The Old Church

The old church –

Thief of the best Sundays of my childhood –

Is dilapidated.

The courtyard is unkempt;

The parsonage is surrounded by weeds;

The Belfry and Vestry need maintenance;

The Alter, I don’t know;

The garden has a few shrunken shrubs;

And, some shriveled betelnut trees;

The trees under which we ate potluck lunch are gone;

So is the Sexton’s wooden cottage.

Yet, there it stands erect;

Having seen Governors, freedom struggles,

Teargas shells, riots,

Deaths, births, weddings, confirmations, and christenings,

Passing by below its arches.

Yes, now when the bells of St. Mary the Virgin toll

A sad funereal message,

I feel like a child again,

Lost in innocence.

What Science Does!

The world is suffering from:

SARS;

H1N1;

Mice Fever;

Bird flu;

Chickengunia;

HCV;

HIV;

Cancer;

TB;

Dengue;

Malaria;

Malnutrition;

Hunger;

And so on and on and on and on….

But science is only obsessed with inventing:

iPad;

iPod;

Android;

3G;

Live video Streaming;

You tube;

Twitter;

Facebook;

MP 3;

Playstations;

Google search;

Tablet computers….

And you say science has advanced?

You say science saves mankind?

Invent some vaccines,

Bring in some new medicines,

Or, is it too much to ask?

For science to do this disagreeable task?

Don’t You Know I Have It in Me

(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

Lest We Forget the Night of 26/11

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

I

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?

II

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

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

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!

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

Jahanpanah [1] 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 [2],

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 [3] 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 poems 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 culture 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,

To spoil my peace and my people alienate.”

“Go ahead; call me coward, that you can,

But I am no traitor like Asanullah Khan[4],

Or, my wife Zinat Mahal[5], or, Mohammed Baqar[6],

They will rot in their graves, those gaddar[7].”

“I’ve only done what a poet would’ve done,

Protected my art, people, wives, and son,

They’re greedy men those who covet and fight,

I am only a bard; my poetry is my birthright.”

---

[1] Ruler of the world

[2] Poet

[3] British Governor of Delhi

[4] Bahadur Shah Zafar’s prime minister

[5] Bahadur Shah Zafar’s wife who plotted to surrender to the British

[6] Editor of Delhi Aqbar and chronicler of the Sepoy Mutiny

[7] Traitor

The Slum-dweller

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
The place they sqatted and shat
Became the swimming pool of a tower
The open place they went to fuck, a car park.

Together they journeyed

To a piece of sodden land

By the nullah in which floated scum and plastic

To a new life

A new beginning,

A new place to defecate
A new place to procreate.

Poet in Intensive Care Unit (ICU)

Yes, it’s lonely in the ICU

These machines will cease

Once I stop exhaling,

So I should go on, exist,

At least, to keep their mechanics going.

No blip, blip of my heart

Will be heard ever again,

No words, no rhyme, no crude comment,

No fights, no threats,

On my forum, or on my blog

If I cease this struggle

To keep these machines alive.

These contraptions, they embrace me,

Their tentacles, tubes,

Pin me down

Enclose me,

Twine a tightly choking grip

As if they are scared of losing me.

If I were I to break out

And reach for pen and paper

To make a small note

Scribble a short Haiku

Perhaps, a Villanelle

No, a short Sonnet

About the summer’s passing

Outside the blinded ICU windows;

And if I do that

I will recover from afflictions

They would be bereft and orphaned.

I must exist, yes, I should,

For these machines they would die otherwise.

If I Die....

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’ shine

Extremely 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

I

My first sip of beer was bitter,

Then magically turned to sweet

Conversation flowed like amber liquid

In the verandah you offered as sanctuary

To 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 flew

It seems like yesterday

That I asked a young lady to tea

And my hands trembled as I poured

I don’t know if she noticed;

We were a shy generation.

There were paper lanterns

Dangling from the ceiling

Kites multi-coloured, ribbed with bamboo

Muted music, reviving,

As if the Jazz musicians recovered from torpor.

Those were the days of rock-n-roll;

Elvis was king, Beatles were in their cocoons

And the city had fewer cars.

II

At the next table

The child-man’s hand trembles,

As he pours tea;

Clutching the kettle with clumsy stained hands,

His nicotine-addict lips smile,

As the girl giggles, and then laughs;

This is a nonchalant generation.

Except for that

And Pearl is no more, her kimono is in grave,

Things haven’t changed much

At Café Samovar, Kala Ghoda;

There are paper lanterns dangling,

And thoda-thoda[1] famous people around,

Waiting for their next big break.

Nothing has changed while I was away,

Guess nothing ever will.

---

[1] Little, little.

The Song of the Janadesh Marchers

The Song of the Janadesh Marchers^[1]

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 huts to shelter us from calamities.

---

[1] 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.