The Pariah Dog

The Pariah Dog

I don’t want to be your pariah dog
Or, for that matter, your sacrificial hog.

All I want from you is some respect
Of a clean grown-up kind and aspect.

No, I don’t want your stale bread crumbs
One of the many you cast to your chums.

No, I can’t go everywhere to please you
Late nights, award nights, party nights, too.

I want to be a free bird not a pariah
I want you to know that, now, yes suh!

If you don’t want me around just say so
I will only be too glad to disappear, to go.

I don’t want to be your pariah dog
No, it won’t look good on my daily blog.

(A song in Soul, Rhythm, and Blues (SR&B) Style)

FOR YOU SOMAN, R.I.P.

For a cousin brother who died recently:

FOR YOU SOMAN, R.I.P.

In a ward smelling of imminent death
You died; the doctors gave up hope
I am devastated, broken, brother
It could have been my tormented soul instead
God took you, the wrong man, and left me here.

All the days we played in the courtyard
Spent time together talking nonsense
Are those days gone and buried forever?
Will there be no repeats of those times?

We grew families, put food on tables
Working extra hours to pay the loans
Neglecting ourselves, for our wives and children
Till wrinkles, grey hair reminded us of time running out.

I was shocked to see you on the hospital bed
Looking a pale grey shadow of your self
Doctors said the disease has claimed you
And it’s today, maybe, tomorrow, can’t say.

You, brother, were a heavenly beam of light
Here on earth for infinitesimal time
Here we met in the interregnum of birth and death
And then you faded away and died.

Soman, my brother, rest in peace.

A Happy New Year!

A Happy New Year!

(A Song to be sung Dylan style to the strumming of a guitar.)

For the people of Syria and Iraq displaced by war

A Happy New Year!

For the families of people who lost their lives aboard AirAsia QZ8501

A Happy New Year!

For the 141 military-school children, murdered in Peshawar

A Happy New Year!

For the hundreds who lost their lives and possession in floods in Kashmir

A Happy New year!

For the family of Michael Brown, killed by police in Ferguson

A Happy New Year!

For family of Steven Sotloff and Jim Foley killed by extremists in Syria

A Happy New Year!

For the homeless, old, starving, and dying without caregivers

A Happy New Year!

For the people of Ukraine trying not to let their country be split in two

A Happy New Year!

For the girls kidnapped and raped by extremists in Nigeria

A Happy New Year!

For the slaving construction labourers in the deserts of Arabia

A Happy New Year!

For sick people and people undergoing life-saving surgery in hospitals

A Happy New Year!

May the New Year be one of hope, caring, giving, compassion, and faith

A Happy New Year to you all!

PAIN

I can smile when I am in pain

I can’t laugh; not even feign

Pain is a temporary feeling,

It’s nothing but a transitioning,

From a mental state of stasis

To one of instant catharsis.

What’s a lover’s pain?

But a feeling someone can’t contain.

Pain is eternal, it has no limit

I can’t ever recall being without it

When I was an errant fool in school

Even in my flighty youth trying to be cool.

Pain devastates, leaves our life in shambles

As I grow old and as my defence crumbles

I wonder, “Was there a day that went by,

Without the pain that we endure nightly

Be it in a hospital’s operating table

Or, in pursuit of this literary dream, so noble?”

I can smile when I am in pain

But I can’t laugh; not even feign.

Dust

Dust I must, but I can’t leave it to rest

Despondent dust: it's your flaky feel I detest

They hang in cobwebs, in corners, and book cases

Little nooks, crannies, and unsuspecting places.

I get tired of this dusting and say, “oh well,”

Uninvited guests, please spare my clothes if you will

Go hang somewhere but not on my wall

If I find you someplace I'd sweep till you fall.

Dust I must, because I am allergic

Even if, perchance, it'd make me neurotic

Oh! Leave my books alone, I have just dusted them

What use are dust jackets? Thickly coated their spines become?

Up here, up there, this dust tires me, oh, they kill

Dusting all the time, agreed, is a matter of skill

Watch me do it with a duster and broom in hand

Till my house is clean; able for next the onslaught to withstand.

Peace

(Written after seeing disturbing images of children caught in the Syrian War on television.)

There was peace here before the guns came
The birds used to sing before darkness became.

We had water to drink and food to eat
We had grains, vegetables, and even meat.

The days were peaceful, boring, and calm
And no nights of gunfire and napalam.

We children went to school and men to work
Gunmen didn't on street corners lurk.

Bring back those days; oh, bring them back
These difficult days are hard, loads on our back.

We don't need your free clothes, food packets, and peace talks
We only need our freedom to take our children to the parks.

Leaders, it takes a few hours to declare wars
But it takes people lifetimes to forget the scars.

We live in strange lands under your polythene tents
We don't know what our country's future portends.

Mother says, "Child, tomorrow will be good, go to sleep"
But sleep won't come despite counting a hundred sheep.

Give us a chance to be once more in schools
We promise we won't break many rules!

The House Where Kipling Lived

House Where Kipling Lived

Leaves drop in sibilant silence

The paths that leads to it are unswept.

The trees draped with vine

Breathe the air that he breathed

A century and a half ago; yet,

Seems like yesteryear.

The bungalow stands in decrepitude

Rotten wood painted green

Crumbling with no master inside

To give it a dusting, Gunga Din would do fine.

The staircase down which he descended

Now creaking and brittle with age

The balustrade coated with grime.

At the entrance is a weathered bust

A reminder of the man who portrayed the East

As a sign-seeking misinterpreting man of the West

The trees entered his heart; the vines his soul

There they stand before the old bungalow

Bandar-log[1] peeping from its branches.

If we be The White Man’s Burden[2]

How come he praised Gunga-Din[3]

You’re a better man than I am?[4]

Here, in this dereliction, was born one who loved the East

Told its stories to an appreciative West

Forgetful city, oh, please remember your son

Your history books take scant notice of this one, your bard.

---

[1] From The Jungle Book

[2] A poem written by Rudyard Kipling

[3] The protagonist of the poem Gunga Din

[4] From the poem Gunga Din

ONE-FOOT PATHS

These paths on which only one man can tread

So brittle they break if more men step on them

Don’t know who tread them before me

Over centuries, generations, and lifetimes.

They wind, criss-cross, and snake

As spider webs across dusty earth and grass

They never fail to lead somewhere:

Holy place, school, hospital, rest home

Or, to some point of exquisite scenery

From where can be seen brilliant sunsets.

In forests they proclaim human habitation

Or, a nearby stream to quench thirst.

We are mere passers-by, walking

They remain there till the end of time, unchanged

Till men die, abandon, walk away, or immigrate

To a place where they can set up a new home.

Skin-Whitening Cream and Soaps

All you white-skinned men and women

Showing off on the television’s tinsel domain

Makes me wonder if a black man or woman

Has a place in this land of dark God Neelkantan.

I shake my head and in I groan in pain

God! What have I done to deserve this bane?

You created this land of dark people and Gods

And dipped them in tubs of skin-whitening suds.

Now all I see are dark faces white-washed

Hair as if streaked with rays of golden sunlight

Creams that promise white skin in a week

With which you can marry a stud, not a geek.

Girl on television you may be a big star

But beneath the discolored skin you are hiding a scar

The way God created you is on hold

With skin-whitening creams you have been sold.

Yes, they say the cream sells more than aerated drinks

Thirst is nothing so far as you don’t look like Michael Spinks

Armed with cream and umbrella you must march

Down the ramp to celebrate the Ides of March.

DANCE GENTLY TO THE RAIN’S MAD RHYTHM

When you feel let down by the world’s trechery

When the air is thick with arrant buffoonery

When fools go where mortals refrain

When atomic wars threaten to draw the final curtain.

Dance gently to the rain’s mad rhythm, my friend

Go gently into the rain, don’t hesitate.

Raiiiin oooo raiiiiinnn oooooo! (2)

When anger is on every face and begets new anger

And nobody’s stuffy ears are willing to listen

To an old man playing a guitar and tambourine

Tossed around on silver seas and wastelands.

Dance gently to the rain’s mad rhythm, my friend

Go gently into the rain, don’t hesitate.

Raiiiin oooo raiiiiinnn oooooo! (2)

We are here to make the night last long

Don’t fill our nights with the ghost of hunger

Protest we must if our rights are trampled on

Guns we must face and be prepared for confinement.

Dance gently to the rain’s mad rhythm, my friend

Go gently into the rain, don’t hesitate.

Raiiiin oooo raiiiiinnn oooooo! (2)

This rain will pass and another monsoon too

Try not to shield from its fury, it’s liquid onslaught

Then we will dance on fallow fields and limpid lakes

What remains of its legacy in its wake.

Dance gently to the rain’s mad rhythm, my friend

Go gently into the rain, don’t hesitate.

Raiiiin oooo raiiiiinnn oooooo! (2)

(c) 2012

Doodles at the Sahar Airport

Distraught mothers waving sons goodbye

Harassed men pushing carts loaded with many bags

Sweet-looking, brusque, beautiful hostesses

New mothers holding wonder-eyed babies

The computer professional, knapsack on shoulder

Executives striding confidently, nervously

The confused tourist carrying backpack too large

Painted women whose stilettos make them imposing

Confusion of passports, boarding cards, endless queues

Gun-holding security men in starched uniforms

The strong smell of disinfectant, sanitized food

The airport is where voyages are embarked and disembarked

Not in steamy hot man-o-wars of yore, but

In air-controlled seclusion, and sequestered egos

Where every man and woman is an explorer

Compressing months of travelling into a few hours

And merging people into one palimpsest of cultures.

The Code Coolie

You pretend you are a code warrior, fighting

Battles with the lines of code you are writing;

You carry a back pack to work in the software park,

Dream of being Bill Gates and steering a sports car into the park.

ASP, Java, Oracle, SAP are your fine forte,

Logic, workflows and syntax your areas of comfort;

Your happiness centres on a chicken tandoori,

And a movie in the mall in East side of Andheri.

You will marry a fast-talking high-strung woman,

Happiness will be a short honeymoon to Konkan;

Then fights will start in blessed conjugal-dom

Cries of “Need my space; I need my freedom.”

The U. S. A.’s a happy energetic place for everyone,

But there are immigration officers and mad men with guns;

Then you will have children, one or even two,

And your joys will re-appear over a year or two.

But what of your parents who made you walk upright?

You left them, backpack over shoulder, into the night;

They cry hard tears, “Where’s our child, tell us truly?”

“Have we worked all our lives to beget a Code Coolie?”

Oh! Jerusalem, Jerusalem

Oh! Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

Holiest of holy cities

Cursed by the Nazarene:

Nameless, faceless,

Besieged, bombed,

Occupied by militias, armies,

It's unbelievable that once

The messiah of peace walked your streets.

Now you are rubble,

Bomb-hit houses

Lying in a mangled haze

Your hospices filled with the dying

Now you show signs of prosperity

But death still waits at your doorsteps.

The Cedars are bereft,

Alleys are filled with twisted steel,

Your people are not given -

A chance to survive, make peace.

Inside you there are enemy streets

Where children fear to walk

Afraid of hidden gunmen.

Will you rise from this debris?

Bring peace to your proud monuments,

And foliate your naked Cedars

With the leaves of verdant summer

In their shades women wouldn’t wail,

Of disappearances, shootings, and ransoms,

Of men who misunderstand the love of God!

To a Reluctant Writer

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 and 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 gladly plunge in its depths,

Smile at its humour,

Relish what pains it took you,

And forgive friendly trespasses.

Anthonybhai's Song

Anthonybhai’s Song

(In Mack English)[1]

Kya, re? Know something, men?

Dis big, big; new, new instrumen’

Mobile phone and internet, wot?

Such confusion really I neva thought.

This pre-paid-post-paid I don’t unnerstan’, please tell,

Anthony’s simply want to know, what the hell,

You are not to be seen only, these days,

And you don’t call, even on Sundays.

I feel you’re going far, far away,

Some fuckin’ Katlik boy’s come your way?

I will break his legs, just you watch,

I won’t let you be an easy catch.

I know pucca you are flirting girl,

It shows in de way your lips curl,

You have no patience only with me,

But for him, that bugger, you’ll bend and curtsey.

“Wot’s my fault?” I aks Fadder Fonseca, he say:

“Son, forget her, forgive and pray

Treasures and eternal life in heaven above

Are your rewards than this worldly grave.”

I say, no, Irene’s my senorita, Fadder,

I don’t want to be treated, no way, like a ladder

Another man to step and take my girl away,

To the holy alter; and then “I do” say.

---

[1] A pidgin dialect spoken by Goans, East Indians, Ango-Indians, and other communities mainly found on the West Coast of India.

Apocalyptic Rain

The Apocalyptic Rain

(Dedicated to: father who died on a rainy day.)

I

The day he dies

The rain murmurs on glass

Through night and day,

Like apocalypse is today, now

It courses down the eaves at 3.30 a.m.

At 4.30 a.m. it’s still trickling
In the hospital courtyard

Thinly

Wetly

Damply

Hungrily

Silently.

At home 
In the dark

We pause to look at the sky

And murmur, “It’ll never end.”

“The rain will take us as did father.”
"Will electricity come?"

We are wondering whether

The food will last

The oil lamp will burn till midnight

Till we sleep the wearied sleep

Of farmers and day labourers
Of those days

When only the rich had electricity.

And in the morning

We wake up in a daze

To hear the rain still pounding

Pitting the stones

Drilling holes into roads

Fearing the worst

The swirling deaths

Washed out homes

That came calling on July 26

The day the skies wept.

II

Once a boy
Skinny
Unprepared
Unaware
Hanging on to straws
Bibliophile

Who, when a rainy symphony plays,

With open book on knees,

Reads “Paradise Lost,”

And dreams of poetic fame

Lost in a haze of innocence

Unprepared

Docile

Ingenuous

Rebellious

Handsome

Ugly

Sensual

Unrefined

Uncouth.

“Will he ever survive this world?”

“Look at him, he is so silent.”

“Why is he so different?”

“How has he become thus?”

They ask
The ones who fail to prepare him
With their love.

III

The dream of trophy girls is now

The tattered cloth of a mendicant,

Stained and threadbare,

Threatening to rend

At the most delicate touch

As rain comes down

On hills and weaving coconut palms

Marble monuments, their treasures plundered.

And the sun-shielded glass
In a city a thousand kilometres away

Reeking of human enslavement

Nomenclature-ed

Numbered

Synergised

Compartmentalised

Ergonomised

Promoted

Demoted

Transferred

Filed

Forgotten.

The rain stops

11.30 a.m.

Just as the pounding in the brain

Ceases.

Make tea

Drink cupful of heat

Satiation

Lay down to rest

Sleep the tired sleep of the lazy

Wake worn out to rain pounding again

Rivulets on glass

Head aching from countless

Confusing dreams.

IV

When we go to fetch his body
From the morgue

The rain comes so thick

That the river Pampa changes course

Marooning the house

He built

Our abode

Of parsimonious money

He made from the pain of my hunger

The house of our deprivation.

As the flotsam recedes

Leaving the ground slushy

In the 1.30 p.m. rain

He is interred
At the family church

At the family graveyard
When the bell tolls mournfully

After the priests and assemblage

Chants

Prays

Sings

Mumbles
Weeps

Dropping mud on his coffin.

He must have heard

The thudding
Soil and stone

Rain

On palm trees

The wind sighing in leaves

The susurration

Of tiny rivulets

Into his new abode.

Felt the wasting

Of a body

Dissipated

Drowned in grief
Alone
Soil to Soil
Earth to Earth
Dreams having flown
In the 4.30 p.m. rain.

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.