In flames I lie, resting staring at sky while around me, my kin squint & cry the harbour away confers light and sun but skin of my eyes is already burnt
These tears around, these sighs profound as my wooden pyre nears the ground These sorrows ripple waves of moans as fire and oil melt my bones
These wooden logs might deceive my age my people believe, I was young for this stage As these unfulfilled pledges yell my roasted spine burns to dust & fell
My family & my love have emotions arose as my thighs dissolve and logs depose A son, a brother, a lover burns along, the pyre of hope succumbs
And finally my head bursts open seeing sockets of my eye, others would have frozen but Sun is off harbour and no one’s present and I burn, to dust of my reminiscent
The surreal words that never were from eloquent ink that never was were read by moving misty eyes, those salty beads wetting skin & glass
Minced with spices of adjectives soaked in gravy of passives & actives, Garnished with metaphors of fragrances, went unserved - those aromatic sentences
The dawn of reality torched the plot, chagrin of dreams drenched the page weight of promises broke the tip, prowess & rage died with age
Angels that used to whisper in ears Manticores roaring in sandy towns Wizards that peeped in glowing goblets marooned the mind, throwing curse & frowns
And as death of creator draws nearer hovers the futility of that sinful hope to might of reality, fantasies succumb words hang dead-unread on destiny’s rope
It’s 3:50 am, a cold November morning. Yet the well lit large room is already packed. On the colourful stage sits a Mr Greyhaired with checkered shirt and jaw-cart resembling early Neanderthals. The other old man sitting nearest to the stage must be in his late 70s. He is wearing a black fake fur ear cap above his fragile shoulders where a marigold garland hangs. The third contemporary, sandwiched between the stage and the side wall is older and thinner with a visible jaw-less jawline. He is wearing a Nehru cap above a white kurta. The remaining three comrades complete the bandwagon of enchanters. Around them is a room full of people: old, young, men, women, kids, eloquent, sluggish, mirthless and chirpy.
Notice the fake fur among marigold garland and moving chimtaa
Beep.Beep.Beep. The low key sound seemed to hammer in my medulla. Because that was the only sound I could hear, or the most crucial one, I didn’t know then. Having stood it for what seemed eternity, my mind finally came back to life and I tried feeling my body of which I knew nothing since I don’t know when. Not much later I felt, like I felt never before, the power and credibility of the Hindu concept of Inner eye. Even with my carnal eyesight failed (bandaged or banned, I couldn’t realise), I could create animations to be seen & felt by my anima. As I patrolled my body, I found that my skin was rough, worn out, anointed, draped, sewed and even open at various points. It was impossible - and later I realised - unimportant to try finding out what happened. So I moved inwards...
As Chagrin paves way & fancies don’t weigh your wings of ice melt when burning sun is felt when surreal succumbs and real triumphs the wound deepens, the belief steepens
Visions are miraculous, reality ferocious your world is a mime, a dozen a dime absent is withal and obligations fatal the energy subsides, the fate decides
As betrothal shapes & melancholy craves your persona begets as anima regrets When wings are severed, limbs butchered the interior drools, the exterior rules
Then epilogue nears, an ode to fears Your carnal erodes and platonic reloads the frame collapses, the gravestone relaxes you visit often, but see yourself forgotten ...
The world for a frog is its well. The world for an ant is its hole and the world for a man is just the world. But we have failed the world by understanding it as a 3 year old understands a Rubik’s cube: colourful, full of permutations and conquerable. whatremains ununderstood is the logic of springs and pivots that constitute this cube and make it what it is. The logic and functioning of these springs has remained covert, disguised and unnoticeable since eternity. The few who unveiled or tried to comprehend the magic of this cube were too mired, too confused – or rarely – too enlightened to share their revelations.
Sight, sound, smell and skin are the validators of this cosmic illusion. The layers are countless and the architect is unknown, often debatable. The hand of god, nature and science create the most impeccable arm wrestling match going all wrong... it is conceived by validators after all. If Bhagvad Gita, evolution, and Zeitgeist are all contenders, what after all is the real world?
The beauty of this conundrum lies in finding its solution. The reality lies beneath umpteen natural, illusionary and man-made layers of magic realism. The deeper one digs, the farther and stranger seems the reality. Few have the endurance to dig and stand that deeper and remain unscathed by the force and eloquence of these springs—or keep the corrupting well water from entering eyes and ears.
But like the springs of that colourful cube keep reminding the user of their existence through every movement, scaling and in every combination, the world follows a similar protocol—it keeps reminding us of the reality that lies within, spilling some beans from its sacks of creation, maintenance and destruction.
Why do prayers work? How every religion from Egyptians, Mayans, Catholics to Islamic have chronicled similar prophecies? Why Vedas are yet not understood and flawless? Did Roman demigods walk the earth? Are Big Bang and Darwinism a prequel to Mutation & Superhumanity? Is Noetic science another sham from Anitchrists? Are Aliens believable and approachable? In what lies the elixir of immortality: Science or Religion? Are all these questions right? Have they grown naturally or have been seeded consciously? Are they the springs?
The trick lies not in finding the answer but in maintaining the questions for they are metallic cobwebs around the springs, a perfect alibi. The metal is impregnable and human consciousness is currently too fragile to tickle it. Lost in our sensory and carnal delights, our worlds are yet to grow over seals and holes and moles and roles. The architect (often confused rightly? with God) is enjoying the show as its subjects live in imaginary walls while real walls of fortress lies unscathed, unrealised and dry.
So how far can you stick out your tongue and smell beyond the walls you know as world ... frog??
This rain brings along a message But of life & beauty, or carnage As I feel blissful and elated My unknown brethren are tormented
Ah that poor weary peasant A prey of this surreal descent I saw his home & blood flowing To his waiting grave, he was rowing
My porch smells of dropping rain So I can’t hear the ripping pain Of cold and hunger die homeless But I’m warm from my blanket’s caress
From windows I see those elated lovers Euphoria ‘neath and above elixir hovers But my window does not show me that far where loved ones are lost in mighty rain power
This rain brings along a message But of life & beauty... or carnage?
Targets are built. Targets are achieved after they are built. And targets are remembered after they are achieved. But those who starve of memory are the victims. They are the bodies who stack their bodies to raise the ladder that leads to the stage of victory- a bright and live stage where the reality lies, literally, beneath. There are men who do nothing and get everything, there are men who do something and get everything, but he is a man who does everything and gets nothing.
Nothing he gets, nothing is known of him in the yolk-yellow past which brightens the top and shadows the deserving one. He sees everything, but nobody sees him seeing everything. While others crave for attention, he craves for anonymity so that he must not meet his fate before the right time.He realises the reality of succinctness of life. He has seen the life nude and the death nude. He is therefore not scared of the pleasure or pain fate has preserved for him. He hates to call it fate, he calls it effort. Destiny has no meaning for him. When he sees through the lens of his present, hisfuture, he finds his effort not his destiny waiting to embrace him.
He has seen everything. Everything human or inhuman one can create in one’s most catastrophic imaginations. All his nightmares relive when he wakes up and they prevent him the luxury of a silent sleep while compelling him to sleep in silence. Those loud noises- big crowds – shrieks – moans – cries –agonies – remorse – dust – wind – rain – heat – ice – blood – skin – flesh – urine – faeces - vomit- corpses and most certainly his own body among the carcass: lucky if breathing, but seldom a difference if not.
Nothing in his life is periodic. Sleep is in parcel and food is in gloom. Or food is in parcels and sleep is in gloom. No family but too many strangers. No friends but too many enemies. No love, but too much hatred. No belief but lots of suspicion. No surety but lots of delusion. No sanity, yet again, too much insanity prevails. The equation of his life strives to get balanced, but the penchant is never to the correct side. It’s always the unwanted awaiting him while he adorns the wanted.
Though men are often more valuable to others then to themselves, but his valiue is undermined in his as well as others’ eye. Respect, yes that is there but a mere mundane tribute. Nobody bothers to go at the helm of his misery. Land is silent because he is loud. Soil is fertile because he is vindictive. His sleepless nights are his people’s tranquilizer. His wounded body is his people’s shield. His emotional haemorrhage is his people’s impetus. His tedium is his people’s euphoria. His commitment to death is his people’s tryst with life. He is the morning sun. He is the twilight silhouette. He is the night star. Then again, he is the morning sun.
He is the child’s smile. He is the woman’s wait. He is the man delayed. He is the noise of town. He is the calm of wind, H e is democracy. He is communism. He is monarchy. He is all the religion. He is for allthe religion. He is the masqueraded seer. He is the loud leader. He is the savage saviour, but the philanthropist predator. He is the assaulter, but the protector. He is the protester, but the supporter. He is the SOLDIER.
The relation of a father and son steers through a spree of emotions, tensions and associations. My dad was my hero when I was a child. Back home every evening with happiness, love and often a small edible souvenir just because we were his blood. Dragging us out of home for that new Hepatitis-B vaccine and instead surprising his timid boys with their first Cricket Kit, then a football on birthday, lift us effortlessly and mock us graciously. Weekend visits to relatives, parks, cinema halls, a dinner outing each week and umpteen delights for all my senses.
As I reached my teens, I found a teacher in him. Those practical files and tedious holiday homework, covers on my notebooks each session, tying shoe-lace because his younger one took 14 years to learn it, a lift so school every time I was late, distributing candies and patisseries every summer on my birthday, driving sessions, obscene demands of pocket money and countless other favours which even best of friends freak out considering.
And today, when I am mature by my standards and still a ‘boy’ by his, I have a great friend in him. Understanding me when I freak out, waiting for me to come back from work so that we can dine together, calling me without fail to confirm all’s well when I am driving or away from home or in a beer party. Calling to check if I am doing fine when he is gone far away for work, dropping me to work each morning because I don’t want to ride that old bike, he never let us feel the hard effort behind that obvious. Extending huge sums of money on my every birthday to treat those new friends who came much later and will leave much sooner than him, he seldom questioned why I can’t spend the day with him. Opening single barrel Red Label when I got my first job and sharing it with me. Switching off the TV or understanding the lip-movement of his favourite soap just because I am trying to concentrate, calming me down when I am angry (even on him), soothing me when I am upset from my girl friend, offering me to take his car till I buy mine, coming to my hostel with food items, money and goodies so that I shouldn’t miss home, he undeniably played the best friend.
However, his friend was often a thankless fellow who took his amity for granted. These words are but a miniscule memory of endless favours my hero, my teacher and my friend did for me. And the deadly blow is the realisation that I have. I know I will be busy for the most of my life as I grow. I know I will not be there to extend him the warmth that he does. I know I will take 3 names in my family: me, my wife and my kid. I know I will crib of my disproportionate income and expenses when it comes to spend on him. I know my wife will always be right and parents will take a second place. I know when I say something to him, I am practical and think about my family, but if he says something to my family, he is being mean and old.
However I know one more thing, if I am to find one man who has been there for me throughout my life without a second thought, one man who has watched me since I came and will continue watching me till he leaves, he is.... my father.
