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.

The loner’s rusty cage

The soothing sound of the loner’s voice was nowhere to be heard
deprived of regrets and sorrow which he left aloof as choice.
He bore no burden of the possibilities he missed as it seemed fit;
sinfully proud and happy was this sensitive and lovable misfit.

He was scared yet pushed along with possibilities of love
that fed his heart and mind with an urge to give up on life.
Every time he left his past behind running away and fast,
he saw the very essence of him fade away to the distant light.

Godspeed wishes from the least expected folks
felt like curses that are too shameful to carry a veil.
The speed reached a crescendo and left him in tears
as he looked back through their mirrored reflection of the past
to cherish the long gone time turn into fade-away dusts.
No meaning, no reason and no sense to it all,
he promised himself that he would fight against the lovers’ call.

Friends, lovers, siblings and luring enemies of blood
were all lovers of his loneliness and his gruesome part in the world.
Let his voice be cranky and let his worries be heard.
The cage he built for himself are too weak to hold his shattered parts.
If he had a chance to survive as a loner behind the rusty imaginary bars.
He would grow a rash when rested on the iron to leave him with scars.