Water drops over white lilies,
Shimmer of a mirage,
The rest is noise.
Shimmer of a mirage,
The rest is noise.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Whence
[For 3WW]
At the edge of control, what taunts us is not whatever is on the other side, but how inevitable the crossing over and the looking back are.
---
What the sun had sought all year, mother nature chose to gift it today.
It was a sunny day. Bees hummed about the flowers, water caressed and fed gently the malnourished bed of the river. The sun ambled about between the clouds, enjoying the view, looking over all things earthen with a razor sharp vision.
Except that all things earthen did not contain any humans. Whatever wiped the humans out chose to spare the rest of living beings. So the lion whose roar rang around the world, the flora whose fragrance intoxicated the air, the trees whose branches seem to grip each other in a show of strength - the sun could hear, smell and see clearly all of these.
Mother nature had kept her promise. In one great swoop, she cleared earth of all the clutter, all those fleshed ones who could think but alas, chose to think only of themselves.
At the edge of control, what taunts us is not whatever is on the other side, but how inevitable the crossing over and the looking back are.
---
What the sun had sought all year, mother nature chose to gift it today.
It was a sunny day. Bees hummed about the flowers, water caressed and fed gently the malnourished bed of the river. The sun ambled about between the clouds, enjoying the view, looking over all things earthen with a razor sharp vision.
Except that all things earthen did not contain any humans. Whatever wiped the humans out chose to spare the rest of living beings. So the lion whose roar rang around the world, the flora whose fragrance intoxicated the air, the trees whose branches seem to grip each other in a show of strength - the sun could hear, smell and see clearly all of these.
Mother nature had kept her promise. In one great swoop, she cleared earth of all the clutter, all those fleshed ones who could think but alas, chose to think only of themselves.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The Wrong End of the Truth Table
Come on!
Lets open these boxes one by one,
find the one that contain our names.
Check the one to the right,
Let me check the one to the left.
Our names are written in black inside,
Trust my guts and don't ask me why.
One of them will contains our names,
Yours and mine.
Don't ask me why.
---
Having met with failure, be brutal here.
Bury alive a few dreams, see what the blinkers hide.
Revive the dreams worth dying for,
to shine like the sun across a sullen sky.
Lets open these boxes one by one,
find the one that contain our names.
Check the one to the right,
Let me check the one to the left.
Our names are written in black inside,
Trust my guts and don't ask me why.
One of them will contains our names,
Yours and mine.
Don't ask me why.
---
Having met with failure, be brutal here.
Bury alive a few dreams, see what the blinkers hide.
Revive the dreams worth dying for,
to shine like the sun across a sullen sky.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Flow
[Entry for 3WordWednesday]
The question I would like to ask Him is this: Will the good be hounded by the bad in heaven as badly as they are on the earth? Or will retribution see to it that the bad serve their dues somewhere else and do not end up in heaven?
---
An excerpt from the farewell speech
...after all these years of service here, I have learnt that sometimes, I tend to speak in a language that is simultaneously what I hear, and assume those around me will understand, and what others actually do not. This language might seem to push the contours of what is and should be comprehensible; that much I concede. But I will not cede ground to those who are prone to bellow with an almost dogmatic conviction that the words I mouth, its order, its topography is too far outside the realm of proper human speech and communication. I feel like the kid who writes on the shore and wishes that the waves would never wash away the words that he has painstakingly sketched. I agree that , on account of its proximity to the sea, the waves are never going to stop erasing the kid's crooked etchings. But it doesn't quite follow that what I write (or rather the kid does) is wrong or rather, incorrect, does it? It doesn't quite follow that what I write is correct either; however, being human and blessed with an ability to think and reason, I suspect I deserve the benefit of doubt, if not from the sea, at least from others like me. For now, all I can do now is to stand (having been rendered immobile by my inability to swim)and gaze at the horizon and wonder just who exactly it is pouring bucket after bucket of salty water from so far wide out?...
---
Once the claps had died down, it was time for me to move on. I observed that the busybees around me did not waste any time and promptly deserted the venue once the coffee had run out. I waited just outside the exit and made it a point to thank everyone who came in. A few were astonished that a sixty year old knew their name. One even confided that he hadn't heard of me till the day before. I smiled, shook his hand and wished him the very best. The walk outside did not take long. As I walked towards home, it didn't take huge effort to leave behind all the memories, miserable as well as joyous ones, one at a time. Maybe it will come back eventually with all the boredom that awaits me.
The question I would like to ask Him is this: Will the good be hounded by the bad in heaven as badly as they are on the earth? Or will retribution see to it that the bad serve their dues somewhere else and do not end up in heaven?
---
An excerpt from the farewell speech
...after all these years of service here, I have learnt that sometimes, I tend to speak in a language that is simultaneously what I hear, and assume those around me will understand, and what others actually do not. This language might seem to push the contours of what is and should be comprehensible; that much I concede. But I will not cede ground to those who are prone to bellow with an almost dogmatic conviction that the words I mouth, its order, its topography is too far outside the realm of proper human speech and communication. I feel like the kid who writes on the shore and wishes that the waves would never wash away the words that he has painstakingly sketched. I agree that , on account of its proximity to the sea, the waves are never going to stop erasing the kid's crooked etchings. But it doesn't quite follow that what I write (or rather the kid does) is wrong or rather, incorrect, does it? It doesn't quite follow that what I write is correct either; however, being human and blessed with an ability to think and reason, I suspect I deserve the benefit of doubt, if not from the sea, at least from others like me. For now, all I can do now is to stand (having been rendered immobile by my inability to swim)and gaze at the horizon and wonder just who exactly it is pouring bucket after bucket of salty water from so far wide out?...
---
Once the claps had died down, it was time for me to move on. I observed that the busybees around me did not waste any time and promptly deserted the venue once the coffee had run out. I waited just outside the exit and made it a point to thank everyone who came in. A few were astonished that a sixty year old knew their name. One even confided that he hadn't heard of me till the day before. I smiled, shook his hand and wished him the very best. The walk outside did not take long. As I walked towards home, it didn't take huge effort to leave behind all the memories, miserable as well as joyous ones, one at a time. Maybe it will come back eventually with all the boredom that awaits me.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Sky
Some days are like today, bookended by birth and death;
the year sheds a day, round goes the earth and sheds a dear's life.
What impact his life had, how blessed his soul was,
we will never know again - the blessed ones aren't allowed to come down,
once away from us, they go.
---
Silhouettes keep marching towards the purple sky,
their limpid vision mocks us, a bit harshly -
Any colour you like, will be rendered pale white,
We are all alike, in the end, subject to the same plight.
Once in your life, you will march here, with us or alone,
the light dimmed, the life saddened, death prone.
---
I have never seen snow, nor felt snow fall over me,
nor built a snow man, nor bruised my hand falling from a ski.
Nor have rolled around on a carpet,
shivering in the chill wind, the ice melting over my skin.
Our city is blessed (or cursed), winter having been ejected by the climate Goddess,
from the list of seasons it experiences.
To duck and run from one awning to the other that dot Mylai,
escaping snow flakes as it falls from the sky,
to watch the snow pile up and submerge the slush outside Anna Nagar,
to rub gloved hands and walk along the Marina,
to have heaters in the Volvos that run to Tambaram.
Ye Alchemists! You have your task cut out:
Let snow fall over Chennai and from not just the pages of a Pamuk's novel.
the year sheds a day, round goes the earth and sheds a dear's life.
What impact his life had, how blessed his soul was,
we will never know again - the blessed ones aren't allowed to come down,
once away from us, they go.
---
Silhouettes keep marching towards the purple sky,
their limpid vision mocks us, a bit harshly -
Any colour you like, will be rendered pale white,
We are all alike, in the end, subject to the same plight.
Once in your life, you will march here, with us or alone,
the light dimmed, the life saddened, death prone.
---
I have never seen snow, nor felt snow fall over me,
nor built a snow man, nor bruised my hand falling from a ski.
Nor have rolled around on a carpet,
shivering in the chill wind, the ice melting over my skin.
Our city is blessed (or cursed), winter having been ejected by the climate Goddess,
from the list of seasons it experiences.
To duck and run from one awning to the other that dot Mylai,
escaping snow flakes as it falls from the sky,
to watch the snow pile up and submerge the slush outside Anna Nagar,
to rub gloved hands and walk along the Marina,
to have heaters in the Volvos that run to Tambaram.
Ye Alchemists! You have your task cut out:
Let snow fall over Chennai and from not just the pages of a Pamuk's novel.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Water
One fine morning,
a pair of hitchhiking clouds gave their sore limbs a well deserved rest,
heaving badly, nauseating, wanting to get something off their chest.
They stopped above where I stood, wondering loudly, to whom they could,
reveal where they have been, what they have seen.
To them, I said aloud:
Oh you irreverent ones! weightlessly drifting across the sky;
Your eyes ever roving over us, this worthless world open to your pry.
Oh you freeloading hitchhikers! Reveal to us - the cause of your blues!
Note:
To an addled mind, acute replies won't make sense;
So make your answer brief and not very dense.
---
Long ago, thunder and lightning scarred the sky one night,
janky notes filled the air, like fingers scooting over keys black and white.
A boy's feet left its prints on parched lands -some linear, some circular;
whooping with joy, his tread light, what truth did the boy learn
that filled his heart with delight?
The boy was from a village,
far and beyond, from what constituted arable land.
A land misplaced by time, thatched roofs, nettled fences, sticky slime.
Its occupants busy with neem sticks early morning,
biting, chewing, and expecting,
the sun to shine and the moon to mime.
A cool wind blew the morning he walked out of his house,
his stiff gait losing its composure, with every feet forward his anger though undoused.
His head was freshly tonsured, paste of sandal applied over his mowed hair,
cooling his thoughts, lessening the glare.
His mind was full of anger,
at the pond outside his house, as dry as a masochist's eyes,
at the land that he walked on, cracking up like a skull struck by a steel rod;
at the perpetual drought, at the breeze that crept up his shirt,
at the bird's carcass that lay in the dirt.
At the centre of the village, he waited under the old banyan tree,
its lanky branches flung afar, swaying lightly in the breeze.
Sat at the centre, beside the old idol, humming to the toll of the bells,
was the sage, old enough to spin lengthy tales,
stroking his white beard, guaranteeing relief.
To him our boy walked up, his anger still uncontrolled, his gait broken.
Seated beside the old sage, our boy seethed -
Oh noble sage! tell me one thing -
the pond outside my house why is it dry?
This land, dry as a crone's wrinkle, so dry,
at nights, the stars here cringe to twinkle.
This land, unclothed by beauty, unloved by the skies,
uncared, uncherished, has mother nature severed her ties?
And look around us, beyond this land, there is only water;
waters of the ocean salty and blue, but this water I speak of is so far,
start walking now and you reach there a corpse.
Tell me, oh great one! What is wrong, when I say there is no water
and hence no truth?
The sage whispered a long reply in the boy's ear,
his eyes relaxed as the truth dawned clear.
With the wisdom easing his truculent visage,
before long, the boy's face was shorn of the mindless rage.
Whooping with joy, his tread light, what truth did the boy learn
that filled his heart with delight?
a pair of hitchhiking clouds gave their sore limbs a well deserved rest,
heaving badly, nauseating, wanting to get something off their chest.
They stopped above where I stood, wondering loudly, to whom they could,
reveal where they have been, what they have seen.
To them, I said aloud:
Oh you irreverent ones! weightlessly drifting across the sky;
Your eyes ever roving over us, this worthless world open to your pry.
Oh you freeloading hitchhikers! Reveal to us - the cause of your blues!
Note:
To an addled mind, acute replies won't make sense;
So make your answer brief and not very dense.
---
Long ago, thunder and lightning scarred the sky one night,
janky notes filled the air, like fingers scooting over keys black and white.
A boy's feet left its prints on parched lands -some linear, some circular;
whooping with joy, his tread light, what truth did the boy learn
that filled his heart with delight?
The boy was from a village,
far and beyond, from what constituted arable land.
A land misplaced by time, thatched roofs, nettled fences, sticky slime.
Its occupants busy with neem sticks early morning,
biting, chewing, and expecting,
the sun to shine and the moon to mime.
A cool wind blew the morning he walked out of his house,
his stiff gait losing its composure, with every feet forward his anger though undoused.
His head was freshly tonsured, paste of sandal applied over his mowed hair,
cooling his thoughts, lessening the glare.
His mind was full of anger,
at the pond outside his house, as dry as a masochist's eyes,
at the land that he walked on, cracking up like a skull struck by a steel rod;
at the perpetual drought, at the breeze that crept up his shirt,
at the bird's carcass that lay in the dirt.
At the centre of the village, he waited under the old banyan tree,
its lanky branches flung afar, swaying lightly in the breeze.
Sat at the centre, beside the old idol, humming to the toll of the bells,
was the sage, old enough to spin lengthy tales,
stroking his white beard, guaranteeing relief.
To him our boy walked up, his anger still uncontrolled, his gait broken.
Seated beside the old sage, our boy seethed -
Oh noble sage! tell me one thing -
the pond outside my house why is it dry?
This land, dry as a crone's wrinkle, so dry,
at nights, the stars here cringe to twinkle.
This land, unclothed by beauty, unloved by the skies,
uncared, uncherished, has mother nature severed her ties?
And look around us, beyond this land, there is only water;
waters of the ocean salty and blue, but this water I speak of is so far,
start walking now and you reach there a corpse.
Tell me, oh great one! What is wrong, when I say there is no water
and hence no truth?
The sage whispered a long reply in the boy's ear,
his eyes relaxed as the truth dawned clear.
With the wisdom easing his truculent visage,
before long, the boy's face was shorn of the mindless rage.
Whooping with joy, his tread light, what truth did the boy learn
that filled his heart with delight?
