A GIBBERISH

Like the nonsensical gibberish of a mad woman,
Who curses and then, in the next moment, sings a mellifluous love song on the streets,
We chant your name in our desperate hours.

As her formless words,
That stem from the core, haunting depth of human heart,
Find their courses in haphazard yet ever-spreading connections;
I cling to you in my last conscious prayers,
Just before sleep carries me into that oblivious space.

Something breaks inside me.
As i pass the buzzing shops and breezy lights.
Some utter confusions from the deep chasm,
Which creeps under my skin, in my blood.

In all those half-remebered songs, and unfinished phrases ,
I try to hold you;
And suddenly, like a shooting star ,
It bursts in me into countless sparks
Creating and destroying a thousand spheres
and then fading into a thick, white fog.

Again...
we come to that mad woman,
who talks to everyone and everything,
But only communicates to herself.

An Evening

On that airy balcony, she ands alone,
Waiting for a sound of footsteps...
Footsteps, that are gentle but restless.
As the day is closing in
She stands there, alone.

On that empty balcony,
Smoth floor, reflected the sharp angles of bougainvillea flowers;
The glimmer of the western sky made them alluring, but elusive.

She waits there.
Beneath her, the rhythm of life is moving on,
The pulsing of the crowd, underneath, mingles with her throbbing heart.
Yet, she is surrounded by an air of mellow leisure,
That springs out from an evanescent languish;
As if, she is encapsulated in a formless glass room,
That demarcates her from the rest of the world...

Suddenly, a faint sound of laughter reached those alert ears,
From a distant land. May be, from the other side of a long corridor.
It waveres in that half-lit, lonely balcony,
Like the drops of rain falling down from the leaves,
Even long after, the rain has stopped.

At once, sharp shadows of leaves transform into a tangible,soft reality,
At once, the city enfolds in myriad flickering lights and dreams.
The pale sunlight merges with the strings of street lamps and cars.

DUALITY

It wraps you up in soft foliage,
All of your conscious sub-conscious plunge themselves into a deep pond.
Where, even when you throw a stone,
It fails to create even a slightest ripple.
As you succumb into its unfathomable depth ,
An intoxicating smell of early dawn takes you back into a distant past;
Which even you can not remember,
But, which like a half-lingering song, keeps leaving its footsteps on your mind.

You can only think of one little girl,
Who, one evening, was pressing her tearful face
On the cold window glass.
As her kite was fading into a bluish, green field.
The cold surface of the glass, calms her warm face,
Its smooth surface soothes her disjointed mind;
And once again, parted it into two parts.
One, that will always glide by with the kite;
One, is conscious of the cold, placid glass.

ROCKING CHAIR

1.
I'm becoming young again.
I've crossed the river,
The mountain side;
Have found out, the life
Holds the things,
We tend to lose
When we stride.

2.
A little girl is standing on the window pane,
Lights, yellow lights are falling on her
Like the drops of rain.

She has seen a girl growing up.....
Has seen,
A woman struggling in her pain:

An old lady is sitting under her winter shade.
A lady is knitting wool under the sun;
Rhythm of the rocking chair
Blends with the rhythm of her moving fingers.
People visit her.
She visits them.
But, now??

3.
In this mid hour of the day,
The earth seems to be green again.
She can see the squirrel, running by;
It comes and goes
Amidst the crowd of rose.

4.
The grass is smiling, warm,
Afternoon still has the smell of the purple charm.
Light of twilight and dawn are still the same.

The little girl does not know,
What lies there,
Beyond the mountains of snow.

GOOD MORNING, Darling!!!

Tap...tap....tap.. It never stops. It continues to pour down water , drop by drop. Every drop falls and Shanta becomes conscious of her own being. For a few years, this window has become her constant companion. Though her son and daughter-in-law do not really allow her to open the window at this time of the year. But still she manages to keep it slightly opened, and when the chill wind comes through the narrow crack, a strange sensation comes to her mind, as if it is piercing through her skin and and gradually freezes something deep inside: like she still has something warm inside her;that can get cold. Like ancient people, she has forgotten to see the clock, she determines the time by following the course of sunlight, the shadows of her tree. She has forgotten lyrics of those songs,which she used to love once. Now, it is midst of night. She neither knows what time it is, nor she wants to know it. As long as she can see the shadows falling on the grey window pane, as long as she can smell its fine fragrance, she does not want to know anything. Her age has taken away her words, but the senses are stilll strong. It is the shadow of the Bakul tree; it... no no, sorry, she has a name in Shanta's mind. Shanta knows , she and this tree are of same age, though she can not recollect how many years they've been together. She is now bathing in the moonlight; it glimmers in silvery white colour on the grey window glasses. Quite strangely, the tree is becoming stronger day by day, her inner life force is coming out through her branches, leaves , through her lively hues. In day time, she brims with joy, at night she stands straight. At noon, when the sunbeams come through the window , Shanta stretches up her arms out of the window just to catch the falling shadows of this tree. Others may think, she is warming her cold blood under the sun, but actually she wants to bask under the glory of her tree. She has so long a memory with her, so many incidents etched in its arms, skins, that even Shanta can not remember them. Only two bright eyes and a luminous morning, Shanta can remember. However, trees always have longer and deeper memories than human beings are capable of. In this type of night, Shanta can not sleep. Everyone thinks , she is sleeping. Shanta can not see, that the eastern sky is changing its colour, from reddish black it is coming to a bluish purple. Some of the stars are still on their way, but a soft veil of white fog is folding up the whole world. Through the narrow gap between the two window sills, she can feel that, the fog is coming, but light comes too. A faint noise... a very shrill sound is coming from outside. It is growing louder. Some birds are chirping out there. Shanta is getting up from bed. Oh, she totally forgets them. How can she do that?? There are three voracious nestlings there. My goodness! the sun is already on the east horizon. Shanta opens the window. A faint light comes throught the white mist. Looking at the upper branch of the tree, she sees the soft feathers of the wings; one of the parents will be out in search of food again, and then Shanta will be their protector. Looking at those pathetically small small heads she murmurs something to them.
GOOD MORNIG , DARLING. HAVE A GOOD DAY!!

A Mid Autumn Night's Dream

The fog is becoming deeper, darker;as if it has a tangible existence of its own.the lights of street lamps are blurred with the greyish yellow mist. If you try, you can hear the lingering footsteps of a nightguard; you can also see him, fading slowly,slowly and slowly on the long, straight road, which goes under the trees, beside the sleeping houses. A white owl is sitting on the branch of eucalyptus tree. If you look at the blades of grass, softly glistening with the dew drops, you'll feel that everything is waiting for something to come , something to happen. It is that particular moment, when everything in the atmosphere becomes silent, our untangible senses starts to grow strong. It's like being in a dream, with full sensory consciousness.

Security

The night is dark, cold.
The dim lights of street lamps are struggling in the yellow mist,
Everybody knows
There's no security anywhere in this world:
Yet the puppies are in peace
Sleeping in their mother's firm lap, on the street.