Poetecstasy

Don’t You Know I Have It in Me

2012-01-03T21:33:00.000-08:00

(A song I wrote this morning. Boom, it was there in my mind with lyrics music and all.)

Leave me in peace

I want to be alone

Let the way be clear

Let the silence surround.

I surrender to my loneliness

Life’s battles forgotten

The iron-and-concrete city’s far away

And I lose myself, my agony, my angst, my sanity.....

Don’t alienate me

Ostracise me

Criticise me

Marginalise me

Stereotype me

Don’t you know I have it in me? (chorus)

Let me to my serenity

The chosen path is long and lonely

I have no bitter memories

Of loves gone wrong.

Don’t alienate me

Ostracise me

Criticise me

Marginalise me

Stereotype me

Don’t you know I have it in me? (chorus)

Lest We Forget the Night of 26/11

2011-11-29T03:54:00.000-08:00

Lest We Forget the Night of 26/11

(Written three years after the attack on Bombay in 2008)

Night of 26/11

Lest we forget the night of 26/11

When sleep didn’t crawl into our eyes,

We lie vacantly staring at the television,

Playing, playing, playing footage of burning Taj,

Trident exploding in gunshots and fire,

Stories of bravery and treachery,

That came from across the seas.

Lest we forget what happened that night

Washed away in a burst of tears in the gloomy night

When the sky above the Gateway was a smouldering black

And over Marine Drive hung the smell of death

Rich men paraded to their untimely end

And a child left without parents

And parents left without son

We mourned all this; still we forget

Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we?

Victoria Terminus

The blood that stained this floor

Its sanguine past

Has been washed away

The huge cavern of V.T. station has been sanitised

The bullet-chipped granite has been replaced

That bloody night has been erased

From memory

From consciousness

From priorities.

Amnesic we plod

On granite floors smelling of disinfectant

Wondering where bombs will explode next.

Where will shrapnel enter soft flesh?

Where will cries echo in the night?

Where will the men and women be carried:

In trucks,

Handcarts,

Plastic sheets,

Stretchers,

Blood oozing from fresh wounds?

Could the surgeons stitch together?

The wounds inflicted by nails, ball bearings,

In the hearts and minds

Of the people they call brothers?

Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me.

The Ladies Special Train

2011-09-25T03:00:00.000-07:00

Saw stardom sprinkled this morning on a drab derelict platform

Rainbow colours, delicate features, sleep-swollen eyes, vivid dresses:

Salvar suits, chunris, ear rings, bangles, toe rings, bindis and stringed jasmine

And -- since it is raining -- variously coloured parasols and raincoats.

A bored voice on public address says there’s a Ladies Special Train passing by

Men, If you dare enter you risk being beaten, abused, it’s a Ladies’ Special Train

A whirl of colour, thunder of wheels, bursts of happy, determined faces, smiles

Knitting, mending, food smells and talks of disobedient children and declining education.

Children are pressurized, burdened, you know, we don’t know what they teach

They are making them into idiots, unoriginal thinkers, teaching them to conform

Our children will have the best; nonetheless, we will slog to work so they prosper

This corrupt political-business nexus, you know, has corrupted the education system.

It’s the happiest hour of the day, freedom from housework, while work waits

The times are bad, vegetable prices are high, groceries, oil and spices, too

Discounts are available in local malls and bulk purchases are advised

Careful, there are predatory men on platform, staring, whistling and cat calling.

There’s work in the office, corporate politics, a little time to exchange recipes

The bosses are increasingly intolerant and lewd, they make indecent remarks

They expect us to manage emails, make worksheets, presentations in no time

When we don’t have time to have lunch, even apply nail polish and makeup.

The morning Ladies Special Train is our special refuge, our peace haven, our space

From the cares of this world, from the stupid ogling men and their indecent gestures

This train may pass on bridges, through rain, violent storms, torrid heat

But inside the Ladies Special Train we know we are secure from the mad world outside.

(This is the poem I read at the event "100 Thousand Poets for Change" on 24th September 2011.)

Wounds That Do Not Heal

2011-09-25T01:56:00.001-07:00

The doctor said you are nearly diabetic,

It is a condition that’s genetic,

Beware of wounds that do not heal,

Avoid spices and sugar in every meal.

My wounds are deeper, doctor dear

All you see are scars up here

Life has taught me wounds heal faster,

If you make forgiving a little easier.

I have travelled this continent far and wide,

Touched its boundaries on every side,

Shared spirits with men and women,

Told them of wounds and sins forgiven.

But, doctor the wounds that don’t heal are,

Wounds of juvenile dreams gone sour,

Look how they insult experience and age,

As if they would never see dotage!

Where Giant Mushrooms Grow!

2011-09-25T01:55:00.000-07:00

In Nevada there is a field where giant mushrooms grow

One mile high and two miles wide, they say on the show

That’s where they test how to vaporise people and flesh

By splitting and fusing atoms and starting the world afresh.

A new era, a new definition, will dawn with nuclear shields

Oh, how fresh are the huge mushrooms grown on Nevada fields!

It can erase whole cities, no need for guns or battle tanks

Tomorrow’s wars, the voice says, will be fought without ranks.

They are making bullets, shields and missiles with lasers

That can picture the enemy, see in the dark, and subdue angers

Soldiers of the future won’t have to die for the country’s glory

They use their Global Positioning bullet, that’s another story.

Agree with me, don’t dissent, fall in line, futile windmill tilters

Your wars are lost even before you see victory, dissenters

No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley

They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.

They say their soldiers are smart, they see in the dark

Their bullets can pierce armour; they can blast your flimsy mark

Where were you, soldiers of the mind, intellectuals, I mourn

When from your ceaseless toils such Frankensteins were born?

No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley

They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.

I Want My Freedom

2010-08-03T03:13:00.000-07:00

I know this world isn’t a friendly place
any more

I know I am not here ‘cos I don’t belong any longer

I know this ain’t my own complaint, no, it’s not true

I know you all feel the same; all are of my view.

I want my freedom, I want a free world

I want to be there for the entire human race

I want the sun and wind to touch my face

I want the wide world to be a better place.

I want my music, I don’t want this noise

And this cacophony isn’t one of my joys

This petty fake piracy offends my freedom

I want my software free from officialdom

I want my freedom, I want a free world
I want to be there for the entire human race

I want the sun and wind to touch my face

I want the wide world to be a better place.

I want these killings to stop in our country

I want the world to stop this banditry

I want the bloodshed to end in your land

I want you to be free, please understand.

I want my freedom, I want a free world

I want to be there for the entire human race

I want the sun and wind to touch my face

I want the wide world to be a better place.

Poem - Sandra from Bandra

2009-12-05T03:24:00.000-08:00

She boards the 9.30 Bandra local

With fellow passengers she is quite vocal

Don’t you have eyes, can’t you see?

I am wearing my brand new saree?

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

She is late to work; “Oh these fisherwomen

They think they own the railway, yeah, men

“Just watch, I will teach them some manners

Let me get my foot in; fit in some corners."

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

That Katlik boy in office, Frank Furtado

Serenades her every day with a Fado

He is good-for-nothing, I tell her, he can’t jive

He can’t talk, he can’t sing, even to save his life.

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

Can’t see you, I have to attend mass

Novenas, confessions, I have no time to pass

Not you, not Frank, no one except Prince Charles

Or, could be, Prince Williams, Prince Harry of Wales.

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

(Originally written to be performed at the Bandra Festival, but, sadly, time and inclination didn’t permit.)

Poem: To The Loose Cannon (Dedicated to Manoj Rane)

2009-10-30T23:33:00.000-07:00

Friend, my only regret is

Our coffee, which I will miss

Chatter and shared muffins

What’s this talk about coffins?

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

I might’ve forgotten your birthdays

Or, failed to connect more on Facebook

A book in which for every friend you gain

You lose one and then make friends, again.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

Now that you are gone, I am back to the grind

But things about you still linger in the mind

You were so concerned, afraid of death

Oh! You should have held on to friendship and faith.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

I still think of you being so close as ever

A call away, not knowing you left for ever

Or your smile, your pique, or your laughter

Or, on lazy evenings, our shared idle chatter.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

--------------

To my friend Manoj Rane, may his soul rest in peace.

The 8.30 a.m. Train Girl

2009-08-05T05:18:00.001-07:00

Like ghosts passing by day and night

Each day we come into each other’s sight

In the train stations of our life

No sindoor; you aren’t anyone’s wife.

Talcum on your face, kohl-lined eyes

Bindi on forehead, a walk that defies

The world and its ways; all your needs:

A man, a bedroom, a kitchen, some threads.

In the search for this ersatz world

You don’t know why the world is cold

For your sweetness that never fails

You must suffer the men who cavil.

My advice: Beware of their devious ways

They rape with eyes, whistle their life away

They blackmail, lie, promise to say the vow

And then go looking for their wild oats to sow.

They would touch you in the crowd

Pinch where it hurts, make gestures crude

Or, stalk you, blank call you, write obscenities

In toilets, trains, anywhere they can print lies.

Through storms and floods your train must pass

Your phone’s no comfort, no, even in first class

No machine can help against nature’s fury

Even when tears make your sight turn blurry.

This 8.30 a.m. train’s a vile place to be

Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you, you’ll see

And when you are smarter, your world more settled

Remember this day, and the verse a fan composed.

The Cuckoo's Call

2009-04-30T00:59:00.000-07:00

The cuckoo’s sweet serenade
Echoes everywhere this summer day
Perfidious, polygamous, promiscuous
They call you this not without reason
Despite your sweet soliloquy
You are a treacherous bird
Deceiving crows, ugly scavengers
Laying eggs in their naïve nests.

But I love your cadences
Echoing over the hills
Rising symphonic in the sky
In harmonious melodies
In summer’s stifling heat
When sweat pours and
The mind seeks respite.

Cuckoo, you sweet siren
The elusive Sylph
Ephemeral wanderer of the forests
If you deceive the crow and fly away
Would your children caw like the crow?
Or, sing the perfidious song of summer
In the valley of our habitation?

Barrel of the AK-47

2009-03-18T22:26:00.000-07:00

This chunk of metal
This cold barrel
Can spit death
Sear flesh
Rend blood vessels
Splinter bones
Mutilate organs
Enter and exit bodies
Transform men
Into lifeless corpses.

Agreed
It can do all these
Plus avenge hurts
Spread hatred, fear,
Disrupt life
Make widows
Create orphans
Take entire nations hostage.

But can it bring justice?
I don’t know
Justice is a slow process
Full of hurled abuses
Debate and rhetoric
And hearing choked voices
Telling of people’s grief.

Those teenage armies
Destiny’s children
Slinging AK-47s
Posturing
As if they were John Rambo’s;
Do they know
Poor cannon fodder
That there’s an AK-47
Waiting around the corner
Nursed by another’s fingers
To end their dreams
Take them a step closer
To The End?

WELCOME TO KALA GHODA

2009-02-22T03:06:00.000-08:00

You can get your portrait drawn here
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

This is where the writers hang out
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where there's art and there is music
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where the food is tasty and tea is hot
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where the samovar is always simmering
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where David Sassoon stands in the foyer
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where there’s Elphinston College and Watson Hotel
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where the rich, poor, old, and young mingle
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Where the tradition is old but the spirit is still young.

Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Where the tradition is old but the spirit is still young.

Jahanpanah Bahadur Shah Zafar - The Last Mughal

2008-07-11T05:46:00.000-07:00

Jahanpanah Bahadur Shah Zafar,
Saw dust over the Bridge of Boats, afar,
Standing on the ramparts of the Red Fort,
With wives, courtiers, ministers and consort.

His heart filled with hope and despair,
A feeling not unknown to a shayar,
Will his Hindustan after all be free,
From the White Man’s sword and decree?

To feed them where will he bring money?
Thomas Metcalfe refuses to give him any,
His powers are naught and so is his court,
Quick, fight or befriend as they cross moat.

No, he’s not a soldier or a commander,
He’s a poet, writing verses of great candour,
Though martial blood runs in his veins,
For Timur’s cruelty he has much disdain.

He squandered wealth and kingdom lost,
To wine, poetry, and blank verse riposte,
Too many nights of poetry and pretence,
Had left a debt he couldn’t recompense.

Away to his chamber that night he went,
After a message to mutinous armies sent,
You are welcome if you come in peace,
Do not desecrate or our poetry disgrace.

But the mutinous army being common men,
Looted, pillaged and set on fire, and then,
Said, “Jahanpanah Where’s all your wealth,
For us to liberate, and live in comfort and health?”

To this Jahanpanah uttered threatening words,
“I will go to Mecca; condemn you to their swords,
I am too old and tired for the war you create,
Spoil my peace and my people alienate.”

“Go ahead; call me coward, that you can,
But I am no traitor like Asanullah Khan ,
Or, my wife Zinat Mahal, or, Mohammed Baqar,
They will rot in their graves, those gaddar.”

“I’ve only done what a poet would’ve done,
Protected my poetry, people, wives, and son,
They’re greedy men those who covet and fight,
I am only a bard; poetry is my birthright.”

The Slum-dweller

2008-06-21T01:57:00.001-07:00

Curled inside a concrete pipe
Under the bridge
They had lived
Their hearts thudding against ribs,
As each trained clattered
And faded into distance.

Where they slept once
There’s now shredded concrete:
Naked bricks and rubble,
Chewed by mighty machines
Of the city fathers
Who said, “Of outsiders we must be free,
To build roads and Metros.”

The children, they cried
And cried to sleep
Till their throats were hoarse
And tongues dry, parched
Their hunger insatiate
From food foraged in garbage.

They were awaiting a peaceful tomorrow,
When today’s hubbub didn’t end
And the dream of a future
Faded before their eyes.

Together they journeyed
To a piece of sodden land
By the nullah in which floated scum
To a new life
A new beginning,
As hopeless as it always was.

Carbon Credits Trade on MCX

2008-06-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

Have I lived to see this day,When nature is sold on trading day?Carbon credit futures are now hawked on MCX;They say it’s omniscient as sleep and sex.What have you done to this earth,This world I have known since birth?CFCs and carbon dioxide they sayAre killing this world slowly every day.If this earth ceases to exist, how will you and ILive in kingdoms that believe in an eye for an eye?Stockbroker, buy me two carbon credits, please,To keep framed on walls instead of plants and trees.

Poet in ICU (Dedicated to PG)

2008-06-01T03:37:00.000-07:00

Yes, it’s lonely in the ICUThese machines will ceaseOnce I cease,So I should go on, exist,At least, to keep these machines going.No blip of my heart –Will be heard ever again,No words, no rhyme, no comment,No fights, no threats,On my forum, or on my blogIf I cease this struggleTo keep these machines going.These contraptions, they embrace me,Their tentacles, tubes,Pin me down, Enclose me,As if they are scared of losing meWere I to break outAnd reach for pen and paperTo make a small note,Scribble a short HaikuAbout the summer’s passingOutside the thickly blinded ICU windows.I must exist, I should,For these machines would die otherwise.

Vision from My Office Window

2008-04-23T03:32:00.000-07:00

Today, I sawA vision outside my office window;A brilliant blue skyAnd trees likeGreen-attired soldiers in formationAnd my head hung in sorrow,Like a wilted sunflowerAfter sundown.It is spring, I don’t knowHow the sky sparkles so,Like a perfect-cut baguetteOver the hills.I wonder,As I look at the trees:Would the ides of March stay,Or give in to the swelter of May?Would the parched loam,Picket the sky,And terrorise it to yieldMonsoons?Or, will birds continueTo sing for an extension of spring?

If I Die....

2008-02-06T10:04:00.001-08:00

If I die, will you mourn;When I finally fall, will you scorn?Will this world be a lonely space;When I am in my final resting place?Will my glorious words remain;A forgotten song’s sweet refrain?Or, will they be callously consigned;To the earthen mound heaped?I have written what I have written;Thinking my words not misshapen;But if this world doesn’t accept;It’s their loss, promise un-kept.Fame and glory weren’t mine;Too long have I lived in others’ shineExtremely humble to strike out,Badger, cajole, grovel, or shout.When the scent of lilies fade;Will a tear down your cheek slide?In the sunset of my life;Will my goodness be remembered, my wife?

Cafe Samovar, Kala Ghoda

2007-12-09T01:56:00.000-08:00

IMy first sip of beer was bitter,Then magically turned to sweetConversation flowed like amber liquidIn the verandah you offered as sanctuaryTo sundry souls, peaceniks, and poets.Celebrities would hang around here:Pearl in an elegant kimono –Amitabh, Jaya, Amol, Vidya And almost famous theatre actors.I don’t know how thirty years flewIt seems like yesterdayThat I asked a young lady to teaAnd my hands trembled as I pouredI don’t know if she noticed;We were a shy generation.There were paper lanterns Dangling from the ceilingMuted music, reviving,As if the musicians just rejuvenated.Those were the days of rock-n-roll;Elvis was king, Beatles were in their cocoonsAnd the city had fewer cars.IIAt the next tableThe child-man’s hand trembles,As he pours tea;His nicotine-addicted lips smile,As the girl giggles, and then laughs;This is a nonchalant generation.Except for thatAnd Pearl being no more, and all,Things haven’t changed muchAt Café Samovar, Kala Ghoda;There are paper lanterns dangling,And almost famous people around,Waiting for their next break.Nothing has changed while I was away,Guess nothing ever will.

The Song of the Janadesh Marchers

2007-11-15T21:47:00.000-08:00

For our lands we walk this Marathon,While you run your Marathons for fun,We live in a country without water,You flush it daily down the gutter.We saw it on the elder’s television,The run of people wearing clothes of fashion,A splash of colour with stars and celebrities;While our tatters tried to hide our realities.We are poor, but on our honour we pride,We wore dirty clothes; our shame we him;But our heads were high, as we marched,For our lands, which were from us wrenched.Your branded shoes can buy us month’s ration,Send children to school and buy some potion.Yet, you say your needs are unsatisfied -What about ours? Aren’t our needs justified?When storms, floods, droughts devastate,You sit in comfort and pontificate:Oh! So much foreign direct investment,The economy’s growth is great achievement.We have only one thing to beseech, pray,Leave our fallow lands alone for us, we say:While you run Marathons on Lutyen’s properties,Leave us our land and our hut to shelter from calamities.The Janadesh marchers walked 400 kilometers to Delhi to demand land rights when Delhi was holding a half Marathon. This poem is written for them, as the picture they made, marching in the hot sun, contrasted with that of the Marathoners on television.

Plastic

2007-10-08T22:22:00.000-07:00

He sits in a sea of plastic,On his head a cloth cap of elastic;Squatting and sorting, oh boy,Milk pouches, grocery bags, and toys.Boy, don’t your life thus waste,Nobody told you of poverty’s bitter aftertaste?Beside him in a wide arc sprouts,A sea of plasticized, grimy huts,Waterproofed, engineered to lastThis monsoon, and its windy blast.Boy, don’t your life thus waste,Nobody told you of poverty’s bitter aftertaste?The vinyl signs are of polyethylene,His plastic dreams are woven in benzene.He thinks: is there no escaping this hell,Of recycled mess and waste, please tell?Boy, don’t your life thus waste,Nobody told you of poverty’s bitter aftertaste?He scrounges in gutters running foul-Water, laden with plastics, chockfull;Maybe, in his plastic-dulled soul,He still yearns to be in play school.Boy, don’t your life thus waste,Nobody told you of poverty’s bitter aftertaste?

The Platform

2007-07-16T03:49:00.000-07:00

In the morning calm, the hiss of steelTrains come and go on clanging wheelsSounds of hoots approaching from the EastAnd departing, echoing towards the West.The hum of dull voices; faces expectantLost wanderers returning home, repentantEager faces scanning the far horizon,To be ferried to their hazy destination.Tired-, thin-, haggard-looking menAnd sweet-, spent-looking womenThey walk, shuffle, waddle, and shiftChurning; regimented mass of three shifts.Child births this platform has often seenMangled deaths, when the lights turn greenAs bogeys sway, trundle in in the nightThere are many a curse, shout, and a fight.There are lost, aimless people here,Coming and going to really nowhere,The wan lights deepen shadows everywhere,In corner of the eye there’s an unshed tear.Some faces tragic; some faces sad,Some are bored, and some are mad,Some long to rest their nodding heads,On the soft comfort of their beds.The littered platform in the early dawn,Look how it reposes in the sunny morn,Then it bakes relentless in the heat of noon,At night, slumbers in the glow of the moon.

The First Rain Saudade

2007-06-06T21:28:00.000-07:00

What’s that slow
Percussion on my window,
Growing into a storm,
Slowly, destructively?
Is it that wasted feeling, again –
The saudade of first love?

Glasses hiding tears,
Drawn breath,
Rain smears sky with grey
And satiates thirsty earth.
Summer’s passing was brutal,
It burnt the fields and hedges
Into one charred landscape
Where hope once died,
But resurrected with sprouting life.

Slowly memory unfurls;
Oh! How the nymphs vanished
To shores unheard
With husbands thickened by prosperity,
Their waists like jackfruits,
And necks like rhinos’.
Isn’t love –
The desire of things
We aren’t destined to have?

Trees uproot, buildings collapse,
Global warming and climate change
Aren’t fashionable catch words
But foretell the start of birth pangs
And the end of white man’s burden –
The beginning of a billion brown men’s
Omnipotence.

The city, ripped apart
Curls into itself like a sleeping dog
When rain drops like cannon shots
Rain nature’s fury
Twisting trees, scattering concrete;
And then, reflected in the pools:
The memory of her:
Saudade.

The huge sparks in the sky
Bring rain
How the electric opposites attract
As if beauty and the beast
Are making love in heaven.
It would be enough
To know
That somewhere in the world,
She is alive,
And watching a similar rain:
Saudade.

(Saudade is a Portuguese word, roughly translatable as “longing for someone or something.”)

To Shakti Bhat

2007-04-10T00:21:00.001-07:00

I didn’t knowOur last words,As you were leaving Little TheatreSaid in the midst of a seminarWith pushy seminarians around usWould be our last words.Goodbye Shakti Bhatt,Goodbye Shakti Bhatt,Goodbye Shakti Bhatt,Goodbye Shakti Bhatt.May your gentle soul find solace and restAway from the cares of this depraved world.Goodbye Shakti Bhatt,Goodbye Shakti Bhatt.May your soul never hunger for peaceAnd your printed words never cease to amaze.Goodbye Shakti Bhatt,Goodbye Shakti Bhatt.May your name shine on those pagesWhich hold a promise for tomorrow’s writers.Goodbye Shakti Bhatt,Goodbye Shakti Bhatt.

On Death's Deadly Door

2007-04-02T22:25:00.000-07:00

His pre-dawn voice hoarse with a coldWalking mean train cars his wares unsold,Working fervently, shoulder on tillHe feels the pressure, as if going uphill.No, this pressure’s different, he is reelingAs the sun with its warm rays comes calling.He feels trapped, the flesh yielding to every Little shoves, he endures, a bit wary,Occupying this pig sty, this warrenOf which he is now a part, of a sudden:A pushed man, in this pushy world,So much like the many who are so destin’d.He rides the great distances silentlyThe pressure becomes pain, relentlesslyIt weakens, his sweat drips,In no time drenched, disoriented he slips,A feeling so awesome he wants to lie down,From every side walls of flesh have grown.His sweat then mingles with the windHe slumps and people curse, “Hey, d’you mindThis here’s not your father’s property,You better get down and take a phat phatiWe aren’t cushions for your head to restWe are officers and our shirts are creased!”They didn’t know those poor devilsTrapped as they were in humanity’s lost trials,This could happen to them one day:Today, tomorrow or any other day.He died standing there, On death’s deadly door, yes, it was here, And they never even once glanced- As he fell, by the slipstream unbalanced.

Digital Alienation

2007-03-08T08:06:00.000-08:00

Unbeknownst,Unheralded,Unseen,Just disembodied conversationsYou became an addiction:I want to de-addict.Let’s drift apartCurrents across a digital oceanTouching,Caressing briefly,On the shores of an island.Let’s wake to a new realityAn empathetic stateOf not belongingOf you becoming anotherI becomingNothing.Too much youAnd I could come to naughtOn the ego’s infinite wave-tossed shoreLet’s find our sole refugeFrom ourselves.I can click and sendYour emails to trashAssume fake identities,Fake orgasms in cyber rooms,Change cellphone numbers,Delete your traces from digital world.But could I erase you,From the interstitial spaces Of consciousness,I doubt.You cease to exist,As if you never did,In this miasmic world we created,Let’s touch brieflyLike butterflies on buttercups, andDepart to our distant continents.

Digital Alienation

2007-03-08T00:38:00.000-08:00

Chembur

2007-02-22T00:45:00.000-08:00

I

These crooked weathered streets
On which time hangs like a drape
Upon padlocked doors;
It’s here I grew my first sprout
Of facial hair;
Styled Elvis hairdos, collars.
Childhood vanished in a flash,
In these lanes smelling of senility;
Innocence fled; tears were shed;
Look close
You can see memories linger
In the dark crevices;
Cricket matches, dropped catches,
Embarrass me still.

II

These mean streets I walk again,
Many a bend and a turn,
I have seen
In life’s incessant churning.
Those dreamy bungalows,
In which I wanted to laze in,
In slippers and boxer shorts,
Now naked, bare, and torn apart,
For upcoming shopping malls
And haute couture plazas.

III

Where once there were shrubs
Laden with the scent of bela flowers
There’s now the smell of fluorocarbons.
The littered streets are
Dug up to lay jelly-filled cables,
They don’t know they once were,
The majestic streets, on which,
The Kapoors strode like kings,
Worshipped, adored,
Their studios,
A favourite hangout
Of those starry-eyed adolescent days.

IV

A boy I knew in dirty knickers
Is now a mafia don;
The world is afraid;
I am not
I have seen his unwashed underwears.

V

The girls were beautiful,
They still are,
Their walk are indeed fluent
As a smoothly flowing river,
And tongues hold lethal fires,
They can kill with treacherous looks,
Oh! How I miss them, those sylphs,
Who inhabited my wet adolescent dreams!

VI

Chembur,
You bejewelled suburb of the east,
You nestle amidst sewers and marshes,
And fumes as black as hell,
Yet in your stained yellow bosom,
Where the sun rises and sets in a haze,
Smelling of death and decay,
Was born the unfulfilled dreams,
Of this, your unfortunate son.

Woman at the Door

2007-02-22T00:43:00.000-08:00

On the toothless wrinkled faceNo trace of the men she knewFlirted, courted, beddedHow many came and wentTwo timed herHeld her,Talked to her,And left her With barely a mark on her cheeksTo show for the pains she bore.Has she lost count?She may haveOf ungrateful men – Carnality once satisfied – Left her meagre home Never to return,Wandering the world, whoring – Adventurers of destiny.Arrivals and partings she’s seenSome when the world sleptAnd only shadows stirred.Babies who screamed into existenceIn the hour of midnightAnd who before adulthood and maturity.Hours spent in expectation of loversAnd their childrenWho need cooking, cleaning, and care.Still the ungrateful vermin,Only betray and deceive,Never learnt to wash and swipeAnd talk politely to elders.She cries sitting by the door,As tears pour from Tired lachrymal glandsMemories crowd her brows,As a scream stifles into a sobAnd the firefly-punctured darkness gathers, She sits and weeps at yesterday’s gates.

Fires of the Faithless

2007-02-22T00:41:00.000-08:00

Tonight wild hordes burned the timber mills
Charred the festering slums upon hills
Burnt books, flags and holy sacraments
Psalms, chronicles and sacred testaments.

Burn, burn, raging fires of the faithless tonight,
Turn off the lights; torch this glittering city of lights.

We cowered weeping in our tiny tin houses
Our infant children, sisters and spouses
Before they raped, desecrated, burnt and rent
Us in the consuming fire of their discontent.

Burn, burn, raging fires of the faithless tonight,
Turn off the lights; torch this glittering city of lights.

Hey, I ask, sword-bearing, gun-bearing men of hatred
Are not your holy books to you anymore sacred?
Do you realize the fires you start tonight
Are unquenchable conflagrations, no one can set right?

Burn, burn, raging fires of the faithless tonight,
Turn off the lights; torch this glittering city of lights.

Who gave guns into the hands of these faithless men?
Were they also not loved since birth by any woman?
Brothers, let not your sibling labours go in vain
Sisters, love them, teach them, then don't complain.

Burn, burn, raging fires of the faithless tonight,

Turn off the lights; torch this glittering city of lights.

On Watching Republic Day on Television

2007-02-02T09:17:00.000-08:00

To fallen, silent and nameless soldiers,
A symbolic helmet and inverted gun,
An eternal flame wavers and sputters,
A votive green wreath in the morning sun.

Goose stepping soldiers, smartly dressed,
Guns pointing, dipping, saluting -
Their commanding officers, epauletted -
Wars, invasions, treaties, are their thing.

Missiles, land mines and shrapnel,
Tanks that can cut through steel,
Bridge rivers and through land tunnel,
Destroy, maim, decapitate and kill.

Presidents, ministers, diplomats, leaders,
When you declare your invasions and wars,
Please do not let your conscience dither,
The battles you fight are the burdens of ours.

Mack English

2006-11-20T02:24:00.000-08:00

Mack English is spoken,
Though it is at times broken,
In Bombay and in Girgaon,
In Goa and in Konkan.

Grammar we know none,
Speaking Mack is fun,
We talk like this only,
For we are like this only.

Father forgive, don't hate,
Mass and confession can wait,
It's feni and fish we crave,
Before the call of the grave.

Johnny play the bongo,
Michael sing the Fado*,
Together we will dance,
And Rosy we will romance.

*Fado is a Portuguese song.

Sonnet for a Stolen Mobile Phone

2006-11-11T21:46:00.000-08:00

Sonnet for a Stolen Mobile Phone

You were cuddlesome and oh! so cute,

Full of lively chatter and, sometimes mute,

Hours I would spend waiting for you to ring,

You were a universe in the joys you bring.

You spoke to me in several lingos,

Mallu, Hindi, English, Bambaiya patois,

Yet you departed so abruptly, without feelings,

Nary elations, greetings, or glad tidings.

Then one evening, I know not,

Who stole you from me, my Camelot,

Are your rings dead, are you still alive?

Has he de-SIM-ed you, do you still survive?

Please come back to me, I miss you,

Without you, I am not me, nor would you be you!

To a Reluctant Writer

2006-11-03T21:45:00.000-08:00

You can pick meaning off words,
You can paint pictures;
You can laugh at them,
Who laugh at you;
You can mourn,
The follies of the unwise.

To write is power,
Of words, thoughts,
Limitless, boundless,
As the sky above and earth below;
You will never be alone,
When words churn in your mind.

You can be heartbroken,
And cry and cry;
But a poem would wipe tears,
Puts a smile on your face,
Erase the pain,
Of loneliness and love.

So won’t you write?
A letter, a poem, an essay;
We would wallow in its depths,
Smile at its humor,
Relish what pains it took you,
And forgive friendly trespasses.

(c) November 2006

Beirut

2006-09-18T05:37:00.000-07:00

Beirut

Oh! Beirut,
Nameless, faceless,
Besieged, bombed,
Occupied by militias, armies,
It's unbelievable, once,
You were the Paris of the East.

Now you are rubble,
Bombed debris,
Lying in a mangled haze,
Your hospices filled with the dying,
Death still waits at your doorsteps,
After the Jordanians,
Syrians and Israelites have gone.

The Cedars of Lebanon are bereft,
Alleys are filled with twisted steel,
Your people are not given -
A chance to survive, make peace.
In you there are enemy streets,
Where children fear to walk,
Afraid of hidden gunmen.

Will you rise from this debris?
Rebuild your proud monuments,
And foliate your naked Cedars,
With the leaves of verdant summer,
In the shades of which women don't wail,
Of kidnappings, shootings, and ransoms,
And of crazed, fervent militias,
Of which they are no part.

Oh! Beirut, Oh! Beirut, I mourn you!

Beirut was once known as the Paris of the East. No more. Now, militaries of Israel, Syria and Jordan enter and leave it at their whim. Its streets are full of bombed buildings and its citizens live in fear of being killed. This is a poem to its brave inhabitants. "Cedars of Lebanon" is a reference to a passage in the Bible.

To my son

2006-08-17T02:21:00.000-07:00

You will realize this wisdom,
When you are my age, and experience,
Gained from being in vexing situations,
Yet, being out of it. You do the same,
There is a joy in detachment,
Forsaking instant pleasures, pains,
For things deeper and enduring.

Don’t be a slave to the work,
Of smart slave-drivers in cubicles,
Instead explore the works of men,
Who have experienced the truths,
And distilled in their words, wisdoms,
Which may grate your ears now.

Like me, don’t be prey to sudden,
Rushes of anger that comes over cables,
And with emails and posts demolish,
Without thinking of consequences -
I have done that and am living to regret.

Don’t drink bottled and sealed lifestyles,
Its sugar, water and carbon dioxide,
Will dither you, disorient you, and sap you,
And don’t eat fast food with loose change,
They will suck you into their assembly line.

Lastly do not try to see with closed eyes,
And hear with deaf ears, keep them open.
The music and rhythm can corrupt,
And make sinning seem so tempting.
The age of innocence, son, is gone,
Every man is a mercenary army.

If you follow this advise, son,
When you are mature and wise as me,
You will say, one day, “Thank you Papa,
For your words of advice, wisdom,
To my children, too, I will pass these words.”
Tags: Poem, poetry, To my son, India, Indian writing

Loneliness

2006-08-13T05:44:00.000-07:00

I pause midway in the in the whirl,
Of deadlines, things undone,
And averaged the sadness and joys -
There remains only loneliness,
Of which I see no cure,
No bitter palliatives, no anodyne.

We remain in life’s journey,
Like loners sitting depressed,
On solitary park benches, or,
Staring at people from balconies,
Loneliness gnawing at our minds,
As hungry ants at a grain of food.

Often in life’s vicious lanes,
In lonesome moments,
It’s our failures we ponder,
Not the joys and victories; both,
We have given and earned;
Not others’ courage, but faults.

When in each passing lonely moment,
I count the millions of seconds,
I was alive to witness this world, and,
Mimetic thoughts that pass into eternity,
My loneliness vanishes, I shout,
“I live; I am alive this lonely moment.”
(c) John, August 2006
Tags: Loneliness, poetry

2006-07-31T07:34:00.000-07:00

This me reading from Penguin’s “India Smiles” collection of short stories. “India Smiles” started as a global short story contest for humorous fiction organized by Sulekha. The contest received five thousand entries and my short story “Flirting in Short Messages” was one among the twenty-eight that were published.

Picture shows me reading my above story from “India Smiles” at Caferati’s second anniversary meet at Chembur, the suburb of Bombay where I spent my childhood. The other picture shows a view of the gathering. Visit my website for more of my writing.
Tags: Caferati, India Smiles, Sulekha, Flirting in Short Messages, Chembur, Bombay

Time Stands Still over Govandi Station

2006-07-21T23:53:00.000-07:00

A kite flutters,
On a high tension wire —
Against a stark blue sky.
Beggar and old mother huddle
On Govandi Railway Station —
The dirtiest station in the universe.

He shows her a plastic watch,
Smiles, “See I have time,”
She, old, gnarled, wrinkled,
Looks through beady eyes,
“I have no need for time.”

Children toss rubber ball —
In cricketing passion.
Jagged slum roofs puncture the sky,
Open drain stinks.

Mother and son —
Hungry, disowned, dispossessed —
Govandi platform is home.
A plastic bag, clothes muddy brown,
He extends a hand,
A black plastic watch on wrist,
“God will do miracles,
Give this man a meal.”
The kite flutters;
Time stands still over Govandi Station.

Sonnet for mother - her last journey

2006-07-21T21:55:00.000-07:00

Sonnet for mother: Her Last Journey

Decked in blooms,
Swaddled in gold filigreed shrouds,
Smeared with perfumes,
She traveled into the clouds.

A life of love lived,
A life of more giving than taking,
Living a life of tears shed,
Turnings, and missed crossings.

She lies still beside father,
In an earthen grave dug for her,
On ere visits she knew this sepulcher,
And, with her man, she would rest there.

There is a time when we all connect
And then we all must self-destruct.

Bombay

2006-07-21T08:30:00.000-07:00

In your bosom we wake up with fear,
In your sky there’s only unending tears,
You always roar, but within,
Hangs silence like a shroud of death.

You are rocked, periodically, by bombs,
Yet, we go about our business,
As if nothing happened, all’s well,
Are we too dazed to protest?

In your hungry, convoluted entrails,
Lie pauper and millionaire,
Separated only by the whimsy,
Of your very partial caress.

On your skyline of sooty chimneys,
Decaying concrete, bristling antennas,
Are the sad stories of fortunes,
Made and lost, just as lost loves.

City of gold, they say, which never sleeps,
Will you stay awake, tonight,
Wipe away our cascading tears,
And give our tired bodies some sleep?

Communally hated!

2006-06-20T01:20:00.000-07:00

This is me, a martyr,
Bleeding inside, lacerated,
With a thousand wounds inflicted,
By all of you, strangers, whom I hate.

You who deprived me of my livelihood,
You who raped our women,
You who brought your skills and toil,
Where I was comfortable with my existence.

You should die for your sins,
There’s no forgiving your greed,
You who snatch our money,
And money order it to your kin, must die!

I am good, you are bad,
You have no right to exist,
A world without you is my dream,
You who manipulate my destiny.

You live on my soil, drink my water,
And don’t respect my culture,
You bring your alien rituals,
And pollute my environs.

You are people whose rages,
Have been compromised in smiles,
When you laugh, you do not,
Laugh with me, but at me!

For your transgressions you must flee,
For the harm you have done,
We must teach you a lesson,
And kick you out of our homeland, our state.