Freedom

Where moist clouds are ginned upon wide floor of an azure sky

Where a mirthful forktail dances with an unnamed stream

Where the newborn Sun showers an orange smile upon grazing fields

Where fires of colours paint rainbow upon mountain crests

Where life walks on holding warm palms of joy and sorrow

Where expressions turn into whispers inside the soul

Where the finest tunes of the world take refuge in silence

There lies my freedom

The paean and the pyre

He had never seen gentle smile on his mother. Never had he known his birthday. Since sensing the beauty of this world, his only own and known person was Father Brown.
Father Brown was a clergyman who had spent several years of missionary service in his native place. Devastated Europe after two great wars had a handful of people of ability and sincerity to work for the society and after his successful attainment of a degree in medicine, he wished to spend rest of his life in social service. When he opted for serving lepers in some remote Indian village, a great society of missionary colleagues had considered it a huge loss for Europe; but he travelled thousands of miles with a sacred smile spread over his face like wings of a springtime butterfly. He was soon seen cycling around a few small hamlets—bulged with numerous humans of diverse age attempting to sustain with primitive superstitions, poverty, and ignorance. The soil of civil society was yet to be irrigated with moral values, education, and basic living conditions. It was long past when the man of fifty-four years started residing in a small hut at one edge of those clustered darkness.The boy pressed his weak palms over bearded face of his old friend; a few drops of blood oozed out from those lips that smiled for its last time. The boy wept for the first time in his life. Through a hot smoky curtain, he could see Mother holding her son; burning and melting, still holding. Within his swollen eyes he held that image so long he could keep those open. He stared at. His body, soul, blood and existence—all were melting along with his dreams—his mother. She held her close to lap, comforting. He could see that divine smile on her face. The boy smiled for the last time in his life. His eyes were dreaming—closed with pain, sorrow, and joy for being through the life; it went on dreaming until darkness evaporated into the eternal slumber.
The next morning was bright. The peace was perfectly pervading all over while a burnt hut and a bundle of charred life inside reflected its muted existence in life, in its entirety.

The End

The kite floats —just severed—

Seesawing leisurely

In rhythm of kissing ends,

Of promises and dejections,

Of remembrances and forgetting,

Of reliance and betrayal,

Of pleasures and angst,

Beneath dark eyes of monsoon clouds.

An element of renewal

I walk free. Yes, after quitting the job that I could neither enjoy being into nor could it enjoy being nurtured within dispassionate bed of thoughts of someone utterly oblivious to the needs and deeds it honours. I make it memorable in tearing of all cords of relationship. And, I walk free following narrow lane piercing straight through an overhung fortune of unemployment. In spree of pouring sense of liberty I had another journey of my own tonight in promising a faint dawn of hunger sooner.

Deep into winter the evening is slowly draping herself in a dark bluish veil. A soft moon would soon emerge. A few stars would peep through mists and twinkle. Nippy breeze binged on stinging with intense sullenness while faint tunes of Christmas chimes roamed in scrawny alleys of buried civilization of a proud city.

I walk on to embrace a new year—a wide new year of age-old hunger that I have so passionately desired for. A new horizon of freedom stealthily waits behind the faded texture of a nomadic life.

The sky blue envelope

It’s still raining here, my son!
The sky blue envelope sleeps in warmth of my palms. It’s yours, I know. I let it sleep, sleep for a while after miles of journey!
I open it up slowly, smell your sweet fragrance and run through the images in flashback—like a stream that never flowed before. Dear, I find you scribbling—pages used by—and sitting by a solitary window you look afar through drizzles of nature’s laughter. I can surely glimpse the face that lugs along the yokes of severance yet flashes in the mirth of ceaseless togetherness—I go on observing--smitten by bliss of absolute love!
You write, “It’s raining here, father!”
Every little drop descends leisurely from an unnamed cloud and enjoys pleasures of uniqueness and finally mingles into a pool of entirety. We remain captivated by its distinctiveness yet fail to delineate its pride of existence. We perceive of its sojourn that interweaves individuality with whole, still fail to behold of its meaningfulness.
It’s still raining, son!
Clouds meet above in hazy sky and greet each other with spurt of thunders—faces gleam in ecstasy of reunion and I sit quietly by a solitary window. Through the veil of cascading raindrops inanely I stare at— meadows and trees and mountains sitting speechless—the world pensively lying idle.
The drops trickle down the window pane; they yearn for what they know not, and rummage around to find ways deep into my soul. They walk past myriad ways that were never trodden before. They come out—drenching every bit of my innate pride with divinity—and bid adieu. I keep on wondering why they came and why they are gone. I remain captivated by such tryst, sudden although a certain one. I cry unsure of whether it is for pain or pleasure, but I cry aloud. Tears roll down my cheeks and drops find their way long, long enough through my soul, to meet into finality.
I could see only those innocuous eyes, which sparkle in thrill of delving into newer pathways—running deep into an unplumbed depth—that lead to the subterranean values laid hidden for years within, still uncultivated. I find reasons to believe in your eyes and start to learn why you wrote, “It’s raining here, father!”
I long to know why it is still raining, my son!
Let it rain, let those clouds roam around and meet in exuberance, let those raindrops fly down and find their ways deep into our souls and let us cry in joy of unearthing a true world of togetherness where only souls find distance annulled.
I close the envelope—a sky blue envelope—that I know to be yours only, my son!
I remain seated by a solitary window and find you by another, some hundred miles away.
It’s still raining here, my son!

[ This was my first post on this blog in another June of 2007....reposted again here ]

Remembrances....

Silently they sat in the rooftop terrace. Slender leaves of tall coconut trees were sweeping the silicon sky in gentle southern breeze while bathing naked in silvery moonshine. Their sunk faces were half-lit in faint glow of nearly-burnt candles—broken souls of twenty five soldiers arrayed in stupefying defeat of their fallen martyr—and half-silken in gleaming touches of the pretty princess of the Night . Upon a tiny stool stood an image of their little angel—their Angelica, their Anjali—lovingly puffing nine colourful candles elegantly placed upon a boat-shaped cake in dazzling splendour in blushes on her angelic face. It was another Full Moon evening....of the last ride together. Drawing sweet tales from hidden chest of remembrances tears went on whispering into Deepsikha’s ears—creeping into cells of her soul.

“Papa, don’t worry—I’ll sail it—we will cross all seven seas and reach the Dreamland. Mom, don’t be afraid of those monsters. See, I’m with you.”

An innocent child could not even know why was she kidnapped...and sold...or perhaps, killed. The seed that was just turning to bloom upon a solitary plant at the confluence of two streams of spiritual consciousness was nipped before one could even define it as a bud. All around remained dispassionate...proud society remained satiated in its progressive deeds while semblance of religiosity faded into faces of curses eroding essence of itself.  

Inertly sat Robert and Deepsikha—alike figurines exposed to hidden giggles of destiny—counting days and nights and months and years—long twenty five years of holding the seed closeted only to wailing souls. Remembrances hum on dirge....

 Along wafts of intoxicated breeze of the spring

All have gone to the woods in this moonlit night;

Nay, I won’t go out but confine myself to

Own silent corner of my room;

Oh No ! I shan’t go out tonight

Amidst revelling breezes of the spring.

I am to cleanse my home, wipe it with all care;

I will need to stay awake for I know not

When would she recall me and arrive

Amidst waft of intoxicated breeze of the spring.

(Poetic part is transliteration of Tagore’s “Aaj Yotsna Rate Sabai Gechhe Bone”)

Bless me with that silence, mother!

Those droplets of tears, I still remember. I still remember those few words and a long silence following. Still I remember the last cast of that angelic smile. I only remember not how hours turned into days, then nights, and months and years while flowing stream of life went on aspiring for the unattainable; and, within dark irises of those unnerving eddies of gone-by moments, all treasures of memories are sunk deeper and hidden. Memories slid into sheathing of omnipotent time. The ring remained sucked inside that unknown fish. Yet, once it is held upon the palm, it resurrects; one after another, the gems of life’s only possession dazzle in shining beams of remembrance. Forgetting is an art till it bears the passion for remembering; till it has innocence of truth and love at its core. Memories have no divinity if it resurface as matters of fact—like just some routine errands. I enjoy this gentle summer dawn with one such ring held upon my stretched palm, my dear Mom!

I sit alone, face to face, with them—those last few moments of ours. I hear sweet tunes of its supple stream. I enjoy holding them long, smell fragrance of its guiltless presence, and get drenched in sprinkles of its innocence. This fascinating rendezvous let my dreams run wantonly seeking pleasure of juvenility. I fear not to lose it forever; yet, I fear that my sins are enough to smudge the painted past of virtues.

Still I journey through it—through them—through those moments immortalised by presence of only you and me. Yes, mom! I hear you! I feel you by my side, holding me. The worms of cancer crawl in, silently invade every castles in your lungs, liver and body. The marching army plunders every cell and burns each pages of life. Nero plays the tune. Tiny rivulets of endurance end up in few droplets of tears leisurely disappearing in glistened eyes. Yet, I see a gentle smile, overcoming of all unendurable agonies, is slowly spreading its wings over those feebly thin lips. It hangs unknowingly there till I hear you saying something. Yes, I hear it—“It is time now...., my son!” A long silence follows stretching itself to eternity. The sky looks on, so the trees and I. The life hides itself in life and its pains and pleasures. Words ever fail in paying tribute to a soul that only loved and loved and loved. Love, perhaps, only blooms in silence. Bless me with that silence, mother!

Last words

Done is the play in this hall,
Time ripens for curtains to fall;
O the inmost of the silent wanderers of my life!
Turn back at close of an imperishable day.
In transient hex, moments dazzle;
Grant my eyes—filled in broken dreams—to explore;
Let me discern what you leave aside
And what is treasured in last savings
At the end impression of this pleasure
The vision has not satiated in sight of proximity,
I wonder if in introduction of distant horizon of severance
It will show up through spectra of a setting sun
In appealing shines and darkness
Upon the brim of catastrophe,
I know not if I would ever perceive
Why is this coming—and going,
Why is there so much of gain to lose only;
I know not if you will paint again
Today’s wiped up image
In new colours, O the creative poet.


(A small effort to transliterate Tagore's "Sesh Katha")

Life--an impression

What they say about life is not mine;
For me life is just an image—
Just an impression of my deeds and misdeeds.
I am the lone artist
I am the lone observer
Mine is the comprehension
Mine is the appreciation
Swings of brushes are mine, colours are not
Easel is mine, the canvas is not
I know not whom
The colours I draw from,
I know not who has blessed me with
The canvas I paint upon.
The image when done
Will only be my tribute
To that incomprehensible entirety.

Death

A pale face of grave
Once adorned—Flowers—
Dead and strewn ;
And a few torn memories
Kissing a passionless coffin.

The dirge mellows
The pain is burnt
Droplets weep;
The wan sky hangs
A long scythe of rainbow
Neatly drawn in colours of grief.

Rejoice, O Soul
Paint on seamless images of death
Upon placid pool of expressions.