"rickshaw" poems
So aged he is, but still so zealous for his job.
It feels like he has only known his rickshaw.
The ancient bard in him tells Punjabi poems.
He belies his wrinkles as he pedals his ride.
Just putting to shame his fellow rickshaw pullers.
None remembers or even cares to know his name.
He just pedals and remembers his deceased wife.
He told me a Punjabi tale of partition...
*"We were really happy when it happened,
I was 16 and married to my beautiful wife,
But then he pressed for a separate Pakistan,
Just so much wicked was this demand of his,
Punjab was alight due to some people's doing,
We were to cross river Ravi en route to Amritsar,
In Lahore my childhood home was burnt to ashes,
My beautiful wife was still so young at that time,
She was ***** on the banks of river Ravi & killed,
In no cloth was she draped as they burnt her body,
After pouring whiskey all over her lifeless body."*
His voice broke and a stream of tears escaped,
Down his eyes they flowed like the river Ravi,
*"In front of my two eyes the men had ***** her,
Her mistake? Looking at them once & smiling,
Sin as great to be punished by such brutal drab?
What God, Ishwar or Allah did they follow?
I have known all & none advocates ****
To which parents could they born?
Must be the devil & the witch."*
By now his nose was red and his sobs audible.
He said, *"She was not just ***** she was also killed,"*
The ancient rickshaw puller gasped for breath as he said,
"Would the high heavens thank them for killing my wife,
She was a Hindu and an idolater with my mangalsootra,
Why they spared my life I have no idea but just remorse,
Will their Allah or God spare them on Doomsday?"
==============
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 6:15 AM UTC
First things first
I'd like to apologise
I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal
I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies
I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction
I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly
Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds
My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
As buildings and tea stalls
and compiled garbage
passed by us, and led to other
buildings and tea stalls
and compiled garbage,
it was clear that the road ahead had many
turns and twists.
It was clear that
if, and only if, we went straight
we'd end up colliding into a building, or a tea stall,
or compiled garbage.
But fortunately for us,
we know better.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
Covent Garden.
Midnight.
Revellers and tourists combined.
The market is heaving.
Last trains are leaving.
An eclectic mix to broaden the mind.
Covent Garden.
2am.
The place is pretty quiet.
Pubs have closed.
Clubs.... God knows.
The tourists have frozen their riot.
Covent Garden.
4am.
A drunkard stumbles by.
Flood lit shops.
A rickshaw stops.
The backdrop against a reddish
sky.
Covent Garden.
6am.
Blokes lurk down Langley street.
The glint of a blade.
A blur in the shade.
Lava tip of cigarette falls to a strangers feet.
Covent Garden.
8am.
Commuters emerge from underground stations.
Workers prepare.
Visitors beware.
Pick pockets attracted like gravitation.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Seated beside you in a bicycle rickshaw,
eventide of your last New Delhi day
gathering itself all around us.
Silk from my sari encircles my head,
shoulders warmed by a winter shawl.
Your heavy beige mantle and dhoti,
frame a man as tall as a tree, at least to me.
There is no need for words.
I may have been singing a bhajan to you,
just quietly, as shop lights came on
in the deepening blue.
Perfection finds us in the briefest of moments.
Wherever you are now, timelessness
governs friendships formed
in the Land of the Veda.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
From where I sit in this bicycle rickshaw
everything is in motion.
Balloons, massed into colourful clouds,
ride in the rickshaw just ahead.
Brahmin cows walk by, unconcerned
by the tiny cars speeding and honking.
People of every age and description
walk towards the stalls and shops.
From where I sit in this bicycle rickshaw
pale pink sari fluttering around me,
all is completely still and silent,
even as everything is in motion.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
Two strangers in a rickshaw in Varanasi:
Two strangers who never felt like strangers.
Two people lost and alive in the moment,
The same moment
With every sense standing, antennae bristling..
Two in a bubble
Together, held apart.
Caught up in a parade and surrounded by shy , smiling faces
Waving modestly at the fair haired strangers,
Laughing
At their surprise and joy.
Knowing that moment's awe
Delighted to share the festival.
Rickety trucks gaudily decorated blare out the tinny music and
High pitched voices distorted by the tannoy add an urgency
To the motion.
Shimmering saris glisten,
So in tune with the music that trembles with joy.
That joy spills out from the
Scents, the colours, the gleaming grins and the shy waving that marks our welcome,
Till every sense tingles
With life.
And then the sand storm
Swirling and circling the speeding rickshaw
Arrived mysteriously, magically,
Like dry ice in a theatre.
The air now tangible;
Surrounding us like the skin of a bubble
Lifting us out
Of ourselves as the scene comes and goes.
The sand screen clears to reveal
An elephant
A beautiful, smiling elephant
Dressed in splendour
Accompanying us on our magic carpet ride.
Close enough for us to touch his hide.
Bejewelled and glorious
Smiling too
And all is one in that moment
And each looks at the other and feels enchanted and wants the parade to go on forever
Just like this;
With motion
And music
And colour
And smiles
And laughter
And
An elephant.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
Somehow he pulls along
He breathes
In his little width of life,
He gasps
In making that width
When moves flesh
That far outweighs
What he gets at the ride’s end,
Sweats it out in the sun
Splashes in the rain
A pedaling run
Joyless but gritty
That if can be made
Would fetch him his bread
From the rider in comfort
To the puller who transports
Mountains of loads
Knowing not to pause
Till drawn by fate
For a rest in sunset!
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
They say it's cliché, writing
a poem about being alone on your birthday.
Cause how could you be alone, with the not-so-faux paradise of the gently swaying lush greenery that sprouts tweety-bird yellow over your head,
complete, with the insistent ca-caw of the Red-throated beak that doesn't let you sleep on the anniversary of your birth.
How could you be alone with the contrast beneath, the contest of of somnabulism between the rickshaw and the great grey suzuki, that perfectly encompasses the colour of Europe.
The barking stray dogs in the Pune streets, the rustle of the parakeet palms in the monsoon breeze.
You're stuck in a shell of unending continuity, howling canines and Hindi beats, honking cars and the buzz of your mind.
alone. and old.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
The Whirring of the fan in the dark
As I lay on the cotton sheet
Sleep eluding me, perspiration finding me
This blasted Delhi heat
In the burning orange of the noon
The rickshaw tires play with the dust
And all is silent like a black n white film
It's just screaming in the color of rust
Neem trees, dried leaves
And the buzzing of the evening flies
Time to chase the ice lollies vendor
As the temple bell tolls by
Along comes the night again
Heaving and spewing, choking on fiery stars
Already restless for the next season
Oh why are Delhi winters so far
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 6:25 PM UTC
beyond the lighted city
past the festive crowd
beneath the melancholic halogen
outside the shut doors and windows
upon a lane paved with garbage
amid an air stenched with *****
between two wooden wheels
head resting on holed rexine
arms limply down from heaven
feet embracing the dirt
sleeps another night
from the ashes of day
dreaming just enough
to muscle
another
morn.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
*In owl-moon night
when doors are closed
in shut out light
lanes breathe morose
He carries the weight
dead in drunk sleep
in chilled night’s sweat
of tightened grip
On side of street
men burning logs
seize some heat
as need too dogs
But he must run
errand of hell
till job is done
moon’s face goes pale
Jangle hand’s bell
veins swell up taut
marks frame frail
battle hard fought
From lane to lane
his stone feet roam
till rests his pain
on pavement home!*
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
Thoughts
splash echoing
like pebbles into a well.
Confusion.
Woven like a web all over.
Returning at the same spot,
beaten, broken into
a hundred parts.
Echoing.
Returning.
Plumes of obfuscation.
Rising, spreading everywhere.
Frustration.
This spiraling music in the head.
What is the way forward?
The rickshaw slices the expanse
speeding away from my grasp.
A query rises into the wilderness
of a hundred distractions.
The bell. The bell. Distant, sonant.
Door. Phone. Beep. Beep.
The firmament is camouflaged.
Am looking for a direction;
Confusion. Obfuscation. Frustration.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
A few drivers,
mid-summer afternoon
lean against the divider,
paint peeling
some perch on it lightly---
indulge in hot group-talk;
the waltzing-shadow
of a banyan tree
opposite side of the
auto-rickshaw stand---
a street-art, delicate, dark-hued;
the phantom arms
hug
the disparate crew
in a tight family-embrace,
its breath tousling their hair
and it---
protects them from
the Mumbai heat!
@Sunil Sharma
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:00 AM UTC
See here: I’ve been to Arkansas, and New Orleans at Mardi Gras. I’ve traveled south of Panama, did Dublin, Thames, and Wichita, I went, I saw, though full of awe, I couldn’t help but find such flaw in everything and all. An outlaw in my old rickshaw I draw my paths and highways, y’all, and always come back home. I’ve seen the summer, felt the fall, I love the fields and hate the mall I rob from Peter, pay back Paul and haven’t found the wherewithal to turn **** in on time. I do recall a cell phone call, and built up walls to break the fall, lose a little, lose it all, the breaking down, the overhaul, now take me up to Montreal, I’ll see you in the spring.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
Zigzag the stitch
and rub a little jelly
rickshaw fresh
mama to baby
turnstile linen and
swaddle
good times
soon to follow
simulcast the
charged circumstance
mother, verdant
mother, vessel
mother, hollow
forecast past
the sleepless
and bloodless
fixate on
first steps, first days,
first sorrows
dumbfounded fully
by where it all started
adulthood summoned
by a little ****** and folly.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
The bells rang vividly through the cold misty evening as the carolers passed by,
Their serenades intoxicating the air with more and more of that red-green aura.
Busses, cars, and even an old man with a rickshaw zoom down the street,
Promising themselves they wouldn't let up the eve someplace away from home.
A silhouette emerges from the church carrying something wet and shiny.
Two cars topsy turvied and the passengers fell asleep.
Three men point exploding pipes at each other until they all fall down.
Four women braid each others' hair with clenched fists as the red mists paint the white brick wall.
Five people, all in a row, collapse onto the tracks of an oncoming train and decide to let go.
But the omniscient presence in the domed cloud sees all as a musing, for what are we but inklings?
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC
This is a weird weird world.
In draping the deepest of thrones, we find
the dimple of a newborn waterfall.
This is a weird weird world.
Flying endlessly like a crosstown log,
The modern mermen tip their tails and
flip their flails and
sip their sails in
this stillborn magical world.
I sit here, implying.
I waste no time in my elevator,
For I am dripping
and reminiscing
about everything
you
just
told
me
in this rickshaw striptease world.
But hey there!
Recalculate!
For I am dying simply DYING for a laboratory!
For I am dying simply DYING for some mud!
For I am dying simply DYING for an alphabetical totem!
For I am dying simply DYING!
And oh, in this world, in THIS
sacred bloodbath,
the words fly like hummingbirds!
Like dreary, dreary, hummingbirds,
in marmalade, in mother's words!
This world is just a time machine,
And we've got front row seats.
So yes, we'll put on the rock shows and the tesla coils and the
posters of Winnie the Pooh,
because there's nothing leaving for us
in this freckle cookie world.
I've got ideas, Freddie.
I've got ideas--
And they've got me. They've got me good, like a
sundae and a soccer ball, like a
city-woven carnival.
I would describe myself as disinterested at best--
for I won't be coming back.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
Wee black-eyed daughter Sakina was the first to notice it. The guava that had the hairs on it, prickly like a stray alleycat’s. We didn’t know what to do with it so we left it by Nana’s backyard swing next to the pond. When we came back the next day, the hairs had grown longer, this time like crooked peacock’s feathers slim, indolent Saleem’s father used for his broken down rickshaw. “Wow!” bushy eyed Hidra, “should we eat it?” Our piqued response thereafter was that Hidra should be excluded.
All throughout the monsoon season, we trekked back to Nana’s backyard, our hungry, empty Ramadan bellies growling in loud protest but we slathered on, bulwarks against chaos. Each day, the guava became more human, on Monday the smallest hint of tooth, by Tuesday three limbs, and after Jummah prayers on Friday a whole mouth! We poked it, bruised it, no regard for ****** integrity, evince the monsters we hid underneath. It was a sensation that haunts us today. Demure Dafne was the first one to clothe it, placing a ragged sun-bonnet over the eyes. A soft smile emerged then, a genteel kindness. Imbued with flimsy protection, she slipped into the pond.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
silhouette of sails breezed through the twilight hour,
the working man was long aroused from his sleep,
long strips of inked paper billowed out into the dank alley,
infused with the rotten aroma of yesterday.
the paper-thin veil draped over the construction site,
the working men had their silhouettes enslaved to the sheet,
an arrow of shadow shot through the muted screen of the cinema,
a line of laundry zigzagged the sky overhead, ********** pages of blue,
the rickshaw man was crossing stairs,
toeing winding train tracks, children nimbly dashed past danger
a fisherman was dreaming of secret deluges,
he would oar his way through the overflown streets, catching a dim sum box or two
a seagull fixed its hungry gaze on you, chewing stick
you leaned on the cart you have been pushing, facing habour
Jul 27, 2022
Jul 27, 2022 at 2:22 PM UTC
Destiny is determined
It's encrypted, it's marginalized
I'm the result you despise
I'm the infusion, a confusion
Diversity's virus sporadic epidemic genetics fickle, Rickshaw magnetic atoms, collidng electric nuetral transmiters, wither like a rose, pedals parachute to soils ecosystem, my failure is coded like a mission, blinded vision, angel who has arisen, now I know my purpose, my cause, my goal I must attain when time has finally become, set free now I won, until then I must sustain, regain, and maintain, break free from these chains, hurting me in pain, soon I'll evaporate like rain, his word is not in vain...
Jesus Christ thank you for everything you done for me, from day one, it's for some purpose, I might not know, why you allowed, all I know is you have answered all my troubled question.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
words elope
perhaps all alone
in nights sweet
and nights black
I am a child
fumbling my hands
on the faces of land
and the world topples
bounces about
this trembling scrawl
tentative almost
as the rickshaw
coughs and shakes
I don't say when I say
I am in love with words
sometimes the dance
sometimes song
sometimes the people
they carry along
I don't say— I don't say
I watch away
it is the child that writes
Mar 5, 2022
Mar 5, 2022 at 10:28 PM UTC
All rickshaw are
panted up but riders
are carrying up
a loads for going to
no where but home
When taxes are flying
up to the peak and
government care for
no one's concern, so
a daidaita Sahu riders
now are strike
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 3:59 PM UTC
1.
salt-caked fingers
peel each other
2.
slimy tongue
toils in vain
3.
soft lips
metal beneath teeth
4.
barbaric generator
clears its throat
5.
on these beaten blue windings
sun keens
Mar 29, 2022
Mar 29, 2022 at 12:41 PM UTC