business’ was the angry
and curt response of the hawk.
The dove returned him a beaming smile.
The hawk was wondering
how come the dove
dares to sit near him
and look askance at him.
He forcefully snatched
an olive branch from the dove
and took it between his beaks.
Within a split-second
the hawk, like in a magic
metamorphosed into a dove
turned  peaceful, calm and quiet.
Both of them became friends
and both ‘messengers of peace’ flew away
to spread the message of
peace and harmony…across the world…..  
This is my wishful thinking

Bereft of ideas
he wandered around
sometimes hitting his head
sometimes hitting the wind
or gritting teeth.
Despite all his attempts
thinking even from different angles
though aware of the subject
ideas blessed him not.
Someone in him whispered in his ears,
thus he felt
to pen a beautiful poem.
First came to his mind
a sprawling beautiful garden
full of a variety of pretty flowers
and their fragrance
spreading all around in the cool breeze
of the morning with dew drops
dripping from the petals of flowers
and the beetles kissing
and ******* the honey from their lips.
The next moment
someone in him reminded
of several poems he had penned
touching the garden,
beautiful flowers,
and fragrance.
He dropped the thought
of garden,
flowers and the fragrance
blowing all around in the cool breeze
of the misty morning.
Then his imagination took wings
and the picture of two
lovers came to his mind,
their exchange of glances,
smiles, each of them planting kisses
with their passions rising high
and the first love-making
which lifted them to heaven.
But the next moment
someone in him reminded
‘you have already
penned the stories of
lovers and love-birds’.
Pondering over a new theme
he roamed around
and the picture of a vast desert
under fire-spitting sun entered his mind
with only  one person
walking aimlessly
and with thirst, tired and
exhausted he was
for want of a water-spring.
With no one around
to plead for at least
mouthful of water
to wet his dry lips and dry mouth
and empty stomach to regain
the vigour and strength.
No god blessed him
and he fell unconscious
in the  searing heat.
On thinking of the new theme
he said to himself :
‘in these times
mankind’s life on
the earth as a whole
is somewhat like
living in a desert
with love, peace, harmony
and all virtues
disappearing somewhere.’  
The someone in him
went silent………
A sign of approval…?

Looking from here
in this misty evening
the faraway hill and
its lush greenery enveloped by
the smoke screen of haze
like my  perplexed cloudy mind,
which hides my
otherwise
crystal-clear, transparent mind.
How long should I wait
for the rise of a
new Sun, a new dawn
which wipes  away the
haze of the faraway hill
unveiling the thick greenery
and the sky-touching hill.
How long should I wait
for the smoke screen of perplexity
covering my mind fades away.

Dreams, fascinating
ambitions, sky-high
thoughts, innovative
nerves, steely
resolve, firm.
'Iron in the soul',
fearless to the core,
empathetic,
compassionate,
loving, caring mind,
his/her precious assets.
Been through
good and bad times
been through hunger and hardships
poised, serene, tranquil
none was there to guide
philosopher, friend and guide
himself/herself.
The blessings in life
husband, wife, children
well-wishers,
fame and defamation
as also personal animosities
all visited later,
but no not to be cowed down
under pressure or blackmailing
all, the boon of Goddess of
words
the boon of sculpting of words
Words ever powerful and mighty
ever
he/she knows for certain
the only companions
throughout, till
the moment of breathing last
will be words, words and words.

Hoping against hopes,
she lied down, her ear glued to
the pillow
for the music of crickets
from afar,
instead,
needles of loud roars
greeted her piercing her tympanum
she lied down convulsing
in excruciating pain.
She lied down on her back,
keeping eyes wide open,
hoping against hopes
for a beautiful verdant
landscape,
thick green forests,
vast paddy fields
sparkling
quietly, shyly flowing stream
each side lined-up with pandanus,
like a silver line,
dividing the sprawling fields.
Instead
she saw,
sky-rocketing concrete forests
all around,
a hazy metropolis,
smoke billowing out
into the atmosphere.
Aloud she cried,
aloud she burst out laughing
to reach her loved ones afar.
Her cries,
laughters,
all returned, ‘undelivered’.
Woke up from the bed
took two ****** tablets,
gulped them down,
and slumped in the cot.
Seconds ticked past
drowned in the ocean of slumper
she lay
followed by a chain of dreams
the cherished dreams of
crickets chirping
beautiful verdant landscape,
thick green forests,
quietly, shyly flowing,
sparkling stream,
resembling a village lass,
like a silver line,
dividing vast paddy fields,
children in ‘birthday suits’
diving into it
swimming along
disturbing the tranquility of the stream.
Everything she enjoyed
her heart full to the brim with joy and delight.
Life though not worth living
life certainly worth dreaming.

THE CRUSHER

Like a sugar-cane vendor
crushing a bunch of sugar-cane
in his machine,
They squeezed us,
juice extracted,
handed over it on a platter
to the tourists.
"Nice, sweet, very sweet"-
Praised they in chorus
"It's our blood and sweat sirs",
We lamented in exhaustion.
Our cries,
Cries in the wilderness.

THE BEAST

The roar of the beast
terrifies us,
All voices get drowned in its roar,
The shape of the beast,
set off ripples down our spines,
Gigantic, with a wide,
sharp tongue,
Horrifies us.
The sight of the beast,
running towards us
in thirst and hunger,
baring its tongue,
disarms us, forces us
to surrender meekly,
without even a whimper,
followed by a line
of little beasts.
With its sharp, wide, tongue,
lifts our tents
within seconds,
and fill the belly of little beasts.
Our helpless cries, always cries in the wilderness.

DREAMS NIPPED IN BUD

They turn benign once in a while,
little students in uniforms,
followed by their masters,
with sympathies abound,
visit us.
They serve us sumptuous feasts,
pat on our backs,
our children watch them
with blank eyes, emaciated
they are, skinny they are,
Eat everything greedily
sumptuous feasts,
sweets following,
greedily, yes greedily.
Dreams they must have had
wings of ambitions they must had,
"Wings of fire" they must have had,
No let-up, though.
Their cries, like cries in the wilderness.

INDIAN WOMAN

One day we saw a young woman,
In her torn salwar and kameez,
in dishevelled hair.
Her face bruised and lips bleeding
Entering a police-station.
Crying she was.
Half an hour gone.
We saw her returning to the crowded city street,
Her expression stony,
Pause.
Like a mid-air explosion
a sudden impulse,
in a fit of rage and frustration,
She stripped herself off-
her salwar, kameez and shawl
In her bra and *******
talking loudly to herself,
gesturing wildly
frightening sight it was
her entire body too bleeding,
Down the roads she walked
swiftly to nowhere,
a visual feast to the passers by,
and commuters,
All in good humour.
Media men with their cameras followed her,
In a hurry to capture the sight,
without even leaving the minutest details,
the channels flashed the entire sight repeatedly,
The plight of an Indian woman,
the sight an eloquent one
Her cries like cries in the wilderness.

THE VICTIM

One day,
In the broad-daylight,
While city was reeling under
sweltering heat,
A few khaki-wallahs,
Reached our colony,
In a jeep.
Went on a hunt,
to each tent,
fished out a youth,
Bholaram, his name,
the red eyed demons,
Beat him, kicked him around,
punched him,
Rained thundering blows on him,
And reducing him to pulp,
Threw him into the vehicle,
And drove him away.
His parents, wife,
children screamed helplessly
beating their chests
Nothing heard of him
since then.
Their cries like cries in the wilderness.

Gritting his teeth
fretting and fuming
his eyes burning like
glowing embers
****** muscles tensed-up often
emotions-pain, anger,
shock, all flashed in his eyes.
Body language revealed his varying emotions
"If I were that hapless girl
(With fists ****** into the space as if to hit anyone)
"I would have bloodied,
his nose and reduced him into pulp"
"A poor girl squeezed like
a bunch of cane-sticks and thrown
down the drains"
"*******" - he fumed.
News caster bewildered, aghast and
embarassed.
The burning glowing
embers in his eyes
made all stunned
his voice like the
roar of a lion
"paedophiles , rapists
goons , looters
underworld , terrorists
roaming bloodhounds
flesh-traders - all on prowl
searching victims.
"Picture these ." he thundered.
Alloted time lapsed
A big 'Thank you ' by
The newscaster
He breathed easy
Cooling down
The Thespian cast a smile,
a beaming smile
perhaps at me, perhaps
who knows?

RIVER OF FREEDOM

A beautifully woven fabric
shining since decades
is being gradually torn asunder.
Brave and independent
voices being stifled and silenced.
Fear psychosis across the nation
like an epidemic is being affecting
countless of citizens
irrespective of writers,
artists, intellectuals
and common citizens.
Tolerance, patience
unity and serenity are being
driven to the brink of the abyss.
Elimination of poverty
of millions being spoken aloud in words
but not in deeds both here and abroad.
And the world is watching
and is gradually coming to grip with
story of the river of freedom
being  getting dried…..

Pleasurably, conveniently
seated in
the ring-side seats
we went on watching
the circus awashed with
neon lights.
Sometimes holding
breath, feeling our heartbeats
getting louder and louder
on watching the artists
performing adventures,
and
sometimes watching
the antics of the clowns,
dressed-up for such roles
we sat pretty
laughing aloud
which reverberated
around.
Hours lapsed
without we getting
aware of
immersed in the
surreal world of
adventures and pranks
combined
we got up, started
leaving one by one.
The faces and
features of the artists
adventures as well as
clowns
etched on the walls
of my mind.
On the way home
recalled me a
film on circus artists
risking lives
full of tension, laughs
and tears.
Behind the scenes,
after the day’s performance
was over
visualised I
circumstances that
drove them to a circus tent
their humble backgrounds
days of hunger
with fire in their bellies
blood, sweat and tears
and the never to be
attained dreams
each one shared
visited once again
the inner recesses of
my heart.
On second thoughts
like great
film directors holding
mirrors
to the society around
them
creating celluloid poems
I too held a mirror
to my surroundings
picturising in my mind
a circus tent
of which I am a part
better a particle
and felt like,
our society as a whole
inhabited by circus
artists

Road to freedom is

narrow, crater-filled,

broken and shattered.

Road to freedom is

a long-winding path

and each one should have

to march ahead bare-footed.

Road to freedom, like life

has its ups and downs

and the long march makes

all tired, exhausted and

bruised with blood oozing out.

Road to freedom always

demands will, determination and courage

to face all odds including

seemingly insurmountable obstructions.

Obstructions are the rival soldiers

out to force the freedom fighters

put a halt to their onward march.

But,

the ultimate victory is

that of freedom fighters

since they are determined to enter

Road to Freedom...

Like a man caught
in the labyrinth of life
like a butterfly
caught in a spider-web
like an insect
caught by lizard,
like a hen faints
at the very sight of a fox
and falls into his mouth
like a fish
caught in the net of a fisherman
like a mouse caught,
trapped in the mouth of a cat
like a girl trapped
in treacherous love,
and gang-*****
and ends in a brothel
for life
like an innocent being
caught, charged with ******
and sent to the gallows
Mother Earth, day by day
minute by minute, second by second
gets choked and drained-off its
essence and being made
uninhabitable....

While the world is asleep,
in the starry, moonlit nights,
after tense and tiresome evenings
caught in ocassional sleep
ocassional celestial dreams,
pay visits to me.
In my imaginary wings
fly me to the
shore of River Ganges,
enjoy me the beauty of
the Ganges and the landscape around
the great blue Himalayan mountains
witnessing
the celestial ambience
showers boundless blessings
upon me
to my supreme ecstasy.
Upon noticing vast expanse
of starry, moonlit azure skies
mirroring deep down,
in crystal-clear water,
Bending down,
take me in my cupped-palms
the golden moon, stars
upon bringing cupped-palms
close to my eyes
sense me the
loving touch and kisses
of the stars and moon
in abundance.
The smooth flowing
sparkling Ganges
sends me to
the level of supreme salvation
albeit for a few seconds.
Look me heaven-wards
and
in my imaginary wings
fly back
get drowned in deep sleep
a cheerful, contended,
serene, sound sleep.
Ocassional blessings
though.

One day we saw a young woman,
in her torn salwar and kameez,
in dishevelled hair,
her face bruised and lips bleeding
entering a police station
crying she was.
Half an hour gone.
We saw her returning to the crowded city street,
her expression stony,
Pause.
Like a mid-air explosion
a sudden impulse,
in a fit of rage and frustration,
she stripped herself off-
her salwar, kameez and shawl
in her bra and *******
talking loudly to herself,
gesturing wildly
frightening sight it was
her entire body too bleeding,
down the roads she walked
swiftly to nowhere,
a visual feast to the passers by,
and commuters,
all in good humour.
Media men with their cameras followed her-
in a hurry to capture the sight,
without even leaving the minutest details,
the channels flashed the entire sight repeatedly,
the plight of an Indian woman,
the sight an eloquent one
her cries like cries in the wilderness.