musing on a moment

 

I am now officially wise

Eliot's age and older

I should be rhyming

Whining musically

I am sesquipedalian

Expected to know

Youngsters vacate their seats for me

Call me uncle, thinking they are being respectful

A veteran to throw riddles at

This is the age my father was

When his frailties struck my teenage angst

What I would give to be 

In his head then

He remained calm

While I struck out boldly

He smiled like a God

Said I was his blood, proudly

So here I am, thirty five years later

Officially wiser

Still, little more than a spoilt child

Staring at that beatific smile 

Searching his eyes, for meaning

So, here I am, jumping back into the heaving night

And a benedictory, healing sunshine

Beating on, floating, a boat tossed in the currents,

While he smiles, somewhere

Upon My Mother Turning 85

 

I remember being seven and climbing onto your back in glee

When you substituted graciously for a park tree

I remember uneaten tomato sandwiches moulding in my tiffin

Which you made with such care and I casually disdained

I remember the unending concern that fuelled frantic telephone calls  

While I was gallivanting blissfully absent for days from the hall

I remember knocking on the bathroom door to give you my exam result

And now I regret so much not seeing your face exult

I remember you rushing to get ready for Sunday church

And morning drives through a sleeping Delhi at breakneck speed

I remember you always were the fastest driver I know

And perhaps the luckiest

I remember you telling me how you studied after lights out, 

And I remember it as such a burden, 

With your parents always finishing first in school

And not being good enough, but today it fills me with laughter and pride.

I remember every meal you cooked and every serving dish

And how I complained when I was crass and foolish

And today I long desperately for a taste from your kitchen

I remember the hug you gave when you told me your husband died 

And how you stood elegant and proud when they buried his coffin

I remember your stubborn courage

Speaking up always for what you thought,

Getting into arguments & 

Fighting might in the Supreme Court yourself

In your 80s.

And I remember today that I am unworthy of this amazing love, 

and that I am immensely blessed.

Happy Birthday to the beat of my heart.

46, 4/6

You turn the page,
And feel the rage,
The cave is yawning,
While the rain keeps gnawing.

A cavernous ocean inside,
Of imagined dishes untried,
Efforts that consciously dwindled,
Desires that sputtered, gloriously unkindled.

46, 46, 46, 46,
The beat relentless with slick licks,
The age that capriciously matches the date,
A warm, kind-natured laugh from a smiling Fate.

A synchrony that's lucidly random,
Stalking you like a ranging phantom,
The skies are turning strange orange at night,
The moon gives off far lesser light.

Time steadfast hunts meagre dreams down,
Rhymes flow easy for the mocking clown,
Yet you seek something tangible to hold,
Yet you seek something eternally true and bold.

Images flicker in black, upscreen,
Colours shimmer in the sodium trees,
Memories of movies watched with your dad,
Hitchcock framed the good along with the bad.

That's all, that's all, it's the final call,
Another day reduced to a foetal ball,
You spell words slowly with conscious choice,
Memories within typos, less signal, more noise.

Good night sweet age, you whisper at last,
Conscious this moment is hurtling past,
The hand of your mother, aged yet calm,
Across oceans, so far, yet so present and warm.

I remember, she says, a smile on her face,
I remember it all, every milestone in every place,
I remember you stood, so quiet and small,
I remember quite distinctly your very first fall.

Your eyes are closing, your intentions are spent,
Your words are garbled, the ancient wisdom is shent,
Today shall be just a page in a forgotten, mite-eaten book,
On a bottom shelf, dust-blessed, its treasures unshook.

Apropos a sprained wrist and intimations of mortality

Time rolls on
As you grow forlorn
Rain falls hard
Play the sympathy card

Rise through the crap
Get lost off the map
Switch on the charm
A smile can be a balm

Words don’t rhyme
For beings out of time
Coughs explode in the foreboding silence
Cautious sniffles invite vigilante violence

Rise graceful in the soaking rain
Sacrifices flowing with blood red stains
Listen closely to your galloping mind
Cry with eyes of the benevolent kind

Wise through the melting years
Seeing through unbeckoned tears
Burnt evenly with the searing pain
Yet baked and wholesome once again

A Decade hence from Decadence (marking December 31st, 2019 in Delhi)

What have we learnt and who have we lost,
Snacking on sorrow while lamenting the costs,
Three five to four five saw the ripening of remorse,
Intimations of mortality and endings sans recourse.

The future was shiny, now beneath its veneer,
We discern paint strokes, grainy textures all clear,
Decades hurtle past, and urge me "Remember!"
Emotions are sapped, memories yawp "Surrender!"

Spinning relentless, wobbling a bit more,
Tucked in quilts, miasma enveloping the door,
Greyish day awakens, milestone for some,
Meaningless yet, celebration moot and humdrum.

Things wished said, yet no way to say them,
Things wished done, yet no way to make them,
People wished for, yet no way to preserve them,
Words spoken rashly, yet no way to reserve them.

Forward we stop go, or could it be sideways,
Rushing wildly, forgiving fog in driveways,
Plebeians huddle on corners, ignite paper fires,
Dreams rise in ashes, silent the anointed liars.

We rose, we fell, we began anew,
We pushed, we stumbled, we faltered, somehow grew,
We sang, and pranced, and giggled and cried,
We laughed a bit, and tears crusted and dried.

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight departed,
Be proud of us, of the nihilism you started,
To you we whisper our meagre leftover desires,
Don't vouchsafe these, till our eyes retire.

A memory to hold, hug, cherish and tender,
Winter is yet warm, while blues skies don't render,
Family blood dwells here, my wiser heart endures too,

Wishing for you unhealthy treats, words that ring true.

 

3:11am

That was a different life,
Waiting for the pain that never came.
This one is knowing, not wiser,
Richer, yet poorer,
Empty,
Bristling with forgotten dreams,
That cut your fingers.

Crisply the miasma envelopes you, your regular jailor,
Stomping through his nocturnal rounds.
You look up to the sodium light,
Orange bright,
Your heart says take flight.

A joke, a laugh,
A silly tale, to distract,
Anything will do,
To lighten this shade of deep blue.

You pray for the strength to be yourself,
You pray to hold that precious love close,
You pray for the night to end with chirping birds
You pray for grass and sky to be there in the dawning.

Oblivious

You are breathing through a plastic tube
Sighing softly as I talk stutteringly to you


Oblivious of my remorse
Of the profit and the loss
Of your own joys forsaken and emotional costs
Of internal seas wracked by emotions and tossed
Through this mundane world's churning
Lost moments, my desperate yearning
Oblivious of us stranded here
As you glide silently to a distant shore

My tears are pennies in a fountain for you
Hoping you're fine 'cos your spirit just flew
And I stumble on, shaky with resolve that's new
To be your son, and honour you true.


  

Flashes of childhood,
Spent in play, fields and trees,
Or a white window sill,
Gazing at my mother on the street below.

Slivers of water on an urban pond,
Fishing or boating, quiet laughter,
Night embraces the tiled cafe,
And egg yolk runs slowly to touch  toast.

My friend's brown shoes, as he bowls in jeans,
The hush of a friendly audience
Gathered lazily on the lawn,
As the lights go down.

Different schools,
With different wise men and fools,
Walking to the first day of work,
After a bus and train ride, sweaty and unexpecting inside.

Eyeing apples at reception,
Always at the window looking out, looking in,
Love in its surreptitious forms,
Obsessive loyalty that obliterates norms.

Held down by an unexplained weight of sadness,
Help up by instants of laughter and madness,
Held to the dream that will not be crushed,
Held to account by time that will not be rushed.

An age I never dreamt of,
A place I never expected,
A body I never respected,
A mind that hasn't reflected.

Waiting on the shores for the wave to crash,
And for the light on the horizon,
I feel old and new,
Borrowed and used,
Broken, yet fused,
Nice, gentle and naughty,
30 days till 40.

No lightbulb flares,
No alarm bells jangle,
No telephone rings,
No Damocles' thingie dangles.

No parrot squawks,
No caged bird sings,
No kit of pigeons fly,
No death knell rings.

No glass shatters,
No thunder strikes,
No policeman whistles,
No smoke turns white.

Nothing is obvious,
Nothing is declared,
A small moment passes,
Passes, passes.....
And your heart is dismembered,
Filleted,
By the sweet engulfing
Nothingness of that moment.

Rambles After 

Same old place,
Same old face,
New people making small talk,
New forces making me walk,
The end of the old road,
Understand, I tell you, the new code.

I can see but not hear you  talk to me,
Leave me alone, I'd rather be,
Sitting on my balcony,
Reading the history of the Shawnee.
Or anything but drinking with you,
Watching fools of different hues,
Shake their bodies as if they felt it,
Faking sincerely, as if they meant it.

The time is now,
But what, who, how,
Remain mysterious, serious,
Possibly deleterious,
This endangered species,
Is worth a few theses,
So tell me what you feel,
As the orange gets peeled,
And the layers get revealed,
And the wounds are left to heal.

Just out of reach

I thought I had it,
Felt it, smelt it,
Put my finger in its blood,
Heard the noise, felt the thud,
Ran through the powdery foam,
Climbed into the mourning gloom,
Saw the streaking shafts of a strange new day, Saw the dark-haired child with the dolls of clay.

The new is old, the old is retro,
Retro is how the youth will know,
About birth and death that define us,
Refine us, defile and deride us,
Mock us till the setting sun,
Til optimism is spent and emphatically done.

I thought I had it,
Felt it jingle in my head,
Like a needle pulling thread,
Through the labyrinths of my defeats,
Into the white steel resting the sheath.
I raise my sword and wander listless,
As my face grows its bristles,
The new day sulks into view,
And I still don't have the eagle's view.

On a pilgrimage

A few miles up the road
From the city glinting in the setting sun,
I drive slowly in this practical car,
Upon my impractical mission,
With my friends who will not fathom
Why this drive, at random,
But I am waiting for a glimpse that will suffice
Of the calm, composed, unforgotten one

These gentle roads she's travelled, often fast
These roads the master painted in my head
Once she drummed her fingers on a pillow
Making etchings in my heart
Adolescent longing didn't play a part,
Strangely sexless, like an admired photograph
Unattainable yet always the One.

Shhhhhhhhh whisper the tyres,
Along the silent roads where no one creeps,
And the city lights up beneath,
The road holds her secret, close and still.

I meander for an hour,
I get lost on purpose, searching to find my peace,
My friend spotted flowers and rubbish on the road,
I wonder if that's the fateful place,
And I still have no closure.

Rest, my memory,
Rest in peace,
There shall be no lese-majeste
As I hear the cruise ships far below
Their horns signal it's time to go
The medieval village is all aglow
The journey is not in vain
Better than finding her slain
By some ordinary rock or stone
In my head she's alive,
Smiling, laughing,
Smoothing her dress and getting ready to drive...

A line of lights in my mirror
A darkening coastline with unmindful evening diners
We descend gently to the beach
And my memory sings itself to sleep

Good night Angel,
Good night, the road,
Grace is preserved.
I have been here,
I have paid my respects,
She sleeps somewhere,
Protected by her rocky kingdom,
The bluest of blue seas,
And gulls skimming quietly.

Sank, Roo Doe Noo

Sank, Roo Doe Noo

I walk in through the swinging doors
To the dimness of 1920
Pennants of American Football teams litter the high walls

Woody narrow space,
The office folks are rolling up their shirt-sleeves,
Ready for the serious business of the weekending drinking

There's a space by the brass beer taps
Where I stand to survey the well-preserved memory
Different and yet similar

This is where Jake met Lady Brett
Haunted by demons of regret
Hemingway in a framed photo kicks a football (American)
Posing macho, while the bartenders come and go

In their serious glasses and spotless white jackets,
Like doctors curing aching souls,
With original Bloody Marys and peanuts

This well-travelled old wood
Envelopes my soul calmly
Mary tastes good and wholesomely spicy

"Are you an IBF?", says a fly to another,
Etched primitive on the mirror,
Papa was one, an International Bar Fly,
Like flies the conversations bzzz past me


For those present the past is an irrelevance,
I smile happily,
Harry's abides.
Low light defeats me,
And I resolve to not take pictures,
I have been here before in my head,
The memory is deeper than the fiction,
And that has lasted me 19 years,
This most significant trivial moment,
Shall suffice.

This is my coda:

You remember the pictures you didn't take
More than the ones you do
And you remember the places that don't exist
More than the ones that do
And yet if you are blessed
You might arrive at the meeting of the two.

(with respect, for Harry's New York Bar, 5 Rue Daunou, Paris)

Upon hearing of REM's demise

Bonne nuit, old chaps,
Thanks for supplying the sound-track,
Wistful, faraway sad even when celebrating,
Smiling wryly while hearts were breaking,
Through the shiny confusion of those years,
You stood by with your out-of-reach flavour,
Your name scrawled on my Camel geometry box,
Scribbled lyrics during classes as I searched for meaning,
And while I slowly outgrew the confusion,
I never quite found the answers,
Got lost in life's trivia,
You brought the disruptive gift of melancholia,
Delighted me with piano and electrolites,
Made it legit to be surreal,
To be inscrutable,
Yet melodic.
You inspired, in music, in videos,
So that soon I missed,
More aching beauty than I had wished.
See you in heaven if we make the list.

After seeing a masterpiece


Fat, ugly, sweaty, grunting,
Leering, gruff, searching, hunting,
Drinking, mourning, lamenting loss inside,
Racist, limping, wracked with pride

Scheming your worst, fixing the facts,
Breaking the code, dishonouring pacts,
How real is he, and how real are we
For in film, so rarely we see

A hero subverted, playing a villain's part
Creating himself with shady, dark arts
He writes himself down,creates a legend
The opposite of what today's heroes reckon

We're jaded, faded, easily downtraded
Too soon enervated, intellectually masturbated,
Yet there for the ages are heroes who shine,
Like the crushed fat ugly man drinking too much wine.

PICTURES IN MY HEAD

I don't want that picture of you in my head,
The one of you with someone else,
I turn my thoughts to think of other things,
And prevent the horror movie from playing out.

Now, like correct yet meaningless photographs that fade
Into the unknown of visual overload
This conversation with a friend may blur
And I will forget where the next few minutes will go
But I won't forget the ache of that love,
Was something missing,
Maybe that was all I was meant to have,
Meant to taste, meant to know, meant to feel?

I am the living dead, a zombie with no emotion
Looking at snapshots of myself through an overhead camera
Seeing the inevitability of the bald spot and the familiarity of myself
Like a friend I once knew and won't cross the street to say hello to

I lift the glass of dark yellow and drown in the cream
Reading the spindly serifs on the glass:
I speak no German but I feel a oneness
With the stout master brewer who did his job well, somewhere, miles away...
He's Nepali, and two metres away
A smiling boy of twenty three
Who has blended weiss and dunkel
Accidentally to great effect

I am lifted by the conversation of new photographs
Of images we arrange in our heads and projects we can see
The most satisfying photograph will always be in the head
Lit as I imagine, with texture and expression,
The frame pixel perfect

I walk too straight and look down at the rhythm of my shoes
Brown against the asphalt,
I sit and listen,
Dashboard grey and edible cream against the orange street night
It's only teenage wasteland, and I'm still there,
I drive home sedately in the middle lane,
Watching the empty wing mirrors,
Black with white lines that hypnotize,
To sleep, imageless, thankfully, in my bed

why the moment


The moment seems better
Than a long-drawn out story
More pure, more possible,
Less to endure,less gory

Every film drags,
While the plot thickens,
Each article grates,
While word counts beckon

People add facetious arguments
Characters develop endearing flaws
And I wait, restless, fidgeting,
Half-attentive,
Checking to see the time that's left.

decadence

the decade ends
and decade hence
thoughts of decadence

what teenage hopes will i shelved
will life have ebbed
will the spirit survive
when I'm forty five?

what rot may creep
darkness descend
relationships to mend
when the next decade ends?

1999
a lifetime away
who was that person
what did he want
memory is hazy
and my brain is lazy

what memories will linger
to count on one's fingers
the past is a blur
the moment all I treasure

what ambitions will die
like fog in the night
vapours that linger
yet slip through my fingers

the montage is gripping
the pain is slipping
the sun shines through clouds
over, and out.

airport haiku am not quite clear on the syntax of time slipping by, waiting like water clasping the outside of a cold glass of water. Physics dictates a metamorphosis but i now know that things happening dont mean change. I met someone who knew me once many years ago. I wonder what i looked like now, the shell is similar but the inside is strange and thoughtful and different. And most of all sadder and not wiser.

Fragment discovered while looking for something else
The city shines at night, and I watch the cars flow like soothing fish east and west on the freeway, weaving the dense fabric of loneliness. The money dribbles into my bank account, while the antiseptic city drains me of human emotions, stabbing me with detestable nostalgia. I talk to the same few people everyday, and I miss the bustle of India. When foreigners come to India they are shocked viscerally by the sheer number of people around them: I am suffering from the shock of finding clean spaces, shorn of people. And vapid colours, concrete and not surprising, bright, warm, mine.