Fan in Four

Of the things that I hate the most 

tell me about 

the whirling fan in four... 

of the monstrous whooshing noise, 

and of its mechanised gusty air.

But then, when there are 

these weightless bloodsuckers 

hanging around 

like they are on a vacation 

with free food 

on the mercy of your tired legs

while you are working like a maniac...

Just imagine what comfort it is

on a sultry night, after a long day 

to just hang up your feet 

at the edge of your working table

letting them nod to the music, that 

the snug-fit earplugs deliver to your ears,

and with a good book in your hand... 

Now, you savour the satanic pleasure, of 

seeing the parasites suffer from starvation 

from the corner of your eyes...!

High-five to...

The fan, in speed four!

Sunshine of my life

It has not even been nine hours

since the time it rained, and

just about twenty hours

since I last saw you.

And yeah, I agree...

there was the night in between.

Though you have been scorching,

and there's much more to see,

I already am missing you.

You know, I am that desperate lover

losing sight of his new-found love.

I rejoice and am filled with

a pleasant feeling of fullness,

in seeing just a glint of you...

The faintly shine of a famished sun.

Like that sweet, divine moment,

when the love of my life

returns to my arms

after a brief desolation.

My New Super Power

It is almost 3 am.

I count 3578, 3579, 3580... inside my head.

I have already come two full circles.

From being supine, to my left, 

to my right, and am now on my back.

Rewind to 1 am. 

I start on an hour-long self-inquisition, 

and write down my to-do list.

Satiated, I hit the bed.

Innumerous ideas and action items

related to unconnected threads

continue to pour in.

After a few minutes of restlessness

I remember the sleeplessness tip:

count one to hundred

and you would be asleep by 99.

Seriously! Whatever...

Anyways, here's how I discovered 

my new super power:

As I start to exercise and 

count my reps, 

I get drifted away and 

begin to reflect very lucidly 

about all the strangeness of life.

And yet, surprisingly I realise 

when it's time to change the rep...

Like there's some timer 

running inside my head.

Untitled

I imagine the letters d-e-a- being written in slo-mo and in a calligraphic way. Hoping that the next letter would be ‘r’, I wait. But no… it turns out to be ‘t’ and finally halts at ‘h’.

Death… here and there, now and then. Can we certainly say where, how, and when? Or, in some cases why…!

I imagine, or rather, there are certain events that happen which lead me to or indicate the inevitable and impending death of a dear one. I sit and wait for the day to come, and then, I wait long enough only to forget it amidst the other unemotional worries of everyday life. And then again, there’s another one such event. Nothing happens. My hopes, or, should I say, hopelessness, shatter.

How is one supposed to live in a continuous ‘let-go’ mode when it is not past tense yet. The problem is that it is present continuous tense. Or a future tense, but without the mention of the prefix ‘near’ or ‘distant’. You know it is going to happen for sure, but you are just not sure when. Of course, we all know that there is no point wondering about when something bad is going to happen, or how, and all the other gory details.

It may be very practical for a surgeon to talk about the patients’ death or life that depends on the surgery they perform. However, ask the practical doctor to talk about the dear one’s death, even if they know it is just a few years away. No way…! If we look at death objectively, yes, it is the presence or absence of a life. But we are not designed to look at it that way.

We don’t worry about death everyday, even when we all know that everyone’s going to die one day. And it is not that we love our kin and kith always hoping every minute that they will not die. I mean, you don’t consciously have that thought about life or death, right?

So, how easy is it going to be if you are kept reminded about it on a periodic basis?

It is torture.

Well, these gloomy thoughts are not entirely about my dad, aged 74, who is determined, or has determined that he will die at 75. But partly yes. In fact, he and I discuss about death… no, it is not a discussion per se; it comes and goes as a passing comment in some random conversations. You know, a kind of mockery about the probability of his deterministic statements becoming true. It does not ache, even a bit, when we do so. But honestly, it aches when there are indications of the event happening soon.

I believed that I was far better than the surgeon who would not mention death even as a passing comment or as a matter of death, or better than the folks who have not realized that, in a few years, the eldest ones are not going to be around. But then, I realize that it does not help in any way or prepare you to face it bravely… Even if you are or not practical about it, it is still going to hurt the same way.

This writing may look a lot like an expression of the fear-of-death concept—thanatophobia.

But no... Just that it is a little intriguing how we all love and live happily when we know that people are going to die. So, it just turns out to be that you can be so, as long as you are certain or forgetfully uncertain about death. There is an area where you are neither here nor there about when and how it is going to happen.

Well, that’s the danger zone that we need to be aware of... that zone of hopelessness.

A note about notes

I think I sold Rahman a little short in "Of Opera, Train Tracks, Rhapsody, and A Gentleman in Moscow" when I briefly touched upon his usage of Carnatic notes in his compositions. It brings such a ravishing feel to the songs, no denial about it. And yeah, the mention of Carnatic notes in a song tends one to slow down the conversation, sink into the current state of being with eyes closed, with swaying of heads and the four of your fingers count and group portions of the song by repeatedly contacting the thumb. But no, we are not anywhere closer to this state of being in most of the songs where Rahman uses the Carnatic notes. There is a lot of tempo that the notes bring to the songs.

I had mentioned about Yaakkai Thiri from Ayudha Ezhuthu, Mangta Hai Kya from Rangeela, Dil Se Re in Dil Se, Kannalane from Bombay, and Thee Thee from Thiruda Thiruda. Perhaps, it was a thoughtless list. So, here is some thought to it.

Like the 'seeing red cars' phenomenon, I could not help but pay attention to the ones that had Carnatic notes. Of songs in that category, I must not miss the titular song in Bombay Dreams (yr 2002). While the female chorus does have some notes, it is not until Rahman pitches in with his strained tone that the song picks a considerable pace, especially in the last minute. 

Well, the album was a bit of a let down for me, primarily because part of the album is a medley of songs from movies such as Taal, Mudhalvan, Dil Se, and Minsara Kanavu... the ones that came out in the last three years of the 90s. Be that as it may, a few of the original pieces do exhibit Rahman's genius. Take the How Many Stars song; it has such a beautiful stature, in both words and composition. Or, Salaam Bombay or The Journey Home for that matter. Through the Ganesh song, one cannot stop and wonder about the fact that the Ganesh Chathurthi festival in Bombay is nothing short of a celebration. And the second song in the Bombay Dreams album to exhibit the magic of notes is Wedding Qawwali. 

One more with notes is the Kariye Na song in Taal. It is a folk-themed song with more emphasis to the verses. And in his own style, Rahman would play down everything and keep it to a bare minimum. Add to it, the Noor-Un-Ala-Noor song from Meenaxi. While Taal was overrated and lived to its expectations, Meenaxi's songs are those that exhibit Rahman's passion and repertoire. Thankfully, I have listened to Meenaxi's songs over a thousand times in these 15 years and not seen the videos until today; even Mangta Hai Kya's video for that matter. Certain things (do not) happen for a reason! 

A few other notable songs with Carnatic notes are Luka Chuppi from Rang De Basanti and Tere Bina from Guru. 

Anyways, now to the closing notes: though my desperation to reach out to Rahman's new songs and familiarize them has died out, I still cannot stop being amazed by the fact that, by hook or crook, the songs end up reaching my ears.

Of Opera, Train Tracks, Rhapsody, and A Gentleman in Moscow

With Amor Towles' Sasha aka Alexander's intriguing narration of Sofia's presence filling every inch of his lonely but made-to-be-lively life, can I ever imagine being distracted by anything at all in this world! No... absolutely not. But then, I am human; more importantly, a music-loving rahmaniac. So, you must have guessed what happened. In fact, I started reading "A Gentleman in Moscow" sometime in mid-December. Though it took quite some time to get used to Moscow's terrain and the Count's whereabouts in Hotel Metropol, it took a really good pace until mid-Jan, then I lost my rhythm midway of the book, and while attempting to pick up the book, I must have re-read the same chapter at least ten times, and then, finally one day in April, I surpassed the oft-treaded road (chapter named Absinthe), and finally moved on to Addendum and managed to hop from 1930 to 1938! Can you imagine, in about all of the 40 chapters of the book, all chapter names start with the letter A (the only exceptions being the chapters named 1930 and 1946)?

So, if I have been at it, failed so many times, and have managed to carry on, then imagine the persistence I must have had when I set forth myself to read, and especially with Amor's writing being just so stellar in the Adjustments chapter...!

Anyways, coming to the topic of distraction and that led to my subsequent suffering from migraine for the next 3 days... I left you hanging at guessing what happened, right? You may have guessed it right. But I am not going to let you walk away with it that easily. Yes, it is some song, but you must also guess which one of Rahman's distracted me from my sage-like stance and set me into an unimaginable state of trance. So much to talk about... and I am not sure where to start.

Let me start with Rahman's love for the sound of the trains on the tracks. How many of them! Mangta hai kya from Rangeela, Chaiyya Chaiyya from Dil se, Chikkubukku chikkubukku railae from Gentleman, O Saya from Slumdog Millionaire, Mental Manadhil from OK Kanmani. Of these, let me talk about an under-rated but one of my top favourites--that is still, even after 25 years of its existence. Yes... the Rangeela one--Mangta hai kya. What more can I talk, and how else can I describe, more than what the title has already said! This is Rahman's first song that he sang in Hindi, and so, it still is a little rustic and inexperienced. And, even though the song credits read Rahman and Shweta Shetty, I am sure that it is Unnikrishnan who sang the Carnatic bit in the end. And that again is one of Rahman's trademarks - the usage of Carnatic notes in songs. Dil se re in Dil Se, Yaakkai thiri from Ayudha Ezhuthu, Mangta hai kya from Rangeela, Kannalane from Bombay, Thee thee from Thiruda Thiruda. Now, I have traversed so much.

So, let me go back to the Gentleman. In fact, I was wondering a few days ago on how relevant is the theme or setting of the book to our current times. The indefinite house arrest of the Count and our similar plight these days, only hoping that the prevalent virus does not keep our company. Yeah! the one named 'Corona'. Of course, Count Rostov's pursuit is so much longer than ours. A long elaborate post just on the invasion of Corona into our lives much later.

For now, more than me talking anymore about Amor Towles's amazing book, a few lines in his own words that can vouch for his work.

The twice-tolling clock: A student of both the Stoics and Montaigne, the Count's father believed that our Creator had set aside the morning hours for industry. That is, if a man woke no later than six, engaged in a light repast and then applied himself without interruption, by the hour of noon he should have accomplished a full day's labor.

The Juggler: With the fruit in his hands, he stood perfectly erect. Or rather, he stood at a slight tilt induced by the wine, a sort of 12:02. ... For Andrey's hand had been crafted by God to juggle. So deft was his touch that the oranges moved of their own accord. Or better yet, they moved like planets governed by a force of gravity that simultaneously propelled them forward and kept from flinging off into space, while Andrey, who was standing before these orbits and releasing them a moment later to pursue their natural course. ... And when he set the four knives in motion, Emile leaned back in his chair and with a tear in his eyes, watched as his trusted blade tumbled effortlessly through space, feeling that this moment, this hour, this universe could not be improved upon.

Sofia: Retreating to the safety of his washroom, the Count took off his shirt, bathed his upper body, lathered his cheeks, all the while muttering the principle riddle of the day: “She is no more than thirty pounds; no more than three feet tall; her entire bag of belongings could fit in a single drawer; she rarely speaks unless spoken to; and her heart beats no louder than a bird’s. So how is it possible that she takes up so much space?”

Over the years, the Count had come to think of his rooms as rather ample. In the morning, they easily accommodated twenty squats and twenty stretches, a leisurely breakfast, and the reading of a novel in a tilted chair. In the evenings after work, they fostered flights of fancy, memories of travel, meditations on history all crowned by a good night’s sleep. Yet somehow, this little visitor with her kit bag and her rag doll had altered every dimension of the room. She had simultaneously brought the ceiling downward, the floor upward, and the walls inward, such that anywhere he hoped to move she was already there. Having roused himself from a fitful night on the floor, when the Count was ready for his morning calisthenics, she was standing in the calisthenics spot. At breakfast, she ate more than her fair share of strawberries; then when he was about to dip his second biscuit in his second cup of coffee, she was staring at it with such longing that he had no choice but to ask if she wanted it. And when, at last, he was ready to lean back in his chair with his book, she was already sitting in it, staring up at him expectantly.

Gratification

You are looking around
to find your way back
And only later realise
that it's the same street
you drove past a while ago...
'cos you're on the other side.

How about the feeling
of being greeted by an analogy
just when you are waking up?

How about the feeling
of longing to put your legs up
after a hard day's work,
And your thoughts light up
just when you've lain yourself?

Delayed gratification!
Or, is it instant,
because you get back up
And finish working on it?

Oh! You must be wondering
about the analogy...

Try running your finger tips
over a blade of bamboo...
From the hilt,
through the forte
to the foible and back.

Worth the wait?

My Trees

There are trees in my head
some stumped, some blooming
And some far away
and long forgotten
by distance and time.

Of the stumped ones, some are
oozing blood and suffering
Some stoic with closure,
and some stumped ones
still showing signs of life
with trifoliate, one or two.

Of the blooming trees,
some are verdant
with joy and no misgivings.
Some with varied hues, of
pink, green, yellow, and brown
telling of moments of
being born, fully matured,
and some
wishing and withering away.

I like my trees however they are,
and am thankful
for reminding me to practice
acceptance for who they are.

~dated: Feb 03, 2020

Abuse

I am pushed to a corner
I crash and crumble.
I clamber, and
pick and own myself yet again
I charge myself and grow
an appetite for destruction
I contemplate and finally settle
for Departure
as a means to avenge
the attempts to inflict harm
on my esteem and stature.

But no...
I decide to deviate.

I take stock
and check on my composure.

I sit with my grief, and
pore over a complicated pattern
to color its sting on paper.
A few hours pass through,
but there's nothing but failure.

I drench myself
with music on loop
Thinking that its cheer
would reverse my gloom, and
I only end up discoloring it.

In vain, I try all means to
squelch the burning rage
and simmer it down...
Until it translates itself
into these words.

Underground

When the numbers sprouted,
did you all not try to convene
and talk about a revolt
against this insanity and greed?

Or, was it that
you happened to feel
the need to love your captor?

I know...
You squirmed and dodged
when they were boring you.
But then, they had the final say.
After it was all done,
they were trying to drain you
at a really rapid pace.
Now, that you were never used to...

You were even fine to serve them
as long as they went slow on you.

But then,
those inhuman things!

...

Your thoughts, dear water?
The one whose seeds are above
And roots below!

The RainTree

What can those tiny drops 
do to you, you wonder...
Those that lived on the edge
and remained on the brink, of the 
myriad leaves of a raintree?

After the scheming invisible rain 
added enough dope
to the ready-to-shoot drops,
One by one, 
they darted towards me... 
The me, lying supine 
under the gigantic raintree.

Imagine those sparkly silver bullets,
Falling with force, and
Growing in size as they dropped!
The ominous steel-grey blobs, 
I thought, 
were going to pierce through me.

But then, here's all they did...

In succession, 
they splashed on my face, and
on the pathway's icy railings.

They caught me unawares, and
Shattered my resolve to dodge, 
Sprinkling euphoria on me.

Rain, Road, Adversity, and Life

When it rains, 
you lucidly see the scratches 
and pits, on even the most-familiar 
and oft-taken roads.

The adversities in your life
expose your weaknesses to you, 
making you realize how equipped, and 
prepared you are.

Now, it is up to us, whether to
see the weaknesses as a threat
or as opportunities in disguise.

It is up to us, on how 
we plan to maneuver our pitfalls;
whether we mend our path, or
complain of our shortcomings.

Translation of Nanbane from Mankatha

Melancholy of Voices

Woman:
Why, my dear friend,
did you have to fool around,
and pretend to be so hapless?
Now, you've proven to me that
you are the greatest histrion,
the one that the world has ever seen.

A woman never falls in love
after testing the waters,
of a man's goodness and evil.
Oh well, what is the point,
of realizing, a tad late
that it isn't the Ganges but a mirage?

Man:
Love is a dream castle
Learn about it, my lady love...
I search for true love
in the realms of love; but,
never have I ever seen one, my love.

Woman:
I fell for you, on the twist
of my bangled arm...
And I yearned to cling to you
and travel around...
I scripted an epical love tale
and etched it in my soul.

Alas, only to realize so late that
the epic was flawed from A to Z.
And tears flowed down my eye's path.
I owe all of it on you.
Is this all that you have for a reason?
Why should all the hurt belong to me?
Indeed, you tore apart
an endearing love-scape...

If the Tamil lord has six faces,
the man has a hundred,
each showing a different colour.
Why, my dear friend,
did you have to fool around?

Man:
Will love win or will it fail?
No one ever knows its fate,
my lady love.
Are you sad that the love-scape is torn?
Why do you worry, 'cos even this will pass.

Woman:
I recollect that you bosomed me.
But, little did I realize that
you were just trying to shun away
the light of my love-sunk soul.

The tree becomes a withered log
when the wind slays it down.
Would you even realize...?
That you threw thunder on my heart
and pained my fragile being.

To My dear ladies of the world...
listen to my golden words!
Love is a dream castle
and all of it is an illusion
and full of hallucinations.
All is well only when
you live with caution.

Man:
Love is a dream castle.
Learn about it my lady love...
I search for true love
in the realms of love,
never have I ever seen one, 
my love.


This song is another beauty from Yuvan! Wish he comes back with a bang from his hiatus and gives such amazing gems to the music world. On my experience of translating this song... To start with, this song is really close to my heart, and another song that took a really long time for me to translate. Again, like any of my other translations, I am in two minds on whether I did justice to it or not.

The Human Eye

I walk on the road,
looking at the passersby
I glance at a human in black,
who appears suspicious to me
We lock our eyes long enough
to be convinced,
of the innocence.

Now, I pass and let go.


~ by The Dog

All Of It

What would a kid choose:
an umbrella, rainbow-colored
or black?

We know it without doubt.
The one coloured with 'all of it'
All the colours of joy!

What would I choose:
a day, of joy or of gloom?

Who would I prefer to be:
a person, bursting with spirit
or full of dreariness?

I know it right away.

A person full of joy, and
A day of joy, filled with

Music, reading, and writing
Learning, teaching, and creating

Food, water, and sleep

Exercise, fun, and laughter
Nature, sunlight, and sport.

All of it.

Proxy - A sequel to Pleasure

Piano Sonatas
from the 'Best of Beethoven'
playing in the foreground.

Rhythmic whirring sounds,
of the fan blades in motion

My unaccomplished 
'100 days of...' chart
tethered to the wall, swaying, 
and trying to catch my attention.

The clip holding the world map
to the wall calendar,
tapping itself against the wall,
clapping for itself for its feat!

Beyond these,
outside the night walls,
the wind play sport
and proxies for the rain;

Its sound duping me
into believing that there's 
a repeat act,
and nudging me to write.

Pleasure

Thunder sounds
gentle and muffled

Rain sings
like in a trained choir

Lightning streaks
of soft-toned hues

All three take me
by their arms
Making me yearn
to get my skin wet

But then, here I am...
Not out, yet,

All-absorbing
already soul-drenched
and my pleasures quenched.



Dated: Jul 24, 2019

Purpose

At times,
I feel the seconds,
of the time given to me
ticking and toking
I feel it as visible as...

the throb of the heart
caged inside my chest

the pensive chair, rocking
back and forth

the trickling drops
of a leaking tap
that cannot withhold itself

the one-eyed blinkers of vehicles
raring to head left or right

the blinking series of tiny lights
hung outside on name boards,
outside of shops

the waves on the beach shore
marching ahead and receding

the alternating shriek of
the red-blue sirens, belonging
to a speeding ambulance

the dripping glucose lining up,
waiting to be infused
into my recuperating bloodstream.

I lucidly see the purpose
of this feeling...
and yet, I fail to act, to do, and
deliver with all my might.

Yours Lovingly

Here, now... 
I feel your dead weight on me.
Don't you worry
I'll take care of thee.

I am your sounding board
when you are all alone
You can lay on me
and take a stroll, out 
in your dreamy starry world.

I'll lend my ears
and listen to your murmurs
I'll show you the morning light
until your darkness is out of sight
When you have troubled thoughts, 
O dear,
I'll let you soak me with your tears.

You can count on me
all through your life.
I'll be by your side, and
give you a calm and clear mind
even when you are full of strife.

Now that you've heard what I said
come let's sleep tight...

This is your loving bed.

Today

How much I yearn to say
'I missed you today,
after you left!'

I have second thoughts, and 
stop my flow of thoughts.
I want to validate and 
re-validate, and 
want to test if it would
fade and die.
I repeat the words in my head,
and with a deep sigh,
I check if it would feel
wierd to say so.

I ask myself, 'so what'
and then ask
'will it stay if I say it aloud'
I tell myself
'it is better to stay sad
than to feel sorry'
I also ask 
'are they fleeting thoughts', and 
'what if I do not miss 
after a while'

Well, well...! 
We all know well enough, essentially, 
that is what happens...
We miss people, and then,
we get used to it.

~Dated - May 02, 2019

Bitterness

I've tried...
Enduring you
Being indifferent to you
Tried to avoid you, and
Ignore you.
Confrontation just doesn't work!

You come back, fall back,
and persevere.
And leave a bad taste 
in my mouth.

Like an ocean of bile
in my stomach.

I

The deafening thunderous applause
you give yourself
after you bend and break...

Wish I could learn from you,

Oh! Waves...

Bad Definition of Karma

Knitting together events that gratify your sadistic vengeful self.

Suicide

Autumn was almost done, and
I was at the park bench
lying supine.

The trees exposed the bare blue sky
through the loosely knit mesh
that it weaved, from
the remains of the paling green leaves.

As a gush of wind swiftly blew
the last few hurriedly fell off
severing itself from the cords, which
nourished them for so long.

They came down
like lovers in disappointment,
falling off a cliff.

Brown: Our Marriage

We are mostly brown
but then,
you are Khakhi 
and I am Beige

That is where we 
intersect and bifurcate

The Music in my House

Oh! the voices...
Of the dramatic cello
the sad violin, and 
the mellifluous flute.
I am not trained in them
yet
I can play them well, when 
in my act
I am not too cautious or slow

My heart is calm and still
my mind is unoccupied, 
and
I can hear the occupants 
of my house
play the note equally well
with precisely,
the same tone and pitch 


Three cheers...
To the dear, creaking doors 
for bringing music into my house!

Mosquitoes and Butterflies

If you come to think of it
butterflies that sip the nectar
from the flowers
do not deserve 
to be considered as divine
When,
the sinister mosquitoes
do the same job.

Both are equally devoted.

And yet, we yearn to hold one
by their arms
And, with the other,
we gnash,
and vengefully smash, and squash
between our palms.

Inference
One: Looks can be deceiving.
Two: As long as mankind is not bothered,
he would pass any harm and discomfort
as poetry.

The Clothesdoctor

I've known this puny guy and been seeing him for over three years, I guess. And, he is probably the only person to whom I have spoken far less than he has spoken to me. But then, I don't have any feelings of him stalking me, or something. I have never had feelings of indifference as well, so, you cannot attribute or imagine that to be the reason. I meet him every weekend without fail. He addresses me fondly, says a meek 'hi', checks on me if I've not turned up for a long time. He remarks that I am early or late, if I turn up so. In return, I just smile at him, or just say a word or two... at the max, I have given him warm courtesies. Despite such limited acts of reciprocation, he even advises me to take it easy on myself if I look tired and worn out; he has asked me to try lighter acts like yoga, which happens in the park nearby, at almost the same time I end up on the road, for my sprightly morning runs.

Don't bother guessing... He is the clothesdoctor stationed at the bunk in the street corner, ironing out the clothes and bringing them out of their mess.

My Writings

My writings:

At times,
too long for poetry,

yet,
too sweet for prose.

My growing love for lists

Friends who lend time, unjudging ears
Stillness that accepts things and moves on
un-yearning heart
serenity from listening to a piano
faith in God, hopefulness
the sustaining spirit
being self-sufficient, complete, and enough
feeling of confidence in your stride, and
unwavering determination
awareness of what is right, and
knowing what to do
patience implanted by a good book

Warmth of food on your palate
pleasure of smooth chocolate
sprightliness from cold, tangy juice

Heart that spells, mind that listens, memory that retains
impulse to leave the job at hand and start writing

Compass

Babe,
You are the compass
How would you get lost?

Salt Puddle

I was sitting on the park bench,
my retreat after the refreshing run
With my head drooping down
arms affixed and shank hanging loose

Not bothering to wipe my brows
I let the sweat drip down
And one of them lands itself 
on the edge of the bench

One or two of the curious, playful
small black ants
check on their new-found puddle

Time ticks away, and 
a lot more swarm around it
Now, I realize that they were sipping
like it was some nectar

After a while, the pool shrinks to half
disappearing imperceptibly
alike a sinking sun,
that you cannot see descending

Dead End

When we look for on-the-go directions to a destination,
a dead end also indicates direction.

Move on.

Orphans

We sway together
to the tunes of the wind
We grow together
in the warmth of the sun
We shed together
in the seasons of change
We weep together
to the sadness of the rain

At the treetops we are entwined
and cannot tell apart
each of our twigs or branches
Our roots are different
and far apart
We are the leaves of the trees
across an avenue

Siblings and Marriage

We still can enjoy nectar
from the pulp
of the cane
that you have chewed.

Avenues of Warmth

Words

Time

Thoughts

Poetry

Music

Cotton

Conversations

Shells

I pluck beautiful thoughts
from the mind tree
of my beautiful orchard
during my morning runs,
like
the kid picking and sorting
lovely sea shells
from the beach sand.

Discourse

The warmth derived, after
the discourse of a bereaved mind
is enough to comfort
someone lain bare-bodied on
a slab of glacial ice.


dated: Dec 17, 2018

Me

I wander all around
like a nomad, unaware 
of what I am looking for
Yet,
I discover, rejoice, and relish
I falter, suffer, and learn
You say I deviate...
But, you must understand:
I know, that I have to
come back home.

That's me. Know me.

Tired

After a long day, I hit the bed
I lay on my left and realize that
my body's pressed so hard, that
I begin to feel parts of myself
My entire head, torso, 
and my lower limbs.

I surrendered and 
entrusted myself to it
Knowing that it will 
take good care of me
Like walking beside the one I love,
completely carefree, 
and mindless and unaware
of my path, 
back home.

Autumn

God's blessing,
A thousand kisses flying,
All swirling and swaying, each
at its own pace and gait,
like butterflies that flew
from heaven to earth,
that only knew to take 
a vertical descent
Each fall's varying measure, 
telling me of the stateliness.

A thousand autumn leaves
dry and withered, yet
sprightly and cheerful, falling
from an old, wise tree
that I am lying under...
One thousand of 'em
shower my supine body,
and a few caress tenderly
my tired, deprived face.

The Annoying Itch

You are pretty sure
That the room is dark and calm
And you have been laying still

With eyes closed and ears shut
You see glaring lights
And hear deafening noises

When all you pray
Is to get a good night's sleep

As an answer to your prayer
Your head attempts to clear this clutter

It searches for words, replaces them
It strings them together
And recites them over n over
Until it finds the right ones
To allay the annoyance

Now you cannot restrain
But to straighten up and scratch the itch
Lest you lose the pearls you beaded


Dated - Oct 17, 2018

The Gift

If there is one that you would want to give to someone whom you think must get the best in this world. Like say, for instance, your kid. And let's assume that they have the innate sense to take of good care of things that they own and always strive to honor the responsibility given to them--to take good care what you have bestowed them.

What would you gift?

The fact that I started writing on 'the gift' deems me to give it hands down to the blessing of losing yourself to the versatility of music, of the things it can do to you. And like the fusion of two of the best things, it would be the duo of immersing yourself into the moments when the rain god presents herself and augmenting it with the vivacious listening spell that you have bound yourself into.

Addiction and Escapism

I see the poorest of the poor lining up at the liquor store, spending the last few pennies that they had saved up after toiling their self through physical hardship; all for some intoxication and relief. And I wonder: why would someone struggle so much to earn those meagre shillings and waste it upon liquor. What for... For the high and the temporary relief from their current mental and physical state. They yearn for the pleasure they received the first time. Then, it becomes a habit, and then, there kicks in the avalanche effect. That is addiction, and the point is escapism. An escape from the worldly botherations.

And then, I wonder how different we are from these folks. Of course, the modality of addiction and the level of moral degradation varies by a large amount. We tend to overdo stuff, spend excessive time and effort over what is not needed, and obsess over certain aspects that do not deserve so much attention. We are addicted to, and practice escapism. We kill time and pain like those who do so after consumption of liquor. Just that we use food, television, movies, work, and social media as various means of escapism.

At varying intensties, the end point or the areas of intersection between the alcoholics versus non-alcoholics would be addiction, loss of self-worth, lack of self control, mindlessness, recklessness, lack of concern over the first circle of influence (influence both ways), and loads and loads of meandering from the expected and desired path and action.


Dated - Aug 10, 2018

Comfort

You are lying supine 
with your heart thumping loud and hard,
thigh muscles burning, out of intense work,
and your tensed core gets a breather.

Your eyes are closed,
arms resting on the floor,
and knuckles on your brow.

Your feet, which usually rest,
under the weight of your body,
is now resting on the gym floor,
bearing the weight
of just the portion beneath the bent knee.

While you are so,
you think about penning these thoughts
with the title 'comfort'.

That was mental comfort,
after the innumerous dry days of 'un' writing.


Dated - Jul 28, 2018

Between Shades of Gray and Karwaan

How long has it been since I saw a movie as refreshing as the cool breeze on a sweaty evening! It was the Friday evening and my official weekend hours. Yes... weekend, for me, lasts for a few hours, and that is the Friday evening. The weekend is technically work for home. Work is work, isn't it, be it home or office. Anyways, c'est la vie! So, after a long time, I was surfing Amazon Prime to see if there was anything worthwhile, and this one popped up. The movie poster had Dulquer and Irrfan sharing a light moment with another young lady, and with tender coconut in their hands; so, by the first looks, it came across as a good movie to spend time on.

You get to traverse most of the first part with Dulquer's misgiving in his life. But then, it does not come out so on-your-face, like the typical lifeless guy with a beard. He is a guy who had to lose his passion for the sake of his father, who harps on a solid career, rather than dwelling on one's passion. For his father, Dulquer's passion was a mere insecure vocation that vacillated unsteadily, tethered by luck at the binding end. Dulquer is shown desperately seeking the attention of his love interests at a few places, and that is still reasonable for a guy with a single status. There is not much of a background for Irrfan, apart from the fact that he owns a few vehicles, but not the suave kinds, along the lines of his character in Piku; yet, he is a practical, lovable, and a rustic character. He has a brotherly affinity for Dulquer, and this clarifies or convinces us as to why he would take his personal vehicle to help Dulquer; a vehicle styled similar to the Volkswagen Camper.

So, Karwaan refers to a caravan, the vehicle that Irrfan drives to exchange Amala's mom's mortal remains with that of Dulquer's dad. Both their parents had travelled to the Ganges on a pilgrimage and the bus meets with an accident. For a few seconds, I actually could not recognize the beautiful Amala, but then her gait and body language lets you make the guess. Before the exchange act starts, there is a piece on the way the travel company and the courier company handle the demises; it does look a bit stony and dramatic, but I guess that is how it really is... perhaps more like the way George Clooney presents himself when he issues the pink slips in Up in the Air.

The exchange of conversation between Dulquer and the spoilt brat in Amala's daughter, and the situational romantic tragedies when Irrfan's tries to hit on a woman he falls for, form the rest of the movie. The movie evokes memories of Soodhu Kavvum and Neram, in the way it has dealt certain parts of the plot. Now here, I must say that my references to the other movies is certainly an injustice to Karwaan, especially after having had so much fun watching the movie. It certainly has a refreshing appeal and is a must watch. There's no doubt about it.

Karwaan was actually sandwiched between two of the many quick reading sessions of the book, Between Shades of Gray written by Ruta Sepetys. That night, after watching Karwaan, I was extending my weekend hours for a little longer, and I was not too sure if I must continue the emotionally heavy book after seeing such a light-hearted movie. But then, I reasoned it out saying that a good movie stands apart for the lightness it brings, despite the drama contained external to it. And, a good book like Between the Shades of Gray, however tragic it may be, does not dwell in your mind for the horrors endured by the protagonists (Lina and her fellow members), but the positivity and the ray of hope that beams throughout the narration.

Thereon and until the end, there was still a lot more tragedy in Lina's life. There were places in the book that were ghastly, and yet, Karwaan's aura never faded. And, neither did I feel so desolated after I finished the book.

Of course, even though there was a little hope saved at the closing of the book, when the inspecting doctor arrives, it still is not a happy ending. Could be primarily because of the number of years after which the countries surrounding Lithuania, the Baltic countries, got their freedom from the tyranny of Russia. In all, a very good book after a really long time. And it is yet another book that carries values and reinstates the spirit of hope amidst doom and despair.


Dated - Oct 06, 2018

Come Back

The pupils forgot to dilate,

my heart settled to beat slower...

perhaps, my blood got colder?

My senses were rarely alert

and never reached any high.

I was desperate and helpless.

I could not realize what I missed.

I was searching for something

to fill the void, not knowing what.

I was shoved around and
thrown into a perpetual dismay.
With convictions thrown astray
my ship sunk into diffidence.
I felt like I lost my voice
and my power to reason and say.

My constants exclaimed

that I seemed to have aged.

In actual, I was rotting

and indulging in self-sabotage.

Today, realization dawned
and slung me
to heightened consciousness.
Like an ablution 
at the close of a tired day,
like being amidst 
the expanse of a calm blue sea,
like inhaling scentless 
whiff of mist atop a hill.

I notice that it's you.
Am so glad to have gotten you back,
and, most of all, am glad it was you...

Dear Euphoria!

The Unburied

I ask the flowers a reason
For being prodigal
Shedding itself in vain
All its glorious blooms
On the dismal roads

In reply, it says to me
"I weep and pay homage
To all my warriors
The seeds, twigs, and leaves
Who gracefully heeded, and
Gave way to new blood
They are my kith and kin,
My bullets, swords, and shields
Who lay unburied
On the tarred, cold roads
Hapless and nowhere to go
Deprived of their deathright
To lay peacefully
In the womb of Mother Earth

I shed to perform their last rites"

I stood there pained and meek
Before I could say anything
The flower continued to speak

"I question mankind in disdain
About the inaction and imprudence
To let the valorous bodies
Their bones and flesh
Decay in dishonor
The ones that braved and fought
The likes of
Nature, time, and circumstance.

You better explain..."

Pleasure Balloons

It's a pity that
We've trained ourselves
To fly high
Only when we inflate our minds
With pleasure.

Cotton Ball - Redacted

On a dreary and cold day,
I sit in my room 
listening to a song, 
spieled to eternity.

I imagine tearing away
bleached white layers
from the cotton roll.

I fold and refold,
make two small balls
and stuff them into my ears.

My weary mind yields 
to a strange urge 
that comes over me.

I take the song in my hands,
gently make two globs,
and thrust 'em into my ears,
reassured of the warmth
to my cold heart.


Edits Credit: MaheshC

Cotton Ball

It's a cold day.
I imagine tearing away 
white layers of soft, fluffy cotton 
from the bale.

I make two small balls 
and stuff them into my ears.

As I listen to an all-absorbing song, 
an urge comes over me,
and I continue.

I take the song in my hands,
roll it into two chunks, and
thrust them into my ear canal...

To provide comfort and warmth
to my cold heart,
and clear itself
from the over-crowded clutter
caused by the innumerous, unsolved 
problems and troubles of my world.