Death

Fearless, calm, soothed by an unexplained
Void: Either dark o filled with light, all is gained,
Mixing with the infinitum of the Cosmos:
By dust, feeding life of many forms and making
Its presence a nothingness to reality.
Breaking particles of dust to smaller pieces,
Each beating the sound of the universe, and sight,
Of darkness even in light or light in darkness.
No taste to cherish fruits of pleasure, but
Thought: the presence of a treasure,
To be in itself: a moment of Everything.

The Bhikshuk

Humble and proud, wrinkled scars showed
A purity picked in her eyes, that smiled a trace of time;
Of age and a wisdom of non belonging, a stick to aid
Her travelling feet: head pointing to stars and base
Pointing to mud; The simplicity of a stroller with an
Empty bowl in a sea of thoughts; not thirsty though,
The smile catches on as her old hand trembles: to lift
And bless- compassion and care with nothing to lose;
Nor, to gain, lifts her stick again for
Another stroll, on another plane

The Classroom

One bag, heavy with books on text, and one

To exercise voices, faces, without

Argument: a blank stare on faceless masks,

Feet pointed to doors tightly shut, silent;

Like  a dead river, that froze in winter :

Fish swim under layers of ice, the Sun fails

To melt; Gentle taps of finger on the desk,

Imitating norms in diction, voice and

Thought: A gentler hum turns to buzz, nodding

Heads and chorus bursts with fish-hooks cracking

Ice; Or more often trained parrots talking, amusing,

For just a treat: of chilli flakes, a gentle tap,

What it knows, while it treats, knowing of

A meal to get and a place to rest.     

Sweeping the street

The moment before his intestines sucked
His lungs in by dust, paced his heart slow;
Then beating fast by the days first passing-
The sun blared as sweat poured and cooled,
Just one moment of a soft breeze kissing:
Good morning to her child, gently fooled
Of gifted time, his conscious mind would flow,
To reflect a life made by forgetting,
wasted cleaning, what would forever be
dirty, like a fool with a bucket as his tool,
Drying a river fed by ice, fishing
with thought: that all fishes would die slowly
Letting another thought, constantly blaming 
The dog, The cow and The monkey in uniforms.

Thief

"Wuuhaaaaan!!", "Waaaaaahhaaaan!!", the shrill voice echoed out like a siren, piercing the many noises of a busy Sunday 'haat': Ponking rickshaws, vegetable vendors trying to capture the attention of the next buyer,  old men sitting in the tea stall discussing politics, men with bags bargaining in loud voices, if they could get the fish a little cheaper they would buy more. Honking horns blaring through the cycle bells ringing, quarells, laughter, and voices of all possible colours. The contended man with a bag full of vegetables and meat, happy that he could get them fresh and cheap, thinking about the good lunch he would share in a conversation with his family; Stared down by hungry eyes of few skeletal figures sitting by the side with a bowl full of coins, their eyes made their mouth water with the thought of food they could never think of having: their meals were limited and "Wuuhaaaahaaaan!!", the cry was shriller and louder this time as sight  caught to the source of the wail: a little boy stood stamping his feet some four and a half feet from the ground, hair cropped as much as can be cropped, the colour of which had turned grey by dust from black. His face heavily tanned and could be considered dirty particularly by his snot that kept pouring down to his upper lips which he immediately snorted and grunted in and swallowed as he wailed a spoilt cry: "Wuuuhaaaaan!! Wyaannh!!".

The reason for his wails was the old man, a cycle-van puller denying his wish of a little ride. "Control your son bibi, tell him to shut up, i am going home now, cant take him for any free ride, I have work to do", the man shouted out to the mother of that kid who was busy arguing a bargain with a customer at her vegetable stall. The heat added to the irritating mood of the man as well as the lady who immediately turned around and retorted her son, "Come here! stop nagging at that man, cranky, he is, there is no point in wailing here, go and play with your friends!", but the kid was adamant, He would not move and instead wailed louder, "please" as he tugged at the lungi of the cycle-van puller. He pushed aside the hand of the little boy," Go now! don't disturb" and while he said this his eyes met the boys and a sudden moment of nostalgia placed him some forty years back, a reflection of him in a school uniform carrying some old torn books. The torn uniform shirt and half pant the kid was wearing had no difference from the one he wore when he loved the books, the subjects, the studying, it was long ago and then when his father left with another woman and his mother died in poverty it became his duty as the eldest son to hold the family and stop it from breaking into non existence, it was then that he borrowed the van from his uncle and strarted earning by pedal. Compassion filled his heart as he said:
"ok, but not very far". A smiling kid was now jumping almost dancing with excited shrieks of laughter on the cycle-van. "yah! yah! yah! here we go... Yah! yah! yah! vrooooom". The mother smiled a reflection of the boys face, the joy, how she wished he forever kept that expression. The van puller rolled up his 'banyan', wiped the sweat off his brow and began to peddle, but had to stop as soon as he started for a crowd blocked his way.

A black sedan stopped the market traffic, as a fat man in loose baggy pants stepped off it, another with a bag followed: He lifted almost everything the market had to sell, and moved towards his car, ready to leave when he suddenly decided to have a paan and approached the cigarette shop, asked for his addictive.

The van puller pushed his way across the crowd to seek the reason for his halt and reached the black car, the kid followed him in suspicion.

After putting the lump of paan into his mouth to swell his cheek the man reached out for his wallet to pay and shrieked: "Pickpocket! My money! My cards! Stolen!"

The van puller found the wallet dropped beside the front tyre, picked it up and to make a show of his little education to the school going kid, opened it to read the name while explaining how it would lead them to the owner when, "THIEF!" shouted a helper a finger pointed towards the man. Before he could explain anything he felt a huge knuckle on his back that made him fall to the ground, greeted by kicks and punches, his nose bled as he slowly fell unconscious: the sound of a siren made apparations in his mind as he felt being dragged to a van and taken.
The kid stood there silently, no wails, no cries, just a silent tear washed the dirt off his face.

"Today an incident happened in the market", the man said chewing on his rice and shaking off some from his hand as he sat opposite his wife enjoying his heavy Sunday lunch.
"What?"
"My wallet was nearly stolen by a thief, lucky Raju spotted him before he fled..."
"Then?"
"The what, the crowd caught him and gave him what he deserved, the police took him into custody"
The wife breathed a heavy sigh: "Thank god you are safe, what filth the world is filled with today", and they ate.

To a Minister

Dictate all that is to be done, make the orders,
It is right from a seat of sweat, when sat on,
Sweet as cream made from sugar: Ants steal;
Stamp them! they don't scream in fear or pain.
They dirty the floor, Spoil the food; Kill them
Before the seat is crumbled in crumbs, bits
Carried on each working shoulder: for survival.
Kill them for they cannot be tamed by a 
Thought, they cannot think, they were never taught; 
No, they don't know profit, they cannot be bought.
Kill them, they do not bleed, no stains will stain
The floor: Rid a few and there will be more,
Kill them hence and shut the door: to stop
An epidemic, An uproar of surviving labour.

After Dawn

Chirruping birds rest to dots on the
Blue and black horizon, bridged by
A crimson sunrise, mirrored on a
White mountain, turned orange on the top.
Blue hills changing colour turning green;
A man milking his cow, a driver starting
A bus, The postman picking letters, to
Deliver:  Waking streets, breathing rush and
Laughter, School children, daily workers, gather
like ants, and scatter like flocks  chased by
A gunshot at a starting point or by
A hunter; The stations fill with motion,
Blaring horns of buses, the first note like
Beeps of an early morning alarm. 

Crow

A speck of blue to the dark grey sky,
Disappear to hunting eyes: Wings folded
Like grey clouds on a shiney black night, and
A red throat of drying dawn; On an afternoon sun,
Like a world: alone, and plenty together-
Each reflecting a darker Sun: 
A lighter sky, By the eyes; Hooked up grips on logs,
Towers, walls and trees, some on wires running,
To reach a change: picking paper, plastic, and
Cigarette boxes: Quarells laid over
Tearing crusts of shelter, hunting food, lying
By silent night on a railway track, or 
Empty flats: drinking by rain, and
Fed by litter.

Thirst

Blue pipes on white walls like a dull creek,
Piercing down concrete on a cloudy day.
A forest roof, with ferns for trees, and 
Mossy plants, amidst blocks: Scattered like
Painted pines. Paint worn off, its skin peeled 
From a wound, and empty windows voiced the breeze.
All distant echoes, of crows, pigeons and quarrel, or
A blind tree laughing and having a conversation with
The crowd: of the light that might shine again when
A finger pressed the switch. Showing the way to that
Blind man  by his walking stick, and hatched in nests
Of sparrows under the roof, a shelter, more from the sun 
Then rain; beside a drain that blocked the water by a pond:
From where the rats would drink when night fell.

An Empty street

A silent wind followed the one car that
Travelled to many, as an old cough followed:
A window latched shut to stop the gravel 
That flew behind; Two flags fluttered,
As the lovers comforted in arms, of
The house with shut windows.
The few lights of the street seemed
Sweep the fallen leaves, the wind howled,
Then slowed to rustle, a crispy sound 
Was lost , time counted by crickets;
And screeching bats hunting food,
The other sounds:
Dogs barking of hunger,
Cats crying in lust. 

Fear(story)

Steps, unending steps: It was all common, here, this dream, he had seen it every night through the past week, and it was the same one: Steps, unending steps, as he climbed one to another to another, but the dream ended before he ever reached anywhere. This night was a variation. Of his determination to end this dream he wouldn't wake till he reached the end. This night he slept only to see that dream, to know where the steps led.

The wife saw him go to bed early, she could clearly mark: Of his fits of insanity this was different, he was disturbed, he had secluded himself the entire week, and today he took to sleeping in another room. She sat on the sofa beside the bed and sighed as she stared upon the pristine sleepers face. He looked in peace, his breath was controlled to a soft hum on  grunting whisper, his eyelids still with no dreamy movements as such. Yet she was worried, It was a big sacrifice on her part, a lot of hardwork and plenty of wasted years to have her husband cured of his fantasy, he now, as she hoped, had lived with her on the same world of imagination that constituted social reality- the probability that made run on what we call human society, starting with the number line. But a weeks stress showed her fatigue, she was worried and lacked sleep, she decided not to sleep, she loved him, she adored him, she wanted to be with him, through it all as she decided to keep watch; The night took a thunderous turn, The little hill where there cottage was shook, as the sky growled in night rage, and flashed the most devilish of glimpses that words should restrain to respect, the rain slashed on the thached tin roof: "Drruum! Grrum! drruung! grruung!", a candle she lit as the power was cut. As that yellow light reflected his face, his eyelids flickered, his eyeballs seemed moved rapidly: She spotted the distubance on his pristine face and shifted to his bed to stroke his hair.

There were steps unending steps, as he started his climb.  The steps seemed unending as the fog flowing down the hill slope he was climbing shaded to retard his sight to white empty darkness, He climbed the wet hilly steps, each step a bit more tiring, and each step to a series of another vanishing to fog again. He climbed as his road cut through the innumerous ferns that the slope bodied, the flowers, the daisies, the wild morning glories gloomed with the weather as he moved on. He stopped to rest and admire the honeysuckle growing in between the pines and looked down from where he left, in sight was now invisible. He took a deep breath and moved again, he had to reach, where? he did not know, he walked till he reached a fall; Cold pure water, the best to taste the sweetest. He took a sip that seemingly breathed life into his tired limbs and he continued his climb; He saw the slope end and smiled. Amidst the forest this view was strange, a ground of grass and flowery edges, the prettiest of ferns as he stepped on the edge: The view was dynamic, it was a cliff whose base was not in sight, ahead a series of hills criss crossed in rivers that flowed down valleys the criss crosses created. The clouds made waterfalls on green walls that at a distance turned a shade to blue and mixed in the sky. He took in with a deep breath all the air his lungs could store, raised his hands wide and protruded his chest, and sighed out with releif: a voice, someone called his name, a voice familiar, warm but cold in cry, a female voice called his name, shrill that even in its soft whisper tone echoed through the hills. He turned to seek the speaker, like an apparation from shadow to flesh she stood , smiled, his wife, and then her smile faded, she reached out her hand and screamed to stop, the land from where he stood cracked and he fell: to wake up with a scream.

His wife was dere smiling at him, stroking his hair and wiping his sweat. It was morning, a Sunday morning: The wife told him to  freshen up, she wished to go on a picnic, this sunshine was rare; He did her will as he too wanted the same on that bright weather that gleamed through the shining landscape. Together the couple moved uphill, it had been so long since they walked those ways, together, hand in hand: they talked and laughed and all differences faded as they walked , crossed the old hospital that was in ruins now, reached an edge, the old rock to sit and admired the magnificence that lay ahead. Lets go to the forest, and in mutual agreement they climbed furthur up to from where the pine trees crowned the hill. Here was when the dilemma came, there was a road that no townsfolk ever took, famed to be notoriously haunted, and this was were the wife suggested they should go.
"I've never been this part, lets go please", to which the man agreed, as he thought that even though he was here since childhood, he never visited this place. They took the darker turn.
Indeed people had reason to fear this place, the pine trees had curled overhead and as dense was the forest that night was day, not the slightest sunlight touched the ground, any sane man had reason to be scared here. About half a mile the road mixed into ferns and grass, till there was none to tred. Here was where they would have sat but a flight of steps caught the mans eyes and he hypnotically started climbing. The wife followed trying to stop him, he payed no heed and climbed the steps faster and faster till he was almost running, the wife behind him. He reached the top and stared with awe at the ground just out of his dreams, the voice followed the wife appeared, and she too amazed came near the cliff; The man now was sweating in fear as he saw what was to come, He froze and then hysterically screamed, the sound of which startled the wife as she slipped and fell.

Lightning on a hill top

There on the vast sea of flooded lights, gold and white:
The landscape, dark- ben't to touch on a slope:
It shone to sight when the floor here shook on thunder;
A stage of sound and a glipmse too small, shadowy
Green by trees, Windows of the wooden house
On top: White wood and a sloped tin roof,
Reflecting the red of the cloud, a little child becokened
Beyond the glass, the face, smash! was shot,
A wind that broke the sill: Like a reflection
Of the morbid night, A corpse fell, a cry
Was heard, and sight
Slaughtered to darkness.
Crimson red was the colour, and stuffy
was the smell of the strike. 

Night Fog

It is a psychedelic prism that deafens
The eyes ; With darkness, each blink
Scattered from grey houses whose light
Does not twinkle, at a distance, stars
do not see, the moon mourns
its shadow, upon this white cloak
Of infinite blackness.

Every dot float on an empty screen and
Are scattered, Cold vapoured breath,
Wanting warmth Exhaled from a distant fog-light
Of a moving shadow, all apparitions black,
All dresses grey: And dancing cars with horns,
Once appear and then gone,the voices fade,
Or, the rain blinds the ears. Time moves
slowly like a drunk on foot, and
Slowly for a world to appear:
Bit by bit- in pieces fit to sense, melody
From one harmonic wave.

On her Canvas

Painted darkness through light filled brushes,
Windy whispers of stars- dark light blue,
And this river where passionate blood rushes,
A crimson heart with purple hue-
fading through dark blue skies,
splashing in dark brown eyes-
The whisper rises to fade away.

The white beam, on darker
shades of green- the sound of laughter
with bird songs after: rising
with the golden sun.
A shade to disappear here,
myself i see on rounded eyes,
damp- on light brown tinted leaves.

Mystic forests mystify- the
sorrowful laughter, the happy cry,
roses on crimson red- a lovely kiss,
the rushing streams from creeks up high,
sound the wind-bells- crystal:
The river now runs deep from light,
to lonely woods to darker green,
to a younger heart, away, alone.

The windpipe blows sweet melody,
sings of woe through  fantasy,
Her eyelids dark and forest deep:
the river is lost- deeper and deeper-
fading to a distant late blindness

Blame it on the southern window(story)

It was a hot night. And when i say hot, it means hot, as hot as hot could possibly give heat, as hot as hot could be, as hot to even make the sweat steam. Yes, it was but another day in  that ugly summer that ended on a cloudy humid night. In my little room, the space that i shared with my little feline friend, the only other living soul to feel my suffocation, my heat. uff! huff! the motor of the fan glutted through the hot air as i felt my sweat steam. Sleep in such a weather was a placid disaster. Oh! how my back ached after the days labour strains. Meow! the sound was casual, an usual greet, and I nodded, lets try to read off to sleep. I had recently downloaded an e-book by some anonymous writer, it was a guide to fancy- a collection of poems that could less blow your imagination to suspended fantasy, that of the fairyland and Meow! soon brought back to the heat, suffocating, sweat-steaming gasp of the sighful gloomy night when by some natural mercy i could hear a distant thunder breeze through the south.

Ah! my southern window, what a delight it gave me once in a while this summer. I took a deep breath as i rose to stand, and Ah! I could smell the damp already, feel the wind brush my face, I rolled my fingers down the grilled window in a softsooth to the delicate cold winter iron I knew as a child in soft green hills: of orchids and airy heights. I opened my window.

A guided angel-moth from  distance chased by the drizzle swiftly commanded the wind to follow through and kill the heat in my room. Yes, all changed all of a sudden. I felt a wide momentary smile cut through the nights gloom, the breeze! Oh! the wind, my mighty savior, my pristine infatuation, how I welcomed the moth. And MEOW! MREOW! MROOW! THWACK! TICK! CLAUCK! and silence, and then a coughing cat. My keyboard had a key missing, my cat was vomiting the half-eaten moth, that died in vain flight to escape- from drizzle, to heat, to survival, and the cat  out of greed's viscous vision suffered; the window had to be closed as it poured and the rain fed in: I sat, sighed, switched off the light and moaned off to sleep.

Memory Veil

As the curtain clouds open her eyes,

to depth of skies with stars:

The wonder stare makes question where

Fair delay disturbs an answer that is yet to come

All the towers above and clouds below the tree,

dark shadows posses like the haunting pine:

behind me lifting light to spirit; each sound

a distant whisper, each step, on

the leaves of wind hit trees; and water

dropping with no rain

The strains of hammer on the skulled dead log,

And each hit to a louder breeze, a harder hiss of:

A whisper from an empty hill-

A voice from the depth of Earth.

Ode to Imagination

Barks! Howls! some burning sulphur and a silent night,
Bats and owls to rest, on a returning flight;
The Koel sings to near dawn glory, on empty streets and cold boxes:
All await with self conceived content, to celebrate-
to cherish, to welcome a burning dawn.

The dogs still bark, and the train whistles,
the soft sulphur smoke burning, to fall
As a swift breeze sizzles down a memory-
To thought, To nostalgia, To a happening moment now

The Koel sings and the train still whistles,
In harmony of distant joy, the time
Of drizzles drenched in green, awaiting,
Arise red, orange fire; and dawn
would come

To empty streets, the first feet laid, to live-
The boxes newly made-of broken bits,
Of crazy fits- Welcome, red rage,
White peace, Soft clouds, first Light:
Welcome, the wait to morn.