Monday, 3 December 2012

Unfinished...!


Perhaps, a veil made of the evidences, that gave me away;

To be reclaimed by your dissonance, pregnant with a calm;

And be a prisoner to the mystery which makes up your heart;

Me, an endless today betrothed to your strange eventuality;

You an ageless tug, a tomorrow after the time ceases to be;

A book by shape only, turned otherwise to a tiny slab of dust;

On your bookshelf, also must be lying, trapped in remission;

Memory, a darkness , passionately incubating all the dreams;


The long silent pauses, illuminations, blackout with an abandon;

Perverse strings of a million spaces and of the millions of faces;

Disappearing into a dot, lonely and pointless, vanquished;

Such a posit of wish-less devotion, your memory, my absolution;

Memory, that props up as a wall of separation, only to become;

The very path, that puts us up in unison, an echo unto the void;

Patience of our shame, witness to the desecration of insularity;

A shade of cold light embracing the shadow of sanguine darkness;

Life not even an existence, only odd presence, mere absence of us;


Friday, 5 October 2012

Misplacement...!


He sat distressed over his relentless musings, like an author gone mad just before finishing what he intended to, trying to salvage the last shreds of a memory which was now a mirage, as if reclaiming the reams of burning pages from the smoke that had become of them. Everything surrounding him had begun to whirl into his head, which now was nothing but a black-hole, he gave himself in. There were only two things in the entire universe, it seemed, the black-hole that was his head, and the one around it, they stood in unison, like a pair of eyes, demarcated by an innocent void, the same heart which bore their torment.

Sapped as he felt, living the death, dying through life, he shut himself, behind anticipation,  nay of dreams, neither nightmares, as they all lost their nub in the hogwash of his mind. He lay like a child laboring the burdens of adulthood, the trauma that keeps the heart beating, the demise that fills the undulations of lifeline, if only he knew love, the panacea to strip oneself of all expectations, baring self before self. All else , he felt, unless one knew how to cleanse oneself with the sin, was like molesting one's own conscience & turn into an eternal guilt. Time passed but the days remained.

Days, they had begun to look like the mysterious paintings, each framing a desire, embellished with both the unfamiliarity of remorse and intimacy of contentment. He was already struck by the agony of the hour, which would unite him with insularity, the room adorned with these paintings, stood lonely like a gasp, suddenly he was reminded of the impending auction. It was a moment replete with nothing, he knew it was to be bore alone, his cold hands pressed against the burning forehead. He knew how to fulfill his desires with emptiness.

He looked over the traverse, his eyes now a sodden portrait of  his very face, buried under the mounds of forgetfulness. If his thoughts would ever return to do him any good, this was all he would ever ask of them, to make him go blind and paint darkness in the colors of silence. But what of the canvas? It must be in a solitary ferment, he self-consoled.

The sky in his eyes seemed to be an encumbrance, a bland patch sans a perspective, just a vantage to behold the failure to behold. The untoward stare left him brooding over the eyes, whose silent melody had his deaf perception dance to a rapture, the rapture lasted a blink, dreams trickled down as incessant drops, off a cliff of turmoil and into the pit of deference. The self addressed missives dashed off by a decoy, misplaced by incertitude, the loyal messenger.

He strived to fit himself into the embrace of desire, though it already fit into his denial, immaculately. The quest had taught him that if one feels lost, all one needs to understand is how not to understand at all, and turn graceful in being ensnared. His job was to resign, that was all he loved doing.

And he dropped his head, which again made him reminisce, the shoe-black's stalking gaze chasing the countless shoe-adorned feet, the imperial museum of glorious muck & dirt. He thought of the childhood times, when he used to saunter barefoot through the woods leading to the stream, along the way grass-blades, fallen leaves, bird droppings, cow-dung, petals, thorns all equally kissing and cuddling his soles, turning them into artistic relic. His toes twirled probingly, as he recalled the flair with which the warbling waves made love to his wounded feet.

He felt right in denigrating the eyes which are vainly eulogized at the expense of the unsung feet, which not only endured the trauma of onerous interference of eyes, but too regardlessly, lead him to embrace actual life. The humble unassuming feet without which eyes came off as baffled & shortsighted, locked away undecided, unresolved.


It was a revealing afternoon of a mystic Autumn, when the last rays of  a gloomy sun woke him up. He looked through the dusty glass-pane, overt sky had become an unrestrained sob, clouds overburdened sighs, it started to rain, puddles once again came to life. Flames of amnesia had nothing to consume, smoke now turned into vapor, his quest condensed on the charred pages. He thought of another sky and another pair of lively feet, which relished to frolic in the puddles, his usually cold hands suddenly turning warm. 



Saturday, 29 September 2012

Hangover...!


Life a mere wandering night, the spirit a dream in its flight,
Yearning its sole polestar, desolation its only moonlight,
Afraid of the world of being, running away from baring all,
Once stumbled upon me and, since I ruth  my own sight

Wherefrom does this dream come, where does it go?
What crop is reaped from it, what seed does it sow?
What sun illuminates its way through the darkness of night?
Its reach is as high as sky, its incidence like me hanging so low.

What void provides me with the endless streams of thought?
On what evanescent surface is this etheric message wrought
Why this confluence of ours hidden in absolute relativity?
Where do we actually merge, where do we virtually part?

You greed to see me prosper, but I cannot wish away my grief,
Won't let myself flourish with guilt, will rather let you be the thief,
For the petal's unmindful devotion, to spring-flowers taught me,
Nothing is worth the flight of freedom enjoyed by an autumn leaf

You try to fix me with perpetuity; I tend to span your limits,
I fail and fall anyway, but you refuse to take its credits,
Both of us in an eternal impasse, invincible in our own right,
You smugly a unique mismatch, I meekly among myriad misfits.

The morbidity, which nestles and feeds this recurring grind
Does it seduce me from the front or persuade me from behind?
For ages, I dreamt of acquittal from the limits of this hindsight,
Which firmly guards me in the ultimate prison known as mind.

Yet the peril that put me in the crisis of the judgment,
I traversed its cage to find the liberty from its internment,
Bowed my head in submission to the calls of dissolution,
Only to find myself voided in the enormity of this tiny moment.


Behold, when I look at this pale innocent face of the guilt,
My perception is littered, eclipsed, abnegated up to the hilt.
I lie destroyed in the qualms of my own seething indifference,
No succor, no repose, bequeathed a belief , a doubt and a jilt

Outrage in the bubble of absence, and a distilled drop of pain,
Asked to be foils delight, and revel in the carouse of disdain,
One blind in sight, one with no insight, pity the visions galore,
Chagrin it feels, that being is just divine a teardrop, wept in vain.


All if only,would I resist, witnessing from the blind edge of lies,
In a fit of infantile daze, a restive gaze & a pair of tranquil eyes,
Unknown, unfelt hitherto, of depths of doubt, so dire a treat rose,
A Sigh gagged, while making love, to a sky moaning all the whys.


Monday, 17 September 2012

The Naked Veil...!


The burden of forgetfulness on memory

is like saddling the lightness of one's own crumbling.

As unworried & clueless as the residuum of a loss,

The smoke of pain departs from the ashen ailings

And as the worried, unassuming autumn leaf,

Rests on this heap, softly burning, silently fanning,

Nay an edge of difference, nor one of a concurrence,

Reliving the death unawares, like a perpetual flickering

Mirror unto mirror, the continuum of memorials,

A drudge for the deprivation, a salvage so confounding,


That these eyes of longing, in search of blank visions,


May stumble upon blind light, darkness, soul of all findings.

Allaying this ashen heap & smouldering autumn leaves,

Of a heart that doesn't waive, the eyes loyally dreaming,

The unmapped haphazard patch of this cosmic rhapsody,

Pathfinder to lost wayfarers, journey the only homecoming,

The veil of a selfsame projection, night-sky an empty craving.

Dead love, a beautiful loss, the beautiful death of a lovely loss.

Tuesday, 28 August 2012

A Passing...!


M: Who are You?

N: That is a profound thought.!

M: What is the interpretation?

N: I never intended to fascinate.

M: Does it really matter?

N: Only as much the very reason that you ask.

M: You are crude & inconsiderate.

N: Your apathy is still benevolent.

M: You are blinded by self.

N: True, am not bothered at all.

M: Keep assuring yourself.

N: Sure, such a disappointment you are.

M: As much as you are a wasted obsession.

N: So far, your predicament!

M: The froth on the fumbling mouth!

N: Come away from the mirror.

M: I have gone blind.

N: So much for looking at self!

M: Who are you to Judge?

N: The verdict you seek.

M: I'll let the naivety mock you.

N: Your desire is as limp as your will.

M: I'm my destiny, get off the track.

N: My wilderness, stop trespassing it.

M: Your pride is not worth my hate.

N: Why haggle, value your fright!

M: The Ghost that was his own haunting.!

N: Charade of a ruin is self-mortification.!

M: Stop being a blunt reminder.

N: Succumb to your madness!

M: Am just an oblivion.

N: Nothing can be more sentient.


Thursday, 9 August 2012

Dazed Sobriety...!


Be or not, yet in this eternal echo of misery’s cocoon,
My painful cry that never saw the sun or the moon,
Does often resound in the alleys of my mentation,
And strikes back at me, vexing my senses in this swoon.

Dangling your vacuous naught, from my replete hook,
I’ve become an eternal fatigue within & every way I look
I am a forsaken object without any dimensions to me,
Carve from my unable arc a tranquil corner a placid nook.

My replete soul inflicted with the quest of nothing,
Stolidly treads those paths which lead to everything,
But forever at the end of each road it always finds,
Another confounded course to the same old dwelling.

And the night that suddenly befalls the ever-staring eye,
Never discloses the truth, never holds back the lie,
The dejected broken vessel that suits the midday’s cry,
Woefully, fails to quench the thirst of the deplored sigh.

The besetting shores of my mind have met each other,
These somber trails of the tumults are all of a dither,
The foreboding eyes of ocean wide open gazing agape,
The steed has long raced beyond the rope and tether.
 


Sometimes I am crowned and bedeck with a sun on my hand,
Sometimes the same me whipped with the lashes of reprimand,
If all such pointless vanity fills the stomach of this treadmill,
Then why am I to no avail, just ordered to make ropes of sand.


As your white apathy has taken all colour from the leaf,
Its bud still nourishes from the black strength of grief,
Happenstance the pang of its cry is veiled from you,
Even so, faith has illuminated the shack of hazy belief.

What good is a song without some tender words?
What worth is the music without any melodious odes?
The clamant orchestration in this hushed up party,
Makes me abandon my path to walk the prohibited roads.

Walking such roads, I reached the market of divine decree,
Penniless as they were, the buyers felt helpless and dreary,
Then my restless gaze reached an unusual stall and I mused,
Why are only the exotic birds caged, why Vultures let free?

Thus witnessed this, through a couple of tiny peepholes,
I view in my darkest room the entire universe sans my soul,
It houses all matter and matters both mundane and divine
But, for trifle myself, no place in it, neither a stage nor a role.



Friday, 27 July 2012

Untold Combats...!


Unchiselled as a child's pointless search;
my solitary remains, you jagged stones;
that my frantic hands lock quietly away;
from the unholy eyes of glinting barrels;

and i see them faces, rain down gently;
to beckon our bruised and fancy palms;
as time pauses to see how life passes;
from hands to hands and eyes to eyes;


their faces, anon as the mirrors discreet;
some obscured, whileas others discrete;
Like the deathknock, like a divine tap;
an appointment at the haywire address;
 

since absorbing into hideous faces
achromate;
and lying still thus, all across the pavement;
in solidarity, with the noble warm red;
flowing gently away, from the faces to be;


how noble were the lips, when they lied;
to the doting eyes of a restless mother;
how devotional the heart that pretended thus;
to believe in the limber squeeze of a son's palms;
 

So Lord does bask, as angels pay tributes;
to heavenly tomb of these martyred hands;



Friday, 13 July 2012

A Sure Plea...!


Lying littered with nascence, so much fettered with demise,
why this untraced grave of life still a surprising surmise?!

A dazzle of broken promises and an apparition of dreams,
Dancing across the gleaming embers of your silent screams

With all the shore-ward rage and the shores nowhere onshore,
did I watch myself flourish a thousand years and many more?!

For all that I'm not being, is everything save the reality,
for all else I'm Being, represents everything, but the Dream

To exist in myself is to languish in the smoulders of desire,
to live is to thrust oneself into the raging fire of requiem

Would the dread of chancing upon you enliven my intrepid soul,
my heart and being would be woof and weft to this holy scheme

Just put off these embers aflame, choke down your mute scream,
as I dazzle in your broken promises, as I become a shaded dream...!


Sunday, 8 July 2012

Stony Thoughts


In a place where humanity is sandwiched between the endlessness of physical oppression and the dead-ends of psychological suppression, it is hard to give form to one’s expressions, leave alone addressing the question of as to how to find deliverance.

This question has long pestered me, in that, either I have to frame my answer in terms of so called moderate, progressive & enlightened set of didactics or in terms of violent, militant, belligerent ideological perspective smokescreen put before our eyes. And to top it all, either way I am relegated to extremism, which, in current times is a vicious thing to get tagged with, however glamorous it may seem. Thus, I am left with no option as an option and no choice as a choice.

Mind is a restless dog, it keeps on barking, till either it dies or ends biting what unsettles it. But that applies to the normal dogs, strays and pets included. Unfortunately, there is a third type too, the ones which are confined in open spaces, tested, doctored, drugged, illtreated, pampered as and when suits the hunters. They portray a wonderful picture of what otherwise the golden words of Gertrude Stein composed, “Everything is so dangerous that nothing is really frightening”. The only exception in our case is that it is dangerously frightening.

The answer, if this is taken to be one, made me wonder as to how shall the (state) guns fall silent, when ironically their reckless booming has constitutional sanction, which in our times is a global epidemic. Somehow the voices inside my head bailed me by shouting out, that, these can be made silent only if you have bigger, better canons, not the cannon fodder only. Not that I don’t care for human life, I do, to the extent that would love to give away my own in order to save another one’s. I might sound senselessly paradoxical, but that is exactly what I was made to breathe in, gulp down, grow up along and live with-paradoxes. In my homeland even paradoxes can go by contraries. Given the atmosphere that I live in, I cannot be principled and upright, because firstly the moment I try to be, the despotism will make it sure that I am the only mute spectator to my own cold murder and secondly, my red hot blood will certainly inspire my fellow brethren to get killed bare bodied rather than being alive with this absurd cloak of Uprightness. And forgive me I am not so great a soul to be ready to undergo such persecution. I am a usual person with unusual responsibilities to shoulder just as every one of you has to, it’s the one me that adds up to billions of you.

In this terrible standoff between me the common man and I a duty bound principled person, that my oppressor has successfully put me in, I am exposed to nothing but annihilation either of my conscience or of my being. These intrinsic sentiment oriented reflections of mine are no less significant than the external reality face, because both of them in essence are borne of a sense of fear, threat, oppression, vulnerability, intimidation and helplessness. I feel just a bullet away from having nothing to lose, and when I arrive at it, I might consider the option of “Similia similibus Curantur”.

You may think of me as a weird irrational person who has lost touch with sanity, because in your world work and happiness largely fill the spaces of your available time, but my world has been filled with gloom, redundancy, desperation, death and destruction. Moreover, I can hardly afford to keep a dog who must bark at my oppressive intruder, I have to do it myself. Even after changing the tactics and altering my strategies, the only thing worth that I realised was that enemy and bullshit remain perennially unmodified

Now coming back to the question in question, It was only after some long sessions of ponderings and deliberations with myself, I had found a possible enclosure to drown my confused, mangled agony in, and I did pour it out there, only to find it turn into a stone in my hand, which I unhesitatingly hurled at my oppressor, not to hurt him, just to kill him right-away, to make him understand what it is like being in a consistent state of pain & sorrow. Adversely, his eyes seem to be as dark and hollow as the barrel of his gun through which he shoots death at me. Thus the answer continues to evade and appear in fits and starts, playing hide and seek with my already blindfolded humanness. As of now, with this thought knocking hard at the morose walls of my numb heart, I neither feel sad or happy, nor accomplished or botched. How soon will this feeling transform me needs to be seen. But transform I will, as long as the spirit of resistance replenishes my being, as long as I am alive. Is not the life itself a sole humongous reflection of perennial struggle and strife, was not I taught that contentment is death disincarnate.

Is it possible for me to reverse the way my thoughts process. Maybe yes, only if I can fix them around the triangular ambit of Past, Present and Future. Yet when I try to attempt the same, I don’t find any triangle, rather it is just the present chasing and scuffling with the past and the future trying to restore the calm, and this orgy goes on circling around with me at its centre. Caught in between this ruckus, I can neither concentrate on the variance without nor focus on its implications within. But why at all should I be so curiously poking my nose in such a hotchpotch, didn’t they keep saying, Curiosity killed the cat and truly so. I am not an Alexander having a million strong army and an endless treasury at my command. I am just another common average man having a lot to fend for, and be responsible for. I have to secure my career, look for sustenance, help my parents, look after my personal and family interests, get married, raise children, feed them, and educate them so they can be a succor in my old age. However, what if after investing so much in me, my parents, my family and the children who I've already started to feel as my respite in my fading days, what the very if, one fine morning or golden evening my children are delivered unto my frail arms, all bloodied and sullied, with the same cold stone locked in their palms that now is staring me in the eye.

The thought yet again renders me blank & dizzy, only these words ringing all inside all around:

“Don’t play for safety – it is the most dangerous thing in the World.”.


Thursday, 5 July 2012

Affluence of Naught


He had nothing in possession, that would suit as an offering to the Lord, nothing save the very departing autumn leaf, the sole treasure that kept him breathing, the only throb for whom he came running to Almighty, as though the supplication of one dying, as if a desperate child with a cherished toy in his little hands about to be snatched. All he asked for was nothing, save the fellowship of this autumn leaf, which had seen him through his travails, being unawares. He prayed to his Lord to be bestowed with the ability to disdain all the fruits save the shade brought forth from the propinquity of this leaf.

While being the prayer personified, he wished his blood to be the brook keeping afloat his autumn leaf through winters of abeyance, till they both entered the sanctum of wilderness, till the seasons of love once dead in spring resurrected into an eternal autumn, of flowers drenched in the unfulfilled dew of felicity, of the fruits of desire and crops of penury washed to purity by the rains of sacrifice, of bare earth welcoming the snow, the shroud to all malice stranded in its bosom.

That day, his prayers were greeted by deafen Lordliness, detached from the servant nonetheless committed to the servitude. That day, Almighty looked like a sigh withheld, about to do away with the thumping void of His contrariety and replete substitutes that He so looms upon.

That day, the servant felt like a dole, all tears in the ruthlessly kind palm of love, waiting to bring forth a deluge that would submerge all coincidences along-with their haughtiness, everything conniving to adulterate this sanctified nothing.

That day, he was not afraid of the turbulence of the tryst turning into a whirlpool and engulfing him deep down into the unfathomable folds of nothing.

That day, the stillness of his flickering existence left him thumping and dancing to the humming breeze of obliteration, flowing from the coves of sacred madness and back unto the refuge of nothing.

That Day, he felt like the other end of the distant shore storming up the ocean, to reach through this upheaval, its very own other half, pining somewhere beyond the ever evasive horizons, he craved to defy the emptiness, bring down the skies yet ended up being taunted by the sunset embracing the darkness of nothing.

That day, he felt being a seed, sown in the soil of nothing, rising from and into nothing, clothed in the leaves of nothing, no fruit adorned his branches save a yield of madness, thriving under the sun of nothing.

That Day, the only flame that kept him burning, was borne from the smoulders of his definitive dreams, instilling in him a desire for going up in flames of forgetfulness and coming down like ashes in remembrance of nothing.

That day, his agony laughed out loud, not mocking the sacred loss, rather in celebration of having perchance found the treasure, for which the wayfarer became a journey into nothing.

That day, his eyes were not blinded by the sight of bland contentment, the visions of renunciation held him enthralled, so did the amply ceremonious blankness of nothing.

That day his eyes didn't feel home in the warmth of tears, for there was not a drop to be summoned, nor even the very eyes which had left him seeking the blindness, just able to behold a silhouette of the lantern with a quivering flame burning away at the threshold of nothing.

That day, all he felt was a clamouring numbness, as pristine and as searing as the snowflakes, snowflakes riding on the back of a mute rage, lashing against the bare emptiness of his skin, as furiously as the same holy madness that stormed his heart with a tempest of nothing.

That day, his unbecoming frame looked like a purple and fading shade of an aspiration gone wrong, his shadow though roaming like a wanderer along the contours of his end, the beginning of nothing.

That day, both the ends of the shore felt conjoined, in the warps of separation, in the wefts of some distinguished suffering. That day, their strange feelings purified them off each other's awareness, the very ignorance in disguise. That day, theirs was the consummation in nothing.

Thus that day came to an end in nothingness and he felt at ease with his own infinite distress, he stood prostrating, delivered from the burden of his soul as someone paid for his deliverance with a random tear and thereto revived his choked spirit with a haphazard sigh.

Eyes still closed, he felt a piece of yarn held close in the recess of his heart, a warm tear rolled down from his empty gaze, he ran to the rooftop, flung open the window, buried his hands in the snow, As he felt the chill leave his hands, the sudden thought of a tattered mitten tore his heart to shreds, the shreds becoming one with the piece of yarn.



Monday, 2 July 2012

The Holy Numbness


Isn’t it within the expanse flowing betwixt us;

where we lie afloat, absorbed, as a revelation;

absolved of the riddle of our scorched personas;

banished unto a conjugating sense of desolation;


no enigmas separate me from you, you the veil;

that is casted on my senses, just to cleanse me;

of all comprehension, that fills this holy void;

whose only purpose just to enshrine your madness;


the moment a drop of divine mercy, granted to us;

in lieu of the sea that broods inside your eyes;

and a tormented trickle that flows out from mine;

we permeate by it on the wingbeats of our sighs;


our separation, sustained in the womb of reality;

is the very child about to be delivered unto us;

we will feed it with our fears, with our despair;

and let it grow into a dream wherein we flourish;


mirror of longing you know is such a solitary canvas;

refuses any brushstroke save of the silence of heart;

and when it cracks in the hopestruck faces and breaks;

hope bleeds through its feet, the hand wipes off life;


we just the endpoints of a journey, of a possibility;

gateways to the wilderness of love, 
the tomb of loss;


for whatever is delivered in the communion of nothing;

is too sacred for desire to attain and apathy to know;



Arrival

Streets lying defeated aside their very nature of oblivion;
each way, as unremitting as longing, as pointless as gypsies;
offers the straight fickle stretches, an escape into drudgery;
a glazed topple, returned apropos, to all perpetual tramplers;

Streets of denial thus awash with the footprints of desire;
and shopkeepers selling but their very fancied deprivations;
to clueless emptors who only know to pay with their wishes;
wishes letting roads turn into a curt palliative miscarriage;

If only the dead heart of firm cold asphalt in its stoppage;
could draw from the flaming motility of aching uneasy soles;
whose only succor lies in enduring the heavy flux of void;
of the hushed white sun held captive by a lorn puddle of hope;

Almost to be delivered into the vacuous grave of fruition;
Like a blotted mire breaking through the still cracks of time;
the terminal void of sky, a mute witness, letting it pass by;
perpetual bounds of nascent stories enduring the coma of trial;

As these sulky amiss lines on the otherwise perfected palm;
like keys glued back to the very monolith of body of locks;
coldly tracing all the farce back to the regretful empty gaze;
unlike the ablaze moon's vain lay to a baffled morning star;

Destitute at the corner, his own musing of the wronged dream;
turbulently assaying to coax his vigilance to the drab sleep;
whereof the watchman pokes him up into another bout of doubt;
into his own begging bowl like moss on the sidewalks of being;

Wrinkles on his palms lift themselves up to embrace the eyes;
eyes not for whatever they behold, yet only for the very sake;
that his vision is a silhouette in the horizons of his sight;
shrine to a desirous road and the journey pregnant with fright;

His heart an undying fright, yet a peculiarity for passersby;
a mere postcard of a face, a clown that amuses their hearts;
the face, now become a journey to the next obscure milestone;
inn for hearts which only pulsate and never throb with love;

The battered but firm clogs, only pillow to his dreamy skull;
loyal solace to his tired eyes for they are the only cushion;
ardently guarding his discourteous desire to be a mere nomad;
away runs everything from him, he merrily into his own nothing;


The Flicker


Tonight, my beloved, your eyes
Are no more a succour,
What is aflame inside your bosom?

The same smouldering clod?
Which in vain you tried to wipe off
Off your forehead!

Why is it then your hands are so cold?
Your arms too, is that the stars, far & many?
Hold my hand, it is a lump of ice, did you know?

I just wiped the moon off, from my window pane,
It was too cold and deathly white, like a widow,
Did you kill the groom, is that the bridal dress?

What is the black smoke, where is the halo?
Don’t go out, I need this flame
My hand, it is a lump of ice, you now know!

And your flowing arms are too cold,
Come hither, let me wrap my skin
Around you, but it is a damp quilt!

Is it raining again, am I being flown away?
The beads shining on your bosom
Oh You! Mother of the rain

Give me your hand, my moist life
better this receding squeeze of my cold hand, 

Rather than the one aflame consuming you.

Please I cant stretch it further
Make a move.
Why are you such a silence?
What was that hiss I heard?


Tuesday, 3 April 2012

The Mute trunk...!


The regardless footsteps towards home, as usual start with a routine, tackling the strides of the never-ending flights of a stair, each step a tango to the flow of time, to the seething tick-tock of a haggard clock, every ticking movement, a drop of sound trying to quench the thirst of time’s muteness. Perhaps, the reason for the signboard next to the clock-tower, Time n Sound. Strolling yonder, head as usual slightly bent downwards, the unbaffled gaze beholds, lying next to the partly deformed railing almost battling to guard the catwalk, a sodden cover of the famed glue given the name Quickfix, and a bit across it, a dull brown poplar leaf, an embodiment of the soul of autumn’s rage, persisting through the cold beauty of winter. The sight brings to mind yet another unflurried act of nature mocking at human efforts of restoration, irony immortalized.


Some yards further, the steps are greeted, as they have been a countless times before, by a feigning stretch of the defunct side drain, now having assumed the form of a prolonged pool, of storm water, presently home to a queer looking used bottle of potable water, alongside an empty packet of cigarettes.  The picture of ravaged lungs on it, appearing equally ravaged. Next to these, some frozen lumps of snow, adorning a fine layer of dust, oddly resemble the adjacent small blocks of concrete, which roofed a shop till some days before. Apparently, in unison atlast, celebrating the banality of the functional failure of the very side-drain which houses them and too of the administering minds. This side-drain is not alone in its travesty, as it has its reasons to enjoy its place in the grand scheme of all side-drains and also of the (mis)administering minds in the city, proud to embrace failure collectively. Just that the empty bottle looks so thirsty, and the cigarette packet so withdrawn.


Somewhere midway before the home, on one of those creepy corners on the roadside, lies a cast away bottle of beer labelled Kingfisher, seemingly wailing its emptiness or perchance even feting the same,  Reminding the uneasy mind of the ever-so restlessly fluttering Kingfisher hovering over the turbid Jhelum on the bundside. The only difference, possibly, between the actual Kingfisher and its impersonation on the beer bottle, being, the packaged confusion reflected amply in the convoluted line of shops and malls dividing the serene bund from the chaotic road. A subtle conjugation of disjuncture.


A tad farther, while passing the playground, its desertion makes one feel, as if this homeland is nothing but a forlorn canvas painted in hurry, it instills infinitely varied feelings each time one beholds it. Now an audience, now an act. An anchor sometimes and a storm at other. A life full of revelry bestowed on a being of dirge. An Armageddon inside the sanctum of Paradise. A resignation consoled by dejection. Lord Almighty might have been inspired by this place to create Adam, at-least.


The road to my home, like all other roads in my homeland, does not seem to lead you anywhere, it’s like a moment of silence striking all the tacit notes of requiem  all at once. The countless faces passing by do not bring forth a sense of familiarity, rather a sense of suspicion, suspicion that the eerie look of loss in their eyes comes from the same suffering that has my eyes stony. Wonder if a time comes, when someone suggests them all to cut their hands, which failed to gouge these eyes, a constant remembrance of agony. But as for now, even with this much of excruciation, the dull and slow brevity of the roads in and around my homeland, never fatigue to act as a drug which inebriates most of its dwellers with a severe sense of sentience.


This ruefully merry city is unlike the contritely gaudy cities which overwhelm people to the point that they completely vanish in the ensuing make-believe glitter, rendering them just dark spots the glimmer thrives upon. This homeland, with all its emptiness, is like a sincere black-hole, where the spirit of all light reaches its zenith, an embrace of two boundless emotions. Its silence, the lament of its own choked sigh, the ripples of its own impeccable sight, now blurred, by the streams of tears shed to protect the sanctity of the seas of blood that feed the same void and make the wings of freedom flutter with an abandon.


Without knowing the why or the need thereof, being here feels more like a tree, though with a shade greater circumference of mobility, but still a bare tree, breathing through the gaping hollowness of its own retiring skeleton. A tree, deeply settled in and laying with the indistinguishable layers of time’s soil, the trunk, a mute memory to all the storms, to all the calm, to all the blossoming moons, to all blazing suns, to all restless summer days & anxious winter nights, to gripping moments and dull mundane instants, to infuriating dog barks, to deafening gun barrels, to protracted and pointless tulip rows, to almost empty mass graves and famed terraced gardens, to disappeared body of human souls, to spontaneous and visceral coronaches, to cheerful and lively wedding songs, to the firecrackers about to set the night sky on fire, to retired & tarry spines, to passionately thumping bosoms, to autumn’s red bridal cheeks and winter’s white bridal gown, to hollow laughs & rich wails, to the stillness of apparent flux, to blatant secrets, to knowledge & ignorance, to relentless dreams & tireless sleep, to deeds imprisoned in words & words proudly divorced from deeds, to failure & hope. Contrary it may seem, yet it’s the trunk that has to bear the burden of both, being rooted at one end and of the exemption of its branches which have nothing to embrace at the other.


Just about my mute trunk reaches the farthest bounds of its circumference, the rumble of the worn out engine of a combat vehicle brings back the sense of friction between my feet and the undulating surface of this road. I wish there were more stairs to manoeuvre the indefinite gaps between dead ends in oneself and the stalemate of roads, I would die to see them both end up in the wilderness, like a tree in a stairwell basking in the suspended freedom of the staircase, the ultimate abode. But, as always, the dreadful thought of a fall, as in this moment too, echoes again, and I resign to hope, the last stretch of dusty & unpaved road home.