The Parting Night

Who do I remind you of?
Who do I make you forget?
What is my name tonight?

Whose presence are you assured of
when you take my hand in yours?
Whose silence of years becomes apparent
as we sing today?
Whose memory asphyxiates you tonight?

Cast a spell and turn me into a stone so I don't age
and my silence will haunt you 
like a faceless mannequin
like an old poignant song
like a lonely maiden's curse
-the end of a festive season

Who do I remind you of?
Whose voice is my voice tonight?
Woven as strands of moments on the monologue of time,
whose silence becomes our silence tonight?

The wind whispers my predicament through your entangled hair:
What will you have become 
when we meet the next time
-a saint devoid of all desires?
-a heart puckered and ugly?
-a lump of hardened wax?

Cast a spell and turn me into a songbird,
so when you return to your homeland
the trees shall sing my songs,
my muse will float over the rivers

Who will the melancholic music remind you of?
What will you have lost to time?
Of whose elaborate memory, whose plaintive absence
will I be a peripheral fragment?

The parting night sings a melody,
the moon and the stars cast a spell,
and I am lost in a vast desert,
I look for you,
What is your name tonight?

I scream, there is no voice
I cry, there are no tears

I close my eyes and see at a distance:
A beautiful but silent songbird
perched on a puckered cold stone- lined with wax

Who do you remind me of?
Who do you make me forget?
What is you name tonight?

Electrocution of a Dream

The loosely hung ends of your broken wire-frame silhouette,
like the live wires protruding from the bottom of
an abandoned electric pole of a deserted village
follow me through my sleep,
eager to clutch my hands.
A razor blade drops,
I take the cue, the circuit is closed.
I whisper to the bearded night,
'Save me from myself'

The Beauty of Conflict

They served me nectar and poison,
in cups that looked alike,
I drank both, without a thought
and found both distasteful
They smiled at me, waiting for me to sing,
to pour out all that had seeped into my heart,
to see which of the two evils had won,
to resolve the conflict, and box up its beauty
in cups that looked alike
I spoke not a word, but returned the smile,
for I had drunk no more of any one than the other.
I overhear from the squabble, their cries in unison
I see in their hardened selves,
the winsomeness of my existence
Is nectar not an ally of poison?
Is silence not what envelopes music?

LAZAHG

Here I lie in my makeshift grave,
and you sing from your broken cage;

In the autumn you recited a Ghazal,
and we parted as if we never had met

Oh! read the couplets backward, won't you?
so we can meet as if we never had parted

Kill me so we may both come alive,
Will my verses be the weapon of your choice?

They'll dig my abode open and find your wings,
Your voice will be the requiem for my heart.

The Choice

Here in this strange city,
where the deaf play the music,
the blind carry the torches,
what choice did he have, than to be mute tonight
and let the symphony within rip him apart
to be reborn or to be lost in anonymity
The city had all the faces, the hearts to pray for,
the hazy caricatures and smoky existences,
He had but himself to bear with,
he chose but himself to sing to.

An Exalted Dream

When in the winter sun,

the voices of autumn perched on the branches

shall sing the sweet suffering of life

I'll walk barefoot from Kapilvastu to Bamiyan,

purchasing paperbacks at every haltage,

'Samsara' and 'Nirvana' smiling at each other.

I'll be the evening breeze that whispers,

to the monks and the worldly men alike,

I'll be the tree that hides the giant scars

on the face of the illustrious one.

I'll write to you one lazy afternoon,

and we'll meet and merge, we'll fly and flow

beyond names and forms.

Diwali-3

The shiny curtains that hide your beautiful wrinkles,
If I were to set them on fire, and bring to life,
your letters, written in coloured wax,
Would it reveal any more than your silhouette did?
Would an earthen lamp suffice ?

The ugly knots, all wrapped up in shiny gift paper, your craft,
If I exhibited your eyelashes too and the Kajal, smeared, of its own virtue
Would the onlookers read in your eyes, the encrypted tales
of the storms we've passed and the smiles we wear?
Would a heavy heart suffice ?

The songs, of the seekers, the puppets and the plastic flowers,
lost in the sooty flames, in the face of the blackened verandah walls,
and the ones the folklore haven't sung for decades,
Would a day of music, of brightness dissolve the anguish?
Would an insane laughter suffice?

Amidst the pompous crackers and the guileless lights,
the sweets gone sour and the blunt edges of tethered bookmarks,
for the naive birds singing poetry, creating illusions of depth
What am I, more than a mere narrator, a heard-unheard voice?
Would a festive season suffice?

Garden-weed

I see from my rooftop,

the garden of a medicinal nursery

The lawn-mover comes and goes, the garden is levelled

The weed grows with the herbs,

gets shortened with them,

The sun, the moon and the wind

nourish it no less, no more than the herbs,

until the day when it will have to be pulled out,

or be made aware of its identity,

and left to die slowly of alienation,

herbs can wait, and so can the ailments, can’t they?

Dead or alive, weed shall be weed.

Do these words even matter?

A free bird

In one corner of this art exhibition,

A little girl sits with an empty cage,

and draws on white paper- dark portraits,

silhouettes and ink sketches, all of wingless birds

birds with shiny feathers,

hopping in the lawns, perched on live wires,

on leafless branches, none trapped in cages though

When you reach her corner of the exhibition,

you’ll notice on her shoulders, the sprouts of a new pair of wings

Every fortnight these grow to their full span,

and are clipped, sold to young and old dreamers.

She is a free bird.  

If We were Trees

If we were trees

Would we bloom to our fullest in the spring,

and embrace the autumn with grace?

Would we bear with the thirst of feverish dry leaves for months,

and then let the drops seep in, dissolve all angst in one go?

Would we flow with the wind, and sing with the birds

only to let them go fly away, without a wince?

Would we not get attached to the travelers taking refuge in our shade,

to the birds-of-passage, to our own leaves?

Would be breathe the joy of giving relentlessly,

without getting tired, without the thought of self?

Would not pomposity poison our veins,

crawling into our state of being, becoming one with it?  

Would we not look down upon shrubs,

and envy the ones higher and greener than us?

Would we be bound in the ritual threads, or worshipped as deities,

and smile at human folly, stay rooted and calm?

Would we still remain rooted,

while being shaken by the storms, hollowed down by the forest fire?

Would we still smile, and be at peace with each bud and flower,

while the chains of our own  greatness bruise us, make us bleed?

Would not the infinite stillness slowly grow into meaninglessness,

and consume us, empty us out?

Could we help being human, if we were trees?

Tonight

Tonight I am singing a rotten melody, 
to lull myself to sleep under the open sky
You throw a stone and it sinks in me,
I am bottomless tonight,
Shallow rivers don't mix with the deeper ones.
I am drowning, your laughter eclipses my anguish
Tonight, I am the voice of the river bank,
trapped in the glass sheets, melted and frozen, 
Oh! Dead lake, if only you could listen to me
Oh! Mad Heart, If only you could visit me, Tonight.

At a Poet's Funeral

I walk in the crematorium with a bouquet,

of flowers artificially scented, wilted long back

and with his letters, his unfinished songs

the last gift from a pen friend

The priest tells me how the bearded lunatic

would in life, meditate on hopping birds

and follow them to their nests,

tracing their claw-prints on sheets of air

(he was one of them, but only wingless)

how he would sing in the woods, and in the streets

laying his soul bare, walking naked among the veiled;

and how he would swim in the deepest of rivers,

only to come back lighter, having drowned a part of his being,

to rise unimpeded as the air bubbles do

Then comes clad in back, she, his inspiration

What more can she be,

than an unfinished song echoed by a dead cold stone,

an autumn flower, only in half-blossom?

and there she stands, with misted eyes

an ordinary rhyme, waiting to be sung   

and to be lost in the woods, like all songs do

The wine spilled on the flowers reminds me

of an incomplete verse he had mailed me years ago

“The more I dissolve her in me, the more I catch her colour,

Do the birds-of-passage ever miss their home?

Is losing oneself the only way to become whole?”

I wrote back, “Some songs are better left unfinished”.

What more could he write to a mere confidant, a pen friend?

What less could he get back in return, my empty lines?

I was the poet he once wrote, he wanted to be

He was the bird, I always knew, I could never fly like,

I used to dream of his music,

The rustling of leaves - his voice,

the trees and the wind- his instruments.

Here on his funeral, today

amidst the aromatic flames, the musical wine,

his empty inkpot, the ashes of yellow pages,

and the plucked flowers breathing heavily in silence,

I feel lighter than an air bubble,

I feel heavier than a dead cold stone

But I can’t rise, I can’t reflect.

Of all that can be consumed by the demons of time,

What could ever fill an empty soul?  

I see them leaving the crematorium now,

The mourners and the merry-makers

The ones that his soulful music would once enthrall,

and the ones who had called him a madcap once

the ones who pitied him and the ones who adored him

I get up to hand over the inked envelopes,

to whom I think they belong to,

Our eyes meet and I find hers shallow and empty,

I step back in a musing gaze, as the music slowly fades,

I wonder why of all, he had chosen me to write to, about her  

She leaves; I let her go, without any exchange, but for a fleeting glance

He has now been reduced to ashes, within and without

I see his inspiration, now reduced to a tiny ink blot on a large white canvas,

His letters shall stay with me, a poet’s keepsake.

The Moonless Night

The sky is black and grey

The darkness is now free, silently creeps in

through the crevices of a torn curtain,

Feeding on rotten dreams’ flesh and blood

The night is a demon.

Reflections, projections and illusions

The light’s worth, now hooked on to random images  

An open window,

a mirage takes me to the jaws  of a long tunnel

The night is an endless journey.

A fire burns in me, another alongside

The longings for company, warmth are long gone

Insects hovering over the flames, fearless

I recite in silence, the lines from an old poem

The night is beautiful.

And then the dawn strikes,

In shades of yellow and red,

Gleaming through the crest of a distant mountain

The day is a night, dipped in bright colors 

The night is veiled.

  

The fireflies’ ashes heaped up on the cold ground,

The remains of ecstasy, passion, lunacy  

The souvenirs of our night long friendship,

my belongings for the day ahead.

The night is over, the moonless night.

The Nightmare

“The city is ruthless, the city is monstrous”

I yell, and the nightmare ends.

I wake up, my breath hollowed,

On my way to the temple,

I see angels and demons together,

like old friends meeting beyond time,

on the crossroads of brimming hearts

and entwined shallow eyes.

“The city is faceless, the city is empty”

I keep mum, the nightmare begins.

How We Met

I searched for you on and on
In darkness, in light, in struggle, in peace
in hope and despair, in gloom and delight
I saw you in his eyes, her eyes, and hers too
I was almost there, I had nearly found you
but one fine evening, you left, 
simply vanished into thin air
You had to stay, you had to set things right
You had to fill the empty voids that were
You had to paddle me across the sea, 
with the moonlight gleaming,
through the entangled locks of your hair
and the music flowing through one heart to another
piercing the long borne silence, yes, we were almost there
But you disappeared, like you were never a part of it
as if my search had been futile, meaningless all along
So I lost faith in myself, 
in all what I was searching for
and in all that drove me on

But one day as I lay in hopelessness
I found someone facing the same storm as me
His eyes, nearly as dull as mine
His soul as worn out and parched as mine
and I looked deep into his eyes,
Strange! someone was searching for me 
as desperately as I had been looking for someone
Yes, it was you, my friend,  
and over time as I have delved deeper in you, 
simplifying your entangled hair locks,
singing songs with you in the moonlight, 
I know I will never lose you again,
Eyes don't lie, neither does a mirror. 

The Bookmark

Where did your bookmark get lost?
Did it slip away while I was chasing my dreams?
Did it fall into a coffee mug surviving one of those sleepless nights?
Did it get tired of being outcast by your yellow pages?
Did the 'rose' petals slowly wither and die?
Did the 'entry pass' leave for the music concert one silent afternoon?
Did the 'train ticket' revolt and flew away with the wind?
Did the 'receipt' from the post office catch hold of a pigeon's tale?
Did it grow numb over time, reading between your lines?
Did it fall in love with another book and you let it free secretly?
Since it deserted you, I have played with your grey entangled locks countless times,
and have seen from a distance, your pages feeding on moonlight, getting yellower,
your empty eyes heavier with dew drops every morning
As my search for a bookmark goes on,
I wonder if your pages will ever be finished.  

The Price of Maturity

I remember the first letter you had sent me
The postcard had on it, a watermark of birds, 
With their wings opened up, as if in their first flight
The message was in red ink, albeit only a childish rhyme  
Now, when I have, dipped in red and blue ink
Piles of your letters in my dim-lit study room, 
Here, gladly the birds haven’t yet learnt how to fly
And as I never opened the window lest the sunlight should peek in,
The guileless rhymes never grew old to be called poems
And so, from all that got twisted and perished in time,
I turned my face away, in complacency or in stagnation?
Your little piggy banks that never got filled, 
Often pierce the silence, as I take a profound breath
Maturity is overpriced, they say.   

The Recipe of a Dream

A fraction of insomnia glued to an emotion;

Ephemeral images creating a hazy illusion

Whatever stays has already survived the fire, the rain

Bittersweet eyes, red and black, have seen it all

All that subsides shall pass the curtain, and be free

A song in its twilight minutes imparts its melody, becomes empty

Reason croaks, as lunacy makes up for chivalry  

The Caravan that boasts of beautiful faces doesn’t unveil the drape;

The soul, albeit a bit less parched than it has been,

The taste buds retain the tinges of nirvana, the hearty ecstasy    

until the senses give in to the material sphere again,

and the heart is ready to laugh madly,

in the wake of yet another beautiful dream.

Synonyms

A teenager writes his first Ghazal,

and a word stands out in the lines, like none other

a word that is the soul of his first sensation

a word that has all its letters tattooed on his vivacious mind

An old man writes his last Ghazal,

and there is a word he can't recollect

a word that was a memory in itself, like none other

He curses his old age and burns the paper,

the board, the hall and all that can lose its entity to fire

Here, reduced to ashes- all regrets, all desires and an ordinary rhyme

As he closes his eyes , he sees the immortal ink shaping the smile on a teenager's face

Alas! umpteen synonyms couldn't match the grandeur of a single word.

Renaissance

The honey tasted bitter, the flowers smelled foul
The smoke choked the windpipe, the flashes hurt the eyes
Spirits lay abandoned on the long road to home
Empty handed he walked the ungrateful path
the one he had nourished with his smile, empty handed
He had got nothing to lose, he had got everything to lose
He had renounced all it took to kill an old rotten poem
The city knew the half-truth, the deaf, dumb and faceless city
Woken up by a dream from a short nap,
bled the vision that drove all fears away
Amidst words that echoed in the graveyard, mere words spoken time and again,
Could this be the hour of Renaissance ?
As I won't meet him again, a question lingers on
Shadows don't die when light comes alive,
then what is that was cremated today?