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.

 

thoughts to sleep

How many more sleepless nights?
Breathless I have really become
and my dreams no longer remain.
Crazy, I don’t remember any
brief clues of faces or moments.
It is hard to wake up every morning
realizing that I have turned a blind eye to
a very different world out there.

Out there, there could be love
where we could hold hands
and the lines on our palms fit
each others’ so perfectly.
Out there, there could be no identities
where we could be who we really are.
No judgments thrown, no one to hassle and frown.
Out there, there could be timeless peace.
No bombs hurled, and fleshes shredded
are only from lapse of heartbreaks,
seeking the scent and flavor of the ones departed.

But guess what? Once you stick your head out of
that normative sleep, reaching from unfathomable
distances down. A depth too far, where gravity lacks,
and self-inflicted imaginary misery racks.
To figure this out, I ruefully lost my sleep
and guess who turned out to be the horrendous freak?
I am glad that it was finally me. Real, rude and as human as one could be.

Never trust the truth in lover’s eyes

Under the orchid tree they decided to meet again,
and ages passed. Yet again the love in the romance slayed.
Then revealed the truth out of disguise,
she told then “Well, I never trust the truth in lover’s eyes”
For that he broke down inside kneeling and squealing in pain.
But his head held up, he acted the part
where he was the warrior with no broken heart.

He dealt a sweet hand to the heart of queen.
His purpose was true to hisself, seldom being unclean.
The orchid bloom stood witness to the jury of the universe
he belonged nowhere then, and he dealt the worse.
The verse promising the lovers to come back again after ages
to massacre the root of evil that lock their love into beautiful rusty cages.

Under the orchid tree he stood again.
Heavy in heart and light-minded as the wind.
The wind carried a gruesome news,
the lover lady stayed back and broke the deal.
He thought of all the things that she had said
Well, he never had to trust the truth in lover’s eyes.
For now the actors are so vile and deep
they fool their eyes and let them speak.
For now the lover knows that promises made
are gory love slaying; part of a frigging renegade.

Kshethra naasham

Pitch black idol with a darkest soul,
his presence so farce. He made people hope.
A son and a mother as close as the link
of flower garland that adorn his slithering being.

Every other day, they worship him blind
with petals of hibiscus and tulsi leaves.
The petals that long for the butterfly’s ripple in the air
when the nectar-lover hovers around the garden they had.

Pebbles and stones that light up the way
to the temple had much more to say,
about the pain they took in inside their ignorant parts
including the quadruple barefoot and their innocent hearts.
But the idol still idle in his cement struck place
forgot it all. What a miserable memory has the lord of grace!

Her bosom gave him the comfort and warmth,
when the coldness of life hit his dimpled smile.
The son and the mother never did anyone harm
and they loved each other with a bond so sterile.
She was all that he ever really had to possess,
and he showed her that with his gentle caress.

A slithering snake, so vile and dark
made the air of the garden silent and damp.
When the blameless mother picked up the last of the petals,
the lord in disguise stuck her ankle deep with a pair of his teeth.
Trembling and sweating with the bleeding dotted holes,
she walked to her son and told him that she loves him forever and more.
As minutes passed and the air of the garden fell
to a stance of nothingness, her body parts began to swell.
Blood oozing right out like the red wild potato roots
that complete their hunger at night and relentlessly soothes.

Charred up idol still basking in the evening breeze,
His abode lit with hundred lamps that sway and exaggerate
His useless presence in the hopeless world of the son who lost his part of life.
Let him take all the shine and let him take all the blame,
yet He was proud and blatant in his altar of throne the foolish made.
One rolled up thread dipped with home-made coconut oil
lit the grave-stricken home and the son was bereft and burning inside.

The son found out that his mother was struck
with the fatal sting when she went out to pluck
the petals of hibiscus flowers that revel in the bloody red ground,
and to the shade of the temple this raucous soul was bound.
But not with petals and tulsi leaves,
but a hammer in hand and a rush to release.

The rage grew stronger as his barefoot pain relieved
as the pebble and stones were glad to believe
that the boy had come to his age and sense
to murder the foolish hopes that the almighty sends.

He prayed to the farce idol one last time
he even grabbed the rope of the ball to exude one last chime.
His intense red eyes deluged with passion and rage
screamed and massacred the idol with a heart and body enraged.
Down to pieces of nothing but random gravels of black
they married the oiled altar like they were together and back.
The perished body and the lifeless pieces of idol
made the bereaved life assume that the purpose is done.
Now, his mother and the God are in the gates of hell
to tell stories of heaven that the foolish forgot to tell.

 

The kiss of the gentleman

Once a while, I would die for a love that is never found,
a love that is totally off the grid and celestially unbound.
We all thrive and live for that sense of peace in heart
and we never know who gives it away from their soulful part.

Here again, I drench myself in the grace of men
here again, my hypocrite self longed for the same.
A night went down with showers over the asbestos sheet
and still staying up are two drunken men taking over the tropical breeze.

They welcomed me to their laid out space with an apple in hand,
an apple so sweet and rare like the love they would show to make me understand.
A bite was all it took to taste the nectar of gentle and careful upbringing
and the fruity juice skipped my heartbeat and felt like a dawn bird’s singing.

My warm and subtle smile crept right into their arid emotional emptiness,
one of the other guy walked up to me and asked all about my dreams and hopes.
As I let him see the unseen glories and stories of my past being near naked,
he let out a smile that overpowered mine with a confronting vibe.

He touched my hand and picked it up close to the air of his grey and dark moustache,
he placed a dry and fragile kiss on my unprepared right clinched fist,
and the smell of the rum covered each other’s shame like a queen hill concealed in mist.
My guilt of being a man took abode in the parched up holes of his lips.

Here again, I found myself loved from the eyes and heart of a stranger
I wish I never find the same love to make my existence feel a little bit stranger.

Son and the working mother

His moist pink lips do not speak,
his eyes burst out of his lids to seek
where and why his mother went
leaving him and his tantrums for a day to spend.

The working mother does tear his heart
when she leaves for the day away and apart.
His reaching palm look gloomy and sweet
as she walks past the gate and down to the street.

His grandma picks him and rests him still
by her tired hips and his emotions spill.
She caresses the sad one for quite some time,
she sings him songs in which the verses rhyme.

A day would pass with toys and games.
He would burst out often and become untamed.
Grandma knows to calm his fears
as he waits for his mother with held up tears.

And the day would turn out to a dreamy night,
the mother would come back to make him all right.
Now he doesn’t even care about her beloved return
it is time for the mother to worry about him in turn.

Moon

Never again did he lose his mind
to vicarious emotions left behind.
Every pace he took, he wasn’t alone
She shone like a diamond when the dark was thrown.
Hiding piece by piece as the winds blew home,
her depraved lusting soul murdered herself by own.
He never got time to look at her then
when the sun forgot to shine at her den.
She began to grow out and show her crooked face,
as the women downtown took part in the race
to allure this poor boy’s mind and his heart,
they did all they could to tear his peace out and apart.
His gentleness caressed her every spot
as he looked at her and gasped out a lot.
She knew that he loved her so much at nights
and her gloomy glow did kill his mind off all other lights.
Yet deeply and sadly he looked up in awe,
like many more clowns who lusted and saw.
She stayed right with him forever till dawn,
but he missed her that night for a lazy cruel yawn.