Tarred, grey, and dust-filled there
Scarred, muddied and worn-out here
Polished, black and smooth somewhere
I lie flat seemingly impassive
My arms lazily snaking across walls of bricks and hills
Of towns and countries and continents
I see nights and days and years
Passing like leaves falling and decaying
In my sleepless existence
I watch the star-studded universe
And drink in the quietness of the nights
Millions walk over me everyday
Yet the load I bear
Is so great a pleasure
I connect the sea of humanity
Travelling across thoughts and time
*******************************
Visions of a coastal afternoon
A sun-baked yellow afternoon
a sleepy, lazy, dull dream-time.
Hot air blows from ocean to land
across faces and feet and hands.
Drenched in heat
people sleep-walk in and out
of black burning iron gates
gates joining white and red walls
of bricks blazing fire and anger
Drugged by heat, in lethargic inability
flowers yawn.
Outside
the grey traffic roars draped in dust and smog
honking cars and trucks and men
like ocean screaming red-faced.
In the hustle-bustle of a city
on a coast, i hear a melody
amidst the chaos of my mind.
A city busy as a beehive
buzzing out a lazy mid-day orchestra
singing a soothing lullaby for me
as i sleep in front of the teacher and the class
in a sun-baked yellow afternoon.
21.03.09 (Chennai)
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.
