Lament

And you float on..
With rubber ducks and silly hopes..
While the rain rages on...
Washing us away across unknown slopes..

Where we go from here, you do not care..
You do not care if the daffodils lament..
The babbling brook assuages your pain..
And drags you further into the descent..

The wind and me

On the commencement of the void
I look beyond the brown wooden window.
Seasons change and the leaves fall to a final swirl of life
And dance about in a whirlpool of untamed wind,
Flirting with the fickle dirt and dust that oblige,
Resting in the soporific wind.
Ah, the crafty wind;
The wind that carried promises of better times below,
Beckons the homeless clouds
To join the merry band
And they rain down on the silly leaves
And wash the dust away.
And then,
With a sinister howl of laughter,
She slams the window upon my face.

The Flautist

And when he laid his eyes upon her, the fires of hell spawned within him. His eyes sparkled in her gentle radiant light and he could feel his feet no more. And the air around him grew thinner while he gasped in sheer agony and tightly grasped the flute that he bore in his sweaty palms. His music could never be as sweet as the tinkling of her soft laughter. It echoed within his head and turned his world upside down. His hopes rose to dizzying heights. He was trapped in a stolen glimpse of a beautiful moment in time.

It took but a fleeting instant of brief realization of how unseeming the circumstances actually were, to bring him crashing down to the maddening state of hopelessness and futility. The joyful colors faded and his vision sunk to gray shades of despairing gloom. He cursed the unfairness of life and his fate of being a poor, ugly, lowly flautist, who dreamt of unparalleled grandeur, but who could never make it. The blackness of the night that hid his shame and disgrace seemed to be the only solace to him.

But, it was broad daylight and there was nowhere to hide. He could barely resist glancing up again. He raised his eyes and took one look. The world began to glow again.

Metamorphosis

Shrunk into a puny dragonfly I frantically thrash about the lilliputian deluge caused by the incessant rain pouring from the heavens cursing the very existence of life under dead circumstances where life itself is what I am now; begging to be spared from the fatal fate that lies ahead of me.

Ramble

Crushed by the untamed winds of time and change, my wings lie torn and my drooping shoulders bear no mark of the man I once was and the man I dreamed to become. I am no longer the king and I no longer have the pride. My kingdom calls for my blood as my tyranny yields to a democracy of pigs led to power by dumb sheep and drunken shepherds.

Dzorkian ramble

Blown to bits by a neo nuclear atomic gun I lie in fragments of bitter humiliation waiting for the cosmic powers to redeem my radioactive soul that cries in the agony of being separated from the one body that had faithfully supported my life system for the past 12 life cycles. I guess there will be no 13th one for me.

The Spaceship trooper

I just got enrolled into the space corps. They are sending me to the outermost frontiers of the galaxy where the intergalactic terrorist forces have joined hands to blow apart the last standing alliance of the humans and alpha-Dzorkians.

I might not return my friend. But I swear I shall fight till the last drop of my blood dries out.

Ostracized

I lay upon the musty smelling rug thrown over a cold concrete slab that was meant to be my bed. It has been many days now. No news yet from the outside. It was sheer madness. I knew that it was sheer madness. But I had to do it. It seemed a hell lot like retribution from my past; the past of a thousand unimaginable, unforgivable, unregistered sins. No sensible man would do it. No practical man would even think twice about it. But then again, it was me. And I am a unique being; one in a billion or so.

Hence it was inevitable that I had to seek quarters more elevated than the rest of the common folk. Therefore I was condemned to restrict myself to a patch of land that I had acquired, moving out only to buy the regular supplies. I had no friends left; all the birds of sunny weather had flown on after taking shelter in my realm during the stormy seasons.

"Fly away", I said. "But do call on me if you need more assistance."

I always had a strange grandeur in my way of offering help. I was always generous and profusely devoted my time in helping those who were less fortunate. But then after all the experience I have had, all that it summed up to was that absence makes the mind grow dimmer. No regrets there. Anyway, no one is as intelligent as I am or as elevated as I am. Hence I live alone and no one dares encroach upon my solitude.

But then, the heart is a fickle organ, beating away merrily, without an iota of thought. The heart is devoid of reason; which I would rather call stupid. This stupid heart longs for company sometimes and I yearn to talk to those whom I loved long times ago. I long for their company and their presence. But this wait is futile. I know it because I also know how vain I am. For all the pride that I have in myself, I still am just a vain loser. Hence, I live here, secluded, deluded and discontent. This is madness as everyone would say. I say it too. But then, to what end do I leave my self-imposed exile for?

Nah! I just close my eyes to everything else and focus on myself and live on till I die. What else do I need? Pah! I need to write...

I got up from the bed and moved to the table, topsy-turvy with torn pages and blank sheets. I sat on the dilapidated wooden chair that I had lifted from the house that was broken down recently by the municipality. No one had lived there anyway for ages. I should have flicked it before, I thought... and I started writing... horrible imbecile rantings..

Useless musings.. only a wretch could be writing this and the one who reads this is no less wretched... accursed fellows doomed to live on..

Goodmorning Sunshine!

[A beautiful morning in a village in Assam, my motherland of unparalleled beauty]

When the cocks crow in the morning, it is barely daylight in the village. Yet, there is no room for lazy morning extended naps for those who rely upon the seasonal harvest for their livelihood. Indeed, it would be astounding for a city-dweller who was born and brought up amongst the mid-day hustle and bustle of the metros, to find such hectic activity in the early parts of the day. 

Having grown up in the village, Sunil Lal was quite used to the din at sunrise. He opened his eyes and slowly sat up on the bed. His wife had already been up half an hour ago. There was cooking to be done for all the twelve of the family members and the 11 local hands that had been hired to help with the planting of paddy. The wife of the head of the family had to take charge of the kitchen, which otherwise would run into utter disarray under the chaotic daybreak circumstances. Sunil Kumar was one of the richest farmers in the region. He was also the village head and school headmaster. 

It was not this rosy before. His roots lay in a poor landless family. For forty years of his life, he toiled harder than the bullocks that pull wobbly carts. He sacrificed his higher education to take care of his siblings when their father died. It was a slow rise to where he is now. But it did result in good things and now he was very well off. He was a content man, determined to do no wrong and help those who were less fortunate than he was.

Like he did every morning, Sunil first ambled down to the well to brush his teeth and wash up. The day seemed to be progressing as usual. The spawning of sunlight, the emergence of dew drops on the tips of the grass blades, the occasional draught that blew from the lakeside and the unrest in the pig sty caused by the disgruntled pigs digging around in the mud: these were some of the dozen things that heightened his senses out of the drowsy stupor. 

Once the personal activities were done, he proceeded to have his tea with Pithas*. This was a very crucial part of the morning since all the instructions to the hired farmers and laborers were given during his breakfast. In return they would update him on the work done the previous day. It was a very well organized affair where each member efficiently did his part without fail. For the past decade or so, things had been nearly the same every year. Sunil was not a man who liked too many changes. If he were to foretell the future, he would have predicted the same things that happened this year for the next. 

After a hearty meal, he patiently supervised the various chores that occupy the entire morning: feeding the pigs, casting the net over the pond to separate the breeds of fishes, tending to the cows and goats. The day seemed to have started very well for Sunil, although he was a little concerned about the swine flu rumors that were making rounds everywhere. The only other concern for him was the faint memory of a slight tiff he had the other day with a surrendered militant who was working for the local politician. The politician was a corrupted individual, much to the dislike of Sunil. Although he harbored no political ambitions of his own, he was quite interested in the political developments and was determined to do his part in choosing the right people to govern the region. 

But the disturbing thoughts were soon conquered once again by the pressing need to hurry and get ready as the children and he himself were getting late for school. The school ran on meager funds and he always had to run helter-skelter to meet higher officials to plead their cause. The percentage of students who cleared the 10th standard exam had drastically improved from a mere 23% to 40% under his disciplined leadership. But he wanted more. The state standards were close to 60%. He had high hopes for the next year and wanted to do everything possible to improve the education levels in the village. He often thought of his own children, the eldest of whom would be appearing for matriculation exam in two years. He himself could never go beyond a bachelor’s degree due to his father’s premature death. But his children should do well. Why not? He had taught them all he could. Money was no longer an issue. Sunil believed that not much can go wrong if well planned. All that a person needs to do is to complete his responsibilities well, help those who are less fortunate and have faith in God. Everything falls into place. 

Sunil’s fears were allayed; at least for a while. He loved his children and his wife; and he loved his birthplace. Yes, everything should fall into place: maybe next year.

With these thoughts, he completed wearing his trademark white shirt and brown trousers, and the old leather chappals, cracked at the edges. The youngest son was just finishing wearing his shirt. There was a button missing near the belly. He reproached his son for not bringing it to the notice of the mother. But that had to be attended to later. Lifting his son up, he proceeded towards his cycle. The elder son had his own cycle. Together they cycled down the mud path cut between the fields. 

Sunil felt a sudden surge of happiness, as if he was young once again. He remembered his teenage days when he used to run around half naked in these fields, bathing in the crystal blue stream that flowed past the village outskirts, climbing trees and chasing cattle. Time has elapsed between then and now, he mused. 

Life is beautiful, he thought. He prayed silently for the happiness to continue.

Just around the bend where the mud path reached the gravel road, there was the school. He set his son down as the elder one cycled on. The locals who were passing by greeted him and he stopped to return the greetings after sending his son off. They treated the headmaster with great reverence. They exchanged news about their respective kith and kin and passed on. 

After seeing them off, Sunil turned around to head back towards the school. There was a motor bike approaching with a droning sound from behind. He could feel it heading towards him and he turned around once again. It stopped a few feet away from him. They were very young boys. Identifying them to be school dropouts, he prepared himself to confront them and took a step towards them. 

And then the pillion rider took out a gun and shot four bullets into him. He did not miss. 

Life is beautiful. Things do fall into place, don’t they?

*Pitha: Assamese snack made of rice flour, sugar and coconuts.

In the cell

Had it been a sunny day, when the golden hue of the sun kisses the fresh greenery over the meadows and the trees where birds cry in distant sweetness bringing in the love of life and hope of the bright times to come, he would have smiled and waved away all worries that pester the mind throughout life.

Had it been a green meadow where he was lying around watching belled, spotted cows grazing away, lazily gazing into the distance at what none perceived and what only the cows knew and saw, he would have gaily looked on in unison with the merry cattle folk.

Had he been a cow, a beast of bondage, yet so carefree and content, and protected by lack of knowledge and freedom from insubstantial constraints, rules and regulations, free to graze, cry and moo at will and sleep under a shed made of thatch with wide holes gaping at the sky in the night, he would have been happier.

But sadly, he was only a poor man in a dilapidated jail cell where the only colors that greeted his eyes were the grayness of the walls and the blackness of the night, living amongst rats, convicted for the murder of a drunken teenager who misbehaved to him at the bar. And in his drunken stupor, he struck him down with great anger and vengeance, lifting a vacant metal stool by his side and bringing it down heavily upon the teenager’s young skull that cracked without further ado, rendering the young man dead in an instant.

The convict thought and thought over again and again about what had happened on that particular fateful day. Had the fat, bald pompous fellow who was sitting on the stool twenty minutes before, not left, the stool would not have been vacant and he would not have anything to hit the boy with. Had he not decided to skip his night shift to drop by at the bar and have a drink, he would have never met such a fate. Had he decided to just sleep, embracing the warmth of his bed, ignoring the blabbering VJ on TV, he would never have been in jail.

There was not a moment when he did not regret what he did and no moment of hope flickered before his eyes. It was over now and the moment was gone. Gone forever was the day when he was a young man of twenty two, freshly graduated and with hopes of making it big someday, someway. Gone were the days when he would spend time in the evenings, walking with her, holding hands, promising each other undying loyalty and love. Gone were those dreams that every young man has and waits and works towards the doom of many such dreams.

It was over. He looked down at the moist ground, holding his forehead with both his hands, elbows rested on his knees. there was nothing he could do anymore. And he cried.

Promises and dreams are anyway meant to be broken.

The Clown

The master of the ring pompously ushered in the trapeze swinger who had performed a minute ago and uninvited, the clown made his entry, leaping and frolicking about, with a smile painted to his face, imitating the cheerful carefree nature of a child and a fool. The ring master turned back to chase him off, but in an agile maneuver, possible only for a two and a half feet tall dwarf, he eluded the tall man and weaved through his legs, waving at the joyous crowd who cheered and waved back and applauded him.

The ring master decided to avoid him and called forth Ranjit, the lion tamer. The lion tamer and his lion courteously ambled in, with a majestic air about them. The crowd stared in awe at how daring Ranjit seemed and how tame a lion could be. For a fleeting moment, no one recalled the Clown. But his act was not yet over and he lingered on, waiting for the moment he could act foolish again and incite the wrath of one of his circus members and the laughter of the audience. So, when the lion was forced to open its jaws so that Leela, Ranjit’s wife could insert her head between them, risking her head to be chewed off, the clown saw the perfect opportunity to act bold and courageous enough to stop her and risk his head instead. The mere reappearance of the clown in the tense and gripping presence of a dangerous wild beast brought a wave of relief and joy amongst the crowd. And they hooted and laughed, forgetting all they had feared and all that reality held in wait for them in their lives.

Juggling, swinging, singing and grinning, the clown saw the crowd through the circus acts, ensuring that they smile and forget their worries for a while. In the end, he allowed himself to be shot as a cannonball alongside Sheena the cannon girl, swearing to bear the same fate as the pretty lady would, for he would rather die than live on after failing to dissuade her from taking such a drastic action. But as planned, nothing went wrong and they both survived.

One of the clown’s favorite acts was pulling the ring master’s leg. People loved to see the man in charge being made a fool by the rebellious clown; someone who went against authority. The crowd loved the clown as long as he made his presence known by his random mischief, stupidity and vain bold attempt to act valiantly in face of threats and dangers. The clown did all that a principled chivalrous man would do. It was not funny. But the audience laughed mindlessly anyway.

When the show ended, the crowd dispersed with smiles glued to their lips and children happily imitating their heroes of the day. The clown retired to the changing room, the smile still painted to his face. Behind the mask of paint, was a man of about thirty two. Bereft of a family, he did not have many responsibilities towards anyone but himself. Making people laugh was about all he could do and it came easily to him. People loved to make fun of him anyway due to his short stature. All he needed to do was act foolish and become the butt of their jokes and obscure his feelings and disfigurement behind the smiling mask. Sometimes, he slept without washing it off. There was not much life for him without it anyway.

reawakening

"Waves in the ocean
That wax and wane,
Make futile foams
That rise in vain;
Gleefully flying for the moment...
Just to fall back again..."
They say...

But I am on a new high;
Just upside down;
No wonder the King has lost his crown.
How I wish I were dead.
And I wish I were fine.
Never knew when I crossed that line..

"Your wish is the tear shed in disguise.
And you are much too young to be wise.
Words can't help any more than fools' gold...
And friends can no longer make you feel nice.."

So much for your blabber..
And so much for their slander...
I heed no piper...
Nor shall I wander...
Although the spring is gone...
With words unsaid, and deeds left undone...
There's much left to do..

And while the world sleeps..
Mark my words...I shall return.

The Silver Lining

(A poem I wrote in my 10th Standard)

I am, but a traveler, thirsty and tired.
Time has forced me to go on, leaving behind all that I admired.

I am alone and insecure
And I don’t know where I am headed for_
Through these silent plains and along the noisy shore.

I have passed my youthful spring
With its fragrant memory
Still lingering
Within me.

Ahead of me is a misty path.
The trickery of the waters hides cruel thorns
That have pricked me foe the umpteenth time
All through the wild runs
And solitary sojourns.

My past has been a motley array of events
The pleasures I had many,
And joys few,
The sorrow colossal
And pain too.

Many faces have I met
And friends I had few,
But none was missed by me
Like I now miss you.

The celestial beauty of your smile
Made it all worthwhile;
For I had stopped to admire you.
Those hazel eyes cleared away the haze.
Mesmerizing that they are,
All that I could do was gaze.
Affable that you are,
You melted down my defenses
And for once I was at peace.
Sanity returned and my life had a new lease.

You did allay my fears,
But only for a moment.
For I am, but a wanderer
And I have to go on
Long after dusk has fallen
And at the crack of dawn;
Far across that vast ocean
To dizzying heights_
To the zenith of life
Through those lonely nights.

You are just a mirage to me;
Promising much; giving nothing.
You came like a whiff of fresh air
And went away like the morning dew in spring.

As I repose here,
Brooding over a dried tear;
The memories come fleeting by
And I know they’ll never sap from my mind
However hard I try,
As I leave you behind.

Your words,
Like sweet bells over the silent peaks
Will resound in my life
And sing in the melancholy streaks.

Your face,
Like the moon,
Will light up my nights
When the sun lies dormant in his sleep.
My dreams of you
Will make me forget
The dread that evil nightmares keep.

I’ll remember your sweet ways,
Smiling at the recollection of the happy days;
The way you laugh
Will make me go insane
With the desire to see you laugh again.

You’ll be somewhere else,
As calm and as beautiful as ever.
Sharing joys wherever you go
Like the ever pleasant spring shower.

I’ll be left the parched earth
When you go away,
The dreams that we had planted,
Like dead flowers, will decay.

It is then that you’ll know
Our little rendezvous has come to an end.
But wherever we may go,
I’ll still remember you and forever be your friend.

Memoirs of a dying man: Beyond the window: A retrospection

He sat upon his armchair, resting his feeble wrinkled hand full of calluses upon his bare chest, looking beyond the window, ruminating on what he has left behind and what's left with him, hidden from the world outside the dingy room in which he had exiled himself a decade ago when his wife died of apoplexy of the heart; the one woman who had truly loved him and cared for him for a score and a dozen years, selflessly devoted to him and undeterred by his appalling features and habits of smoking and drinking that haunt every man in his youth and cause discomfort to those around him, of whom his wife was one.

He looked back upon what he had accomplished as a musician adept in a stringed folk instrument that was no longer produced due to its declining popularity amongst the modern crowd who danced to film songs which played hip and happening music with trendy musical instruments that were played all over the country on the radio and television and personal computers, eclipsing his work of art and labor of love.

He still remembered the song he sang to woo his beloved wife before he entranced her in his love with undying promises of a happy, comfortable future in a palace with a hundred servants at her service and beautiful healthy children who would blossom with utmost care and warmth under them and would know not what is pain and poverty, that which was the nightmarish circumstances everyone else he knew was under.

He recollected the times when his friends used to take him along to trespass upon the forbidden premises of the landlord’s mangrove during the mango season to feast upon the ripe fruits harbored by the daunting old wrinkled trees that swayed to no breeze and proudly withstood all creatures of any caste, creed or kind only to be bowled over by angry storms whose rage cared for nobody whether meek or mighty and brought forth the grave dark clouds that blotted out the gay sun warming all that lay naked to him.

He looked at the sun that was setting in the horizon marked by dark outlines of trees that were nowhere in sight when he was a young boy of twelve and had first realized which is east and which is west after he was compelled by his headmaster to write the same in his slate board and repeat it for twenty times or more in front of his whole class, standing on his bench with his knees trembling and his ears warm and face blushing red, embarrassed to the core on being the only one who was picked for this punishment to be inflicted upon.

He raised his eyes up and looked at the children playing in the park below and thought of the times when he used to play with marbles that his dying father bought for him on his seventh birthday for four annas and how he used to have fun frolicking around rolling unused cycle tires with a stick, chasing around the round fat reddish brown hen with its chicks, with innocent glee unmatched in any other period of his life.

He recalled watching his aging father sitting on his armchair with his feeble wrinkled hand full of calluses rested upon his bare chest, looking beyond the window, ruminating on his past life and waiting for the moment he would think no more of what’s gone and what’s to come.

The future had arrived.

Around the corner

I turned around the corner and stopped. I wasn’t sure if I should walk on. Up ahead of me was an entire new world, the open air, the vast blue sky and umpteen opportunities. I would no longer be what I used to be. I would be a new man with a new life. There would be no more of those lonely nights after coming home from office, waiting for the phone to ring, smoking endless cigarettes, and waiting for someone to remember that I exist. She was far too carefree. I had made up my mind. This can’t carry on. I did the right thing by taking leave of her. I walked on with a false air of having finally gained something.

A yellow cab honked its horn as it went past me.

Yellow. What a beautiful color; it rises in the horizon with the sun and swarms around me in waves of nostalgia like butterflies from the past. It flows past me with the silken breeze caressing my weary thoughts.

She loves the song “Yellow” by Coldplay.

It was way past nine in the morning. I walked on past the colony park. There were not many people there. An old man was sitting on the park bench reading a newspaper. Sitting beside him was an old woman, probably his wife. They made a warm couple. They saw me and smiled. I forced myself to grin and I walked on. The image of me grinning came to my mind.

“Remember the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland?” , she had once said. “You look exactly like him when you grin. You are my silly Cheshire cat”.

I dug my hands deeper into my coat pocket. It wasn’t cold outside. But I wasn’t warm enough on the inside. My hand clasped onto something cold. I took it out. It was a metal pendant my sister had gifted me. She is now married and happy. It had been a long time since I had last seen her. The pendant was cold and had been forgotten. Everything left alone grows cold and is eventually forgotten. And so will this memory that I have of her.

Like the peal of a thousand bells that reverberate in the perfumed air within divine halls, her laughter would ring in the distant darkness bringing warmth to every corner of my aching heart.

I had to get away. I was torn into shreds by my agony, bitterness and regret. I started running.

She is very used to getting pampered. She is like a child who would rub her eyes with both her fists clenched, early in the morning and you have to lift her off from the bed to make her get up. She likes dancing in secret to Frank Sinatra songs and cries every time she watches “An affair to remember”. She is a kid. She is my baby.

She needs me.

I stopped. I turned around and I ran.

A fresh roar of joy resounded within me. I was happy. I didn’t know why. But I was happy.

I ran and I ran till I reached the place I was before. I stopped. I was breathless and my head was blank.

I turned around the corner.

There was nobody there.