Where have you gone?

I have seen the innocent being trapped,

I have seen the wise being fooled,

I have seen the hardest being moulded.

The claws of Death,

When grapple the most beloved,

The lovers break down.

When the most delightful sight

Is seeing them move their

Beautiful, loving hands,

Caring for you from the heart,

The reality becomes a bit difficult,

A bit difficult to accept.

Endless tears follow,

When one only gets to see their smoke,

Curling towards heaven,

Leaving behind a lot of memories,

A lot of love.

It’s the most difficult

When the unexpected happens,

Without warnings, without omens.

One lies under the sun,

Singing tearfully the song of love and respect,

While they, miles above the sun,

Look down cheerfully.

If tears could make a stairway,

And memories a lane,

I would walk up to you,

And bring you home again.

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THAT LITTLE GRASS

The claws of darkness

Swept away the sun today,

As the incessant drops wetted the grass again.

The world thought the grass a trifle,

The trees never knew if it was there at all,

And humanity trampled it unknowingly.

The grass had some story to tell,

The grass had something to express,

But it didn’t know its destiny was in the ground itself.

Sometimes it sprang up

Under the bright morning sun,

And dallied with the dew drops.

When it sprang,

It tried to share—

Whatever seemed new to it,

Whatever seemed unique to it.

Sometimes the grass desired to grow

Tall like the tree,

Strong like the man,

But alas! Nature didn’t permit him such.

When it tried to share,

The other grasses mocked at it,

The trees never paid heed;

And man, like always, trampled it.

Sometimes the grass was wetted,

Sometimes it was bent under heat;

But it tried hard to stand erect defying the inclement.

It wanted to live;

It wanted to see the rainbow

Like all others;

It wanted to shine through darkness;

But its destiny was founded.

It got to understand—

The meaning of a grass,

The meaning of its roots,

The meaning of its existence.

Trampled, wetted, crushed—

At last when it could bear no more,

When it had lost the blood of desire,

The grass-cutter uprooted it,

And threw it away.

And such was the end,
Of the short and sweet life,

Of the grass.

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WHO IS HE?

When the sun peeked over the morning clouds,

The sky smacked rubicund,

An involuntary impulse woke me up.

I stood before my shadow, still.

Intensely scared at its first look,

My mind shrieked hysterically;

And I calmed myself.

The dew drops around stood insignificant,

As I had trampled a rather tough grass.

I put myself to sleep again,

After many efforts of putting aside

That fearful feeling, that fear…..

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THE LOST MEANING

The world goes on;

With the celerity of time,

It degrades by the day,

Rots by the hour,

And dies by the minute.

The thirst for knowledge

Truly has lost its existence;

Blended with the superficialities

Of the 21^st century,

Life has lost its meaning,

Life has forgotten its depths, its roots.

People live within

What is given to them;

The humdrum, routine leaves of the book

Have been bounded to the curse of the syllabi.

Its existence is indeed fruitful,

But with it,

Comes the deathly parochialism,

The fatality.

I couldn’t garner any interest,

I couldn’t acquire much support, much encouragement.

Only the known expressed themselves,

And the rest, rested.

The most expected failed to involve themselves;

While I lay praising and encouraging myself,

Discovering myself,

Without feeling the need for others.

The world lies enveloped

In a cloud of undying darkness,

Which if, is not perforated,

Shall be doomed forever.

I lie grief-stricken today,

Thinking about a way to revive the passion,

The desire for eternal knowledge….

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Pavement Professions

                The thoroughfares of Gariahat, Rashbehari Avenue in the heart of the City of Joy are still arguably, one of the best destinations for the “income-on-footpath” phenomenon. From dawn unto midnight, the pavements teem with bushels of mortals—some belonging to the proletariat and merely savoring a vision of the endless activity there; some glamorous shopaholics rummaging every source of affordables and attending to their purse very now and then leaving themselves uninjured by the qualms of reckless extravagance. And there lie the other bevy of individuals, occupying, maybe, a position inferior to that of the buyers, but nevertheless profitable. This is the group that comprises the trite haunts of the hawkers whose strident exclamations seem to overcome all the obstacles of the social strata.

                These people have indeed found a better way of income than hankering after the merciless tail of employment until the claws of limit and tolerance arrive to grapple them. We don’t need to attend some posh restaurant or gain entrée into an expensive garments store to tell ourselves profligate; just for our daily needs, the pavement’s enough. Ranging from the likes of clothes to even a bicycle chain or a screw; you name it and you have it. All day long these people work themselves to the teeth and return home satisfied. The prevailing sense of humour, the DLF IPL, Bollywood and everything around serve as the topics of discussion of those all-day-long entertaining conversations amongst the “pavement employees” amid the raucous whispers of the city. Professions range from sale of caps, footwear, comestibles to sarees, garments and alike. The professions involved with technology is probably the only commodity found wanting in the footpaths.

The per diem income ranges from Rs.400-500 and sometimes spikes up to Rs.1000 during the Pujas. They are mostly happy and satisfied about their professions. They interact and are subjected to all sorts of haggling and they sometimes succeed, sometimes fail.

Many of them dwell in the farthest points of the city—some arrive by the first Banga Local in the wee hours and some by the Metro while others by autorickshaws.

Their life is a mélange of ups and downs, entertainment and depression, profit and loss—and through these, they thrust their way forward; since they have to go on. They dream of their sons and daughters to turn successful when they grow up and rid them of the hardship that they face in the open pavement under the harshness of the rain, sun and wind. But till then, they shall carry on.

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Lost

When today, the rain wetted the window panes,

It had blurred the image of life,

There sat at one dark corner, someone.

Someone, who meant a lot to himself;

Someone, the victim of time.

Tears were trickling down his cheeks;

Some wetted the leaves of his life,

While some were absorbed into wilderness.

His agony crept every hour and every minute;

But the rain had turned into a shower by then,

Wetting everything around;

With his life.

When the images of loss called him now,

His heart had said, “Not now….”

When the images of separation called him,

His mind had said, “O Heart! Please forgive me….”

To him today,

The flooded streets and the blurred panes

Stood for a different meaning;

He had begun to experience

The cruelty of time,

The cruelty of life.

The haze of near Future called him then

As he had answered His call.

A helpless soul, he knows not

When the rain shall end.

He knows not

When his cheeks would dry.

Now he has to thrust

His way into somewhere,

Somewhere, away from life,

Away from paradise.

Somewhere, where there’s everything,

Except you all,

Except my heart.

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Who Knows?

Time Indecisive....

It was only that day,

When I saw my desperate face

Shirking reality,

Shirking opportunity.

The blinds were drawn,

And the night drew in;

And a vague indecision started

To linger around me.

The horns of dilemma had hit me,

And had left me aptly injured.

The boys were playing that day

Under the good old afternoon sun;

But I couldn’t enjoy.

The uncertainty of my living,

Of my thoughts and feelings,

Paid no heed to me today;

While life’s rocking chair clung to me.

I faced an uncertainty between

Heart and Brain;

And I asking myself,

“Which to opt for?

Can I leave the present

To go for the future?

And whom shall I follow,

My best-wishers or myself?”

The hounds of Fate

Keep gnawing at me still,

And the claws of confusion

Keep grappling me,

As I know not what to do.

Who knows?

Perhaps my future,

Rests on my brain?

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