The Mosquito

Its place was frozen
in the foot note of history textbook
Passed on from generation to generation.
Sometimes, hiding between the tough stitches
it was not conspicuous.
Repeated bindings called for
trimming the dog ears of these books.
Like the characters in the margins
it got chopped under a mini-guillotine.
Only occasionally it disappeared like a
beautiful lady in Jehangir's harem.
However, for most of us
it was an accomplice
in our assault on history
during the power cut preparation.

Patriarch

To almost worthy parsons
he married off eight of his daughters
Ten by birth, two died within childhood.
Of the two sons he had, one died in an accident.
The other one tills occasionally, the empty fields.
His wife too has followed, before
couple of grandsons falling prey to the snake
The old man himself, survived all this life
like the scaly bark of a century old tree.
His siblings too gone
he is left alone, on the shore.
Life, for him slowly turned
into a logistical liability
And the air in the house is filled
with an untold wait for death.

Facts

We are stuck with the truth
Let's get on with the facts then
The places we visited
The ones we would like to
Common loves, uncommon hates
Trusted betrayals, ungained faiths
Next door neighbours
Their pretty daughters
Political thoughts, human rights
Veganism and war
Flesh eating in peace
Scary stories
Anecdotes of heroism
Enumeration of good deeds
Excuses for why we shouldn't be dead
The coma of traffic outside
People staring through the shades
Menu card looking at us in expectation
and our squinty hunt for the prices.

Hanging Up

Empty streets and yellow lights
All we got are these empty nights
Barking dogs and the summer blooms
We don't care if the darkness looms

Going there towards the bend of the road
We don't worry about the truck overload
Movin' in and movin' out
Nothin' like a shadow of doubt

The choices that made us, hang up now
Nothing of a chance, and any know how
Prancing about in the rickety ways
We finally catch onto our pace

Darkness looms
amid the summer blooms
empty streets and mellowed nights
and then they approach
those blazing lights.

Three Years

How years seem longer now
They are not simple hopping of grades
and section names writen in Roman
on the labels of new books every year.
The cartoons, cars and pinkish flowers
came to be aging along with me then.
Eventually I was dissappointed
by their new avatars the next year.
Now years distend enough and give room
for lot of events making up life.
They carry with them, images of myself
in moments of varied contrasts.

I pounded coffee tables under rushing adrenalin
Learnt allusive ways to discuss sex
Formed opinions, hardened them
Became brittle, broke eventually
Tried flexibility and the associated confusion
Went to dim lit dinners in dandiest clothes
Which looking back, only a gypsy could sport.
Discussed the arbitrariness of life.
Looked back on earlier times and patted my back
that I finally grew out of myself.
Played dumb charades with my words.
Posed cryptic questions on canteen tables.
Discounted people of their years of opinions.
Got thrashed by them as my views broke like eggs.
Experienced the heaviness in heart, body and mind.
Made friends, not regretting losing others.
I read, Masters and Slaves
Of Poetry and Prose : Flying pamphlets of suffering.
I unwrapped more of the candy of life
and yes, I found poetry.
Not an eternal fount or
a Scandinavian secret spring
But a faucet of cold water
drenching me in the summer afternoon
To which destiny or its chambermaids
escorted me, after three years of merry go round.

(On May 12, 2010 this blog turns three)

Main Course

The city has a stark look of concrete calm
as if struck by an epidemic.
In the middle of the road
unrustled leaves walk, like yet to be victims.
We head towards a restaurant
beyond that red-green-red blinking sign.
It is a setting out of the folk movies.
Caves and roots of trees hang around you.
Waiters, whose noses cast
a weird shadow on their faces
give an eerie look, unlisted in the menu.
We order starters and sit back to talk
while we hear faint wailing
amidst a constant thud of butchering.
We are shaken off our seats to our soups
and gobble as much as we can at that temperature.
We don't want starters here.
We cancel that order.
"Main course menu is different", the waiter says
as he carries a finger bowl, filled with
a red liquid soap to the next table.
He is smiling to himself.
Some one among us starts off the conversation
about our further choices, as we wait for the menu
tapping our fingers and listening
to each and every sound.