Like a sullen orb of mercury
He sprawls across the chessboard
Shapeless,
Surrendered, to be shaped
As destiny wills him to be.
Earth trembles,
The board shakes;
Sluggish, he slithers
From one square to another.
Wind blasts,
The board shivers;
He slides from PQ2 to PQ4.
Fire spreads,
The board burns;
He waits, untouched,
Watching the curling
Once in a while you have to clean your system.
Empty the Recycle Bin,
Clean up and defrag the disks.
Files accumulated over the past
Move crumpled into the bin
And then to oblivion.
It would be nice
To have a hard disk instead of a brain
Where fungus-ridden memories grow maggots
Eating into my soul.
Is every grain of sand
Different from the other?
I do not know.
Is every drop of water
Different from the other?
I do not know.
But I do know
That every snowflake
Is different from the other
Just as every man differs from the other.
How like snowflakes are we!
Both appear from nowhere
But from somewhere the same
Falling, falling we come down
Lying on a rock or in a glacier
Or on the riverbank here
Its spine broken and torn
Leaves left devoured by silverfish,
Corners crumbling with age -
My hands tremble as I open the book.
Carefully, tenderly, I turn the frontispiece -
Shabby, tattered yet holding up together
With a dignity that only books can have -
I shake out the dust and faecal matter.
The book is still silent, slightly embarrassed
But not showing any -
Like my mother, paralysed
As I clean her with wet cotton blobs.
In the left corner of the first page
The book said -
‘With all good wishes to my son’
Signed, my father, forty years ago.
There is kindness in the air today.
Sunlight bright, yet soft;
Wind strong, yet breezy;
Earth alive, yet sleepy.
There is grace in the air today.
In the shade and light
Trees sparkle and dance
Crows muse, sitting on the posts.
There is music in the air today.
The chorus of the leaves
As the wind blows through them
In rhythmic waves of love.
Through the window, across the trees
Over the high rise, the sky is blue
In unseen strings suspended,
Kites hover; swift fly past Swifts.
Eyes closed, I lie on my back
Following their arms mentally
As the masseurs run their fingers
Pressing, squeezing, rubbing in
The warm oil all over me.
From the sole of my feet, up
Through the ankles, calves, knees
And thighs, passing deftly
My privates and up to the torso
My hairy, broad chest, shoulders
And the nape of my neck.
The loincloth barely leaves me clothed.
As the masseur's fingers and then the pouch
Filled with medicinal leaves soaked in starchy fluid
Spread warmth all over me,
I wonder if I might get an erection;
The vine danced in the wind.
Swinging gently, the young one thought
'This is life; I will soon be an adult
I will take in many lovers
I will have offsprings in thousands
This beautiful land and brook mine'.
Above, on the low-hanging branch
Sat a Bee-eater, sharpening his beak
His eyes had a kindness one could not fathom
As he gazed on the young dragonfly.
The pain comes much later, first
in trickles, then in torrents
Washing off, cleansing
Wounds, hurts, the memories
The thoughts of should-haves
and should-have-nots.
First to heal are those
festering, anger for
What they did -
and did not.
Then, those of regret
of what you did -
and did not.
Then, like a sunbeam
breaking out through the clouds
The realization that everything
Among a cradle of leaves
A frog sits facing away from me.
Green leaves, touched with faint morning dew.
The brook by the side is dry.
A butterfly flitters, faint beats of the wing
Ruffle the leaves.
No flowers, no drip of water drops.
Even the wind is still.
I peer among the bushes
Vainly for a glimpse of a damselfly
Blue and black, who should be here.
I, the man, who beat everything
Blue and black.
A deep sigh escapes my lips, as in the morning
I empty a full bladder, leaning to the coconut palm.
Nothing more pleasurable than to empty oneself
Of urine and from one’s mind, yesterday’s thoughts.
I blush; a Black Drongo on the wires turns
Its head to look at me; a Magpie Robin trills a song.
The Kingfisher, hops down on a branch
Above my head and shakes his, as if in disapproval.
High above, against the darkening sky
The dragonflies swarm and circle
Bracing for the long journey ahead.
When do I, begin mine?
Where you live, be it
By the side of the sea,
Or atop a mountain peak-
Both, though a fantasy
For most of us -
Where you live, be it
Cocooned in a cramped
Quarters or be it
a claustrophobic
One bhk -
Or like me
In an old crumbling
Dwelling about to fall apart-
Wherever be that you live
Or rot-
It would be good
It is spring; a tree flowers.
You may love it
You may hate it
You may fail to notice it.
Nothing matters to the tree;
To flower in spring
Is in the nature of the tree.