Colors of punishment

Take her hand. 
Stop the little girl,
Inside you,
Who you punish.

Like an old violin tune
Played out on a mandolin,
My skin emanates 
Your scent.

I skip over stones,
Bend below barbed wires.
I want to wear 
You
Everywhere.

Let us pluck love
As cobalt strawberries
From the skies,
As you bite my lips
Red.

In a world where 'I' no more exist,
My skin shall be
Your sky above.
Let my summer heart
Warm
Your winters.

No, you can't go back. 
We've turned the tides of time:
We've colored everything.

The Mist

The hunter rebels,

Her caring hands soothe...

The prey 

Stops its prayers,

Written as poems,

On paper wrinkled

Cashew and indigo ink.

Her fragrance floats

Across my pages

From second-hand bookstores.

She's a metaphor as deep 

As a child reading poems

With rose-tinted glasses.

A mystery that envelops 

An undead village surrounded by mist

In the dark.

I stare. 

Stand.

Watch. 

Her lone survivor.

Lucid

Someone would've hurt you
A trauma would've cursed you. 
Which is why that smile never leaves you.

Come to the land by the sea
Where no one knows you by your face
Where the cold breeze from the sea
Warms your cold skin
By the fire.

Let us hold hands without a plan.
If needed, rearrange the house and make it your 
Home. 
All housemates are mere guests
Only I will always stay.

Those few moments before you awaken 
From your sleep,
Let me in. 

Let us sink
Into God's lucid dream.

Light of your own night

This burial ground,
We call our body
Where a thousand hearts
Die. 

Let us resurrect.

This mausoleum,
We think of as our mind
Where a thousand thoughts are born
And more dreams die.

Let us rise and erect.

Let us go.
Rather, arrive.
Shameless,
Into that bloodshed night.

Come, shine a bit
On your own
On moonless nights
Like the moon.

For in the light of 
Your own nights
I belong to you.

A new poem, anew

Come, let us 'time pass'.
Or, think of better ways to pass time
Than sitting at the silent shores, listening to stormy waves 
While trying to hold on to sand in our fists.

Come, let us make our doors into windows.
Come, keep both our dreams:
One below your pillow,
The other in my left eye.

This October rain and magic
That drips from my inked lips
You always thought mere poetry.

No, this is my revolution:
When the sun bleeds into the sea,
The moon blooms under your cloudy skin.
A razor-edged crown fits my heads.

We know we'll never give up;
It's difficult to wait
But worse to regret
Not waiting.

You flower,
I'll be the leaves that wither.
Together till the end, 
You'll either end up on me or an idol.

Our poetry may end
For our
Poem to be born.

A new address

Sleepless nights, drowsy days.
People and cattle graze and meander, 
Ruminating on bygone yesterdays.

Some cities sell dreams, some melt like
Ice creams.
No city was ever made to hear your 
Screams.

Sunny balconies that hide tearful bedrooms.
Bathrooms where lustful uncles peep.

Busy schools and empty playgrounds.
Buses and trains and automobiles.

 

Potted plants and terraced gardens 
Personify farmlands that once were.

Half interested florists 
Mimic forests that once were.

Abandoned and reclaimed lakes froth in anger, 
Where monsoon brings acid rains.
Amidst all this horror, like a lotus in a dirty lake,
Love stories bloom.

In buses and trains, in theaters and cafes,
Among sweaty talcum-powdered underarms 
And carefully applied make ups and sunscreens 
Under umbrellas, corner bus stops, metro lights, and lamp posts
Waiting for a few sea breezes
Under the sultry sun and the scorching earth…

Love finds its way 
Like an old postman
Finds a new address
In an ever-bulging new city.

Inspired by all the dreams in between by Ananda

You, to me

Silent, serene serendipity 

Descended as a dawn.

A text from a farm miles away

Changed everything,

One fine day.

Tales of the past, 

Things that ended and stuff that last

Out every crevice, we cast.

We texted, we sighed,

Everything that we wished, we hide.

Coffee and café. Life and loves. 

Adventures and misadventures alike

We read aloud like bookmarks 

From our favorite chapters.

Between our crowded Jupiter to our Snubby, 

We’ve added more than a set of wheels.

Between your favorite music and my ghazals, 

We’ve made the wind dance between us.

A toast to this special day 

When your mom and dad 

Blessed this naked earth

With a dark goddess…

Come, let’s sip our wine like the sea inside.

Partake of our daily baked bread

That makes my Cinnamom’s heart 

Swell with pride.

I love how your chocolate cake and 

Cookies crumble in my mouth

While we complete this song of love

For you to smile and a 1000 fireflies to come alive.

Somewhere, my heart holding your flower vase cracks,

The petals float to rest between your crooked toenails.

These words do not alone a poem make

Your hands hold it like a kite 

Set against a yet unseen sky.

I hope this lukewarm poem 

May find you warm

And hide inside your soul.

Put this poem near your favorite succulents,

May they may grow better.

Let their thorny exoskeleton know

What only you and I can feel 

but no one else can touch.

Does this simple poem remind you of

Love letters from 

The sunflowers to the sea?

Wish I was the lighthouse 

And you the ship that carry those?

During these unforeseen types of lockdown, 

I want you to go peek

At the moon, look at the sky,

Play with the waves,

Heal your soul and

Unlock our love.

Now, am left 

Wondering 

Did this poem write itself?

And

How many poems about our love

Will you make me write?

Till you read 

And reply 

With a poem of your own? 😊

Ever-changing permanence

The holy hill is blanketed by a thick cloud throughout the day.

The foreigner, who seeks, is still seeking silently as he sits right next to the door from the mother's shrine to the samadhi hall.

The Japanese lady, Shunya, has aged gracefully. She still sits on her stool and sings the parayanam. 

The 'beautifullest woman in the world', who's name I know not, still sits behind the bronze statue of Bhagwan and spreads her grace to all who perform pradakshina around his samadhi.

The twin sisters have grayed a bit but their voice hasn't aged. 

The president of the ashram and his wife still occupy center stage though it takes the president longer time to reach his chair now.

Illayaraaja inconspicuously comes, graces the mother's shrine and the samadhi and partakes of his blessings and offerings.

Prasadji's zest for life and relationships still matters in this indifferent world.

Ramana is still here. For all those, who can feel him.

The parayanam goes on with sustained and renewed energy each day. 

Somethings change and somethings don't in this ever-changing permanent asramam, a microcosm of the world.

Bits and pieces

Poetic chaos we're,

Intoxicated from the somras 

Of love from a cup

Common to us

And us, alone.

I always question time

When am waiting for you.

I ask time 

Why can't we go back to the time we first met?

And relive, once again?

Our souls have no boundaries 

Unlike our bodies.

But, they too emulate the soul 

When they try to become one 

In sacred communion with each other.

What's rain you ask?

It's the sky crying out for you and me 

When it sees us under separate clouds!

My life was like a meter gauge with foliage running over it 

Till you came chugging along, 

Whistling away my worries, 

Trundling along my wounds, 

On-boarding all my dreams 

And dropping them off 

To their ideal destination.

My poems can sometimes be prayers,

Trying their best to let you know

That nothing you wear 

Is better than your smile.

A love letter

What is it that you seek, a love letter? A mere love letter doesn’t do justice to your love, my beloved.

It’s like the sun asking for a bit of moonlight.

Like the moonlight asking for city-lights.

Like the city-lights asking for a lamp.

Like the lamp asking for a wick.

Like the wick asking for a breeze.

Like the breeze asking for air. 

Like the air asking for breath.

Like the breath asking for its life.

Like life asking for love.

Like love asking for a heart.

Like the heart asking for music.

Like the music asking for a song.

Like the song asking for a tune.

Like the tune asking for rhythm.

Like the rhythm asking for a pattern.

Like the pattern asking for a shape.

Like the shape asking for form. 

Like the form asking for matter.

Like the matter asking for energy.

Like the energy asking for its source.

Because the source of my energy is you in the shape of a lotus garland on the meditating Maheshwara, the form of my love is in rhythm with his damru, which is in tune with your favorite song… 

Its pattern repeats with aumkara’s eternal music that’s always played in the heart, which seeks and knows only love, which is life with breath, blending with the air around us, carrying our love-making fragrance in the breeze that sustains the light on the kidavillaku’s wick, even when I am asleep with my thoughts about you as Chennai’s city-lights drown the otherworldly moonlight eternally granted by the sun while awaiting sunrise!

Indebted for life, gratefully

Last Sunday night was unlike any night. I weathered a storm, which was unexpected. A dark, dark night.

I showed courage and true grit that I didn't know I possessed inside me. It was an awakening and a test of sorts. The kind of test that makes sentient humans stand out from instinct-driven animals.

Few of my oldest best friends came to know about the incident and they gave me their best advices and suggestions. Very valid points and very valid concerns. I am grateful to them for wishing me well and being concerned about my safety.

Monday dawned. It was the beginning of an anxious and uncertain day. After a long sleepless night.

Two angels came over to my place. Their calm and  thoughtful presence revealed that behind their young and child-like behavior, there's a mature and loving soul with a golden heart.

They spent the entire day with me. They comforted me and made a simple lunch. In the evening, after  the storm had passed and the emotional skies had cleared up, the man-child treated us to a lovely dinner at Ciclo Cafe.

This emotional mood piece is my only way of showing my humble gratitude to them, my heroes. Jona and Vaishnavi, the world is a much better place because of you.

I am indebted to you both forever for in my darkest hour, you weren't showing me where the light was, you didn't point your finger to the moon,  and you didn't perform an autopsy of my life and its irrational decisions or my eccentricities. You didn't play the devil's advocate. You didn't tell me to come over to your place, if I need to.

You came over to my place and just stayed. You asked me whether I am okay. You held my hands and made me believe that the next generation is not bereft of values and emotions. You worked silently. You spoke gently. Your faces revealed your tender love and care.

Jona and Vaish, I promise you I'll be there for you.
I'll be present. In that present moment.

And my advice, my words, my concerns will always take a back seat when all you need is my presence.

41 conversations

1. Your wishes and my words on 

Opposite skewed windowsills.

2. The wind and the wave froth and spray

Over the shores.

3. The bird and the bee stalk and stare

Over each flower.

4. Fearless nights and phaseless moon

Over a dark though glittering ocean.

5. Whispered stories and unechoed songs

Over a ghazal and jaambhari shyam.

6. Worn out filigree syllables and articulate anecdotes

Held hands with trembling voices.

7. My mind’s chatoyant seas with your angelic hues

Over simmering oolong tea.

8. Your braided hair with my painted body

Over an hour-long foreplay.

9. Your pirouette dance and my whirling dervishes

Painted over a Sufi dream.

10. Your illusions with my hallucinations

Over an ice cream-filled rainbow sky.

11. Between fire and ghee 

Over the yagna as the gods please.

12. Between my petrichor and your skin

When your rain falls upon my words.

13. Your rebirth and my new beginning

When our eyes met, and souls stirred.

14. Your free frocks of freedom and hidden sunshine

When peals of your laughter meet my smile.

15. Your love-scented candles with my breezy poetry

On lavender fields laced with our promises.

16. Between the waft of a flute from a sacred cowherd

And the damsel dancer near the riverbank.

17. When my hands play with your sighing hair

On my heaving chest.

18. When the blanket covers your mutated ears

And we see the moon rise.

19. When the early morning’s warmth mixes with 

Our cupped hands over coffee.

20. Between the crucified son of man and the kneeling 

prayer in an old wooden church.

21. When a butterfly wing brushed against your cheek

Just before my kiss goodbye.

22. Between the night and the nightingale’s early morning song

As the sun rises.

23. Between your bosom’s fragrance and my lips

As we make love yet again.

24. When a mother nudges her infant

As he/she takes the first stride.

25. Between the kiss that heals a wound 

And the smile that blooms on your face.

26. Before you open my eyes, you’ll hear me. 

What feelings arouse.

27. When I bring my words for your soul. 

And honesty knows the truth. 

28. Your words that I want to water your soul with. 

And your words fill assurance in my being. 

29. When your blood flows out

And covers my chest of memories. 

30. Between our past lives speak to us. 

Reminding us our forgotten voices and unnamed journeys. 

31. When you touch me as if I am a sacred altar, 

Our love will be a home for your prayers. 

32. When I touch you without hesitation. 

And the universe heals in your gentle caress. 

33. When love is our better guide than the world around.

And we walk together.

34. Between your otherworldly blind love 

And my left feet dancing.

35. When the snow and dew argued 

On the leaves of the cherry tree. 

36. Between the time between two notes

And the pause required to gather the right words.

37. Between your cherry blossom lips 

And your scarf darker than me.

38. Between my favorite breakfast and your favorite dinner

The day that passes by like a stream of consciousness poem. 

39. It is in these conversations that I find warmth through my day.

40. It is in these conversations you find safety in your stride. 

41. Let’s speak from our heart as today’s your birthday, our new beginning.

Stranger Things

You're...

The freer of my love.

The pardoner of my past.

The gift to my soul.

The taste on my tongue.

The orgasm of my heart.

The beauty in my eyes.

The future of my dreams.

The love of my life.

The alpha to my omega.

The Z of my alphabet.

The truth of my love.

The reason for my existence.

Heaven is where you hide.
Hell is where you're absent.

Darkness is when you exhaust your laughter,
Light is when you smile,
And, bliss is when you look at me.

Happiness is your kiss,
Love is when your eyes flutter;
My heart beats in the same rhythm.

And, Stranger Things may have happened on this planet, 
but none stranger and stronger than our love.

Sacred altar

You're an elegant lady, 

A cup of jasmine tea. 

You're the gentle breeze that lends ear to a wind chime...

A mother, who rushes to her children's room. 

You're that face of kindness, which I recall

From Ramana and a few more. 

You're a gentle greeting, 

Not a WhatsApp wish. 

You're the one who brings words for my poetry 

From your chest full of memories. 

You're that gentle kiss 

On past wounds.

Come, let’s love like it’s our last life on this planet.

Come, talk to me of your past lives. 

And, let me touch you as if you're a sacred altar. 

I know, you were sent to me

To walk an uncharted voyage. 

Come, let's fly away, 

To a world of sunlit truth

Where your fears have no more power 

To pin you down.

And, in our journey, 

You shall find safety in your stride.

Annadhanam

As I was having annadhanam at Mammiyoor Shiva Kshetram today, I remembered a Westerner's concerned exclamation to me at Thiruvannamalai, "There are no free lunches in the world; free lunches happen only in India."

We're so used to it, right? 

I remember my first partaking of annadhanam was at Dharmasthala, Karnataka. I was in school, probably in 7th grade or something. I don't remember the Manjunathaswamy temple or the bus ride; all I remember even now is that annadhanam we had. My mother, brother, and grandparents.

So many temples, ashrams, and gurudwaras across India give free food that it's not news or disbelief anymore. In fact, people stand in queues to have such annadhanam as they consider it prasad (god's own offering).

Thiruvannamalai has so many temples and ashrams that give free breakfast, lunch, and dinner that all the sadhus and others, who stay on girivalam don't need to beg for food at least. Many devotees also cook food in their homes and distribute it along girivalam.

Ramana Ashram also has a free dispensary and a free library for all. Food that satisfies hunger, medicines that take care of illness, and food for thought, all offered for free.

Annadhanam is such a beautiful concept because what it eliminates is an instinct that doesn't discriminate. Hunger is a great equalizer. The rich, the poor, the needy, the greedy, the blind, the atheist, the leper, the sadhu, the householder, the seeker, the adwaitin, the agnostic, the dwaitin... they all feel it. Annadhanam feeds them all. 

Therefore, it's the greatest daanam of them all.

The Staircase

Just like The Fall, The Staircase is a deep and insightful look into what goes through a person's mind. In fact, it's better than The Fall as it's a documentary.

This mini-series (just one season) is kind of a mirror to those who proclaim to know their close ones and friends better than they know themselves! 

Very few people know their own minds with clarity and objective observation, which comes only through deep, long, and periodic contemplation... Most live a life of projections and wear their masks and facades to hide from the world and from themselves what they truly are. So, I find it pretty preposterous when people claim to know their best friend or partner better than the best friend or partner knowing himself/herself! 

Well, this series is a documentary on the death of American novelist Michael Peterson's second wife, Kathleen. 

The documentary follows 15 years of a death's aftermath... How it consumes and changes the lives of all associated with it. 

What happens during the long trial and its closure (?!) is an interesting watch of how a family and extended family reacts to the same incident. 

How an independent incident that happened some years ago can come up to impact the present. How correlation and causation can be confusing.

How secrets, sexual orientations, and dark sides can come back to haunt you later in life. 

How biases and prejudices impact a jurors and even the sitting judge! How a defense lawyer can go all out to protect his client, how the prosecution may have fiddled or fumbled to get their alleged murderer. 

How external factors can make or break a good life. 

It shows how destiny and fate are closely inter-related and how this interplay is what makes life so unpredictable.

Mein aur hum

Hasraton aur zarooraton ke beech 
Ek lolak ki tarah...
Mein aur hum.

Mein se hum tak,
Hum se mein tak.

Kabhi kabhi hairaan hoon ki
Ki isme waqt lagta hain
Kitna kam!

Bas tick-tock tak...
Bahut saari khushiyan
Aur thode se gham.

Imprisoned in the wheels of time by the hands of fate

I know of people, who were given death sentences. 

They knew their dates were up. Their days numbered. They have few days or months or years to live before they'll be put to death either in hospitals or prisons!

What will be going through their minds? What will be their last wishes: a last look, a final glimpse, the last meal, final love?!

Days pass by through mundane activities amidst: Work or rest, jailers or doctors, sentries or nurses, high walls or low beds. As days go by, visitors come and go. They talk for a bit. Share outside news. Talk about family, if any. Talk about weather and sons and such grown-up wishes alike!

Nights never pass by. Dreams clash with REM sleep. Insomnia and hallucinations play hide and seek while they watch. Scared. Relentlessly scared. Itching for time-travel to turn back the hands of time. To stop state-sponsored murder or death by disease or delay thereof. 

This much remains. The cold window of his cell or ward. Slurs spoken over walkie-talkies or life-supporting machines... 

Lives extinguished or taken away by the hands of crime or the wheels of fate.

But, I don't know of anyone, who's been given a similar death sentence in love. His date is up. His days numbered. He has just two more years before he ends up alone both in love and on the bed.

What will be going through his mind? What will be his last wish? Can he even wish for anything, which was remotely his once upon a time? Like two enchanted snails made of clay?

Days chug along like a freight train carrying others' baggage through mundane activities amidst: Work or rest, Netflix or Prime, movies or books, huge halls or small bedrooms. As days go by, visitors come and go. They talk for a bit. Share outside news. Talk about family, if any. Talk about weather and sons and such grown-up wishes alike!

Nights never pass by. Dreams clash with REM sleep. Insomnia and hallucinations play hide and seek. Scared. Relentlessly scared. Itching for time-travel to turn back the hands of time. To stop love-induced death or coma thereof. 

This much remains. He realizes that they too, like him, were two enchanted snails made of clay... 

Molded by the hands of fate over the wheel of time.

A father figure, who'll I miss. A lot.

For years from very early in our childhood and till now, there was an uncle. An amazing family friend, more of a family man himself, lovingly known, called, and fondly remembered as Babu Uncle by Ani and I.

He passed away few days ago. I hope it was a peaceful death. For he deserves it.

When people close to you die, they leave behind a void. A void that will be filled with a surge of emotions inside of you every time you think of the memories they leave behind. He left behind such a huge void. 

A rocking chair/easy chair will never be the same for me anymore. For he loved nothing more than sitting on such chairs, cracking jokes all the while with paan in his mouth... 

"Edi... Abhi must be hungry! Give him lunch on time! He's not like Prashant!" will forever echo in my humble heart.  

I still remember Shikari Shambu, Dennis the Menace, and more such comic characters sketched by him on the wall in their earlier apartment where Ani, Pravin, Prashant, and I used to spend days and nights playing and watching TV.

That sweet taste of Maltova mixed and frozen with semiya payasam still lingers on in my mouth... So does the spicy and tangy aftertaste of veggie Maggi noodles he had made for all of us on a balmy Sunday afternoon during some forsaken summer vacation. 

Going for Pravin's chorunnu at Goregaon's Bangur Nagar Ayyappa temple with him and family is my first first class experience in Bombay's suburban train! 

Maths was easier till 8th standard or so because he taught me equations like a squared plus b squared is equal to c squared. Also, I remember one of my best summer months (the summer of '94) spent at his place along with Prashant when my parents and Ani had gone to Kerala as I had enrolled for Dhananjay classes! 

His glorious jokes (sometimes, PJs) on different aspects of life, living, work, and government apathy lifted all of us from misery even when we were in the doldrums. 

Yes, he drank. Some of my purest memories of him are when he was drunk, but he was, in fact, extremely affectionate to all of us. Drinking was his only vice and it took him away sooner from us than death would've.

I still remember him enjoying warm Kerala sadhya at my home on many occasions. I remember him making fun of Bhadra Aunty's cooking style, method, and time for preparation, especially.

I still remember the awe in my eyes when I saw the first Videocon semi-automatic washing machine washing clothes at his place without any human intervention! That green machine made me more curious of how stuff works!

The number of times he and Bhadra Aunty have helped our family in times of need is legendary. I remember him/her paying Ani's and my school computer classes' fees on multiple occasions. When my grandmother passed away and many folks had come from all over Vasai and Kerala for cremation, I spied him putting a wad of INR 10K into my dad's shirt pocket without anyone else noticing.

He was an honest MSEB engineer, a great father to his sons, a good husband, and a wonderful father figure for Ani and me. You know, he was the kind of man who made sweet stuff sweeter in life.

May he attain moksha. Blessed is his soul.

Dollops of tears

I've cried before while watching TV. 

Movies, series, documentaries, they've all made me cry. Watching Vatsalyam has always made me cry every time and so has that song, Rooth kar humse kahin too.

------------------------------------------------------
Mild spoiler alert!

But, Episodes 16 through 18 of This is Us - Season 1 made me cry. Dollops of tears. William was such a good man; Jack was such a good man. Such great fathers... The values and the art they imbibed. No wonder they have Randall and Kevin and Kate. And, they get Becca and Sophie and Toby.
---------------------------------------------------------

So much of life is a dance of death between fate and destiny. A dance between your DNA and your environment. A dance between childhood and adolescence.

It's good, you know. Tears. 

It cleans your eyes while cleansing your heart.

A lot of bottled up feelings and repressed thoughts get out along with those teardrops. This is Us has been a very cathartic series for me and, I guess, it has led me into soul searching quite a bit. 

It has been a therapist and a shoulder to cry on too, I guess. 

I am not ashamed to say that this series has done a lot more than any friend has in recent times. 

I needed this day. Today.

I needed to cry out loud. Sometimes, in bursts. In deep sighs at other times. Into escapism sometimes.

For the ones, who know me are far away right now. Very. Far. Away. So far that neither their text would help nor a call. For all you need sometimes is just a hand to hold. And, an eye to behold.

And, when you're down and out... Like you feel that some stuff just sucks the stuff out of you, there's nothing that can't be cured by mini-idlis wallowing in hot sambhar! 

So, here I go!