The night train chugs dreamily into a green morning making its way over little bridges sleeping over backwaters that have seeped into villages The old man in his blue, plastic chair with a newspaper, the stamp of a reading state on the verandha of a house flying past His daughter washing the blackened pots in the little pond behind the grove of tall, silent palms that reach to touch the silvery wisps of dawn All is dewy, all is green as the tender morning sun dries the night rain but cares not about the inner drizzle in a land silent with unsaid thoughts where love is the language that arrack speaks and beauty languishes somewhere between snores and wet dreams
Reclining against the cold Himalayas, she waits
Her sobs reverberating above the muezzin calls and hymns Aarti blazes at dusk meet haloed altar candles
yet fail to illuminate her weeping pipe dreams.
Her aura reduced to a flickering flame
Oh where are you Kalki? Still playing the waiting game?
Her attire in tatters, insidious assaults from her sons
she grips the frayed edges with her tempestuous smile
Blood oozing from her graying temples
as bigoted saws cleave her bosom into gushing rivulets.
“How do I stop those grabbing, lustful fingers?
I am her daughter but now pitted against my own brothers.”
She opens her peace-scented bowers to misguided souls
trying to soothe their hatred with forgiving tears
Ignoring her wounds, her love -drenched prayers,
They see only the gold glittering in her womb.
“Some brave sons she needs, a few virginal daughters too
I cannot light any more funeral pyres of her infants, all alone.”
A mother, our own, ravished shamefully by our gods
Her wise lap, a barren graveyard lashed by divisive tongues
Pull out poison -tipped arrows, tug at hateful weeds
Every iota and inch of her is almost a grisly battlefield.
Her bloody rivulets run down my bleeding fingers too
How do I feed babies with such sinfully soiled hands?
Lend me helping hands to sweep our colossal courtyard clean
to re-write our history on a dirt-repelling lotus leaf
of lives lost in vain, waiting for a Kalki to shoulder the blame.
of rigorous skills
met the vibrant dholak beats
Night Ganga lushly flowed
amidst the exotic Oudh smoke
saturated with musk
dispersed with soft swishes of fanning silk.
Pausing, listening, flowing with benevolent grace,
Night turned into
a languid panicle of wine and song.
The bells toll
but these are of bicycles
Jostling and pushing each other
in their hurry to reach where ever.
Small tea-shops, odd assortment
of ties, lungi, vest and shoes
gossip centering around the news.
Bread and cheese ones, in swanky mansions
– the television juggling their views.
Money controlling facial gestures
Get – a smile, take – a frown
Changing mental wallpapers
The gory killing on the screen
neither shocks nor registers.
and no after effects.
cold blooded murder
yet not of the person they think it was
Murder of faith as men turn into mercenaries
Misled by hunger- induced hallucinatory
images of being missionaries
Murder of the lone human race
Why kill? Why want something
in exchange of a death?
Humble origins of homo sapiens
maybe we still carry
some blue-green algae in our bloody veins
Our fishes ,our trees, our tribe
My land, my state, my country
to carry evolution forward
To safely hand over earth
To the unborn warriors
untaught in the chakravyuh of politics.
Exaggerating trivial issues
to the gory point
of a fellow being’s ultimate sacrifice
dividing lives into countries, faiths
amidst noise and hollow victories.
crafted with the essence of loss
of crushed, sacrificed, innocent buds.
This was the promised land
They too wanted to throw stones
into the pond
to take a rain walk
to dream in the moon shine
But they could not
For their life lines were cut with hateful blades
even though earth had enough