YOUR DEVIL'S STORM AND MY GOD'S LIGHTNING

YOUR DEVIL's SERMON
the wounded...displaced:
flies feeding on skins of men
carry food to baby flies,
aren't wars encouraging,
nourishing the food chains
of predators,
of the wild and the human,
or the human wild
or the wild human?

THE DEVIL's STORM
there is a storm coming
to fulfill your desires,
dark clouds are innocent-
they inhabit your dreams,
make you powerful
smogs amidst.
unleash your hyenas
into the world of lions,
pray for the storm
for the storm shall
be your sole savior!

MY GOD's SERMON
Aren't you tired
Of being sad?
The comets have fallen,
Wish for a miracle...
Ah! Miracles are not untrue...
They wait for you
To believe in them
For they are born
From the faith within you.
And you...
You die a sloth's death
Every day, fighting
Against the hyenas
You have unleashed
Into the world around you!

MY GOD's LIGHTNING
Carricature!
Yes, You...
You pray to the dark storm,
Submit in fear
For the Evil has injected
Fright into your life,
But have you not witnessed
The lines of fate
That crack open the storm?
Like bright swords in the skies
Annihilating the greyish airs
Like an avatar of Franklin's kite!

WHEREVER THE NIGHTS ARE

We shall meet
wherever the nights are,
guarding the lilies
of the newborn Spring,
caressing the shy breeze
as it turns into a wind
that whistles through thatch
on a starry night,
offering mothers tunes
to sing to
their little monsters
with red, fair cheeks,
and toothless smiles!

We shall grow old
wherever the nights are,
waiting for fireflies
to cure the darkness of the wild.
Stars never twinkle down here,
winged yellows sparkle without fear!

What is lost is still there,
memoirs of roses bookmarked,
romance beyond the class hours,
or tears of teenage love,
in hearts that may skip a few beats
but never miss the parade’s call!

We shall love
wherever the nights are,
pacifying each other,
quarreling on alternate days,
and loving back more…
just like the moon
that dies out in a fortnight,
and is a poet’s sacrifice in the next!

We shall always be there
wherever the nights are…

BALLOON SELLER

Image by Silvio Zimmermann from Pixabay 

End of festive days,
smiles, high-fives and yays.
Everyone shall return
to their warm homes
untouched by gloomy air
a percent of which
fill my balloon pairs...
My balloon pairs...
They trap your gloomy air
tied around tight,
not to escape into the wild.
The kids shall have fancy toys,
back to their homes, masked in joys
but they shall miss my balloon pairs
until the year brings the festive fairs!

SPARK OF LOVE

Image by Jackson David from Pixabay 

your cheeks will turn red,
the winter grow frozen,
when I hold your hands
amidst the pavement crowd,
masked and quick.

whispering mothers,
yelling storekeepers
chaotic footsteps
and chirping sparrows
all shall be insignificant!

I will hold your hands
as we walk unheeded
through the stores downtown,
and you shall fall in love,
one more time, ten years after!

DIAMONDS IN MY POCKET

Image by 3209107 from Pixabay 

I followed the trail to my past
with no answers at present.
Dull, remorseful life preyed on me
like the droughts prey on farmer's will.
I walked hesitated, 
hoping for no gold
when the seas threw plenty 
of stones on my shore...
I picked them up,
stored in my pockets
for reasons none
I can boldly explain.
Along the night's darkness,
I walked into fear and fright...
and then the stones glowed:
my pockets had diamonds of my life!

THE MARICHA TRAIL

First appeared in the May 2021 issue of the international e-magazine, Guwahatian. 

[This tale is an imaginative account of the author, based on the epic Ramayana.]

“One should not run in search for gold, Sita. You are my jewel, and all my life, I wish to protect you from the clutches of greed!” uttered Rama when Sita urged him to go in search for the golden deer which she had just seen from a distance.

“But I wish to have it in my arms. Its dazzle has beautified the skies of Panchavati. Will you not fulfill this desire of mine, Rama?”

“The journey towards achieving riches without values is the biggest trap of destiny, Sita. No wonder the deer may seem alluring to you, but deep within its quest must lie a sinister truth which is waiting to be unfolded in the screams of greed!”

“You overthink, Rama!” Sita looked upset, and Rama could sense the darkness that was about to follow. His human self filled his mind with the need to impress his woman, while his godly being understood the gamble. To resolve the conflicts of his mind, Rama closed his eyes, and tried to bring his avatar to power.

Just then…

Oh! Wait!

Just then, he saw white dots swimming in the darkness of his closed eyes, and moving towards forming a bright dot of energy in the middle as if it wished to guide him to the truth. Rama focused on the brightness which glowed amidst his meditated blindness. He followed the energy to the realms of Panchavati where he saw the golden deer. It looked like an incarnation of Lakshmi, his true better-half, and it persuaded him to be hypnotized. Its skin was softer than silk, and eyes innocent as himself. As Rama moved closer to hold it, it ran away towards the banyan. Rama made several attempts to befriend the beauty but to no avail. The trap was real as he had warned Sita! What an irony! Now he is trapped in its trail.

Rama did not wish to return from his meditating quest for the deer. He went further into the grove guarded by the banyan. After a while, he saw the deer transform into a demon. He could recognize it. It was Maricha. He hid behind one of the trees, and watched Maricha take out a potion of golden sparkles, and drink it. He re-transformed into the deer, and Rama understood the story. He prepared to shoot it when he saw Lakshman and Sita coming from the other end. Both encountered the deer, and were baffled at its beauty. Before Rama could warn them, the deer quickly transformed into Maricha and attacked Lakshmana. While both fought, Rama ran towards them but his pace was restrained by the magic of illusion. He saw another man appear from within the woods behind, forcefully hold Sita by her waist, and disappear back into the green veil of magical misfortune. Maricha killed Lakshmana, and disappeared too. Rama shouted in despair…

…

…

“Rama,” uttered a voice.

“Rama.”

Rama came back to his senses and found Sita worried at his screams in meditation. Rama realized that only he could slay the deer, and not allow the events which he had seen in his guided sleep to occur. To direct the fate of events towards a different future, he said to Sita, “I will bring the deer for you. You must stay here with Lakshmana.”

Surprised, Sita smiled in joy. But it was Rama who knew deep within his heart that if he did not move then, he would lose his brother as well as his beloved.

He moved into the forest in search for Maricha, and the Maricha Trail beyond the banyan changed the course of destiny in a similar but a very different way!

IN MY SUMMER BREATH

the world turned bold
on a surprising note;
the grey turned green
like a wishful dream,
the cup of morning tea
held on to its heat,
winter was now asleep,
there bloomed my spring!

the ink did not blot:
like witch’s blood it flowed
until it touched the edge
of my notebook’s page.
I tried to restrict it,
the notebook:
did I fold it.
alas!
motivated like a soldier it moved,
no sword dared to halt the pen’s truth!

where were we?
between winter and spring, yes,
when the world grew daunting:
the cuckoos grew tired of singing,
and the crows of cawing,
big vessels were sinking…
I have waited since then
to bleed some ink on my page,
to cure some rust on my sword,
to trap some love in my summer breath!

ABSOLVED

symbiosis.

I long for cures
of griefs,
and my dreams
feed on me
like fungi.

dreams relax me
luring me into lulls,
then jerk me off
with sharp thrills,
burning pleasure
so earned
in the first
few minutes.

it is dawn.
always.
am I haunted?
by dreams?
or by myself,
the multiple me's
absolved of fears
fuelled by courage.

Am I absolved
of my crimes
committed in
my dreams?
or do I need
to kill again
those good ones
who as
ghosts
strangle my lulls?

...I can only fear!

COFFEE NIGHTS

[This is one form of 'variable line poetry' where the number of words in a line equals to the line-number.]

serenity
lies untouched,
tense metaphors exist
life's blurred monotony amidst-
I miss our coffee nights,
cuddles in the arms of darkness,
gulps of dark beverage soothing our heartbeats
and the night could agree no more then
to conspire love between us, O' sweet summer airs-
the airs visit tonight to soothe bonds of the past.
Will you arrive tonight to share the night and coffee cups?

WINTER LOVE

despite window shields
the cold air gushed in
the heater helped not much,
tinned roofs gave way much!

she brought a blanket old,
the warmest in their cupboard
covered both in warmth of it
reminiscing love, winter memories!

WHEN WE MET

the dusk brewed silent joys
destiny played its sweet ploys
that's when we met years ten back:
it was the book fair twenty eighth!

weren't you dressed in pure white?
I dragged along my college smiles
to meet you at the forty first store,
the one beside the granny's folklore!

the store was big and no thing to speak
I would buy you a book to read
who knew they kept books on pregnancy
I was stupid to call you there hastily!

both laughed as we decided out
laughter formed our first start
the date was too 'academic', you say
I can agree not even today!

cherish I, those days we met
split food bills, beneath trees we ate
glass-cased restaurants are boring now
when's the next fair...we shall re-take vows!

THE SILENT PEACOCK

[dedicated to the peacocks of Rajasthan, India]

winds from the western sands
brought yellow, burnt smells,
it was where the sun sank
the nights were little winter stays!

a peahen looked dull and grey,
strolled like a lazy lad,
a peacock had to watch and wait

to break silence of the mating day!

the winds troubled his handsome flight
must he swoop down or gently fly?
just then, another danced, rainbow wild,
the chance's gone...silence was his crime!

IN THE LAP OF THE NIGHT

the night conspires
to create silence
it could use the breeze
to excite young lovers
it could use the stars
to get praised in love
yet, they get trapped
in its apparent truth,
live their love in dark,
dark of the night itself,
dark of its lies' web
crafted through legacy
to seek false glory...
the night aspires to
rule the world of love
maneuvering the young
to sing for its beauty
to sleep under stars
in the lap of the night!

THE BANGLE MAKER

Rambabu was the only bangle maker in the village, and undoubtedly the best. Every home in Pidiri had at least one of Rambabu's bangles, right from the Pidiri headman's to the blacksmith's. Rambabu's bangles brought people from the city too. No festival was complete without Rambabu's stall on the village playground. No one could make the conch-shell studded bangles better than him. People say his apprentices have spread far in the world, some across the seas and rivers.

Rambabu kept a silent profile. He would start his work at 10 in the morning and close at 6 in the evening just before the prayers. He never missed the prayer at the temple beside his home. As of now, he had one apprentice, Shamlal, a boy of 19, who was getting well with the work. He was working hard for the annual Pidiri festival where he would sit at Rambabu's stall if he produced the best, as promised by his master. Rambabu had a unique style of bidding farewell to his subordinates. He had always wanted his boys to go out and make their names. "The knowledge must live", he would often say with a smile.

The village festival started, and Shamlal was happy. The week long event was refreshing for the folks who were mostly farmers and poultry men. The night's stage act was always entertaining and the village never slept during those days. Shamlal sold 200 bangles on the first day, and this made him feel elated. He could feel the freedom of creation which Rambabu would speak of during their lessons.

Shamlal went with twice the enthusiasm on the second day of the event. He started well and sold 50 bangles in the first two hours. But in this world of impure intentions and evil minds, happiness seldom lives long! Who knew that night would change Shamlal's destiny forever!

As Shamlal was selling his bangles, a visitor arrived. A man in his 40s perhaps, well-suited and accompanied by a younger friend, started looking at his bangles. The man smoked a lot, and Shamlal could sense the city-smell in him.

"How may I help you?" said Shamlal.

The man replied not, but kept on looking at the bangles. His friend touched them, and seemed to check and whispered in his ears.

"How much?" spoke the friend. He appeared to be the man's employee given the authority to represent.

"Sir, we have these of varying prices, right from..."

"How much for all of them?" the man spoke this time, and interrupted Shamlal rudely!

"Sir, I mean...did you say..I mean, all of these?" said a surprised Shamlal.

"Yes, everything in this shop, including you and your master. Rambabu, isn't it?" The visitor's questions sent a warning of threat to Shamlal, and he couldn't think of anything. Did he just offer to buy their services or the persons...like slaves...or... Shamlal was terribly confused and knew not the plan of action he must take. 

"Sir, I won't be able to answer that. I will have to speak to my master."

"Speak to that old man. We meet here tomorrow at the same time. Remember my question: how much for the shop and you men?"

The two persons left, and Shamlal gulped down nearly two bottles of water. He was never terrified in his life this way. He closed his stall early, and ran to meet his master.

Rambabu was sitting peacefully on the verandah in an armchair. He seemed to enjoy the breeze and the classics playing on his little radio. Shamlal did not know how to start.

"Shamlal, done with today's sales early? Must have been a quick wrap-up, won't you say? You are doing good", said the master.

"Babu, the sales are good but I had to close it for the day. There is a problem."

"What problem, Sham? You, alright? You look worried. Speak up. Pull that chair."

"Yes, Babu...today just a few minutes ago, I had a visitor at my stall. I have never seen that man before. He wore a suit and was offering to buy everything in the stall."

"This is good, Sham. He liked your works. What makes you worried then?"

"That's not all. He wants to buy the bangles and me and ...you too."

Rambabu did not speak for a while.

"What do you think, Shamlal? Should we?"

"Babu!!!" Shamlal did not expect a question as this.

"Yes, speak. Must we not expand our work and take it to the cities? Everyone needs better clothes and a scooter. The city has better roads and schools. I wish to listen from you, Shamlal."

Shamlal did not know what to speak.

"Speak up, Shamlal. There is nothing right and wrong here."

"Babu, I respect you a lot. I have learned immensely from you. You are a great master. Your skills are beyond any weight of gold. I have always slept peacefully after work, just because I have never done anything wrong. It is okay to have smaller dreams. These cities, the flamboyance and all the good stuff are good but they are not what we have worked for. We have worked for joy. If we need to settle in those skyscrapers, let our minds decide that, not anyone who barges into our pride and offers a coin. It is joy that has made you a hero in the eyes of everyone who have learned under you. I shall not take this deal if I were you!"

There was silence. Rambabu smiled, sipped some water from his old glass, and said, "Then you have become me, Shamlal. You are ready to take the world. That visitor was my apprentice ten years back. His name is Shaanchand. Today he is a big man in the city. Every year, he visits me during the festival and take the final tests on my behalf. Otherwise, why would you think I shall be absent from the biggest fest of the vllage?" Rambabu broke into a wind of laughter. 

Shamlal was still shocked. He felt the utmost pleasure in winning the smiles and pride of his master.

He spoke: "Thank you, Babu. I shall always remember this! You are my hero!"

BORN

Like a sunrise born,
warmth pierced through 
the air that held the cold,
fell upon a heart
and turned it gold.

The river envied
the droplets of dew,
silent yet precious,
attracts more than a few!

I walked barefoot
to embrace the sunrise:
like a sunrise born,
'twas love that pierced through!

WITHERED, BUT LOVED

Grey, dull and bitter
the winter's here:
illness and griefs,
roses wither,
yellow is old
but old is our love
like the winter indeed,
bright, loving and sweet,
and we are warm still.
We shall live this,
griefs shall inspire;
withered roses 
shall bring poems,
yellow shall warm us-
we shall grow old together
...
it is just another winter
we are for many summers
for each other...

THE POET'S DEATH

If you weigh yourself against my ink,
                             you would still not weigh more,
your soul would, though,
                             full of grief and torment, 
                             silently held!

Is Death more poetic than a poet?
                               Always painful or quick:
                               binary like a man's mind?
I can compose lies and make them truth,
                               make them epics...
                               you shall cry
                               for wars which never prevailed,
                               and yet, learn lessons
                               of choices and Death,

                               real, co-existing, true!

I cannot wait for another day!

                                time is a lie

                                like a flirting poet,

                                always better at youth,

                                unpleasant when old!                            

Time to leave my ink behind!

                                I take my soul

                                to prove how poetic I am!

                                Does the world on that side prevail?

                                Are there rebellion poets?

                                Are there poetry fests?

                                I love the pancakes!

Will Death listen to my sonnets?

            Ah! Wait! 

                    He is binary, isn't it?

                            Why does it sound poetic to me? Ugh!

BEYOND

None dared to walk past
the past guarded by trust：
beliefs might crumble fast,
emotions lost in petty wars.
Who shall rise beyond ego
to clear the old white dust?

The horizon seemed near.
I hurried but the sunrise was far!
Illusive, like a mirage it stayed.
The closer I moved, the farther it went!
I lost handful of my life's faith
beyond stupidity of chasing old fame!

How do you measure passion?
No, not love...I mean... passion!
Quantify your compromises,
your lust for all worth... worthless?
Or spend your sleep
in the arms of your dreams... dreams
waiting to get stripped
by the society that gifted you these?

Your destination isn't your destiny.
You are bonded by the evil weak.
Walk beyond your confusions
into the strengths of your soul
as you had run into the horizon
to catch the elusive sunrise old.
You are not to be enslaved
by what must command you not.
You must rise beyond your grave
into goodness the world has not got!

TINY, ABSURD THINGS

[You got to read the entire post to conclude.]

I am a contented man. All my life, I have learnt to stay satisfied with everything I have. I am like the Master Shifu of KungFu Panda. I do not envy others, and that's why I consider the act of judging others' achievements too demeaning. In fact, people who are quite nosy in others' stuffs are the ones who do not attain peace in their entire lives!

Having said that, can anyone tell me why the Sharmas are spending excessively on painting their roof? I did ask Gamblu, their watchman, while the Sharmas were out for groceries, but he did not utter a word, despite my promise of offering a pack of Shillong tobacco. How stubborn people are! How ignorant, perhaps! Well, never mind! I will ask Compounder Brajen about it. He is a man of genuine knowledge of everything (except his work: last time, he injected distilled water into Mrs. Shambhu for curing her fear of tetanus). However, that does not matter, of course. I am going to discuss nothing technical with him! See, you need to treat everyone equally and must not be judgmental in any sense. One thing which I must mention is that Compounder Brajen is probably a miser, because he spends little on his scooter. I am, however, not much sure of it, and it is only an intuition.

Being a contented human being, I have never bargained with the shopkeepers at the cloth-shops. I usually have my wife doing that, and I am contented with the art she possesses. Now, not being judgmental and praising your wife at the same time is a difficult task, and I believe, not all men can pull off such an extraordinary feat. Only contented men like me (every husband shall agree) have the ability to survive such difficult times with a peace of mind...just like forever meditating ninjas! Wait...not forever...now-and-then meditating ninjas!

The art of maintaining social relationships without fuss requires high emotional quotient. Looking into the reputation I hold in my society of being a gentle individual (ignore the 3 fights with the Sharmas, 2 violent conflicts with the Kalitas and 5 rants with the grocery guy, Harish), I must be declared a personality of social peace. That is what contentment is!

It is truly disgusting to watch parents not teaching their kids their mother tongues. I have never stopped my kids from learning their mother tongue. It is a different thing that I have not told them anything about learning it. But, if you cannot cause a good thing happening, you must not stop it. That is the lesson of life I have acquired. I gave them opportunities to learn the language from the television channels and the compulsory school textbooks. Unfortunately, they are not in favor of watching those channels and have scored in 40s (/100) in those subjects. See, you can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink. I did drag the horses to the lakeside, but I cannot contribute to their drinking from the lake of mother-tongue knowledge unless they wish to. Anyway, I am paying for the channels and their tuition!
See, I have high regards for writers. I often scribble creative things in my leisure. For example, you will be surprised to know that I am credited for inventing the way of writing shorthand for monthly grocery list. This way, the people around me do not get any clue of what I am buying for the month. (Sometimes, I also cannot figure out. I have to call my wife then. But that is the level of intelligent non-AI encryption, you see.) Another advantage is that you can use minimum space of paper. I am a follower of the Save Trees Campaign. But, recently, my son showed me that I can save more by typing on my mobile phone. However, I am a follower of No Foreign Technology Campaign and I cannot violate that. A twig of a tree is better than funding foreign agencies.
Anyway, if I go on, you will not be able to accommodate the goodness I have in me. What if you start envying me? And I love short pieces of writing, as I have already told. Although I love writers, I hate those who put up large posts on social media, dragging on old folk tales and clubbing them with historical stuffs/ bluffs. I am a follower of Superb Fans of Dan Brown social media page, though!

THE SERIOUSLY AMAZING PUNDIT

Often

No...no...

Many a time, from my negligible list of blog followers, I receive a very interesting question: Why is it that you aggressively blog for a month and then remain dormant for another? Do you search for motivation?

Yes... and no. Yes, because, the inner drive to write down a blog post requires some motivation for logging in and typing. No, because my world is full of stories. I do not have a photographic memory but, I have words...lots of words which are not Tharoor-ish, of course, but they can carry meanings for everyone.

Saying this, I can recall an incident of a pundit whom I had met at my previous place of residence, and developed a non-religious friendship with him. Yes, non-religious, because we talked of everything but religion. He would speak of humorous stories of his village where a person was named 'Patang' at his birth because his parents loved Kaka (Rajesh Khanna). A man named 'Aamram' went to sell mangoes to the daily market, and found a pot of gold coins near his mango trees. There was a beautiful lady who would visit his village during Ram Navami and play the role of 'Sita', and leave. She would not talk much to people. Later, after 3 years or so, people found out that the lady was actually a boy who was doing this to support his family of ailing father and three sisters. Often his stories were unreal, which he would reveal at the end of the tale. But, all of them had a taste of Indian-ness which can make any scriptwriter go gaga over them. All the while, it would seem real to me. I tried to delve into this man's level of intelligence. He could develop a story with such minute and realistic details that anyone would believe it to be true. I would tease him to write these stories and get them published. He would say that there was no higher form of peace than speaking the stories to friends and laugh together. It was like instant audience feedback, free from expectations and bias, he would say. 

My pundit had a habit of clapping his hands when excited. The temple would echo with his claps and our sounds of laughter. Often, he talked of the lands which he had traveled in his life, how frauds through the language of 'gods' cheated the illiterates and the poor. He said that he was once approached by a gang of so-called 'baba's to join them and earn by cheating people. He refused, and left that place because it was turning into a mess.
He cooked the best halwa. On fourth Sunday of every month, he would cook gajar ka halwa, and we would have them together in the evening at around eight o'clock. On asking where he had learnt the recipe, he would say, "Let some things remain secrets. Otherwise, people will say that I am not an interesting person. You focus on eating, and do not try to be an archaeologist now." Saying this, we would laugh heartily. I mean, the way he spoke, there was a flavor of sweet humor, and that is what I have preserved for my life.
Pundit Ji was an amazing person. I remember the way he sat on the third or fourth step of the temple, and spoke stories with a glow on his face. Often I would wait for the day to end so that I could know another story from him. I didn't have frustrating days back then, because anything discouraging was neutralized by the old man's tales.  

The art of Pundit Ji bringing together different stories of life makes me wonder how the interpretation of intelligence is limited to professions. Intelligence is beyond professional excellence and smart tricks. Although these may define a bit of it, yet it is not exhaustive. It may exist in the minutest of a man's behavior and art. For me, the pundit was intelligent because he looked into life in the simplest manner. He built simple rules for himself, and one prime rule: never hurt anyone in any way. That was the biggest lesson for me.

And, just as he would want it, everything I have written in this blog post is not true. There was no Pundit Ji. But there are people who can sum up to become one!