Bengal and the hills

The northern hills roar in thunder,
Flash fire on forest tops, burning
Bright: shielded in clouds darker than smoke;
Under cries of a dying earth, trees yell,
We? Reflect: a shadow of rhododendrons
Matting the floor with their lives,
None illuminate, silent hills echo girgles
Of springs, whispering to conspire,
As if to wait- a moment united and
The hills would burst, in flood: some
Estranged in sorrow, others blood. All
Because mischief was caused by
The monkey yelling at the nodding baboons.

Reflecting sunlight

Here flies feel the frail sunset more and
Barren winds call  ardous thoughts:
Blue hills, green fields, brown dust and white rivers;
Even with flesh on fire or wounded necks,
The light dips colour from clouds, from white
To orange and red, the sky gently  turns to
A darker canvas with dotted stars: a framework
For the moon; still pleasant on eerie whispers,
Crying dogs, howling foxes and unpleasant screeches,
Bringing joy from a reflection of sunlight.

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.