Poona under the Moonlight
Everything strangely still.
Buildings square and pale;
windows square and dark
like monstrous eyes and mouths.
Moonscapic bald hills, electric poles and nameless trees.
Not a sound,
not even one stray dog rummaging trash bins,
or a bandicoot in the sewage;
or honks of autorickshaws.
An empty rocking chair
with creased silk-like cover of its cushion
sat so stiff
next to a motionless swing
tied to concrete posts above the balcony.
Orange light from street lamps
that wore helmets, curiously seems
to blend with the moonlight
illuminating hundreds
of feather-like Neem leaves
arranged in perfect symmetry,
suspended in space, waiting…
or just
being.
Pyramidal Ashoka trees
towering tall,
leaning against each other
like old friends reuniting;
outside the walled lawn;
calmness seems to
branch out
from the lush foliage
of the Sorrowless Tree.
A synagogue’s top with reddish light
below the half-moon glowed;
roofs of temples and museums and mosques
and churches and shopping malls stood close.
Somewhere in the distance,
the ruins of the old Peshwa palace
with its elaborate Dilli Darwaza,
and its lotus pond and umbrellas
and trimmed gardens
must be silent for a while,
at night,
without visitors in protective sun-duppattas
to trot upon its cobbled floors
searching for hidden passages.
The surrounding hills stretching
as far as the eye could see
shone a dull pinkish hue on the edges
where land merged with the sky.
Glittering lights in varied colours dotted
the streets and buildings of the city--
a grand Churidar Kurta
embellished with sequins and Swarovski crystals.
Off-white cracked walls
of modern houses
built on sinking sand,
wearing the swish-swash marks
of brushes dipped in dark
repairing cement,
grotesque at daylight,
appeared completely transformed:
at night,
ancient runes and Chinese pictograms
imprinted on Puneites’ walls
sprang to life
transpiring old secrets
of an old city of kings and warriors
to me,
in the balmy, jasmine-scented night,
under the moonlight.
A perfect stillness –
mute, trance-like and eerie.
An impossibly flawless sky –
cloudless, half-mooned and starry.
A momentary musing
under the moonlight
of a brief visit
to a new place,
before the smoldering heat of the day
and the chaotic schedules of life
destroy it all.
Sour
Paint-peels
under the temple tree,
on wooden carts with bicycle wheels.
Coins and plastic cups of tea.
Grouped into two: deep red and dead black;
Sleepy fruits, on either side of rusting
iron scales down with weighing stones,
unsold and unappealing.
Hopelessly sour
your face, your mind
resigns hour by hour,
burnt by the afternoon sun.
Let Love
(Laden with anxiety and disbelief,
you seem to have lost all hope
of finding comfort and relief.
you wonder if you can cope.
And I must let you know
you can still sail through this
if you did not know.
You are much better than this.
Do not whine or beg but...)
Let love come to you
like a sudden storm in the night.
Let it soak you
to the bones with wonder;
let it drench your heart
with laughter.
Let it come naturally
like flashes of lightning in the dark.
Let Love show you
the colors of life:
the glory of every sunrise
the warmth of friendship
and splashes of happiness
on the canvas of bliss.
Let it paint you
with smiles and promises
of trust and faith
and visions untold.
Let Love come to you
with open arms
vibrant and passionate,
like lilies in bloom
waltzing with the wind;
let it envelope you
with its fragrance
of abundance and joy.
Let it come naturally
like sun-kissed petals in spring-time.
Let Love take you
to a higher plane
of fulfillment and peace;
a spiritual journey
of unconditional loving.
Let it soar with you
above the clouds of doubt
gliding in freedom and hope.
Let love whisper to you
the secrets of life:
the power of belief,
the pleasure of giving,
and the beauty of togetherness.
Let Love grow with you
like a river
flowing endlessly,
into the ocean
of eternity.
There is no beginning, no end. I am here.
In the distance float dreams inside bubbles
down from ages drifting but cannot be here;
vision of “then”, fictitious and bleak, hobbles.
History and its waves of delusion, aged and unending,
conjuring up what is not: mirages for tomorrow;
disgruntled ripples of yesterday, loud and fuming,
rushing past what is; the body is drowned in sorrow.
Buried and bruised under heaps of foaming fear
brought by streams of screams—unheard noises,
deafening echoes of time—and madness, can’t you hear?
A Soul caught by rumbling dissonance of million voices.
Squashed between boulders of past and future, Mind rules
obsessed with maniacal speed--machines cannot care.
Drugged in deep slumber of mechanical dreams, time fools.
Body trapped in an illusion, lightless, can one dare?
From nothing to nothing—space to space—
to wake up to no beginning and no end, in space,
untangling the mesh of Time’s mess.
Here. Now. This Is. Timeless.
