re-acting...

once on the stage

whatever one does

becomes a part

of acting . . .

,..

a conversation on the last boat . . .

'What if one misses

the last boat?',

asked my friend.

'You will be sent

another one',

I replied

while waiting

for my fifth-last-boat.

,..

paired . . .

As I was telling you
about the mirror
that reflects a mirror,
a star appeared
reflecting the smile
that filled your lips.
Then you gave me the job
of counting
all the stars that appear
reflecting the first star.
I have seen
no dawn
after that.

,..

some more...

The evening
gets into a trance
with the beauty of
wandering white clouds.
And without looking at
the nest of colours
that the sun makes
in the disappearing sky,
the moon-flower blossoms
as bright white light...

,..

An unwritten story
is wandering
amidst the
written stories...

,..

A word's journey
starts in its meaning
and ends
with its interpretation...

,..

secreting...

The secrets
that you deciphered,
listening to my heartbeats
are your secrets too...

,..

c o l o u r s . . .

'We are supposed to
create our own stories.
Look what are we doing,
we are letting others to
create stories
with us being part of them',
I wanted to establish
the philosophical context
of our time-space.

She was but looking at
the west
as the sun started to set.

Intrigued by her calmness,
I too set my vision
on the western sky
and drowned into those
endless shades. 

Restoring myself in a while,
I started collecting
some of the colours in my eyes.

She looked at me with a question.
'Collecting some for you',
I responded.

'Spread them on me',
she said.

And I did exactly what she said,
just to see the colours becoming
more colourful.

As the sky became darker,
all the bright and not-so-bright stars
started staring at us
and kept on wondering about
those two missing stars
from among them.

,..

what now ...

We held our hands
in an unknown moment
and decided to be a pair
of all weathers.

That day we were walking around
the mountain
which everyone ignored
as unscalable. 
But, soon
we found ourself
on the peak of the same.

Looking down from there,
I asked her,
'Are we going to jump?'.

Holding my hands with warmth
and looking at the sky,
she said,
'No, we are going to fly...'

,..

at present . . .

You go and live
the hell or heaven of your life.
Let me be here
hanging from the ceiling
without knowing
whether dead or alive.

,..

let it drizzle

the drizzling
is earnestly trying
to erase the darkness
off this wordful night.

now you please
let the drizzling believe that
it's not only the sun
that can do so.

,..

nesting sky . . .

You are the only one
who could recognise
those numerous lights
in my darker sky.

Still, I am trying in a hurry
to conceal the sky
in an abandoned nest.

Now, please don't send me
your birds
that lay star eggs. 

,..

... marquez

I am bitten by the 'missing' you,
though my mornings start
by finding you.

,..

whose moon!?

one hand can
of course hide the moon
but only for you

,..

a word and another . . .

a word
that just woke up
from a greater dream
tries to wake up
another word
that is sleeping

,..

Word of rain . . .

The chattering wind was still around then.

It carried no song of love,
but our discourse was full of
lovable words.

We talked about
all beautiful things
in our sphere.

About the sun that hides behind any white cloud,
about the bullock cart
that starts in the morning
to drag time to reach till the night,
about the boy who drew the vast sea
and a small boat that carried us to
the other shore,
and so on.

When we started drinking
silence from our tea-cups,
the sky turned dark with
burdened clouds. 

I tried to disown any sense of belonging,
and was just staring at you
as a child sitting amused
on mother's lap.

It was then you said
'Let it rain' . . .
and it rained.

,..

Fill in the blank . . .

Silenced by
that morning's pink sun,
her mother was
sitting calm,
when I visited them
last evening.

I saw the girl
looking at the sky
and counting.

'Are you counting
how many stars are there?',
I asked her.

'No',
she smiled.

'Then?'

'I am counting
how many are yet to come?'

,..

Do you know why?

'There is no communication
among inequals',
philosophised my friend
the other day.

'But why should there be communication
among equals?',
asked the boy
sitting next to us.

,..

The pink sun

'It's the same sun
but another day',
she was trying to
convince the child
this morning.

'No, mom!
It's the same day
but another sun',
said the child decisively.

The sun was of pink colour then.

,..

Possessed . . .

'I have started morning walks',
the poet was telling his friend
last evening.

'You must be writing more poems these days'
responded the friend.

'I don't write poems'

'Yeah I know . . . you must be capturing
the happening poem'

'I don't capture either,
actually, it's the poem that captures me'

'Oh! so you want to say that
poems are capturing you more frequently
these days!'

'No. I select different paths on different days
to avoid being captured by the poems'

'That's interesting.
How's it possible?'

'It's not that difficult,
poems do have seasons.
During the pre-monsoon,
poems come to you
on the wings of
white little butterflies.
One needs to select
the desert path then'

'mm...'

'During the monsoon
in the neighbouring land,
poems come to you
on the mischievous wind.
It tries to enter you
disguised as dusty sand.
One should then walk along the river 
as its flow
will silence the chattering wind'

'mm...'

'During the spring,
poems get into the fragrance
of wild flowers.
It's then better to walk
on the sides of broad highways,
where the air is filled with
the smoke of modernity'

'mm...'

'During the winter,
it waits right next to your doorstep
as an early morning thief.
One should stay inside the house
covering oneself fully with a blanket
and pretending to sleep.
Never come out till the day is warm'

'mm...'

'When it rains
the valley gets filled with poems
and it's wise then to climb the hill'

'mm...
that's why I saw you
climbing the hill the other day'

'Yes'

'But you still posted a poem
that day'

'True!
I climbed upto the hilltop
and was coming back.
After a little while
I just glanced over the valley
out of sheer curiosity.
It is then that poem recognised me,
flew across to the hilltop
only to jump on me from there'

':-)'

,..

I exist . . .

I remember
the first bird of the morning
to go out of that banyan tree
unfolded its wings
when I stepped into
the tree's shadeless base.

I remember
the first rain of the monsoon
poured down heavily
when I threw that
mango seed in my backyard.

I remember
the first crane of the season
to land on that paddy field,
arrived with its flock
when I crossed the canal
supplying water to the field.

I remember
the first star to appear
in that evening,
brightened up
when I looked above.

I wonder
if I could just remember
the first fish
to come out of its egg
in that endless sea . . .
also what did I do then?

,..

 

a small question . . .

'Why do you think
all these dialogues and discussions
among the leaders
are always a failure?',
asked a small girl this morning.

'No', I said.

'Because there is no one to follow'

,..

mirroring . . .

'How is the other aspect of life, 
marriage?', 
asked my bachelor friend the other day. 

'That is a roller coaster ride', 
I said. 

'So where are you at this point of time, 
crest or trough?' 

'On a high note...' 
I smiled and added, 
'That may turn opposite at any point and 
that is what the challenging part of it' 

'OK, but ...... 
can't there be a smooth ride?' 

'No, there can't be' 

'Why so?' 

'Because, it is something that travels on two parallel tracks, 
which look alike but are not the same' 

'I couldn't get that', 
he became restless. 

'I mean that the life after marriage 
depends upon two persons who may look alike 
but are not the same. 
So differences are common...' 

'I really do not know how to understand your condition. 
Do you want to say that there is 
no possibility of having sameness?' 

'Exactly, 
so the boat rocks' 

'So the generalisation which follows is that - 
Marriages can not make one happy, 
isn't it?' 

'No, marriages need not make one only happy, 
will be the generalisation' 

'Then what is the purpose of 
getting married?' 

'It is like looking at the mirror, 
what do you think the purpose is?' 

'That is what I am trying to find out?' 

'It is to look at yourself, 
admire the beauty and 
worry about the ugliness at times 
and also to realise that 
one is both beautiful and ugly' 

,..

Let it be . . .

Let those stray birds flock again in your branches

Let the wind flow through their feathers

Let the heap of withered leaves under your autumn branches

be another mountain for the moon to raise from behind

Let the song of rain sung for the first time

When the night falls down,

let the song carry the darkness and keep your branches

brighter than ever before

Let the world stay calm that it

will listen to your growing desires and thus

unexpect your fruits

Let the greatest soul give the river

another chance to flow by your side

Let children throw your seeds into the river

that reaches places

Let no bridges built across our river

as we ensure its flow

by being on its two different banks

Let you raise again and again in love and

Let you grow again and again till the time ceases

Let faces fade in and fade out

and the memories too

Let you be everywhere

and thus be nowhere in this conscious game

,..

God with the dancing feet . . .

Just after everything has fallen
into the rhythm,
we all started talking
about our Gods.

"My God is innocent",
said the first one.
"She just sits in the centre,
listening to everything
but never lean to any one-side"

"My God is too caring",
started the next one.
"She showers flowers on me
and comes to me
every-time I am unable to walk
by myself"

"My God plays the song of love",
he started explaining  with
shining eyes.
"He makes me love
every small thing on this earth"

"My God is a guide,
he helps me to pass through
those paths
that have never been traversed"

"My God hates rituals"

"My God sleeps on a heap of stories"

"My God is afraid of her own self"

"My God is lazy"

"My God has big ears",
one sounded interesting
amidst the rush of words
to describe our Gods.
"He listens to my music and
he meditates on it"

"My God is trying to be Godot",
one gave the discourse
a literary touch.

"My God is confused and is
always contemplating",
said the last one of us.

And she,
who brought in the rhythm,
was sitting calm
with a warm smile.

When asked about her God,
she said . . .
"My God has dancing feet"
All of us were a bit surprised.
"Ga-ma-la, Ga-ma-la . . .
she dances when I sing.
Dum-dum-dum, Dum-dum-dum . . .
she dances when I beat my drum"

By invoking the silence in all of us,
she concluded . . .
"And that's how my God comes to me,
always with her dancing feet"

,..

Sabine . . .

Under the dark-lit
moonless sky,
she joined the single candle
that was struggling to
bring in some light.

Her voice filled in
the space between
drum beats and heart beats.

'Where is this song from?',
he asked.

'From my land',
she smiled.

'And where is that?',
he sounded curious.

She pointed her heart
as the lone candle made the night
brighter than ever before.

,..

floating around . . .

distanced from the past

not fitting into the present

don't want to think about the future

,..

the middle path . . .

Being in a 'total destruction' mood,
our friend was on
with his morning walk.

On the way he saw a troubled person
wandering in the road
and pretending to search something.

"What are you searching here?",
asked our friend.

"I am searching the middle path.
Do you think, you can help me in this?",
asked the wanderer.

With the usual smile -
responded our friend,
"I can't as you are already
in the middle of the path"

,..