Big Brother

 

Big Brother,

O thou mighty cult leader,

I’m afraid you ‘rule’, not ‘serve’,

You majestically float

above the ground realities

and cast a shadow

which clouds our minds

with downsizing rhetoric, jingoism,

ideologies and vain principles,

No wonder, we turn blind followers

and lose ‘independence of thought

and spontaneity of action’,

Our collective mind gets primed

for a doctored reality

where you turn the ultimate savior.

I’m not surprised that

you have an inherent distaste

for free thinkers, intellectuals,

artists and philosophers,

You just hate anyone

who doesn’t fit in the

the mold of your doctored reality.

Monsoons

 

Amid the burning sands of June,

when a koel sings a sweet song,

it’s nothing but mother earth’s

pining melody to cajole father sky

into clouds of emotions and precipitation,

He then embraces her

with his showery arms.

And smoldering in this heat,

dear reader,

here we wait for the monsoons.  

Some soup of peace in a solitary bowl

 

Here I stand on the edge

of a stony ledge

and look into the calm vastness

filled in this small bowl

of a little valley,

There is guileless silence,

I look with enormous wonderment,

Here the knots and blots of

forbidden intimacies open up,

and twisted love becomes peace.

A little stream flows

with astounding fluidity,

The sun marveling at

its own exquisite, ripply reflection

in a little pool,

Silence and peace

hung between timidity and cordiality,

Languorous sky imbued with solemnity,

And a lone lark

keeping  a solitary vigilance

over this unruffled, calm and gentility

in a little corner

far away from all

noise, wars, tantrums and fights.

The cost of love

 

The foaming sea of memories

swashing on the

hot beach of my heart,

carrying infinite illusions

on the muleback,

Her beauty’s fireworks keeping alive

the youthful torrents of love

even in a greying head,

Caught in the throbs of love and longing,

Mired in endless suffocating tedium

following the ephemeral splendor,

sumptuous ceremonies

and celebrations of fresh love,

here I plod like a luckless ass

sinking into the quicksands of pain.

Aah, the barbarous vacillations of time!

My persona mined with pain

born of the love that was lost,

Misery pulling me with abominable longing,

I walk with faltering strides,

She is still there

as a mirage on the burning sands,

Smiling, drawing me further

into the barren innards of the desert,

where there is no water,

hope, flower or trees,

This is the cost

she still demands for our shared past.

The ruler of a prison

 

O thou poor mankind,

A king in deluxe imprisonment,

Reveling in entanglements of prejudices,

Enjoying conventions and their privileges,

Illegalities creeping in the shadows

of name and fame,

While mother nature

watching with silent fury

the child’s twisted innocence

and dominant frivolities,

His soul rusting due to routine,

The material self moving

with a firm, commanding step,

The fat hominid arrogance

smirking with malicious fullness,

Surrendered to splendid helplessness

and puerile amusement,--

A king indeed

who learnt to rule hell

after destroying all that

which was once heaven.

Far away from the maddening crowd

 

Far away from

tiresome illusions; 

the rancor and bitterness of

abundant moral rigidities;

where love’s crazy preambles

push one against the other

for mad passion leading to

loveless entanglements and relationships;

where the best plan can be

to gulp down humiliation

in a single swallow;

the dormant grief seeking exit

through illusionary pathways;

helpless, exhausted mind

ironing and re-ironing the past;

ensnared in custom’s captivity;

sickened souls infested with bugs of gloom;

ruled by the confidantes of whispering shadows;

the embittered paradise

with its wreckage of social weight;

where one ought to

learn to love practically and survive;

the ghosts of guilt

soaping and cleaning the dusted conscience;

where one’s always pursued

by an unknowable shadow

with its secret impulses of

tenacious longing,

catching one in a blinding flash of immaturity;

where what strikes as love

is usually an assemblage of conveniences—

name, fame, home, hearth, security and wealth;

where the mistress of fate

rules with fantasies of sin and whispers,

‘You can be happy in love many times’;

Where the custom of normal love

is simply for routine use;

where dreams are always shifting away

from the zone of possibility.

 

Away from all this

wreckage of social weight,

Away from the

cuffs and collars of pretensions,

Here in this restorative solitude,

The seed of joy sprouting

from the mystery-shrouded soil,

Here I feel love without lies,

Here fears reconcile to refreshed vitality

and the soul feels pure love,--

the one primary love

that is immune to all contagions.

 

A portrait of love

 

She thought she’d found an exotic bird,

All past disappointments blurred,

Love adopted a new word,

Joyfully her female self stirred,

But alas he turned out to be a nerd

deeply absorbed in black and white;

carried just a quite light,

It was no rainbow bright,

The prince of her dreams out of sight,

Again a restless night

after that free float and frolicking flight,

Vanished that fresh delight

when arrived the repackaged love,

The bruised self coming to life with fresh shove,

It was but the same hand

in a different glove.

 

There she stood with her broken dreams,

Shorn of newfound themes,

Trashed were all schemes,

Dry went the ripply streams.

 

Back to the same self,

Again the same painful yelp.

 

But was it his fault

if her feminine fancy hit the vault

and soul absorbed in new exalt?

Fault wasn’t on his part,

Like hers it was similar heart

passionate about some art,

But looking for a new start

she assumed him to be high, apart

and extremely smart.

He was just the same,

Like anyone for blame

or simple, common acclaim,

But the unmet dreams in her eyes

filled up the colors of fame

in his empty and simple canvas.

 

He was just a creation of her own,

A normal man put on illustrious throne,

He was no king

to whom her creation could cling

and joyfully sing

the ever-fresh love song,

And before long

she realized something was wrong

because missing was heart’s gong,

She saw the reality with sad eyes

and read many lies

that her colorful dreams had told,--

As gold stones were sold.

 

Whose fault is this?

Whom to blame for the miss?

Who couldn’t sustain the bliss

of the fresh love’s kiss?

Is it the man for being the cast

spread where her dreams vast?

Is it the woman who cast colors her own

with her spirit all excitedly flown?