Pyx #5

Some days the mind is a raging fire and in the smoke everything hides beneath the haze. But some days, it is like a pristine lake, stable and clear. It is in the lake that you can find the reflection of your own self. It is on the surface of the lake that the waves will show you the direction of the winds. Find this lake, immerse in it and learn to move on. Let it wash away all the tiredness, all the emotions. Let it be your savior. Find it.

And remember some stories are best left incomplete, best left in transition.

Are we immovable now?
Like the giant pillars of a temple
held together by an overhead beam,
eroded by the miseries of wind and time.

Would we fracture like
the crumbling blocks of
an old industrial house
which over lived its purpose and time?

Or would we stand tall
like the sand castles
that delight children for a day
and wither off with waves and time.

And then what?
Would the bricks and the bones
be dismantled
or would a structure be built with them
at some new address
with some false color painted over.

And what about emotions?
Would they evaporate with dust
and settle somewhere far off,
scattered in all directions.

What about us?
When the space begins to shrink
and the color of the walls
changes every moment
as if projections
of every thought, every memory
every plan
somehow unlocked themselves
and now crowd the shrinking space
between us.

Isn’t it all utterly chaotic?
Like the platforms of
a busy train station
before the Diwali break.

Evening Auto Ride

Evening Auto Ride

On endings

I have a bad habit of not completing the writings. A few of the incomplete poems and short stories in the draft folder must have aged to more than a few years now. I let them pass on to tomorrow and then the day after. Of course these breaks in writing lead to discontinuity of thoughts and expression. The final text is not coherent enough. But at the same time, I believe the best writing comes out in the moments when you are inspired enough.

Text editor tells me that I typed in the following poem in November. It was done in halves. The second half was written four days after the first. I can see my own thoughts drifting between the two. I would like to believe that I will complete it someday, but not aaj, certainly not abhi.

Jad kade tum mud ge aaven gaa, vatnaan dar
qisso aan ge, kis na sunaaven ga, vatnaan dar

Gham ga rahi, sukh ka saathi, kit tor challya?
Thari hairani, kis kis na ruvave gi, vatnaan dar

Koyal aaj vi kooke, uss mannu var
Yaad ne jisna kappan na ditto, vatnaan dar

Challan go thando paani, diin go rang theekro
Yadaan gi thandi chaan, aa bulave, vatnaan dar

Passe Passe lang chalyo, saaro rang hoyo maelo
Iss ujad kotha na, kon leepa, vatnaan dar

Baazraan mein phirya rang sona, te cheez keemti
Yaadan ga charkha na kon phera, vatnaan dar

Ajad aso lang gaayo parli kashmir, naal maes do
dhokhan maan charen gaadi sau, aa dekh nazaro, vatnaan dar

Haath maan soti, maes dhakti, daadi phir puche
“khatto dudh hur kitno joodun, dan ek vaari aa, vatnaan dar”

Ghaa go poolo, suk ge bisar gaayo, aas aaron
“Aa gal lag, sukh gi ghaadi naal rachaa, vatnaan dar”

Kal gi gal jaedi bada andhar baes ki thi humne
Kidde vi nah gaami aaj tak, taaza hain, vatnaan dar
Bado andar te Tda chodoyo tho, var ve gaal saari
Sawaan ki rut naal baaren aaj vi, vatnaan dar

Takhti var jo likhyo tho main naa apno, adha ghadya lafzan maan
Uss na hun nahi padh sakto hoon, var syaahi mudh bulave, vatnaan dar

A simmering mixture of memories and thoughts with a fair bit of reflection. That's home.

A simmering mixture of memories and thoughts with a fair bit of reflection. That’s home (for now).

Saying Grace

Which hue of blue is prettiest?
So many years away.
Did you lose the blue sky,
all of it?

And the greens,
monsoon rain over half strewn maize fields
and slopes covered with over-grown wild grass.

An old picture of you still sits by window
draped in a blue frame.

The greys
haven’t grown old, really;
but autumn arrives early year every
and the walnut tree in backyard
that you would try climbing
withers with each passing year

The white
snow has begun to melt away
all too soon, like memories.

All we have above us
is the blue sky
and beyond it-
a belief

That all the colors are signs
for those who stand witness.