The Chase

Often seen complaining about the creator
I am anxious, if there is a single being
with four or five hands and ten heads
like the meanings and interpretations
from which all this originates.
A very old question, often put forth to an elder
with digested teeth and who has epiphanies
looking into the fire.
I can imagine him conjuring up tales
of battles between good and evil
and putting the tribe to sleep that night.
Like the dark forces in those old tales
the question of existence, time and again,
raises its unrelenting hood.
Since then, Gods have queued up to find answers.
Beliefs make them, to be easily broken in times of need
and we give epic twists to these little violations.
Mere bathroom breaks in a game of continuous chase.

On Time

Past, the eerie cave I wriggled out of, shows up
in my distancing rant over the coffee table;
A stage I take by storm and act drunk.
My colleagues are equally prepared.
Always at an arm's length
they lend me an impaired ear.
In the opaque darkness of the world
these frivolous gestures form
the walls that I grope for.
Like in kindergarten, there is
a celebration of life in this babble.
A luckiness that's felt
on board the ship of Columbus.
An untold promise of a new world.
Such a crew and a pleasant sea;
there is least care, if everything I say
is baseless, like what I say about everything.
And as if to mark us by numbers and
the strength of our arguments
there are stains all over the table.
Brown crescents that keep time.

To the Seekers

Once upon a time
Wise men walked from place to place
lighting lamps in the darkest of temples

Parents, our story tellers
pass on their stories
transforming the living room
into a pre-historic cave

One story was of a local buddha
who spelt aphorisms in simple rhymes.
The sayings were beyond us
but as children
we were more interested in his miracles

He had strange powers
Levitating, predicting the future
and summoning gods in their sculpted form
were the most important ones in the abridged version.

The story ended with he going underground
in search of more knowledge and the chamber
capped with a thick concrete slab.

His birthdays are special now
as he comes alive to pronounce future
And the faithful, press their ears down
under the spell of a war-time siren.

(With inputs for editing from Cinecynic )

Frivolity

How ubiquitous it is!

Like destiny, it surfaces
on the highest of stages
and laughs at the serious turn of events.
As evidence to all our movements
to our collective knowledge and stupidity
it is there to caricature and let out that guffaw.
Its rhetoric is the toughest inquisition.
There aren't many questions.
Just that laugh forcing us to rethink.
In its light, we crisscross
in search of an escape route
as our wax wings melt
into a ball of self critique.

Death in the Afternoon

On a coir cot, he rests somberly
counting the wooden beams of the ceiling
and wondering if they would crack
A smell of death hangs in the air
through the half open door
For the Red Ox in the next room
is waiting to be skinned.

Its large eyes, pools of darkness now
have wet patches around
as a signature of helplessness.
With the head bent in submission
it now awaits the arrival
of the god of death.

His wife, unborn children
and some of his dearest friends
It has carried many to the fields
With each death they inched closer
as fellow victims.

Another unmarked grave this would be
and in the solitude of early hours
he would plow through the sadness
across all of life's seasons.


(Title for this post is same as Hemingway's fine novel "Death in the Afternoon" where the death is of a matador in Spanish Bull fighting)

Clock work

Different models of clocks
arranged to discipline there.
All stuck in different times
none of them show
the perfect ten past ten.
Amidst the unwound springs
and soldering guns, he sits
with a lens to his right eye
while the other scans the road.
Melodies from an old radio
do the time travel and transport him
to a quiet, away from all the bustle.
In that yogic trance he sets in motion
the stuck gears and corrects
the cracked displays.
We could watch him and construct
an anthill in our memories, he wouldn't care.
But a step into the circle of penance
his look is enough to drive us kids away.

Jigsaw

In matters of love
I am as immature as a first kiss
My pointless thoughts follow every couple
like a shadow into the dark.
And I have weird questions
that often tend to litmus test
if it was love or just a hangup.
The result of a teenage fantasy
to make up a good story to tell
and fill in the gaping jigsaw
we all ended up as, by the end of college.

We graduated alright, but
we can't go on like this
with a void in our conscience.
So much that, we are in a constant search
for the remote signs of the soul mate.
School albums are dusted, friends of friends
contacted, lists are drawn and pictures referred to
And then we are all prepared for the plunge.

Vague stories about crushes are left hanging
ripe in the air, like the fruit yet to be.
All you have done is let them be.
These myths come to rescue now
as you meet her and say " You know
I admired you in college".

She might be the one or might not be
Might and might not be
is of a momentary intensity.
It is not a studied choice.
A blind intuition that is better than
no shoulder to rest each other on.

The distance between the two could be zero.
They could melt in each others arms
like chocolate and vanilla under the sun.
But in the journey forward
the tie up is back to back
and a lifetime to study each others eyes.