"rickshaws" poems
Once I undertook a journey,
upon the very face of our entire world.
To view for myself the many pictures,
and written descriptions in all the geography
books and History Classes, National
Geographic magazines and movies seen.
A Quest to see with my own eyes what
I had only experienced second hand.
In my mid twenties, like a dream,
one foot in front of the other,
I went about exploring.
I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands,
Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry,
fried snake and even monkey brains.
Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands,
Along the shores of Islands and the coasts
of many lands.
Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects
and cultures, smiling and laughing with
the families and children of all of them.
Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men,
heard their chants to their gods above, the
moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land.
Clapped my hands and moved my feet in
their ancient mystic dances.
Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared
grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood.
Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains
in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the
face of the God of my youthful teachings,
disappointed when I did not see him, or Her.
Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted
to me by Red robbed Monks from within their
chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments.
Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year
old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of
nearly forgotten once great Civilizations.
Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning.
Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks,
Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways,
rented motorcycles and cars. Walked perhaps 1000 miles.
In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years.
And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim
of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?"
"What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"
All indeed, fare questions.
When a boy, I read a simple five word line,
“Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and
Horizon Lust compelled me.
The next obvious question you might
ask is, after all that; “What did you find?”
That answer is very simple,
I found myself.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
I hear the sounds of the city I the distance.
Cars, truck and auto rickshaws screaming for space on the bypass.
Far from my terrace they seem to be
Yet they are close to enough that the breeze brings their fumes.
A shawl is spread beneath me
To keep my clothes from the dust that is not washed away up here.
Up here, where my eyes can barely see the treetops.
Up here, where the sun is strong and browning my fair skin.
Up here, where I am exposed and unseen.
The worries of all my differences are erased when I alight the steps to my rooftop.
It doesn't matter that I don't speak Bengali .
It doesn't matter that I'm sick of Dal and the Baigan Bharta is too spicy.
It doesn't matter that I am a foreigner and always will be.
I am celebrated by the the crows and mosquitos that find solace above Kolkata.
In turn, I can celebrate the fact that I've found a corner where my foreignness is not offensive nor inviting.
It just is, and I'm just me; far above the dusty streets and the stray dogs that keep me up a night with their howls.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
when all is but gone,
books, words,
reduced to dust and
arbitrary faces I
will remember -
cats.
the absurd
pretension in
every line of
an ee cummings
poem.
every
numbered capital
letter.
and I
will
remember
birthday parties.
the little drummer
boys that made
them.
and the
gibberish that only
made sense when
you read it at night
beneath
flashlights.
and I
will
remember
rickshaws.
make-
believe pavllions.
and tucked away
homes hidden in
ol' Kansas bluegrass
half-
asleep.
we,
still somewhat up
at two
in the morning puttering
away at stories so
easily
forgotten.
it is here
where our
rooms stopped time to
break free of metaphors.
where the metaphors
become symbolisms.
where the symbolisms
become you—
I guess
I’d just like to say
that I
will remember
you.
and thank you.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
Walking back from the train station,
Holding nothing but a bag and my back,
A gripping pain to encompass and a loss of hearing,
From all the rat-tat of the engine,
An incessantly crying baby,
And a mother-in-law who felt no need
To hide her animosity with the new girl in the family.
Sweat and dust, never, ever is it the most pleasant combination.
Walking amongst the noise and talk of the town,
Lost in a herd of rickshaws,
I left my mind to wander to the extent
Of remembering the scenes speeding past on the journey back,
The flush greenery and the intermittent glimpses of cattle,
With the uncanny uninterested look on their faces.
As the rhythmic chug-chug and the whistle utterly failed to lull my senses,
No peace attained there, but mere longing to be out and about.
And yet, out here, amongst the chai-wallas
And the shopkeepers trying to buy their way with the foreigners,
As the sun stubbornly keeping its promise to shine, on none but me,
All that kept my feet moving, was the urge to see him.
And as I think of the last time I saw his face,
Pressed against my mother's,
Tears well up, waiting to burst out.
Leaving him to grow amongst strangers,
Unfamiliarity was his bedrock,
Merely seven, only beginning to understand his way around the world.
Footsteps became faster, involuntarily,
And the heat bore no sympathy for my afflictions.
Ten years, long gone and forgotten,
Growing with the world and aging with the universe,
Amassing knowledge and nurturing a personality,
Every milestone I missed, every step I didn't take along with him,
The guilt was bearing me down,
A burden I will forever carry.
Running back home,
This prodigal daughter,
Running back to my son.
Give me peace, my mind,
For this life I chose,
Was bitter and hard.
What I left behind,
Is what every night, remainder,
Haunts me, in the dark.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
I went there again today,
The plants I taught my-
Third standard lessons,
Tiny rooms with choir mats
And a long verandah that looked
Almost like a dream
My mother wove,
They've all remained the same,
Without alterations.
I walked the backyard with my aunt,
The new lotus pond and
Her kitchen garden
The temple that overlooked
The huge mango tree
Has become affectionate remains
Of an off-track history.
Bartered land and
English medicines,
A new plastic tap,
A European closet
And few glass plates their-
Souvenirs.
I remember the days,
The sleepless summers
They collected mangoes under
Persian torch lights,
The occasional scooters
And auto-rickshaws
That scated the narrow orange road
And the bubbles I made
With kids next door
From gums of little plants.
I have outgrown those images
But nostalgia is a nice feeling.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
Sometimes I wonder
What life would've been like
Had I stayed.
Concentrate hard enough
And I can relive
Those nostalgic memories
All over again.
Boys, playing cricket
As the blazing sun glared down.
People streaming out of
Mosques, temples, churches
Like the swarms of mosquitoes
That come out at dusk.
The mouth watering scents
Of sweet, juicy mangos
And savory roasted peanuts
Mingling with deafening horns
Of rickshaws on the roads.
Lying under the ceiling fan
On straw mats the color of
Fiery sunsets and
Woven gold
Reading for hours on end
About great queens
Powerful Kings, fierce warriors
Why did I leave?
Did I make a mistake?
Should I be in this country
That doesn't want me for me?
For my skin tone,
My religion, my race?
They boast of equality
and freedom
But it doesn't deliver anymore.
Accused of not
Belonging, not assimilating.
All because I'm proud.
Proud of my other half,
My homeland, my heritage.
But then I look forward.
What do I see?
My father,
Treating his patients
With the compassion
Of a parent to his own child
Despite the hateful words
That stab, pierce
Like scorching knives.
"You're stealing our jobs!"
"You're not a real American!"
My mother,
Trying to rebuild a new life
Out of the ashes she brought
From our old home,
Ashes that once resembled
The burning fire
Of a luxurious life
Where she had everything.
They had sacrificed
A life where
They were treated like royalty.
An only son of
respected professors.
A daughter of a well known
Senior doctor,
The best of the best.
And for what?
Me.
ME.
So when I look forward,
I'm reminded of one more thing.
The opportunities
That lie in front of me.
A vast ocean of them,
Rippling with possibilities
Of how I could
Make my mark
Make a difference
Change the world.
And that's why I'm here,
So land of the free,
Home of the brave,
You may not be perfect
But I will forever be grateful
For what you've given me.
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 11:04 PM UTC
Maybe he was staring at my back,
I didn't wish to know for sure,
I couldn't wait to get in the car and go.
The heat the same.
The streets empty
Like my heart,
Calmer this way.
(Silence)
A festival,
Men and kids in long shirts,
Black and white,
Their smiles defind the excitement
I fail to feel these days.
Children ran in the cafe
And at the gate.
(Rough edges)
On our way,
A scene in the passing only,
So forgive me I can' t say
What happens in the end,
But then again would it matter,
I failed,
And now, so will you.
(Questions.)
A cluster of motorised Rickshaws,
A white sedan with one man
Inside.
A small crowd,
Nothing unusual.
-An observation of a grown mind.
One relatively huge man,
Huge of muscles,
Probably in his late twenties
Or early thirties,
Stood holding the door,
The man in the white car
With his hand on the wheel,
Their faces a scrunched up paper,
A raging frown,
Up too close I would have ran,
From far,
I could almost feel both of their
Heartbeats.
I could read the story of the man in white
Matching his car,
I was worried
How could he possibly describe
His ***** face, blue eyes
To his daughter too grown
To be fooled with a lie
Of fighting dragons.
Or to his son, whose mirror
Would now own a scar.
How do we a grow up,
With all the mess of knowing
A little too much?
His left hand holding his phone,
The muscled man was pulling him out now.
(Was there red?)
( I am sorry).
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 7:48 AM UTC
Some people don’t feel the heat.
It is because of those who don’t feel the heat,
that the empty paddy fields turn green,
the roads and bylanes stay clean.
the vehicles of noisy people move without obstruction.
Because of those who don’t feel the heat,
non-motorized rickshaws still move,
hand-pulled carts still survive.
Because of them,
gift packets, perfumes, birthday cakes
reach homes on time.
Some people don’t feel the heat,
and perhaps because of them
– even though fire and smoke pour daily from your mouths –
the earth has not turned to ash,
the city has not yet perished.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 10:29 AM UTC
this bitter green dawn
does not move the city
that in crisp antiquity
spreads her thighs, her palms
her fingertips licked
with drought and the soft sweet
stink of the night
rubbery skin
flavourless as a leaf;
her armpits and knees
gape with rasping mouths
and the basins of the neck
rugged stretch
striped and on
up the sloping stumbling face
gaunt as concrete
where carts and rickshaws
startle and snort
succulent bulbs part
mechanical and jagged and
through the gutter
sallow eyes watch
cement tunnels
tumble and twist
the taste of thick leather
mossy on their walls
there are feet too
thousand toes
with chipped windows,
stooping they swell, and
there are dry highways
of the calves
where nothing lingers.
it is morn now
the birds gargle
and a thin yellow kite
shivers like a hanged thing
on the spidery scaffold
of an electric tower.
her salty streetlights
stare like iron
in the urinary winds that shoo
crusty litter
in between ******* and crevices
of eyes, sills of the hips
the cracks of the elbows
butter sun scatters
and coats the houses viscid
flies come
torment the quiet awake
her men barge out
hasty and mad
and vehicles shake
a thousand breaths
exit: their CNG sweetness
caking in the nails
and jamming the doors;
pungent liquids churn
and ignite in taut-limbed engines;
now gears tick and click
sweating rancid
and thick
leaking on roads
and roiling canals
gruff huffs and coughs
now the sky is grey
and cool
a cadaver
now loud ears unfurl
bare as banners
and shrill winds
pound hot-metal on skin
—
the bark-wood body
turns
and reveals the moors
of a stoney back
where steel rods
bend
at silly angles
and where they protrude
their same old tang of DC
and the same old
tingling of it
now a sigh escapes
the latex lips
and shutters shudder
over spiced eyes
now all is red
like hot tea on tongue
and the tongue tinkles
with the sounds of the heart
that ripe an onion
pleads to be pulled
out out out
and peeled
layer by layer
until it is none
and now, the familiar viscosity
soothes it again
and it swoons limp
a fat still-born
in the womb
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 11:18 AM UTC
on my skin lay the words that can't be tamed
and all manner of beasts snarl in golden rickshaws
ferried up the mountain pass to my pyramid
floating on a cloud of lightning, woven by hand
in the heart of Darkness, beneath the canopy
of an old Oak...root bound in the soul of the void
but flourishing, my head wound feeds the branches
when i sleep underneath them, it seeps into earth
that has no form... and I have an insomniac's dream
in the middle of my awakening, by the sound
of your footsteps...
as you make your approach from the East
and bring with you the scrolls of lost tongues
and the rye tales of the crow in winter...
with your eyes marked
by having solved the Mirror's riddle, in the dark.
and your sallow cheeks, flush with empathy and famine.
your coarse hair, descending like elven craft...
resting on your shoulders, as if draped over a banister
of an endless spiral...
I see you before the light strikes
my optic nerve.
Long before the sun
was born...
I crawl from the space -
that contains my shadow
and greet you at the foot of the stairs
where your tresses
caress moonbeams
and I smile
so deeply - even -
the stars in your palm, stall -
their ponderous orbits
to behold.
And I hear
what you have to say
about love and the virtue
of flesh enmeshed
with a Spirit
to untangle
Eternity,
and your voice is soothing
As i listen to the Truth on your lips
till you pause.
then i tell You " It is good to see you, as always...
and would you do me the honor
of sharing my blanket made of glacier skin
and stardust feathers stitched into the dewdrops
i harvest gently, Before dawn...
off the glistening shells
of iridescent beetles
and bluegrass. with my eyelashes.
here beneath the Oak?
It would please
Me.
and our head wounds feed the tree as we dream.
on the roots, we slumber into worlds without end
and i fire my maid for sweeping
the terrarium.
Jun 21, 2019
Jun 21, 2019 at 12:43 AM UTC
Dear Readers, thses are my few old memories of Calcutta from my early childhood days, after having reached the milestone on the road side reading 77. Hope you like it ! Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi.
REMINISCENCE OF A SENIOR SEPTUAGENARIAN
I was born in the early forties during those black and
white days,
When those big old valve radios and gramophones
records played.
The British flag was flying over Calcutta, the city of
my birth.
That first old capital of British India with its horse
and buggy, crowded buses, and tram cars.
The main streets got washed with water hoses from
high pressured hydrants every morning,
And the lamplighter with his ladder lighted the
street gas lights every evening.
Radiograms were a status symbol, and transistor
radios had come decades later.
With rickshaws pulled manually by poor old
rickshaw pullers!
Juke Box played popular songs (during our school
days in the fifties) in ice cream parlors.
Whoever even thought of a TV or a mobile phone,
during those happy hours!
For the Bongs the theatres of north Calcutta was a
classical source of entertainment.
Eye ball contact was meaningful with a hug and a
hand shake, - life remained fully extroverted.
Unlike our present highly advanced Corona days!
No wonder I love that great old South Indian serial
titled the ‘Malgudi Days’!
Like our old songs, those golden days shall forever
remain cherished and nostalgic;
And as a part of a senior citizen’s waking dream!
Now please smile, take a selfie with your I-phone,
and go to sleep!
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 3:19 AM UTC