time to type

i was supposed to have written for her a long time ago. that was the first time i failed to sooth a girl with words of comfort. she was feeling pretty bad about life. being very young and intelligent, she has an existenial problem.

with so much to do, like and love, she still was suffering. she asked me why things were not happening her way. why the relationships she wanted were not working out as she desired. i said i will reply in few days.

i failed. for i knew she is smart enough to come out of it on her own. and that the other person in relation, from what she said, looked matured and sensitive to her very life. i was sure they could manage without me or my takes on their lives.

i havent known her really. i know her barely for a few months. she is emotional and attached. like most of the women. yet she is different. may be, she shows them not. what attracted me towards is not her intelligence or her (mostly wasted) writing skills, but her thirst for love.

she likes to be all on her own. still she likes to be loved. not outwardly, but deeply. for now, i have no words. life has already been cruel to her. and the only man she loves most is ill. i doubt if words would comfort her. may be not even warm hugs can. knowing the strength of the man, he soon will be back in home caring and cooking for her.

for now, i don't know what to write for her. except that, the road ahead looks lonely. she walks with a freedom, like her father walked years ago, to new shores, to be a professional, to have daughters like her.

and that, there's a friend and family to fall back.

poems from past

Self, The Sovereign


Greetings to myself,

On this day you were born,
And now seem to feel forlorn;

Wish you were not born,
For life revealed thorns.

In the span of wishful years,
Which have gone full of tears;

Nature seems to be the only solace,
Attachments demand things pleasure.

Relations deter the mind of its peace,
Free are you to give everything in nature.

Sad, you never realise within,
And search for eternal liberty;

Forgt'in the beauty of being born
On a planet being continually torn.

Even if you are a miniature cosmos,
Hope is still the saviour of sovereign self.

you are the person, you are the planet!


***

Ageing and Angels


Of all things on travel and tranquility,
i learnt a few in a blue bodied train last night.

With wife on the lap and dew drops dripping by,
i sat silently thinking of the unknown journey ahead.

I 've seen never ageing at its best before,
in my hilly hometown below the blue sky.

A brave woman, bestowing and blessing,
was in the bed 'th beautiful beneath her wrinkles.

A battered body she wore with a belly
brimming to the brink with cancer cells.

Divine was her hands in giving,
Serene was her soul in grieving.

Never was she afraid;
neither for illness, nor for nothingness;

Beloved she remains;
by the sick bedside, beyond believes.

Aged is she, an angel, ain't not.
if not today, tomorrow, then.


***

Convictions, Common


Convinced I am,
At corrupt not continue,
Governing people Present.

Commoners we are,
Confused collectively,
Condemned to Custody.

Convicted they are,
On charges corruption,
Criminals yet Commanding.

Clear we are not ,
On civility & councils,
Clinging to Corruption.

Confined they are,
To cosiest confines,
Culprits yet Crusading.

Clever are they,
Chiding & cheating,
Commoners Carnivores.

Che, Come Again.

half-way

The Meditative Mind said:

sis and her hubby left to london late in the night. it was still raining. seeing them off, we came back. was sick for forty hours or so. unusually, went to bed before the deepest of darkness creeped all over the house around that midnight every day.

was woken up by a voice from the room. ``come in,'' said the loving one. ``the little one wants to talk to you.'' i merely went in and switched on the lights. the little one was not looking at me. the loving one went out. she switched off the lights as she came back with a cake. ``happy birthday, bava'', said she (bava in telugu means hubby). it was another birthday.

i have no memories of me celebrating my b'days. i did not even cut the cake. but sliced a piece of cream and gave it to the loving one. the little one will not wish me, though. they wanted to light the candle that will light the entire house. ``i am going to sleep,'' i said and slept.

stupid and insensitive, i should admit. poor girls. they looked patehtic. they love me so much. yet i cant give them the way they want love. light a candle, blow a few kisses, talk to them of a future, full of comfort and a horizon beyond that. but am i not an utopian rooted to reality.

throughout the next day, i received a very few calls and was left pondering all day if people have forgotten me and my age. the little girl will not wish me even now. ``only if you cut the cake,'' she kept repeating. i was not for it. for i wanted her not to eat it. she just has come out of another boot of asthma. i willingly played the villain card. she never minds except for that moment.

it occured to me that i was half-way through. i am not sure if i will live to see the thousandth moon, the finest moment in one's life as rkn wrote in the uncle's diary, a short story. taking into record the health registers of my ancestors, i have come to the conclusion, that if not tripped in an accident, i could live at least this long. and am half-way.

it has not been quite a life. it has been a quiet life. basically below the blue skies and green ghats in childhood. by the riverside in college. by a hillside in university. by the beach while working.

like any other life, my life has had its moments of glory and pain. of sufferings and happiness. of agony and joy. of treachery and tranquility. madness and genius. emptiness and thoughtfulness. victorious against total failures. of greatness and utter stupidity. i have lived it all. there can be any number of opposites added to this list.

there are two words i like most. love and compassion. i think i have not lived a life of hatred. half-way through. i am sure i will not live a life of hatred ever. even if i am born again, and again, a million times.

never with a heart of hatred but will full of love. all encompassing love. have you ever heard the great one say, ``Open your heart and love the whole world.'' that, i suppose, is compassion. can there be any great feeling other than that for a human?

i am human. those words of a disillusioned pilot in razor's edge is still there in me. ``i wish to be born human a thousand times. it doesn't matter where i am born or to whom i am born. i want to be born human. life is to live (and love).''

As an after-thought, I thought, if i should have mentioned about two more words. sex and seduction. Oh! that is another part of a life. the unconquered sense. i read a lunatic-looking poet write, ``the one who steps beyond *kama* (lust) and *kanneer* (tears) is on his way to enlightenment''.

half-way through, i think the tears have dried up. i feel it to be a wasteful exercise. lust. it still lingers on. on contemplation, it looks it can be easily crossed. is not life wonderful? ah! it really is. yet i wonder why i am still a stranger to myself!

it reminds me of two more words. self and soul.

thinking 'em, i mayn't sleep even after a million births.

this life, i have to be content with two other words.

self-less and soul-ful.