Friday, March 11, 2011

Ata left with the Japanese

The newsroom was in a mess,

Images of a sludge eroding

The plains of Okinawa in urgency,

The rice bowl tilting slowly

As if this smiling Buddha,

Wanted to laugh some more.

One death, 200 killed

Was the last toll.

Wailing newsroom telephones,

Mothers buzz soft whimpers,

Scattered brothers with flags

White, silent scrolls,

I headed for Vishnu’s stall.

Ata! Did you meet the Japanese souls tonight?

How did they handle their apocalyptic deaths Ata?

And how did you predict your own last week?

Tiniali, where three roads merged

By your shoulder, heard your footfalls Ata.

You walked past the naamghar slowly, alone,

Crossing Muhammad Ali’s mansion,

As I write this pithy little verse.

The stories you told us Ata,

Of the cigarette ghost from Bangkok,

Was true indeed, and I am him.

You clocked 50 panamas,

I smoked 10 smalls today Ata!

But then you saw Ganges embracing the sea,

Now we shed our tears over Narmada.

I missed your funeral Ata!

And Scriptures forbid me to leave

Your dwelling before the 12th night.

My newsroom spares six days of penance,

And I am 2000 miles away from

The Basil where you prayed for us,

Reciting verses from Vishnu Puran.

May your soul rest in peace Ata!

I will remember this day,

When you went along with the Japanese.

Friday, March 04, 2011

If then else

In five finite parts after two glasses of bhang:

Hesitate and then locate
if then else,
then else,
then else,
OH! Elsewhere there is a place.
A space,
which also called interDEEPendence,
may be an interplay.


How often do we remember
prose from our past lives?
Those narratives, forgotten to last forever?
Your mockery, and my words.
Now the sun sets in confused descriptions,
As if directions were erased.


Did you travel from Amsterdam to my eyes last night?
I was dazed, locked in your embrace.


My roles have models now,
I have sold a word for two paise only,
and this word grew,
then there was a forest of stories,
protected by fibreglass dome,
The Tomb of our sorrows.


I am a junket sage,
a crafted image,
of our eyes
that never met.
I was still wondering “if then else”.
Amid blades of summer shades,
Carpe diem.