BOXES

Little Raju found a spare box

Empty, brown: not much to talk of.

He stared wide-eyed at the flaps on the side

Just like wings on an airplane ride!



He wore those broken old glasses

With an upside down bowl on his head

And just like that Raju was flying

Across continents and three heavens.



The wind flung his hair and dried his mouth

The cape on his shoulder fluttered wildly about

Left, right, tumble around

Life ought to be seen upside down.



Then came Violet: big and strong

Not the protector-of-the-weak sort

One look at his little flying machine

And the evil cogs in her head spun crazily around.



A kick and a blow

One-two-three-four

A bucket of water

No plane no more.



Two and twenty years have gone

Little Raju has moved on

To computers and cameras and games and girls

Oh, and he’s not little any more.



Sober clothes he wears

A funeral to attend

To pretend to regret

Death of an old acquaintance.



He wasn’t surprised

To find a big brown box

With Violet inside

Oh, and she’s not strong anymore.



Memories trickle in

Like a leaking cardboard box

But he can’t ignore

The flaps on her side, like an airplane ride.

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Steps

The choice we made was all ours

To let go

and float onwards.


Then you beckon

Away from the light

Into the oblivion

Only to awake

Reborn - in someone else’s arms.

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Wishing to Lose

I count to ten and begin to search
whether you are hiding dear.
I hear the cow moo and rush near,
to see your prints near the birch.

My roving eye catches the rustles
of the bush near the fence.
I walk over in the sense,
as I hear you struggle
with the thorns on the path nearby,

As you free yourself from that momentary gyve,
I hear the sound of a goat's cry,
moments later, their herd passes by.

I hear a faint giggle
and slide through the trees,
The forest now seems demonic
blowing without a breeze
I hear you anklets tinkle
and comb the foliage.

The river has silenced the sun's rage
I hear nor see any signs of you
My wrinkles begin to catalyse my age
Tears won't dry and the lamp goes dim
and the fishermen come with a tale.

The men tell me that you were found
entangled in their net
I know you were trying to find
A better place; to win.

I wish I had never played
that silly game of hide and seek, for fun,
Papa would have accepted defeat
As I see your wraith saying you have won.

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Colors

A dry leaf falls
On the weathered carpet of corpses
The pale sun dries any sign of life
And the cruel wind tears all webs of connection
A little child skips
Among skeletons
A dreamy poet remarks
The soft colors of grey death.

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Of Red and White roses

Of Red and White roses
Stare not at my white and frozen face
at my upturned nose
still stubborn.
Iron hair.
Ash.

Don't let him read from a book
that an unfortunate bachelor scripted
in his mid-life crisis.

Don't ask an unknown entity
secure a place in never land.

Stop praising my wretched parents

She who never forgot to remind
I was the mistake of a blotched expiry date.
Tell them I spat on her grave
with a dumbfounded crowd suspecting me Possessed.
He tried to devote every moment of his life
To protect, love and understand.
Unforgiven,
he was snatched when I was nine.
The only man I prayed to and for.

Pause at the names of schools and colleges

And then swear.
How they made my life miserable
'cause knowledge comes at a cost.

Talk about the bitch Rachel
stripped me with words in front of the college
Confiscated my I-card, Degree and esteem.
Reminded the Cost of Life.

Don't reside on the urchins I fed
Tell them how I gnawed on leftovers in my teens
When you say I donated clothes,
remind them I had two pairs of shirts for years.

'Magic numbers' they called me at work
Cause I never had paper to practise.
Super-memory, you say
Because I remember every scar I bore.

Enough about my present bosses,
Mishra is the name to cry out
Stole my work, recognition and salary
for 5 whole years.

Dedicate an ode to Sheela
A black-and-gold thread around her neck
bound her to me
through every Indian Tragedy and nightmare.
Unemployed.
Jailed.
Tarnished.
Hospitalised.
Orphaned.
Accused.
She was there.
The dimple on my chin.
And remains.

Yes, my children are big and strong
Hari and Neeta(Bless you!)
They loved, fought, loved.
But I never forgot Sandesh
In my arms, when he was
6 months old.
My arms thence weak
with the burden of a child I couldn't save.

Yes, I have money and cash!
All earned through sweat and blood
so don't you dare bless Destiny!
None of it came through charity
or smashed through my once-tin roof.

The millions of creases on my forehead
Each have a story to tell.
Patience, Wit and Stubbornness
not Wagging, Lies or Bribe.

A Life well Deserved
A Death well Lived.

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