The ghat-men

a dying wish to be a ghat-man.
To breathe in the air of thousand meters high,
to know the denseness of my tessellated self.
As hairpin curves lead way to foresee shadows of heaven
that God had guiltily retained for men of passion to see.

We could measure the heights
where mists and misfits dance
but we could never understand
the soulful purpose of the same.
We could hear the weary whistle
of the ever-passing wind-
telling secrets of yesterday
that died in unadulterated vain.
A longing to go out of breath on each step,
a dream to be the warmth between
the sweater and the fabric of the shirt.
A desire to be in the air of
three different damp smoke,
one of the cigarette’s,
one of the tea’s and
one from my own breath-
owing to the cold dark soul.

See when I fit there, I’d exist as a whole.
A part of mine that makes me none
would never be there anymore.
I’d shed my curious dead-drop glance
on the hanging drops of dew that cling on
to the green of the leaves with hopes so few-
as though wishing for a vile storm to pass.
Reflecting the muck on the surface,
the clinging dew drop survives and sways.
And right then I’d tether the drop to my finger tip-
just with a graceful touch like a painter
finishing his lady’s face with a freckle.
The dew would embrace the reach of my tip
and I’d walk it through the storm
with the other hand on my hip.

 

Blamer gamer

The mere and bleak existence worried him
feeling half the life has gone away.
Crooked worn out doors closing on him
by itself didn’t send out a ripple of sound anymore.

The hinges were greased and
the disturbance thoughtfully ceased.
Four concrete walls crushed him to a space
of nothingness that scared him to death.
He wished he ran out of his useless breath.

Tools on his desk were unexploited and rusty
and all that mattered didn’t make sense to him anymore.
He slept all day and kept up all night
wishing for a chance of arid nightmares.

Selling away his unstable soul for free
his heart longed to fade out and eternally flee.
The endless bills and disarray of days in months
promised the devil his spirit which he himself found hard to find.
Devil breathed and waited right beneath his bed, brutally kind.

Clothes in his wardrobe smelled like thousand places
yet they belonged nowhere but solely to the closet.
Socks and shoes in the box were worn out with an urge to elope
as the fire in him died and didn’t take them anywhere fine.

His significant love for the moonlight and rainbows fell,
the deceptive rarity of magic revealed the ugly truth as well.
A better day was always from the bygone days of past.
His assumption of dying candles and temporary light
were just one of the million others things basking in the rage of his fight.

The flower vase neither carried the weight of petals
nor did it feel in place like it used to be.
Mirror and the altar of perfume bottles
were seldom used anymore, he didn’t care.

Letting his present to a slow and untimely end
he regretted each second and wanted to apprehend
the promises and the dreams he had for himself.
Reality stuck him and massacred the peace in the air
and he blamed the blameless world for being unfair.

Cobbler and the boy

He hopped too much and he kicked the stone too far
the insole buckle had to rip off and show a scar.
The boy’s steps were conspicuously fiddly now
and his pace back home lost it’s form and trace.

Dirt and rubble kissed the open face of the buckle
while an unconscious grip grew on his lips and knuckle.
The hole in his pocket was always accused for his destitute state
and the absence of coins would teach him a lesson today.

Uneasiness began to creep in and play a part
in the long weary trek down to his abode of heart.
No sign of frustration overpowered the air of the trouble
to rupture his joy or the intriguing sway of the dead twig in hand.

As he crossed the blue tarp bus shed on his way
there was a cobbler packing up his tools at the end of the day.
With scars in face and a half-lit cigarette hanging soft
he looked faintly scary in the dark dusk of the coming nightfall.

His unmindful thoughts ignored the cobbler’s haste for the end
as he rushed through the bus shed and turned right into the bend.
The cobbler’s restless eyes caught a glimpse of his tread
and he dropped the tool-case to dramatically reveal the needles and spool.

He called the boy out with a sharp tone in voice,
sharp as the healing prick of the needle he took as choice.
The boy came back fidgeting all the way and slow
with his head stooped down, legs shivering too.

Rugged left hand of the cobbler held the boy’s ankle tight
and he stripped off the torn sandal with a subtle show of might.
Sharpening the needle on a wet and gleaming rock
he gaped at the cost of the shyness in the boy’s innocent eyes.

Within minutes of awkward silence shared in the space
the cobbler repaired the sandal and kept a grinning face.
He shoved the open-toed footwear into the shivering legs
as the boy’s helpless tears reflected the barefoot cobbler’s dirty foot.

Villathi!

The madman judges the enigma too effortlessly,
Ah! such an ignorant and self centered prick.
Yet she is honest, brutal and straight as the forging steel,
with a pendant on her heart that stops us from making a steal.
Secrets and million wavering thoughts find their way to her heart
and the pendant hides the shadow of the path! A godly purpose doing its part.

The scar in her head is a sign of the wound
she got from the previous births she had took.
Hit and beat up with insensitive judgement and vile
blow of the men who sent her into an infinite exile.
Another burden of doubts and reasons were swooned
to massacre this poor girl and her hold on the ground was shook.

Still dazed and unsure about her place on this earth,
she belittled the beauty of her purpose and birth.
Again the madman would blame her and tease
till the reasons flow into her heart as a soothing release.
She is scared now, and she is trembling with fear
but she gracefully tones the clumsy tremble to a dance.
The devil is doubtful and the evil doesn’t long to hear
the glorious songs of victory that romance her trance.
Yes, she is bad! And yes, she is good.
Yes, she is someone who is seldom understood.
No, she isn’t bad! And no, she isn’t good.
No! She is nothing but a wonder that this heaven never understood.

What are you trying to escape from?

haha! Where are you running away to?
with the heavy heart and a crooked shoe.
What is the ending you want to seek?
when the end is endless and infinitely long to peak.
You left all your conscience and grieved to run?
to a place where you will find the spirits of none.
There is neither the essence of joy nor the remorseful presence of sorrow
in that place where you want to be in the days of coming tomorrow.
Why did the light show up far too soon?
Why did you trust it to be same as the moon.
You won’t see her ever again
and the sun won’t shun the lifeless pain.
Here is where your life should be,
here is where you have lots to see.
Survive, perceive and hold on to that hope
and don’t ever let your burning soul elope.
For he might leave a trail of raging blaze
that shines and also puts every one in a daze.

The sweet cane dream

Once upon a random daze of night,
the man slept through the gaze of his might.
He crashed and went into the hold of dreams
his crooked mind was let off like leaves in streams.
Through the pebble and dirt of the nothingness
his celestial thoughts thought of nothing less.
He had a magic cane in his hand
which has powers that none could even understand.
A grab of the polished willow stick
made him a wise old arrogant prick.
Strangers saw his black and white beard grow
as the dream he was in went by really slow.
Still with the cane, his alter-ego lived;
his lips carrying the remains of cigarette he lit.
Kins and foes stood in the trace of the line
to steal on the wisdom of this old and arrogant swine.
“Be as you are” the old man said
and he lost the cane to his soul that is dead.
He never again got the glimpse of this dream
if it does, his euphoric core of the life would scream.

Grateful soul

Blessed are we with hearts thirsty to be
one and lovely for the world to see.
Cursed are our fingers that count papers to know
our worth and to feed the curious ones below.
Happy that the tireless sunrise returns forever
and glad that the rains ruin our oddly timed shower.
Hinged are our souls with the fulcrum of lives
and we are one another existing through each other’s eyes.
Little did we thank our Gods for the same
and little did we know about this precarious game.
Tired or pumped up our beings can be,
there is no more discomfort to stay offbeat from the sea.
The cosmic tether thriving through all our veins
are nothing but time and love crossing over our reign.
Reflections and murmurs of our ever long ghosts
echo over the giant existential hosts.
And we are our Gods and we are our death
till what we all see takes our precious last breath.