Sitting in the rocking chair
-toothless mouth,
sucking away at the morsel.
Staring at the shadows
of calloused palms,
with those lines etched on them,
Remembering the stories
ingrained within them.
You look a thousand and five wrinkles old,
And are, five grandchildren young.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
FLASHLIGHTS
Flashlights hit me from all sides
Cannot breath- try to reach out,
Nobody to hold on to.
A sea of photographs shallow me
Scream out to the wide expanse of moving bodies
Nobody, they on the shore, remain dry.
Suddenly a lasso of perfume
Reaches out and holding on to
my last breath, pulls me out.
And I
saved
shiver,
For the flashlights are waiting on the shore.
Cannot breath- try to reach out,
Nobody to hold on to.
A sea of photographs shallow me
Scream out to the wide expanse of moving bodies
Nobody, they on the shore, remain dry.
Suddenly a lasso of perfume
Reaches out and holding on to
my last breath, pulls me out.
And I
saved
shiver,
For the flashlights are waiting on the shore.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Bloodline
Humans have an inherent inclination towards segregation and classification. All of us do it, whether consciously or otherwise.
Ustad Zakir Husain had once said that though he didn't feel comfortable with his music being classified as 'fusion', it was the music companies and marketing honchos who had decided to do so. Allocating a designated spot on the shelf for the music lovers made everyone’s life (that is everyone other than the musicians) a lot easier.
The same holds true for other facets of our lives -- be it segregation by class, lineage, physical attributes or even intelligence.
Take for instance the so-called dog lovers out there. There are some who can spend hours raving about their pedigreed Great Dane and its great bloodline, and then in the same breath ranting about the menace of the street dogs in the locality.
This is what a child would say to all of them: “Street dogs are also dogs.” Not being clean and pedigreed doesn't stop them from belonging to the same species. Stop beating them and treating them as inferior. And by the way, it is only because of their pathetic living conditions and people’s constant apathetic attitude towards them that these emaciated dogs can get cranky.
Ustad Zakir Husain had once said that though he didn't feel comfortable with his music being classified as 'fusion', it was the music companies and marketing honchos who had decided to do so. Allocating a designated spot on the shelf for the music lovers made everyone’s life (that is everyone other than the musicians) a lot easier.
The same holds true for other facets of our lives -- be it segregation by class, lineage, physical attributes or even intelligence.
Take for instance the so-called dog lovers out there. There are some who can spend hours raving about their pedigreed Great Dane and its great bloodline, and then in the same breath ranting about the menace of the street dogs in the locality.
This is what a child would say to all of them: “Street dogs are also dogs.” Not being clean and pedigreed doesn't stop them from belonging to the same species. Stop beating them and treating them as inferior. And by the way, it is only because of their pathetic living conditions and people’s constant apathetic attitude towards them that these emaciated dogs can get cranky.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
INCOMPLETE HISTORY
The unquiet grows.
A neon sign
hides an antiquated long forgotten home.
But the residents of the home do not disappear
They exist
As an island
And can see the mainland, all the time
The bright lights from the mainland are blinding them
But slowly, their bespectacled eyes focus,
Awaken with new sight
They are starting to believe in the apparitions around them.
These phantoms are their new God
There to bring them out from behind the curtain.
And so,
they start out with knuckle-dusters
and mashaals ablaze,
to break down the sign.
This is their 'Rights of Passage'.
The flame reaches for the heaven,
Proudly proclaiming the start of a new war,
It will burn all believes
And die a clichéd death
A neon sign
hides an antiquated long forgotten home.
But the residents of the home do not disappear
They exist
As an island
And can see the mainland, all the time
The bright lights from the mainland are blinding them
But slowly, their bespectacled eyes focus,
Awaken with new sight
They are starting to believe in the apparitions around them.
These phantoms are their new God
There to bring them out from behind the curtain.
And so,
they start out with knuckle-dusters
and mashaals ablaze,
to break down the sign.
This is their 'Rights of Passage'.
The flame reaches for the heaven,
Proudly proclaiming the start of a new war,
It will burn all believes
And die a clichéd death
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Invisibles
Look. See. Feel. Touch.
Most of us think of ourselves as survivors. Fighters who battle the odds to come up on top at the end of the day.
Well, some wage a daily battle against the Keres (the blood-craving sisters of Thanatos, the Greek god of non-violent death). They hope to emulate King Sisyphos, who outwitted Thanatos. Unlike the celebrities engaged in a hypocritical war against the paparazzi, these people are always in the public eye and would do almost anything to be noticed. But, hardly anyone even knows of their existence. We pass them every day, but fail to see them. Look through them. They are after all dirty embellishments on the beautiful edifice of our city and life.
Recently, while walking in the city late at night, I felt a strange presence. Like some unseen eyes staring at me. Glaring at me for committing some heinous crime. Looking around, I realize I am in a bedroom. And a family is staring at me. It’s those invisible masses who fight off death every day when they make the footpath their bedroom.
I am in their home. The space that converts into a drawing room, kitchen, and a little further away is their toilet too. I would be considered a trespasser and thief if I had entered any walled house, but here I can arrogantly claim that they are the trespassers. Strange.
These people are the true cogs of a city. They not only do those activities, which we are too ‘educated’ to do or too disgusted. Ultimately, the greatness of a city and civilization cannot be gauged by the GDP, satellites, factories, production, accomplishments, but by the way it treats it most disfranchised, the down-and-out and the ‘losers’. After all, we are defined by not only what we do and how we do what we do, but also who we do it to.
Most of us think of ourselves as survivors. Fighters who battle the odds to come up on top at the end of the day.
Well, some wage a daily battle against the Keres (the blood-craving sisters of Thanatos, the Greek god of non-violent death). They hope to emulate King Sisyphos, who outwitted Thanatos. Unlike the celebrities engaged in a hypocritical war against the paparazzi, these people are always in the public eye and would do almost anything to be noticed. But, hardly anyone even knows of their existence. We pass them every day, but fail to see them. Look through them. They are after all dirty embellishments on the beautiful edifice of our city and life.
Recently, while walking in the city late at night, I felt a strange presence. Like some unseen eyes staring at me. Glaring at me for committing some heinous crime. Looking around, I realize I am in a bedroom. And a family is staring at me. It’s those invisible masses who fight off death every day when they make the footpath their bedroom.
I am in their home. The space that converts into a drawing room, kitchen, and a little further away is their toilet too. I would be considered a trespasser and thief if I had entered any walled house, but here I can arrogantly claim that they are the trespassers. Strange.
These people are the true cogs of a city. They not only do those activities, which we are too ‘educated’ to do or too disgusted. Ultimately, the greatness of a city and civilization cannot be gauged by the GDP, satellites, factories, production, accomplishments, but by the way it treats it most disfranchised, the down-and-out and the ‘losers’. After all, we are defined by not only what we do and how we do what we do, but also who we do it to.
TRAPPED
Leading a holstered life.
To go off means self-inflicted pain,
Not to – the same.
Imposed sado-mascohism.
Standing erect or on bended knees,
Just want to look straight in the eyes
But the fear persists,
Of living unholstered, of getting lost.
To go off unintended
or on the unintended.
Leading a life on leash.
To run off means a cage
Or even an injection
-- imposed domesticity.
But the fear remains,
Unleashed, running in circles.
May bite the buddy,
And lick the baddie.
To go off means self-inflicted pain,
Not to – the same.
Imposed sado-mascohism.
Standing erect or on bended knees,
Just want to look straight in the eyes
But the fear persists,
Of living unholstered, of getting lost.
To go off unintended
or on the unintended.
Leading a life on leash.
To run off means a cage
Or even an injection
-- imposed domesticity.
But the fear remains,
Unleashed, running in circles.
May bite the buddy,
And lick the baddie.
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