The beggar patient

 

In front of a hospital,

on the outskirts of a town,

on the starting point of a road divider,

facing a crossing,

there she sits,--

a fragile, old, sickly woman,

Hunched and crouching,

A blanked and soiled bundle by her side,

There are dozens of patients in the hospital,

recovering, cared for,

They have money,

They have family and friends,

She but is all to herself

and some kind soul’s mercy

who may stop, pause and give something,

Her head is hung low,

The eyes forever grounded,

She doesn’t look at you;

doesn't say a begging word;

doesn’t plead;

nor thanks you if you give something,

She is too poor and sick to give anything,

She hasn’t even that much life

to even say thank you or a little sad smile,

She is present

but life seems to be absent,

You can give some fruit or coins,

She is an open little box of misery

lying there to give a chance

to feel kind and caring,

A wooden box almost,--

Lifeless!

And a box doesn’t speak,

Maybe some kind doctor or caring nurse

give her some pills sometimes

as their share in the domain of charity,

The beggar patient, they must be thinking,

Possibly she draws some security

by being so near to a hospital,

A mere look at the swanky, glass fronted hospital

must be assuring her that she’s at a hospital.

I have seen her a few times,

Sprouted like a mushroom on a dung heap

in the season of monsoon,

I also know she’ll be gone suddenly some day,

But I’ll remember the heavy presence

of her light body in her absence.

Gain under the shades of pain

 

The lovely sadness of lost love,

a nostalgic shove,

a cooing dove,--

bitter-sweet, soft-hard love,

A soft-resigned moan,

Touching the spirit

that has this bodily loan,

The love that was

left behind as a milestone,

Now you walk alone

thinking of the days that once shone

with her presence sun like,

You are thirsty

but her memory is an oasis,

There you take shelter

from thirst, burning sands and storms,

There you cast away the weary rust

and blinding dust,

There the fatigued caravan of life

drops its saddle,

And in the shade of that loving sadness

you feel better than

the concrete behemoths of comfort,

When you fall in love with you loss,

You can’t be defeated anymore,

Nothing can redeem you with its profiting gloss.

An ode to female athlete

Her soft, gentle, big eyes

full of hard, sharp determination,

Her long, supple limbs

flexible like a willow switch

full of steely, sparkling current,--

the current of life, beauty, determination

carries the ineffaceable smile

under the stern, competitive mask,

She runs faster than

the divine feminine undulations and

exciting wavy fickleness,

She jumps higher and longer

than what the masculine eyes estimate,

She pushes, lifts, heaves, stretches

better than the man’s expectations,

She is far more than the

weight of domestic routine in patriarchy,

She is a tigress, lioness, majestic queen,

She’s the dancing Shakti on Shiva’s head,

She is the thunderbolt

in a dark rumbling mass of cloud,

She’s the spark of life in a stone,

The wind, the earth, the fire, the water

cascading in His akash.

Real love

 

Real love will be like water,--

flowing, cleansing, fresh,

It will softly brace you,

Give a very gentle touch,

It won’t hit you,

It will be around you,

It won’t try to barge into you,

It’s there to keep you afloat,

not drown you,

If you drown that’s due to your own

gasping fears and insecurities,

If you are open and give it space,

it will spread like a translucent sheet

as long as you have space in your heart,

where stars, sky, moon, clouds

will see how they look,

You will turn their mirror,

If you turn narrow like a gorge,

it will rush past with noise and fury,

It will rasp against your stony walls,--

not to break them

but to slowly make you realize

that these stony cliffs imprison you;

that actually these are what causes

this torrential roar in the flow of your life,

It shakes your precipitous slopes

to gently remind them the futility of

standing too rigid and haughty,

It doesn’t try to attack or change you,

It just keeps with its gentle, wavy reminders

until one fine day

the steep slope of your rigidity melts

and falls into the stream by itself,

It doesn’t try to push you out of its way

if the boulder of arrogance and conditioning

comes across its way,

It just flows past and around you,

Not leaving you alone

but always kissing your hard outer shell,

making you first mossy, round

and then you roll and flow

and settle with the painless bed of sand

it has prepared for you to rest.

That’s real love,

It’ll be always there

in one form or other

like water, vapor or snow,

It will save you from hate,

She may no longer the princess of your dreams,

or he your prince charming

but you will still have enough reasons

to smile sometimes

far away in time and space.

In love with your place

 

One should know

how to fall in love with one’s place,

It’s an art, or rather craft

how to stamp and seal

the significance of little things,

little corners, tiny moments and

common people around you,

We just need an eyes for them

and an open heart

to see, smell, touch, taste and hear

these soft, welcoming murmurs:

your very own neighborhood park,

local market street, corner shops,

the familiar people, the usual trees,

hoardings, banners, street dogs,

cats, cars, bikes, beggars, carts, vendors,

Everything that strikes you

with familiarity and recognition,

Some bench in a solitudional corner

in the nearby park,

Some trees that look happy and healthy,

So also the ones sad, weak and brooding,

Some bird that you can recognize

among the rest of birds,

Some sound that you like—

be it a bird or human,

Some hawkers that shout in your street,

The usual beggar that you see usually,

The brightest and naughtiest kids around,

Some beautiful smile on a lovely face

that makes you feel good,

Few people who wish you well on the way,

The old people going on their walks,

Someone’s pet that fills you

with a good feeling,

The parked car that you would love to have,

The house that you like,

The paint the you like the most,

The dress on someone

that gives you positive vibes,

Someone’s voice that is full of sweetness,

The chatty neighborhood grocer,

The busiest ones always hurrying,

The laziest feasting upon free time,

The oldest one going slow on the path of life,

The latest born with its rising sunrays,

The tree that looks sad and you empathize with,

The joyful tree,

The little backstreet lane

where you can walk,

The door that makes you feel curious,

The familiar and unknown faces.

 

Dear, your very own little place

has it all

that any other place possesses,

It’s there,

Spot its pulse,

Accept its invitation,

Be its visiting guest

and go around like a tourist,

And then it will spring so many surprises

to keep you entertained and relaxed.

The naked hole

 

There is a hole in my heart

hanging like an ornate amulet,

And when sadness is groping

along the deepening twilight shadows,

it gets transfigured into a hook,

It sadistically pierces and

dredges the mud of memories,--

a perpetrator of pain,

It opens a gateway for

blatant intrusion of grief.

 

There is a craft of living,

To live is to look

hodge-podge normal on the surface,

So I express my grief and pain

through a laugh,

a casual remark and silly talk,

a smile, a joke,

a set of plain mundanities

which help those around

in holding onto their concept of life.

 

The seasons change

But the springs and summers fail

to melt and thaw

the frozen heart

with its icy hole

leading to a cave

emanates from which a silent scream.

 

I know that

one has to learn

to forget to live

and engage with petty, chattering festivities

that sum up as

individual and collective life,

But the hole’s hook is anchored deep

to keep the ship of my life

stranded in the betraying bay,

while the open seas beckon

with its waves and tides of freedom.

 

Look at love!

Its circuitous, meticulous forays,

It loops, tangles, untangles,

unites, breaks and finally shatters

the stones that were once pearls,

It has its gifts and allowances for the kids

playing to its script and direction:

some trace of truth in a lie;

some grain of lie in truth.

 

Slowly you get attuned to

this hole in you,

Still seeking love

you fall in love

with this missing chunk in you,

You hold the memories in the pit of your soul

and with the fire of your agony

and pressure of your grief

you crystallize them to diamonds,

Then you hold your self-mined treasure

and sadly muse over it as the mystical emblem

of all that you missed, lost and grieve over,

You give it a precious title;

like we did with the golden earth

and named it as gold.

 

You get satiated,

You gloat and float

with air in you

that rushes through your hole,

You bob on the chance waves,

Your emptiness feeling like fullness,

You feel it has been worth it,

You stand like a gentleman

and proudly brace the left pocket on your chest,

You put your hand on it,

You think you are looking decorated, victorious,

praiseworthy and well clad,

But in reality

you are simply

covering that naked hole in you.

Twilight

The celestial lovemaking 

of light and dark 

as the twilights hark,

'Stop, pause and rest

after the day's busy fest.