Isness...wasness

 what's missing? it's hard to know, really. maybe everything is here, with me, and always was. I'm just deluded. why do I still think of her? do I really need her in my life? there are many people out there. how to find the right ones. or one. 

what if she was me and I am her. why the separation? I wish I could travel like the wind. leave my body and float. I'm the caged bird she used to be. my nerves are my prison. 

memory. just a memory. causing me this turmoil. do I even believe in ghosts? present moment. the present. why can't I stay here? and now? no worries, no fear I can't handle. 

One-Fifth Avenue Party in Someone Else's Own House

 the birdsongs rearranged the delicate chords in my throat, gentle as a breeze, and I lay there in union with the wisdom of nature. we all evolved together and now the flocks in the sky were healing me. my weary feet jolted with shooting energy, the excitation of long-dormant muscles plus sighing relief for the ones that had been holding me up all on their own. a smarter body through cosmic teamwork. the sun was coming up before my moon had dipped and I ran from myself. what else do I ever do?

ByeGoneDays

 Hello. You again?

Yes.

Tell me one thing now will you. Who's running the show?

What do you mean- you are. Didn't you know? You aren't serious, are you?

I looked up to him ferociously.

I sucked the color right out of his hair

She has seen my fate. and she approves

he is stuck here, clinging to himself out of fear. he is blind to the world and the world is blind to him. "another one of these nutjobs. oh well, we'll get him fixed right up, take away his pain."

the boy (unborn) watches it all transpire. the fight, the yells, the tears, the violence. save me, he says.

No man is an island

The violence

of your silence

tears away at

the narrow causeways

that connected me to the mainland.

Drawn and quartered

all civilization sinks,

full of unfinished monuments.

And I look out at the beautiful lake

from the perch of a pyramid,

where we sat atop our thrones,

where we had planned those roads,

where you told me,

"No man is an island."

Avatar Ang

 Every now and then people appear who are like a small piece of ice, who look like they could melt easily and who pale in comparison to the stones and the rocks and the boulders that stand firm, beside them. You wouldn't be surprised if they just disappeared, vanishing as fast as they came. But when they stay around long enough to gather just that little bit of momentum, you'll see all the tiniest pieces of snow around beginning to stick. And then they roll and roll, picking up more and more snow until they're so big and tall that they can topple over the biggest rocks and most giant boulders that stood before. And so what started as just little pieces of ice becomes so heavy, so enormous. They can shake the world like an avalanche.  

The Gentleman's Game

History recounts 27th November, 1996 as the first day of the second test, involving South Africa and India at Kolkata. For me, perhaps this date should be sacred- as sacred as July 4th, 1776 or August 15th, 1947. It was the day I first encountered the gentleman's game, the day my love of cricket was born.

My mother brought me, a seven-year-old American boy, to watch the game she adored, which she had played (inspired by her coach, Bengal cricketer Shivaji Ray) in her college days and romanticized ever since. Amma always wanted us to have a connection to India, our motherland. And for her, this very English, colonial sport was as vital a part of one's Indian identity as anything.

And so, shyly clutching my mother's hand, I strolled into a Mecca of cricket. We got there early, with the crowd still filing in, and took our seats. It wasn't long before at least 70,000 more had taken theirs, and become quite boisterous in doing so. Of course, Amma soon began getting looks and comments- "Are you here just to have a picnic?" spoken in Bengali. And in their defense, well, it wasn't long before Amma opened our tiffin boxes, feeding me the aloo rolls and cucumber sandwiches my Nani had packed. We must have been an odd sight- this Indian woman with a white child. But while the Kolkatans scratched their heads over this reverse Mother Teresa, I was being bewildered by Amma's cricket crash-course. Grasping the game's basic objectives was difficult enough, and Amma's enumeration of everything from fielding positions to the modes of dismissal was making matters worse. Over the wicket, lbw, straight bat, third man, silly point, howzzaaat...nothing made sense.

It didn't help that I could hardly see the action- whenever anything apparently important occurred, everyone stood up and blocked my view. As the day wore on and the tiffin was depleted, I became more and more sulky. Hudson and Kirsten scored hundreds that day, history recounts, with South Africa closing on 339/2. The Indian players would have left Eden Gardens demoralized, and Amma too- her attempts to get me interested in cricket had failed.

Next morning, Amma went without me to the match- I'd refused to bear any more suffering. When she returned, a thrilled Nani relayed the news- “Manas was glued to the TV all day, watching the cricket!” Amma was astonished. Had the rules finally sunk in? Had Doordarshan's broadcast heightened my curiousity? Was it a fluke? One more day, and all doubt would be removed- Azharuddin was smashing the ball all around the park; Eden was in raptures, and debutant Lance Klusener … was not. I was hooked.

I cherish the blurry memories of this simpler time; before I stumbled upon Cricinfo, Asked Steven, and opened Pandora's box (Statsguru); before numbers or words (not even the moving profile by Dileep Premachandran) could explain why my favorite cricketer was Azhar; when the sheer sensuous force and physical beauty of bowler sprinting up, batsman swinging willow, and leather flying away, was enough.

Tree of Life

If I were an oak tree, I’d already be three hundred years old.  The last few years, I teetered and tottered and threatened the roof of the house on this plot, and I scared the neighbors, too.  But no longer.  No more.  Now I come crashing down.  Now I rain thunder on the earth.  The birds caw, the squirrels scurry away, everything shakes.  In a few moments, though, all is still again.  I am not the first tree to have touched the ground.

Intricate branches, my leaves and twigs, they reached out towards sun and moon, accumulating.  Now they dig into the dirt.  And roots, the roots that kept me grounded, they point skywards- stretching out desperately, yearning now to escape to the heavens.  Why did I take them for granted?  And when I was young, I remember, how fast I grew.  I thought I’d extend forever.  The clouds, the sun, the moon- I’d get there one day.  I would rise above my thick canopy easily.  That was a given.  I would surely rise that high.  But my foliage, my leaves, my branches never stood that tall.  The older I got, the less I grew.  And now I lie scattered.

When the lumberjack comes to slice me up you’ll see it all- for our lives are written in the rings.  Sap leaks from every contour, and if you touch your tongue to it, you’d know bitterness, you’d taste anguish, in my last drops, it oozes out.  They say if you come at the right time, just at that moment when tree turns to wood, and place your hand there, you absorb the wisdom of its memories.  Not very many know this or chance upon it, and so, too much of history repeats itself.  But pay attention- if you wait too long, it will all turn to syrup.  At my funeral you’ll see how sweet it can be, how sweet they’ll make it.  And maybe one day it will even become amber, all crystallized splendor- am I arrogant to dream? - But no, right now, it’s neither, it is as plain a substance as can be.  Stay away, though, please, I beg you. It’s all poison.

Was it always like this?  I can’t remember.  Put your hand to the innermost rings, and tell me.  Tell me what you see flashing in front of you, tell me what happened, please?

Beautiful city

The most beautiful city frets
not knowing what to expect
of its latest guest.
What foods to cook?
What curtains to put up?
How to entertain?
But now he comes
with open heart and empty stomach-
And he could feast on the meagerest of meals,
but she prepares banquets
of decadence and luxury,
so he will never ask to leave
but only think, Paris.

Fragments, to defragment or let be? Many years on this I see

Meri Amma

Twas a while ago, now 22 years

when cut from your womb

I embraced the doom

A broad-chested fury of tears

No doubt you dried them from my eyes

19 years ago I stumbled onto root

and my crushed wrist

Gave your heart a twist

They gave me a cast, comic book crude

And then you dried the tears up off my eyes

She dives in

Philosopher

Lost in thought…
his gait was fraught…
with demons as he stumbled forth…
His mind was set…
on all those steps…
he took to trip upon the next…
Buried by troubles…
and in the rubble…
still he tries to solve the puzzle…
of where his youth…
fixated on truth…
fled, absconding with his muse…
And what was she to him?
And he to her?
he’ll never learn, the philosopher.

Sleepy field

Indian farmlands

Sleepy fields and dreamy crops

Rows and rows stretched out, yawning

Swallow man made huts 

A Majestic milieu blossom like fruit

Seedlings sprout 

Ragtag farmers like [...never finished this sentence, and there the thought ended, to be revived many years later]

December 23, 2011 at 11:00 PM (Which Time Zone?)

 Sitting in this tent at ranthambore, a single consciousness, I reflect on all that flutters around me. A friend on his own journey accompanies me. A mosquito net not in use. A small electric heater quietly chugging away, warming my bones. Lazy day. Restless night. dimly lit. Bundled up, lying, thinking... Searching. Beautiful words escape me. the prosaic feels acceptable today. Tied up, pressured, anxious, the writing is forced. Resting and waiting for my birds to chirp. Outside, people gather. Voices reverberate Iike strings of a lyre. A spontaneous symphony with no composer, no conductor. Crescendos and diminuendos, orchestrated to its own social rhythm. American or India, pick your poison...Or draught or potion or elixir. Ambitions and traditions, acts, events, happenings, the universe is in motion, it is plain to see. galaxies twinkle far off In oblivion. Neither watching not caring, friendly and aloof at the same time. How many eyes and hearts have invested their own existence into these distant heavenly bodies? So far removed from mankind, and therefore so beautiful. we all desire to travel away. The spirit will always climb to higher altitudes than those at which our bodies graze. Meadows in the skies. The spiritual arts lead us there, only briefly. A guided tour all too short, how we long to stay and yet we're soon back in the gift shop.

Illiterate

     The world appeared to him like the pages of a book, flipping endlessly before his eyes, a black and white blur of letters and shapes and symbols that he couldn’t wrap his head around.  He hadn’t yet learned to read, and so what he experienced in his illiteracy was a mere whirring and flapping of papers, on and on and on.  It never struck him that something could be eluding him, though he wondered where the colorful illustrations from his childhood had suddenly gone.  And so he went about his business, wandering great expanses of time, advancing from school to college to work, without questioning the muffled hush, the muteness that was his world. 

He lived in a city of millions, but the walls of his apartment kept them out.  His ears hung out with humanity when sounds trickled in through his windows in the night and poured in during the mornings.  The honking and screeching, the blaring of police cars, the wailing of ambulances and fire trucks—it never let up.  His friends lived such troubled lives, he thought.  He only heard from them when they were busy being cut off in traffic, getting arrested, becoming deathly sick or lighting their houses on fire. 

Lions and Gazelles

I stayed inside tonight, with moonlight slanting in through plastic blinds. How easy it was to filter out the infinite wonder of creation. But of course. richest in mind, I was of all animals poorest in sight. If I could enlist all humankind and stare through the 13 billion eyes and all the billions more that came before, even then my vision would prove futile. Because, while the lion recognizes its destiny at the sight of a gazelle, grasps it firmly by its jaws, and feasts on it, nothing visible under the sun or moon can fill the jaws of my soul. Even the sky above, packed so densely with stars that only billions of years of space can prevent them from blinding me, doesn't provide me a morsel. It's true, I have an expansive view of the land and sky from where I live. But I've seen enough gazelles sprinting through these grasslands, running races that finish at the claws of lions who, drooped in languor, perk up only at that critical moment when they can exert their power. This uneven contest no longer entertains me. So I twirl those plastic blinds closed and look inwards instead.

Complicated Days

Complicated days

Complicated days

Branches soak in kerosene

the tree limps as it sways

Weighed down crooked by the end

it breathes deep sighs of relief

as lightning strikes a spark at last

and roasts each twig and leaf

But its tip is not a wick

its trunk not a candle

it does not stay alight gently

to serve as an example

Complicated days

Complicated days

Branches explode out in flames

the tree roars as it sways

Dark side

You were so bright, you shined light on my dark side

Perfect sight, still you were blind, even wide-eyed

My plight, Jekyll and Hyde, at times disguised

Misguided, you tried, drowned in the flood tide

Hereby, thereby, what do I imply?

Swallowed pride, we sighed, we cried, we died

Fallen Star

What a year it was for him,
watching his favorite star fall out the sky.
It tumbled silently at first,
and seemed so graceful
that he rejoiced,
because something was happening,
something exciting, before his eyes,
a spectacle.
But he knew it wasn’t that simple,
from the times he had fallen.
And this star was so much higher up
than he had been.
He imagined
the life of the star.
How it was raised,
up to that point
where it shone
for billions of years,
and millions of miles.
How it must've toiled to rekindle its own explosions
when the supernovas seemed to burn so much brighter.
How it must've struggled
against the pull of other galaxies
to maintain its orbit,
to stay at that spot
where he had watched it
everyday for years.
What grief it must've felt
to have fallen
when previously,
so many eyes had fallen on it.
But he also knew
the star wouldn't mind
because he hadn't lost sight.
And when he climbed the roof that night
and had to squint maybe a little harder
than he had before,
his eyes twinkled again
when they found his favorite star.

Digging

         Searching in the ground for something buried long ago. Where to begin? How deep do I go? Keep hearing in my head, “The X marks the spot, The X marks the spot.” As if there could be some treasure. So much gravel in the way of sweet soil, it’s hard to get through. I just want to dig… 

         Just want the ground to give. When I dig. When I live. I find solace in the repetition. In the sedimentary depositions. What is my position on the friction of my mission? Well, the gravel sucks and the soil rocks, so much coal for Christmas socks. No crystals here, no emeralds neither. Not even a flash, of an ephemeral pleaser. Alone in my hole, the digger’s den. Far from the worries of women and men. The deeper I go, the closer to China. They should give me a hardhat and call me a miner…

        But I’m not going back up, not in a million years. Not until I’m dead and fossilized. Not until they have to go through a thousand layers just to excavate me. Not until they have to cut through all the gravel I did to get here. Just to find me. And wonder what I once was.

Printing Press

He has gone too far, there is no escape.

As he shoulders his fate,

In between a boulder and a plate,

The rollers flatten him into an awkward shape.

His death is slow, the pain is real,

How did he end up with such a raw deal?

How was he flawed? Where his Achilles heel?

His bones crunch under the weight of the wheel.

His skull now splits open, he relinquishes his claim

To the words inside that are now given to fame,

Distorted and contorted, they are bound to his name,

As his precious thoughts are smashed out of his brain.

Time watches him go, swept away in a blink,

As the meaning of a corpse is lost in its stink,

So is his soul and mind, his work’s only link,

How much he has suffered to be written in ink.

Lone Trumpeter

What sounds does the trumpeter blow from his horn?

when there is no stage, no lights

no audience

When in his band are

a fluorescent bulb buzzing and insects chirping

outside his basement window

When his songs vanish as he plays them,

never to be pressed into a record

or a soul

These silent sounds,

they intoxicate him

so that even he cannot recall how good they felt

From a dream

She doesn’t have to strain herself too much these days. She just is. How is she, you might ask? It’s hard to say, really. On the surface she is pretty, gracious, and considerate. Her first noticeable feature, which will speak to you long before she will, is the simple symmetry of her face. Everything about its design is elegant. Decorated by the fiery and uncharacteristic eyebrows are her softest eyes, like a slumbering dwarf star girded by fiery meteor showers. Her eyelids look like they must be very heavy and inclined towards sleep, and she doesn’t strain herself to keep them open wide. Though, it is as if their purpose is to gaze, to see through the flimsy charades of her counterparts and into their spirit. These eyes are not greedy-- they are neither searching for treasures nor carried away by pleasures. They are a faithful and humble servant to their master, her mind; and they stretch out to her lover when her mind is no longer relevant, joining the two hearts together, miraculously rushing the blood from one to the other. The ample width between her eyes allows a spacious feeling that calms you before her best feature claims you as it draws your eyes gently towards the center. This nose I speak of arches outward into a rounded tip and if you look straight ahead the bridge of it, along with the cartilage of her well-proportioned nostrils, resembles the Hindu temples at Bhubaneswar. You can imagine her breath circulating in concentric circles within these rounded chambers, effortlessly chugging up the oxygen necessary to keep her lamp lit. And how bright it shines, when southward her lips are stretched by the power of an effervescent smile... and another, and another. When her bow is strung by the might of her heart, and her words are let flying like magical arrows, they are known to heal as they strike instead of causing damage. Sometimes her nervousness shows, but what more fertile grounds than the furrows of her forehead to plant seeds of comfort and security. Sometimes she is tired, but what greater bags to fill with the fruits of loving labor than those which form under her eyes when she is exhausted, when even the perfection of this face of hers shows the signs of wear and tears... and tear? If I have been the destroyer, cannot I also be the creator? Can’t my sun evaporate the tears that the clouds of my sky have let loose. I love this face. I adore it. Can’t I have this face forever?