The Midnight’s Throaty Call

 

The great call at midnight:

‘Will the throaty pitch and guffaw

be the same for the thousand years coming?’

If it’s to be such,

Please, then let us all

turn to nothingness at this moment.

 

Nothing new does it seem:

The chorus behind the throaty

noise seems to be the same foolish dream.

 

Such a huge and godly definition

given to the change,

Most forgettable is which,

but parroted now with childish rage.

 

Godliness has been contrived out of it,

I’m afraid it will bear the end same;

Revered now most formally,

Misunderstood and negated afterwards,

In all practices which

the sun will uncover at the dawn.

New Dawn—Warm Rays for Frigid Fate

 

The days are in fact trotting,

A new dawn, new year, of course

new century and millennium,

The snaily destiny but pulls back.

 

Time may fly past,

Making us grow manifold,

We but remain stony,

rigid and preyed upon by chance.

 

Moves it too slowly,

Whom spirit never catches,

Its rock-like firmness,

makes us stick mossily around.

 

I do not know

what the new rays have in store?

Better or worse?

Rays to see or to blind?

 

Today I start my new day;

A new start and initiative,

Let me see if the occasion special

lends its hues to me also.

 

My palette has just two colours,

Just black and white,

Let me see if it gets multi-coloured,

Giving me a new rainbow.

 

I do not know whether the new dawn

is a different one, after the night long,

When darkness grappled with me and I failed,

Or is it the same as the old?

 

Let me see the occasion

too special and celebrity,

Prismatic and multicoloured,

Too long was the one-coloured night.

 

O new rays,

Please turn the occasion special,

God please, leave I myself

at thy complete mercy.

Of New Glimpses, New Rays

 

The new sun, millennium new,

Rays new at Dong, Katchel,

Pray I, crown my India anew!

New with a newly hewed crown

with hopes of more survival,

Not so with basics, rather

new roles, responsibilities new.

 

That India which saw

so much of flux and turbulence

over thy last empire—

History of religions,

Of races, ideas and many more,

Pray I, the newly diademed

remain such in the millennium next.

 

O new sun, shine too bright,

To light the patches dark,

Haunt which the geography ours,

And shadows whose reach hearts,

Sun, please warm up our hearts

with new warm ideas,

Glow with such spiritual aura

that the highest peaks in the Himalayas

shine like a jewel on the head,

O light, traverse through body

‘Hindustan’ to most distant parts;

Each hut, each palace, each home,

Light them, do away with the dark.

 

God, we committed wrongs,

Blood spilled over,

Minds became rigid; misunderstood,

Pray I, o new rays,

Warm up them again,

Blanket up the wrong,

O new sun,

Shine with vibrancy such.

Three Big Zeroes for All

 

At this zero hour I stand in the dark,

trying to see the newcomer,

Nobody is there, alas!

Not even the refracted skylight.

 

Bundled out round in a circle,

I thus fumble around words,

Meaning whose has fatality—

Of circling around; ending nowhere.

 

Three big zeroes of the new,

which hover over, gobble up

the sleepy environment  around me,

Wonder while I about the ‘zeroness’.

 

Three zeroes take me round—

The zero for myself,

A bigger one for the country,

Still larger one for the world whole.

 

Will I break this vicious circle

of rounding on the path same;

Burning out too much energy,

Arriving then at nothing?

 

Will this country having

so many self-centred circles,

Arrive at something new,

rather than the same big zero?

 

And what about this world?

Will it unmatch its physical shape?

The great big circle,

Binds which our orbiting passions.

Midnight Crowning

 

Now that clock has struck twelve,

We have entered the millennium new;

The grand ceremonial crowning,

Celebrations for which were going on

among hopes, fears, opportunities new.

 

The court members are jubilant,

Exult at this moment,

The rest, meanwhile, remain unconscious,

Even about the newly crowned!

What type of coronation is this?

That people nearest to the ground understand it not,

Just a time-pass game perhaps,

Still, on this foggy cold night,

When voices are heard high and near,

Thanks to the dense foggy medium,

The noise made here or there

travels disproportionate to the source’s distance,

And the majority just takes a turn,

Lying while in their beds.

 

Isn’t it an unsuitable time?

For they must sleep now,

While the crowning ceremony

being held at this freezing zero hour,

When few must be awake

and left with celebrity nocturnal spirit,

Sleep they will like bats and owls

when the day will break,

And the rest will start toiling,

Unmindful of the nocturnalities.

 

Of course, new sun, new day

will be there for them,

Its meaning but will be unnoticeable;

Hungry, deprived bellies never

sense theoretical change in the cosmos as such.

The Night in Labour Pain

The night is in labour pain today,

I can feel its sweat, suffering and plight.

 

Triplets are to be born today—

The millennium, the century, the day.

 

Labour pain is too much—

Wars, epidemics, killings kicked her belly.

 

For years one thousand she bore

the pregnancy period all turbulent and disturbed.

 

The pain is thus too much,

Yet birth she has to give for new life.

 

A new child among the maternal pains,

The elder one meanwhile writhing to die.

 

And look at the urgency,

Sky has touched the ground almost.

 

A smoky fog circles around

to work as a midwife.

 

Too many kicks have been hurled at the belly,

Pain hence cannot be avoided.

 

Painful writhing more so,

For the birth time’s certainty is there.

 

Also scared is the mother

of those rioters awaiting the birth.

 

God forbid, if they go crazy,

and kick at the moment last.

 

Anxious for the infant,

She fears pangs more.

 

Small hope is there in a lamp

glowing dimply by death bed.

 

But a furious whiff by anyone

can blow it out too.

My Sleepy Village on the Millennium Eve

 

The new millennium will

take birth in a couple of hours

in the foggy dark with the stars blown out.

 

What kind of handover is this?

When we see no light,

Either in the houses or starry twinklings above.

 

The dusk today was prematurely lost in fog,

Not a single star smiled,

Starless, light-less we go into the changeover.

 

Same in the houses, blackouted,

We here in this sleepy village

lie abed in the archaic dark.

 

Surely the fog will last

for another half of the day to come,

Sunless, we will welcome the newborn triplets.

 

Millennium, century, day;

The momentous birth-time in the dark,

Electric bulbs in houses also follow nature in gloom.

 

Of course, luminosity is there somewhere,

At places some; houses privileged,

Bulbs glow, create as they stars new.

 

Lucky they are,

Take part in the natal activities,

And the partisan, crony-crazed new one arrives.

 

And we the irritating ones,

Shunned for not taking part in the celebrations

at the long anticipated moment of break in history.

 

Uncertain we are thus,

What change has for us?

The stale old dry dust or some fresh dew?

 

The night is thus cold and dark,

Great events will occur,

Our fate but hardly provides any succour.