At the back of my head

That little alley at the back of my mind, which leads to those hushed regions with invisible boundaries, that I don't want people to see, hear or even know are there. It's secret and comfortable and absolutely private. I store my my favourite and most relished memories thoughts. Thoughts of my least known desires and fears; insecurities.

There, when I choose, I can find my little chits of happiness folded and scattered here and there, and I open it and peruse it at will. My mind is like a little room of my favourite colours. Black, red, green and white.....and hues and shades of purple and mauve, lilac and violets......... It will have my thoughts swirling around like rings of vapour, smoky and vibrant. I have people entering and exiting at my, only my, will. The blackest and reddest parts of my mind are open to only people like my very close friends (they know who they are). The only time when anyone else is let in here is when I develop an ardent desire to shock them with these aspects of me.

My mind's room open to a neat room which anyone can see; it is deviously deceptive. On further observation you can see a slight sootiness covering those shaded corners. My room/mind is essentially calm and peaceful, with rare eruptions of thunder. It breathes softly at intervals, and letting in puffs of thoughts from leaky corners. Sometimes there are people in there with me, and sometimes we're alone, my music and I. My room is painted,I admit, in pretentious psychedelia . Sometimes there are little imps resembling The Beatles. There are intoxicating smells. Fragrances, beautiful and sinful, which make their home in the sniffer.

My obsessions roam these territories,though they don't know they're there. They please and shock me in turns. They unknowingly tread the sacred domains and I hear their footfall from my corner. They leave only when I forget them.

My room is also my library. Everything I read , am reading and will read snugly await my attention. My music of yesteryears and my own waft in the air. Art, that I witness and envision leap from wall to waltzing to the enveloping music.

This is my paradise, full of life and sunshine; my wilderness; my pleasure dome.

Tiny details here and there

Zeroing in on the little details of life, I find silent words, sounds, music, scenes, colours, scents and dreams that go largely unnoticed; ignored into oblivion. I have the choice of either noticing them or leaving them virgin and unexplored. I choose to wander into these slight territories of secrecy.

Images spark and I see their intricate woodworks chiseled delicately into their place. The beauty of anything beautiful ever seen is that it is studded with tender details like, the sheen on a statue, the glitter on a diamond and the fire in sunshine.

I can recall once having absorbed a particularly cherished detail. While inhaling the sweetness of a flower; I forget which; I happened to accidentally notice a tiny droplet of nectar clinging to the base of the flower. I happily licked it and tasted it on a minute area on my tongue. It still had flavour; in spite of the minuscule amount.

Some of the things that we leave behind are just some stone unturned. Something missed due to carelessness or hurry. Pity plays its naughty game on me when I find people missing the intricacies in life. How these individuals do in life without the small flourish of detail, I fail to comprehend.

Something tells me, however, that the ones who are meant to see, do see and enjoy. Their pores are receptive to the most undetectable of all sensations. They detect the most hidden of all visions, melodies, fragrances, tastes and touches. They feel the touch of heaven in bright snow. They feel the peace in the notes of a violin. Most of all, however, they feel themselves particle by particle and, thus are in completely harmony with themselves. J

Waves Of Sorrow

I burnt me,

In my scorching light,

Of the night,

In my home to be.

My expanding sea,

Of serenity,

Is splayed beyond for eternity,

Yet I'm washed ashore,

Before my door,

By my waves of sorrow.

MY sight atwinkle,

With hopes and dreams,

Sailing through my drying streams,

But salts of pain sprinkle,

Me with hardness of reality,

They are my truth and verity.

I feel the coarse severity,

As I watch my waves of sorrow.

Candles i light,

In my oft trodden way,

My sun refuses to stay,

And my moon is never bright.

Though my stars watch over me,

And smile with unity,

Trying hard to sooth me,

I feel my waves of sorrow.

Down below the surface,

My flesh is raw and tender,

Unwillingly I surrender,

To the pervading harshness,

Of what life has to offer.

Cloistered forever,

And waiting for the summer,

Splashed by the waves of sorrow.

Kolkata

Cracked pavements,

With etched dreams,

Yellow leaves lying,

Scattered on them;

A typical Kolkata.

Kolkata...

A city of times,

When it was not it’s own,

Of times when it was trampled,

A city through which,

The hot fluids,

Of revolution rushed.

A city,

Of times hungered,

And pained.

A city…

Which is touched with,

Numerous intellects,

Far superior than ever imagined.

A city…

A haven for the birth

Of those men

Who had hot blood

And warm hearts.

A city of tram bells,

And rickshaws,

Drawn over cobbled roads.

A city which sleeps.

A city languid,

Yet vital,

And invigorated.

A city…

Which believes,

In the power,

Of the pen,

Yet unfalteringly hoists,

The weapons of war,

On nation’s call.

A city…

Of ancient,

And untouched,

Inheritance,

Relics of the past,

Colonial and native.

Wild minds,

Molded and carved,

Into rebellion,

Of a kind.

A city…

Of vermillion women,

Who leave ruddy,

Footprints along the paths.

Women with doe eyes,

And rose petal lips.

A city…

Of early morning birds,

Of sleepy visions.

A city…

Of sanguine life…

Of fond hearts…

Of love.

The Ageless Tryst

Beyond the falcony cliff,
There slept a crystal sea,
Dipped down beyond the frowning rocks,
Into the earthy concave of water.
Swimming with fragrant sea waves,
And flashing on the sand.

Droning to the mountains,
The mountains, her lover,
Speaking words of comfort,
And whispering melody.
She closes her eyes, to sweep back,
To find unbound lores,
From her silent depths.
Then she comes surging back,
With talking songs to unfurl.

In return for her favour,
The mountains, the mighty lord,
To his beloved speaks,
Of his gentle sages,
And their worshipped wisdom.
Sighing upon her fluidity,
He breathes her vapours in,
Bringing her to his dense self,
As she laced him with her ice.

The winking silver peaks,
Laid bare below the sun,
To bask in its glory,
Glimmering with little sparks of fire.
His steep solemnity pays homage,
To the blazing sphere of life,
Offering his icy jewels,
For heaven’s kind acceptance,
Of his lady ether.

From there she drizzles and storms,
In rage ‘cause of her distance from her lover.
She rains into her pristine domain the sea,
Flowing into the calm stretches beyond.
From the seven heavens she brings,
Tales of serenity and peace.
Spreads them along her way meant for the,
Viscous search for her beloved,
To inform him of her flighty adventures.

In peace, wisdom and serenity,
They survive the time.
They chant youthfully of their years,
On earth spent in beauty.
Of anger, rage and sorrow neither spoke,
Nor leave any tell-tale imprints, did they.

Children of greater and lesser Gods

Incense of blades of grass,

Breathing the lulling distance,

Into feigned unconscious lungs,

For a juvenile surge of penance.

Monarch dictated drum rolls,

Beating like a gigantic heart,

Of some beast undiscovered,

For the death march to start.

Raiding the merchant"s den,

For the treasures priceless to pass,

Through the lyrical constraints of time,

And to be freed for men to amass.

Chagrined lads and lasses,

Sequestered from fortune and fame,

Lay bare their empty palms.

Dreams of glory lie low and tame.

But fragrant dreams of success,

Ever elusive, like sand in dry fingers,

Waste away into the blowing wind,

Hope, like a loyal maiden, lingers.

Adorned in luck begotten gold,

Humans of wealth and consequence flaunt,

Contemptuous to roadside urchins,

With faces hungered and gaunt.

Russelling silk whispering on marble,

Rhythmic tinkling of wine glasses,

Down by the roadside, those misfits in rags,

Drink from filth and grime that passes.

Warmth and heavenly grandeur,

In silver luxury mansions,

Yet some rest their forlorn selves,

On sidewalks and strange grey stations.

Then in the mortal end,

All embrace death and rest,

Some buried in smooth and varnished beds,

And some in the soil at best.

Sunday driver

One Sunday driver,
A cold and clammy noon,
A basket laden passenger,
As thin as a spoon.

Crisp click of heels,
On the silent sidewalk,
A slight call to the driver,
Direction-"to the bridge-top"

Skidding on dew-drenched stone chips,
Scattered like dog-litter,
Wheels tripping through the city,
Though the weather be bitter.

First it circled the children's park,
Indicatively,
Winking at rear-view mirror,
He said,"start a family?"

He drove full on fifth gear,
In a very wide arc,
he showed her the statue of Good Lord,
After the children's park.

The Good Lord was the wizard,
Of ancient troubled times,
When water came for free,
And gold came for dimes.

Those were times for sorcery,
With flames and crystal balls,
Those were times for magic,
With potions and voodoo dolls.

So the cabby drove,
To the football ground,
He talked of kicking balls,
With twenty men around.


He drove to the golf course,
To the gentleman's game,
But one of them called another,
An ungentlemanly name.

Quickly he drove away,
To the tennis court,
Told the spoon about the players,
But forgot about the sport.

She insisted on going faster,
To the top of the bridge,
He proposed a short cut,
Just around the ridge.

They went around the theater,
The insides of which she saw,
The melody drifted through her,
She thought that it was raw.

He ushered her to the cab,
Saying she'd be late,
But hungry she said she was,
So that was when they ate.

Next he showed her the garden,
Of roses and he won,
Her heart with just a whiff,
But then he gave her none.

On re-entering the cab,
He sensed that she was miffed,
"We'll be there very soon",he said,
In reply she just sniffed.

Finally they reached the bridge,
But the fare she could not pay,
He solved the matter simply,
By fucking her away.

Sleepy scribbles

Raindrops in winter,
Sea waves on sand,

Sun rays at dusk,
By the devine hand.

Languid children,
By river banks,
Smiling maidens,
By water tanks.

Neither happy though,
Neither show,
Princes and paupers,

Of long ago.

From over the sea,
Sail merchants ashore,
Drenched in longing,
For darlings and whores.

Lovers wander,
Under a sickle moon,
Dreamers idle,
On a sultry noon.

Trees of green,
In stirring air,
Shady fairies,

With fluttering hair.

Where in the world

Can we look,
To find what we stole,

But thought we took?

Somewhere deep within,

There lies,

A world of glory,

For awestruck eyes.

Where the clear and high,

Draped blue sky,

Showers drizzling stars,

With her cry.

Where to the winds,

The rivers dance,

And float mid air,

In their prance.

Where friends are dear,

To the mortal kind,

Like the sight is,

To the blind.

Where dreams are spun,

With fragile thread,

That catch the wind,

In the flimsy net.

Where a mother smiles,

With her child,

When the flowers,

Run blooming wild.

There we rest,

My friends and I,

Refusing to wake,

And realise.

The missing seed,

Of purity,

That happens to be,

Our destiny.

One bright day,

We rise,

Sun kissed,

Yet unwise.

Looking around,

We ourselves find,

The mysteries,

We left behind.

A mother's lullaby.

Lulling chants of poetry in a young honeyed voice,
Touch upon leaves and grasses,
And linger in tender ears,
Imparting lessons of love.

Sleepers wake to the sound,
Enriched and fulfilled.
They look with glazed eyes,
At the beauty of the music.

The haunts of the songs,
Know no limits or restrictions,
And the listeners try in vain,
To discover source of these ripples.

Ripples of war and ripples of peace,
From the deep blue oceans and the flighty sky.
Ripples of love and ripples of hatred,
Sacred as a child.

Ripples of ingrained desire,
Creeping subtly to the eyes,
of bronzed and sinuous women,
With the rythmns of the music stirring them from within.

The swirling lyrical music,
Makes fluid waves in air.
The leaves rustle to its beat,
And water flows to its tune.

The music yet unfound and hardly comprehended,
Forms its languid shape in my little mind,
Trckling through my senses,
LIke a mother's lullaby.

[My this dedicated to my mother. I would wake up to the sound of her beautiful voice, filtering through a vent as she worked down stairs.]

The sense of loss and gain

Sweet forebodings present themselves,

To my listless mind.

They tantalize me with,

Their nasty invitations,

To leave me crestfallen,

And t leave my eyes silvered.

One man out of the crowd,

Says,"take what you get!",

An enormous number roar in approval.

I shreak,"but what of my love?".

Noone hears me but for my own ears.

I walk on the white sand of eternity,

Among the grey and silver trails,

Of a million women and men.

Coupled footsteps make mine lonely,

And remind me of my forsaken dreams.

I fall heavily onto knees.

I gaze ahead towards the horizon,

AndI see damp and black clouds in a massive pile.

Not only do they weigh me down,

But my hopes they snatch away,

From my clinging fingers.

I softly cry into my empty hands.

When I wake from my restless sleep,

Filled with alien dreams,

I see an old wrinkled man with a white white beard,

And a bright glare of yellow light.

My failing strength keeps me lain,

And I feel his unblemished hands on my hot head.

I ask him,"Is there an afterlife?"

He smiles and gently closes my aching eyes.

He says,"Die to know what the dead have known,

As the seeds of life is ignorance."

Comfort blazes deep within and soothes my hot young skin,

And my head seizes to ache.

I know now that I may live,

A life of golden divinity,

When I have lived,

A tainted one for the lords of my fate.

The comforting yellow light visits my restful deam,

But I wake again to find it gone.

Destitution, feeling I have on looking around.

Walking down this endless road to death,
I feel bereft and barren,
Simplicity fades into tyhe margines of visibility,
And a life of struggle winds ahead.

The mother and the father only remain awhile,
Providing their fingers for support.
Then slowly disappear into the darkness of bereavement.

But fleeting as it is time slips past,
Leaving pebbles for the poor and gold for the rich.
Little fish die swimming upstream,
I survive pain and agony dismembering my dry soul.

Patterns of intricate desires weave through my heart,
Along with the conscious knowledge of failure.
Failure to succeed,
and to provide.

Music trickling into my senses like mirages in a dessert of sand,
Like colour in a dark and dreary dream,
Music becoming the only solace,
Enriching me for times to come and being the remembrances of the past.

Open windows all along the way,
And the sheltered look on with contempt,
At a sight of shame and deprivity.
Raised fingers condemn me to misery,
Their ill will leaves me forlorn,
Eating away my love.

Woisdom of sages cannot deliver me from the hatred sown deep within.
I am milked of all my joy,
I drink from pools of gall which promise to toughen and to strenthen.

I inspire compassion within those who can feel empathy,
Those whose pretentiously pity me.
I defy their compassionate glance,
Their selfish desire to help.
I am strong willed.
I will bleed my feet ti walk,
I will tear my lungs to breath.

I will die in roadside slumber,
In the arms of the gentle breeze,
The breeze that rocks me up to the stars and heaven,
From where I drizzle down to mother earth,
Down to where I belong.

These little moments of joy and hope last a lifetime. Like when you feel the resignation of walking home in a hot scalding summer afternoon and God touches down his blessings in the form of a dilapidated rickshaw;at that moment the prospect of even buying a Mercedes cannot distract the happiness. You feel like laughing and singing;not even the fear of getting dust in your mouth can stop you from doing so. The rickshaw puller is the knight in shining armour;or shining at any rate. Generosity oozes from every single of your pores and you feel the heightened desire to donate an extra coin.Going by market standards you have donated twenty five percent more than normal.

Hence, all's well that end's well. your knight in shining skin rescues a damsel in distress and is awarded a much desired kiss in the form of a coin, which is more useful than a pouted lipped smacking sound.

Moral- Make your knight in shining skin happy.:)