Writing different stories

Wind…

The nearby pool shivers,

The tree flutters,

The meadow shimmers;

Each, writing a different story

With its waters, leaves and blades

An essay is written on the time-stage

The draft escapes the eyes

Stays in the pool, with the tree, upon the meadow

Breaths of life live in the pages

Moving moments of experience

On the stage of time

Writing different stories.

Everything falling in place

Strange that now we are talking more.

Papers need to be signed,

Properties to be apportioned;

Memory is bankrupt and poor

I travel the city we left long ago

I saw the bank from outside, the yellow door

we opened our first joint account

even before we tied the knot…

went to the hospital where you delivered,

spoke to the doctor who strangely showed me the room,

its doors opened some twenty years ago

to tell me I had a daughter…

‘Sir is everything all right’, he exclaimed

Yes I said… everything is falling in place now.

I went to the park, the fairs where my daughter

would insist on every single joy ride 

that she’d see,

the metro howled in me the journeys to her school,

I saw at a glance the little steps that learnt

to climb the escalator…

it is moving, just as it were.

We are going to be strangers soon

Memory is bankrupt and poor

And I could see everything falling in place

But strange I feel lighter than ever before

For maybe now we’d talk more.

Conversation

I am talking to a European, an Asian

Not to you

I am talking to a chairman, a watchman

Not to you

I am talking to a Mercedes, a bicycle

Not to you

I am talking to a Muslim, a Christian, a Hindu, a Jew

Not to you

Beliefs

It’s a civilized world.

Struggling in systems,

obsolete machines stink, rust

yet run and govern

while in the background;

a green-room, or a battlefield

music throws up:

Change change change

sound like chained words.

Paintings panic,

cemented cemetery burns in the sun, cries.

In the enslaved mind,

beliefs with stony eyes don’t bend, nor blend,

they cannot even blink.

Open page with known ends

stares blankly at the white moon.

Haven

From the womb upon the earth,

Destination takes newer births.

Nights and days roll and scroll,

Foundation changes from parts to whole.

Journey with the points pause and continue

Three friends forever tied anew

Harbor a canvas, end a lie

Hues in painting rave and aye.

Precious

I wish I’d be in your warmth,

death for a moment

worth a thousand beat

meaningless, meaningless

I wish I’d be in your eyes,

wiped out in your cast

rated countless kens

feckless, feckless

I wish I’d be in your spell,

split in a trance

rise and fall at your will

priced a myriad trice

pointless, pointless.

Who is this

Without my bits my being exists

Sounds, lights, beats

I hear and see, sleep and wake

All of which for organs’ sake

But in burning delight they matter least

Without them I know I’d still exist

In who am I lies who is this

The ditch

In my room, I am free

not searching for any key.

A word in my heart

speaks of a thousand years.

The winds come looking for me

through the line of light below the door

I did shut it close.

Now no more

Still I am in the same room,

on the same floor under the same roof,

I welcome sands and dusts,

they hit and caress my face

I smelt water, sensed it coming with them,

every single day I chased my shadow

unknowingly, overlooking my self

just as the borrowed breaths

through my inert breathing

ran after me

fleecing the treacherous years

holing my holed body.

But I am out of the chase.

A word in my heart

speaks of a thousand years.

The buried pumpkin

Mom went to Bangladesh, as an Indian, once a refugee.

With animated street view, she found the house,

and the stable garden with her stories.

Huge backyard where she’d play with her siblings, friends.

Divorced countries now. Separated, yet the same without ends.

She was welcomed by the relatively new inmates. Just like them.

At the end of the day well spent, what memento would you like

from your house? She pointed at a golden pumpkin lying on the ground.

She remembered her mother caressing her bruised knee

When she fell off from that banyan tree, standing there, still there

Unmistakably there

She carefully took the vegetable.

Her head moist, bent.

Times flashed, times changed.

She held the uprooted pumpkin in her arms.

Held it gently in her palms

Like a child, brought it home; to Kolkata, a sliced Bengal

In her words, as she’d recall.

We were thrilled to see the cute-looking guest from Bangladesh.

Ah! Today’s lunch! We thought.

But we didn’t say a word

When we saw her burying it in her favourite inseparable space,

She calls her kitchen garden.

My mom went to her hometown in Bangladesh, years after the partition and brought a pumpkin she couldn't eat. It was there with us for long until she buried it in the kitchen garden, from where grew many pumpkins, without inhibition. 

Heaven on earth - Hyderabad ZINDABAD

Hyderabad - a cosmopolitan city, with a mélange of culture,

A modern- ancient charm, with Charminar its signature.

With loving and lively hospitality, wealth and grace,

It offers bonhomie and warmth to people of every race.

A temple and a mosque standing side by side

Speak of peace, with the unique Indian pride.

Ladbazaar’s colorful music, those bangles’ “chhan chhan!”

Steals the heart of every lady and her gentleman!

In the winding lanes, the craftsmen of jewels

Of stones and pearls sell exquisite ornaments

From lacquer ware of vases to Ikat weaving,

Or gods and goddesses in fine wood carving

From bidriware, bangles to Hyderabadi biriyani

From Banjara women’s mirror work to chai Irani

It offers delightful places, to curious sight-seeing firangis

And also to those fun-loving shop-addict Hindustanis

If you want to taste the modern IT glitterati,

You must frequent our fashionable HiTech city!

With roads posh and wide and jaw-dropping malls,

World-class buildings with unending wherewithal!

Metro is soon to whistle on the streets…

Commuting fast in style will also be at ease!

The lingo of Hyderabad has a very special touch,

 Dakkani is a mix of many a beautiful tongue!

Mushairas and Mehfils that sing in the heart

Of Hyderabadi culture are an essential part

The poetic words of Wali, Makhdoom and Areeb

Are pillars that strengthen the Deccani Tehzeeb!

And Sarojini, whom Nehru called the nightingale

Mesmerized even the Brits with her poetic trail.

Bhagamati became Hyder Mahal in Qutub Shah’s palace,

Bhagyanagar became Hyderabad in a loving embrace,

Andhra and Telangana as twins have taken a rebirth

United, they’ll make Hyderabad a heaven on earth!

This poem was read on Monday 21 March 2016 at the multilingual poetic meet at Rabindra Bharati on the occasion of World Poetry Day organised by the Department of Language and Culture, Telengana on the theme of Hyderabad Vishwanagaram.

My heartfelt thanks goes to the Department of Language and Culture Telengana for inviting me and for promoting poetry on the occasion of World Poetry Day. While their unparalleled hospitality goes to prove the bonhomie of Hyderabad, the efficiency with which they had organized the multilingual poetry meet is laudable in every sense.

My special thanks goes to Elizabeth Kurian Mona for having helped me with the re-structuring of the poem. Without her effort, the poem wouldn't have had the look of a string of couplets. Thank you Mona.