Kalpavalli . . .

When the hills vanish,
there exist a valley
that is of silence,
and another hill
that is of memory . . .

,..

moral of a boat story

Whatever you say
to explain yourself
becomes justification.

Whatever I say
to explain myself
is the ultimate truth.

Should we be sailing the boat together yet?

--

Moral of this boat story:
"We just need to balance the boat,
it already knows how to float"

,..

isn't it?

truths are momentary
.
.
.
.
.
lies are long-living

prisoned longing . . .

we lost ourselves

in the street of longings

and could not discover

till we met

in the corner of a prison

,..

resurrection

at the end

you saw a black hole

and i saw a lighted dot

come lets now see it together

there must be some stars waiting for us


,..

:-)

cloudy sky
women are chattering instead singing
in the paddy field

,..

Advaita . . .

click to go deeper

. . .

disappeared buds
will still be blooming
in the land of nowhere

,..

the buddha head

all the keys need not work
as there are
not many locks around

,..

thamassoma jyothir gamaya

click to be brighter

. . .

words can never get the wings 

to fly away 

from the world of meanings

,..

. . .

'What if I get slipped?'
I thought . . .
and slipped.

,..

'mist'erious

click to go closer

. . .

you just left me to be a burning sun
that needs some rain

,..

r(o)ot . . .

What if people stay in a place for a long time?

'They get rooted'
said a bird on the tree.

'They get rotten'
said a discriminated soul.

,..

rain shadow . . .

I live in a far away dry-land

and you in the midst of the rain-forest.

We could still relate to each other.

I thus started weaving a carpet

to lay in the sphere in between

so as to make our transgressions

a comfortable affair.

I did of course weave the carpet with

facts and fiction

which you preferred to call truth and lies.

On your way to reach the middle-path

you admired those fictional threads

as shiny and smooth.

But when you are back in the rain

you are telling me that

I should have not lied to you.

I have nothing to say in response,

just remember those little violet flowers

that have blossomed on both sides of the way

when you headed back.

,..

let it rain...

when it rains,
it rains till my present gets washed away
and your face starts floating
on the surface of my soul...

,..

reversals...

Our sea of time
still flows towards the mountain top,
where we once got drenched in the spring rain.

Life has but moved us to the autumn valleys.

We can still talk about
being you
and
being me
and let people to name it
'The Sermon of the Valleys'

,..

its YOUR dream...

Why should you trust me to

take your dream forward?

How can I dream your dream,

when I have never slept with you?

,..

play it out

in and out

out and in

the play is endless

just that the stage is empty

all the time

,..

stagnated river can't be a sea...

I refuse to write words which are not mine

and I also know that

I can’t own even a single word,

should I be silent forever?

,..

another secret

I was never bothered

about your untold secrets

until you told me

about their existence...

,..

from wisdom to freedom ...

Bodhi tree of the Autumn.

Buddha was sitting with his eyes closed,

under the not so intense branches.

The wisdom was waiting to fall

as one among the withering leaves.

‘What the fuck is he doing, sitting here?’

started thinking

a crow on the tree.

If withering is wisdom,

then flying is

F

R

E

E

D

O

M.

yours and mine

There are too many stories floating around.

Just that one never gets to read all of them.

,..

another way - here and there

write eternally and speak not

you can then disown the words...

,..

musically...

life's music can never be heard
but to be listened...

,..

road to all directions

I just can't reach you
not because I can't travel
not because I don't know the route
just that
I lost my sense of direction a long ago.

,..

isn't it now?

sometimes life is so simple
and that time is now

,..

cup and the sea

if cups can't hold me forever
why can't I flow to reach the sea...

,..

dissolve

whole is not about integration
it's more of disintegration
isn't it so?

,..

amoeba and me

they rolled into one
but are still aware of being
two entities...

way is our goal...

being on the way never assures that
we will reach somewhere...

,..

just...

will there be anything that will also be here?

In appreciation of what?

She shared about the desperate situation

of an unknown prostitute in Kolkata.

‘It was terrible, horrible, etc., etc.,’

We all then clapped.

And the next story was about

a woman who poured kerosene on herself and her kids,

burning all to death.

‘That was shocking, etc., etc.,’

We all clapped again.

just another fall...

Stars falling from the night sky
is quite boring now.
How about the sun falling from
a day sky?

,..

the rope...

More tight that you
hold your side,
the rope becomes
more and more rigid.
Sometimes even
a breeze can break it.

storied animal...

You never become
a good story teller,
just because you realised that
life is all about
story telling.

,..

what we shared?

Was the intensity of our relation
just because we never shared those forbidden words?
And when we talked them out,
it rained in the night
without drenching you and me.

the 'im'pact...

We refused to sleep
as we knew well that
we would be waken up to a different story.
And when we did sleep
no one could wake us up
as the stories of our dreams
were endless…

the flower's sky

“As our story is now perfectly told,
you writing another line
will be like
another rain drop
on an already burdened flower”

“Do you think
the next drop will break the stem
and kill the flower?”

“No my dear,
any more rain drop
on an over-burdened flower
will make it totally unburdened
and the flower may fly away
to the spring’s sky”

-,..

Are you online?

The river was still waiting
as the wind entered the eighth sky.
The tree too forgot the last bird
that sat on its autumn branch.
There prevailed an eternal stillness.
It is then the drizzle started
its music.
By the time it became a heavy rain,
the era’s last song was sung.
You and I are now destined to be
eternally still,
or virtually relate to each other
hoping the other is real
as well a mirage.
Let the continuum continue to get lost
in the extremity.

,..

another voice

if you haven't heard the voice

never mind

you will be called again

how to wake a river up?

the river slept on its way
and the sea kept on waiting
waves are thus endless

clear my sky

i still feel cloudy
though the sky is so clear.
are you by any chance
sending me a rain?

flowing back...

by reaching the sea,

the river asked,

'is there any way to go back?'

is that ok?

I of course promise your democratic space,

but you should ask only my questions

and should be contented with my answers.

the white sheet

That was a misty winter night
We of course lit the fire together
Just little fire and
more and more unjust smoke.
Not sure that we tried to
flame it up
for once we threw our firewood
in the greater sea.
What remained was then
a combination of mist and smoke.
Little white and little grey.
But tell me one thing,
was that really a milky white sheet,
covering us in those moments?

,..

A Blue Moon Night ...

Those more-than-equal friends
were sitting inside to meditate
or to jump within themselves.
It was then the dogs started barking.
Our less-than-equal friend
who was sitting outside
jumped onto the way
to bring back the 'meditative' silence
if not to stone the dogs away.
Though the first dogs stopped barking
next dogs started
and so the other dogs in the region.
The blue moon sky
was still black then.

,..