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.
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.
To hide the face behind that mask,
he lost his sense of gentleness and pride.
To adorn the newly found face with lies,
he nurtured his ego and lost his stride.
He killed men of war and he wore his rage as feathers
without embracing the essence of love and bonds.
He put down his shield of wisdom he feared
and he let down his bloody push of reason in head.
Why did he choose all those masks of shame?
and why did he wear it in the resonating instances of fame?
Did the touch of grenades and guns in his hands
made him someone else that the presence can’t withstand?
Where did he cultivate that lust of blood and flesh?
Does it really take him to the paradise of satisfactory rush?
Does the grin in his face while he rips out a soul
covers the gloom and sorrow of the lives he raped?
Nowhere to go and no heaven to be
the mask he wore made him a devil on a murdering spree.
For all he murdered was himself and his race
and all the beauty that life gave him. What a disgrace!
Right before the banks of the black ugly river
exists a forest of weed pink flowers that shiver
as the railroad locos glide past the bunch
and the front end engine throws in the punch.
Civilized men ride in those boxes
that travel through stations and million paradoxes.
A trail of steel lines guide them to stand
right aside each men’s greedy dreams at hand.
Men of certain nature glance out of the box
and make up things that are weird as their socks.
Songs run through all of their mind
had the flowers dancing as they left them behind.
To know of this routine morning and night
Butterflies hover with their beauty and might.
Some disheartened men only love them as far
as they stay away like a glistening star.
Let the flowers stay cozy and safe by the side.
Let the hovering butterflies seek refuge and hide.
The men in the boxes have envied the lives
and abnegated the choice of being there, alive.
Robust thickness and a million strong
with strands of dark emptiness.
Closely brought up like the brothers of trust
without air and space in between.
Hands that caress the soul inside them
chose to be lovers of the star-loving old men.
Long and damp when married with the winter mist
these gentlemen hid this warm kiss of the pack.
Face was lost in the maze of this black
long creeper that reproduced to be a stack.
Envying eyes leaked the greed
by blessing them to cut away loose , godspeed.
The touch felt same as on the cheeks
they grew faster by the passing weeks.
Gloomy days swept the men no more,
beard they carried was all the joy and bliss they scored.