Jabberwocky

Baking thoughts into a jabberwocky.
Until I walk ..
Until I stagger ..
Until dusk.

Life is a bubble gum

Life is a bubble gum**.
And all the bubbles burst eventually.
Leaving behind just the gum.
Sticking memories to the history.

**Read chewing gum

Leaving my room behind

Leaving my room behind one fine day.
Leaving my cozy cloister.
Bundled up my stuff in the morning.
Silently unstacked my books.
The bills from the walls were
Torn down too.

Was all predicted by me.
Sad?
Mystified?
Infidel, My comrade?

Fast lane

It is really a fast lane-
The life.
Time is at a premium here.
Appointments are doled out here.
Schedulers heavy at use here.
Birthdays reminded by alarms here.

Yet, I look back and yearn.
For those "fursat ke raat din".
Time was never premium product there.
Appointments vacant.
Schedulers awaiting.

When you reach there,
You look back at those days.
Not for a fast lane.
Yearning for a not so fast lane.

Parkinson's of mind

Parkinson's has gripped mind.
I am howled in to check it
Every other moment of the day.
Check if it is okay and breathing.
So many resolutions.
So many consolations.

Mind is weaving dreams.
Rotten and stale.
I fear sleep.
The Parkinson mind
Might weave another dream.
I fear of smiling.
The Parkinson might weave
Yet another dream.

The journey is on the troubled waters

The journey is on the troubled waters.
I see I am troubled here.
I am loosing a friend here.
I am loosing a battle here.

The battle was bloody.
The result was bloody.
I am asked along the sides of politics.
Does love know any politics?

My love for you knew no bounds.
You once told me -
"your presence is priceless ... "
Is it still priceless?

Is this the cost of your love?
Is this the price of my love?
I am loosing a friend here.
I am loosing a battle here.

I feel real empty !

I feel real empty !
Like the girl who wrote it on her cuff.
I reel with emptiness here.
The visions of Johanna* is the light.
Her light house is not far.
I see the light.
Not the light house.

I see visions.
But I am empty.
Empty as empty.
And full as empty.
A fellow told me,
"Say the glass is half full
instead of half empty !"
But I wonder why ?
I see empty.
I feel empty.
I reel empty.

Will my coffee render me a change ?
Will my wind blow in a change ?
And fill me with love rather ?
===========================
* Visions of Johanna - song by Bob Dylan

They attacked my clock !

They attacked my clock.
My time piece.
They attacked my time.
It was an assault on my time.
For some reason my clock showed
That I didn't squander away my time
As I usually do.
I grew suspicious.
The time just stopped at 4 o'clock.

They did it.
It was a planned attack.
They were hiding in the clock.
When I knew who they were,
I shook and rattled the clock.

They were the ants.
I don't know what their business was in my clock.
They just planned an attack.
The ants !
Now I see them coming out.
I guess the assault is over.

Why did I leave (archaic*) literature ?

Why did I leave (archaic) literature ?
* Archaic as Chaucer and of course Shakes-pear.
Archaic is so archaic.
I like the new writers.
I cannot name them.
Coz, I didn't read them.
Coz, I got so pissed of the archaics
That I left literature once and for all
from my study.

And now I am waiting for a break.
I wanna read something that isn't archaic.
And of course,
If I get time after my "so busy"
New field of study.

I left the archaic literature once and for all.
Coz, I don't wanna read something for the heck of it.
And still call it "interesting".
When I am still pissed.
And if someone asks me about my opinion,
I don't wanna say "Hm... it depends...."


I left the archaic literature once and for all.
Coz, I don't wanna grow old reading something like
"Du doth nit pick !"
And of course,
"Methinks" !
:-)

How songs are solace !

How songs are solace !
I wonder how !
I wonder why do I write about them.
I wonder if I am worth writing about them at all.
I wonder how I live without them at all.
I wonder how life would have been without them.
I wonder loneliness sans music.
I wonder Einstein without violin.
I wonder Bob without poems.
I wonder Elvis's voice without the lyricist.
I wonder
Whom do I owe thanks for all the moments
In music, with music, of music ?
I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.

I live as the sign of your journey *

Yes, I live as the sign of your journey.
Your journey is the unfolding of my true nature.
The milestones of your journey are my days.
The beautiful flowers in the passing garden,
My poetries.
You make me speak.
And I know me.
And you know you.
You stand for strength and determination.
You stand for respect and beauty.
And I unfold to my true nature.
As you travel in me.
With me.

* From the sufi mystic,
Rabi'a al-Adawiyya (717-801 A.D.)

There was a girl once !

There was a girl once.
Who sang her songs to sleep.
She was so tiny then.
She needed someone to sing her to sleep then.
Her mother might be busy.
She knows that,
When she was put in the cradle
With no one to sing.
So, she sang for herself.
So that she can sleep.

They hear her sing.
They are sad when they hear her sing.
Then they come to sing.
By then she would have
Successfully slept.
They say then
"She is a survivor."
Did they know her then?
Do they know her now?
May be not.

I ask only once !

Yes. I ask only once.
To do something.
Anything.
Some do and some don't.
And some won't.
As a matter of act,
I care for who do hear.
I don't mind caring the others.
I am a human for heavens sake.
I am too timid to ask again.
For a word is so precious.
I save it for a better tomorrow.
So, I ask only once.
Those who care are my dears.

My dreams are weird too

My dreams are weird too.
I don't understand them.
They are snippets of conscience.
The back logs of my convictions.
The true friends who knows my likings (?)
The heat they produce is too much.
Unbelievably red hot.

People Ignore

Yea. People ignore.
They ignore the sensible.
When they like
They can recognize.
But they simply ignore.
Don't bother to give a shoulder pat.

It is not about appreciation.
It is about sensitivity.
It is about being receptive
To the minuscule of details.
Isn't there a beauty in minuscule's ?

Well, I like the minuscule.
I see them.
I feel them.
They are the dull beauties of life.
Yea. No big deal.
They are still cool.

I can't write for the heck

I can't write for the heck of it.
I can't write for being something.
I can't write to derive something.
I can't write for I am not a writer.
I can't write for I am not a poet.

Then why am I writing.

I am writing because I want to express
Those feelings that I don't want to lecture on.
I want to write because I feel a thrust.
A thrust that I cannot bear.

Each time I am pregnant with a new thought,
I deliver it with much pain.
But each pain teaches me something.
Good or bad.
They are my pains and gains.

That is why I write.
But not for the heck of it.
I love pain as much I like pleasure.
My poems are my babies.
And they are the buds that I pick
In my journey.
And they will remain with me through out my journey.

I want to draw a picture

I want to draw a picture.
Infact, I want to draw many.
This one is that of my place.
My lost place in my village.

The place is so clear in my mind.
The trees.
The white sand.
I heard that they are selling sand now.
For it has lot of silica.
And silica brings them money.

They cut the matured mango tree first.
The dream road was the reason.
Then they took the land
To draw a line between the spaces.
The egos.
It was my space.

Where I grew my sand castle.
Where I ran around.
Now I am told that it is someone else's land.
Oops, I never knew that before.

Then they cut many many trees.
To build houses.
And now, there is no space.
My childhood place is nowhere.

It got buried under the rubble
There somewhere.
They buried me.
And my innocent memories.
It is so irrecoverable now.
So, I want to draw.
Draw the picture of the picture
That I photographed with my eyes.
Long long ago.

There is a little one here

There is a little one
Right here in my room.
A little lizard !
I guess he is new to the world.
I guess his mother has
Hid her eggs in somewhere in my clothes.
In my cupboard.

I guess the shells from which he came
Are still there somewhere.
In my cupboard.
Because mother lizards don't clean up the mess.

He is feverishly popping in and out.
From my books.
He likes the waste basket I guess.
He hangs around that corner.

He is wild and naughty.
Popping in and out of my rubbles.
Ya, the debris is huge in my hide out.
I guess he likes my jungle.

Well then, it is a welcome from me.
Darling you are welcome.
To my hideout.
Ya, it is a jungle though.

Beware there are dangerous dents there.
So, you better take care of yourself.
Your tail !!
I don't want you to loose it.
How much ever I frighten you.

What this blog is all about

What this blog is all about ?
Well, it is all about ...
I don't know ...
May be it is a window
To the outerworld
It is all about where I stand,
All about where I came from.
Where I am heading to.
It is all about what I fish for.
What I negotiate for.
What I aim for.
It is about how I randomize and
pick from (my random thoughts).

I define here my region.
My area. My journey. My thought.
How I grew. From scratch, of course.
How each day is for me.
How it brings a ray.
A ray of imagination, difficulty and hope all at once.
I have lost many things.
Yes.
But I have gained many too.
And I owe many many souls for this - me.
This is an ode to them.
An ode of thanks and indebtedness.
It is truely from the rock bottom
Of my psyche.
This blog is all yours.
And I am sincerely scribbling an odd thanks to all.

And some people irritate

Yea, some people irritate.
Like the one whom I told
Don't honk, it is a campus for heavens sake.
Yet, he would honk as if he never care.

Yes, it is your life.
But it is my ear.
Your horn, is so shrill, it pierces the sanctity of silence.
Breaks the train of thoughts.

It leaves a bad taste.
A reminder, an urgent one.
That you are down there, waiting
For the lady of your life, may be.

And until she comes out, you honk.
Well it is your horn.
But it is my imagination you see.
You leave a bitter cacophony there.

So, come on my comrade.
Don't be horny.
It is a campus for heavens sake.
It is my ear that you are molesting.
And possibly many others' who don't bother
To walk to you and say politely -
"May be you don't wanna honk" !

One day it * is gone

One day it is gone !
How can you do this ?
How can you leave like that ?
It was a rash, a wound.
You ravaged my whole body.
You took toll of my beauty.
I scratched you and got pleasure.
You grew from scratch.
You could grow well in my body.
Yet you plan to leave me.
Your plan is to leave me alone?
How can you go?
How can you go one day?
Don't go. Stay. Ravage, grow, home my body.
For you are my part now.
I like to have you in me.
For ever and ever and ever.


----------------------------------------------
* About a rash on me.

The pores on my face

The pores on my face
They all mothered a fruit.
-- Acnes.
Now their kids are gone.
Left is the mother alone.
She is still here with the womb.
Aging and maturing each day.

Her kids are mortal.
But she is immortal.
Or immortal, until I cease to exist.

They are weird.
Grossly grotesque.
I look at them everyday.
All are alive and breathing.

The author once called it aging.
-- Aging gracefully.
But will anyone age with grace?
I remember my walking to my 20's.
Always walking with a random thought.

Always thinking about maturity.
Now I walk towards my 30's.
Still with a random thought.
Still thinking they are mature.

I thought 20's bore the matured me.
Now I think I survived less matured me.
May be in my 40's I think.
Oh ... ya,
The 30's still bore the ill matured me.

The pores stand still there.
Marking the passage.
The passage of time.
The fact is that, they mean so much to me !

Murder the darlings ...

He say - murder your darlings*.
But I can't you see.
They are so nice to play around with.
They are so packed with ideas.
How can I pack thoughts without them?
They are darlings for heavens sake.
They cox the meandering vagabond thoughts.
They kiss the root of an idea.
They style the shape of a view.
It is about style, kiss, cox.
So, I can't murder them anyway.
----------------------------------------------------------
* Quoting K.R. Narayanan (late ex-president of India).
He says one has to write in simple language. Don't
use your darling words for the sake of rhetoric. Use
complicated words sparingly.

I miss the piles !

I miss the piles ! Really, I do.
The pile of plates, waiting for me to be touched, coxed.
The pile of "to do".
The pile of veg in the fridge.
The pile of haltbar milk.
The pile of masalas.
The pile of lemons.
The pile of waste.
The pile of cob-webs.
The pile of shoes.
The pile of insignificant days ahead.
Among others, a pile of me.
Walking around the piles with a random thought.
The pile me, who thinks to be the jack of piles.
Well, I ruled piles. Now I rule a different stock of piles
I guess. May be I would miss them someother time.
Waiting for another pile to happen .....

Waiting for dust

Once in a while I like to rattle out the dust in my moebel*.
The dust came from some where along with the wind
into my room.
Ya, they were part of my life for a while now.
I am a part of them for a while now.
Yet, I wish to bid au revoir.
So, bye bye my dear dusticles.
Go away .... I am waiting for the new comers
I hope the wind will carry them in again.
Ah ... the wind is wild today, yesterday too.
Tomorrow and the day after I don't know if they will be so.

But there is a sort of @#@$ ** in waiting for the dust
Ya they think it to be totally unconventional.
But here I am raw and real ... waiting for the dust
To arrive at my platform. It is just a room, my hide-out.
Waiting ... and waiting and waiting ....
-----------------------------------------------

* moebel=furniture
** @#@$ = fell short of the word. It is up here in my head.
But yet couldn't get a word to name it !

Everybody loves a good drought !

Everybody loves a good drought !
He didn't say *who* loves it.
But there must be someone who does.
I like a dry one. Dry one and windy.
Just like the climate here. With rocks expanding
and contracting
Incurring cracks on them forever.
Every drought marking a change forever.
Changing the landscape for ever, for good.
And with that, they detach from the mother rock,
falling down on earth forever.
Looking up and thinking ya.... I was once up there.
Clean and attached to my mother.
Now I am here and my mother is still there
holding her other kids tight.
And another drought, another season is on the hold.
On the queue for getting the kid-rocks.
It is coming to get them. Ya ... hold on if you can.
Otherwise, you will be gone the next season.
For the drought is tough... on every one.
Me or you it has no merci.
Either they say sorry, you are so ruthless,
You tore me away from my cluster.
Or you say ...
Merci... you got me out of that.
Merci .. my dear drought.
I Love a good drought anyway.
It pains, but it frees you ... forever.
Whatever be your roots. It just sets you free !