And Yet we smile

The seas that rock the boats to annihilation flow in our veins as blood. The same mud that smudges the knees of pristine toddler shapes flesh of his delicate body. The whole tribe belongs to us but none around in need. The eye is favored to look at the world but fails miserably to see. The air that deflects the trail of camel caravans in the desert ordains the flow of our life as breath in our sinews. The fire that pulverizes the palaces and houses is the spirit of our life. The ears to hear but can hardly listen. The tongue to speak but fumbles often to say. The skies that threaten the sheep as lightening protect us as almighty. The hand that stabs our back holds us as friends. The brain to ponder but refuses to think. The heart to pump blood and make existence facile but makes it even more arduous. The love that gives immense pain offers smiles in our loneliness.

How many miles?

How many miles does pigeon glide before it becomes eagle?

How many seas does boat rove before it claims to be ship?

How many arrows does chest endure before it becomes warrior?

How many nights does earth imbibe before she witnesses sunshine?

How many paths does man tread before he becomes monk?

How many times does one fall before she learns to walk?

How many storms does bush brave before it becomes wood?

How many trials does friend transcend to become mate?

How many aches does she soak before she becomes you?

Senile Soul Modish Eye

Your senile soul discerned and extolled by my old eye

My senile soul perceived and raved by your old eye

Despite veneers decrepit souls still recognize each other

But then,

Why does my modish eye not discern your senile soul?

And your new eye not see old mine?

Bliss

Passion not opposite but part of calmness

Lunacy not opposite but part of wisdom

Absurdity not opposite but part of sanity

Hatred not opposite but part of love

Death not opposite but part of life

Your torment not opposite but part of her bliss

Merci beaucoup

Feet demurring to budge, heart supplicating for respite

Eyes hankering to slam, soul yearning to be alone

What time of day is it? What moment of life?

Bumping into lily water lakes in pallid desert

Tepid restituting sunshine in quivery winters

Kindness from obdurate, reticent hills

Affection from stone idols in the temple

Alchemist hands buttressing rocky boat

Gifting education to the blooming buds

Wishing star guiding at every step

Kings and Queens revering teeny Clown

Restoring lost faith to the bruised soul

Replenishing happiness to the riven spirit

Experiencing humanity far and wide

What deeds deserved such tenderness?

What time of day is it? What moment of life!

Merci Beaucoup....

The Railway Platform

Sitting on the cold, rusted blackish-brown iron bench. Clean hands resting on the side arms. The unbearable foul smell of sweat stinking from the passersby. Gyrating noise of the churning fans from the aluminum ceiling. The dusty winds blowing harshly across the cheeks hurting the nose and eyes. The head- ripping noise of the approaching train halting with a big jerk almost shaking the place like a mild tremor. People around getting up and running towards the train, struggling to get a place in the bogies. Others pushing them from inside to move out to the platform. Very few getting in and even less moving out. The shouts from a nearby Chhotu calling all for his Special cutting chai, the crying of Guddu in the arms of his mother asking for a Spider Man. Mickey and Bunty running around with their sarkari father chasing them. Old, weak Sharmaji with his even weaker wife struggling to climb the stairs of the overhead bridge. A Laxmi begging with Kalu in her arms and a two year old Kuber holding her tattered saree. Vicky, Adarsh and Tarun, teenagers on a magazine stall trying to steal a glimpse of “The Sutra”. Reena, Aisha, Kiran and Jyoti, a bunch of college girls on a trip giggling at the “Studs” showing off their newly acquired adulthood. The Shri Shri 1008 in impeccable saffron,  upholding the sanctity of humanity slyly checking the “Firang” Rebecca and Catherine. Not so straight  Neta ji  in white crisp spotless Khadi kurta with folded hands charming the voters from the door. The potters Ganpati and Neel, negotiating with Sheela and Sharda, Aunties for another 20 bucks. The thirteen something Reena feeling coy looking at “The Baby Doll” poster on the side walls by mistake. The naughty Nattu impishly smiling at understanding the lyrics of “The Kunwari Ladki” song being played in a Samosa-Pakora shop. Some Amir Chand sweeping the floor and spilling the leaves even more. Ram and Yudhishtar bellowing circles of smoke secretly behind the shed. Sita and Draupadi busy applying layers of pancake in the washroom. The train departs and another approaches.

Sitting on the warm, rusted grayish iron bench with the not-so-clean hands now not resting on the side arms. The smell becoming even more obnoxious. Me, anxious, lonely still there, waiting for some more adventure from another Kanika, Sanya, Rithik or Sid or even Life as Life and people never fail to entertain…!

The Ides of March

The gardens all blooming with roses, pansies, marigold of red, pink , purple and yellow, sweet smell of spring in the air, lightness of bright sunshine in the heart. March, the month associated with the advent of spring, an end to the chilling heartless cold and the beginning of the welcoming soothing summers. But why is it that March has never been kind to her? The worst lessons of life always taught during the month. Month is her creator, but for how long does she have to pay that debt?

Only to be called fair and just, you give her choices that are best not given. You force her into saying either yes or no, fully aware that no question can be answered in just either of the two. She knows you are tough, tougher than the rest. And this is exactly what she had waited all her life for, A Hercules, a Phoenix…. If you were not toughest you were not worth the pain. Minuscule gusts of wind could not even ruffle her tresses. She needed a storm to move her indomitable spirit.

Don’t take her as a challenge. You don’t need to defeat her. She is already mutilated, bruised, wounded and vanquished. A speck of dry lifeless sand that was blown towards you by the truant winds. She was thrown in your eyes without her consent. And now you stand there rubbing your eyes sorely to get rid of her forgetting that this will only aggravate your pain. She belongs to the comatose desert and it is where she will recoil herself now. If ever again the winds play a brat and fling her at you, she will make sure that she does not rise above your feet because that is where she longs to be. If she hears about you she will close her ears. If you happen to pass by, she will close her eyes. If you come in her dreams, she will wake up…

The noisy thunder storm woke her up this morning only to make her realize that she had been weeping. Weeping in her sleep? And was the sky weeping with her too? It was raining heavily outside as if the forces had aligned with her in her moment of agony. If the decision was right then why is no one happy? Neither she nor you nor the Skies seem to be at peace? Why so much turbulence?

Oh March, dear March, stomp ahead to the beautiful April waiting with a new world, a new adventure and a new you… Be kind to your heart and gentle to your soul. For my sake, this last one time.