OBLIVION

December 26th, 2010

OBLIVION


 


-I-


It was time I sought amid my memories


Quantum


A packet of thought, wrapped in oil paper


And sealed, tucked away,


A lost meandering neurotic lark


In a forest where nothing stirred


Like autumn, overcast, slowly drizzling


I tried to say something, my lips stilled,


Crisply held back, watching the sepia bloom hues


I tried then the words cloaked


In sweet ochre glow


And whatever was it that I wanted to say


to the world- it had gone away


Autumn gave way to winter,


The folds inside the labyrinth,


Perhaps the beginning of oblivion


In a wrapper, waiting for eons


Missing, unseen, those myriad unknown


Rows upon rows,


The past unopened


Or forever closed!


 


-II-


Oblivion


Vision


Sans sight,


A forever night


In a catacomb


Walking memories


Neurons afloat


Sparkling exchanges


Thoughts


Seeking bodies


Lost in transience


The ephemeral’s finale


Music spoke


In a winter of silence


Oblivion!


Visions in Blue

December 10th, 2010

The wind just rose.
The wind began a sing song, a tale of something distant.
Something- a brilliance somewhere, beyond where I would chance upon, a thing, of my own. Mine for ever.
The rain had stopped just five minutes ago. I barely could hear the cicadas. There was a thought, uppermost in my mind. How do I break the news to myself?
My mind said here and here and here, I had touched… and then, came in the mist. The wind had stopped.

The rain spoke first!

To a beautiful, sensuous woman
As I think she is on the wrong side of the high seas
Then what are you? She asked me- “A poet?”
I admitted “I am a words man, you can safely bet!”
She said- “I don’t trust you”
Well, I said that is evident, and true
I added “We are the ephemeral guys
We sometimes make up, and always lie”

Then she offered me a knowing look,
Would I take a little beer in the café nook?
I have alcohol, no blood flows
In my veins, everyone knows
Now I liked that,
You speak- I speak, yes, and think, what to say
Then to stop midway
Speak of something you like?
Let me guess, waiting to strike…

Things poets say
To those transient waves
That walk around, pirouette
Strut or glide,
Those flowers,
Lazy hours
To the beautiful blue eyes
To the flutter, the sighs

Oh, the Muse, she mustn’t know…

The wind fluttered. Miss Beaufort waltzed! The rain danced with thoughts of romance!

You know- I like to draw
Or sketch, just as I saw
Very often a woman’s face
Before it grew a body for solace
Soon I know, she would be Venus
Modest, blushing- or turning to dust
Her hair making waves in the wind
Flowers on her dress sequined
Shy at the kisses to her, curls
Over her eyes closing the world…
I would then draw a bearded face,
A banjo in his hands
Serenading her
And soon I add people
Clapping
As she takes to wings
Her hair in the wind,
A hand across her chest,
A stole over her secrets
And a song on the tormentor’s lips-
He serenades, a heady wine she sips
With his heart on song,
As the sunset prolongs,
Slowly, the maiden would cry enough,
Go away- let me hide in the wind aloft
And the wind would now bring leaves
Brush them up
Make a small hut
An arch over her head
And the singer would still sing
You know,
He is blind!

On a white canvas
We see mist
A dream rests
Waiting the pencil lines
The mood settles
On the easel!

There was the moon. Past seven, it was an awakening. The universe spoke.
As the wind again walked in, a zephyr, with a strand of desire! Satyr awoke. The music wafted in.
She was nineteen.


THE WOMAN IN A RED SARI

November 25th, 2010




THE WOMAN IN A RED SARI 
Epilog-



  A Question to the reader…

You know the muse


Would she have a flaming red flower in her hair?
A white sari with a red border
Picturesque, you say?
And an ebony torso-
Her navel showing
And
Mahua in her eyes?

It pours from an earthen bowl
Tender hands
Of madness,
She smiles
Her sari’s anchal shed,

She says I don’t seek…

I don’t pluck,
And yet, I try my luck
She is tender, tender.
Her eyes honey
A wave, happiness
When you come
To this-
A home, a nest
In my heart
A poem in every breath
I love you
Said the ether

A poem, trembling
Rife with rain
Said the green leaf

Tell me
Would you be the girl
In that red sari
The mahua,
Kohl lined eyes
Dusk in the day?
You know the brook,
In the woods
The sal leaves whispering
The glinting wavelets
Bejeweling the dress
The mica glistens
Here,
Bring me my elixir
 

Once again
She said she would lie
Her words rang out
In mocking rhyme
As she ran
 
Come get me, chase me,

The woman became like the high sea
A soul astir, aroused
I knew
She would drink me
Even as I gazed
Into the mahua
She had spread
In her eyes
The prologue came later…


That was long ago, when I remembered her now, I found the beginning! You know- Corporation Circle, the red light, as she came into my heart, a little late that night! Thirty years ago… I held the paper that had this poem as the bus drove off- and let it soar in the wake of the bus… I watched you pick up that piece of paper- a poem to T… and then thirty years went by like bubbles, a deep draught of frothy warm toddy!


SINFUL

November 23rd, 2010

Each morning I begin my poem-
The sun’s rays bring a pang of longing
A possible remnant of life
I see that mango tree-
A woman of middle age
Kohl in her eyes,
Yet to wither away,
Still in fruit-
In blossomed lust

Each morning I see a muse
As she walks by
With a basket of white flowers
Chanting the Lord’s name
Yet, she has sin in her eyes
As she smiles
Through the glass panes
And meet my gaze!

Each morning she has the same
White blouse,
Her hair in a bun,
A greenish sari
As she stands in repose
Eyes sparkle,
Do I know her?
That query
Comes every day,
I deny her
Each morning,
I lie in wait
As the jasmine withers
As the fruits turn from green to a blush
As easily as lust
And then yellow
As the wind blows
Waves in the trail of her cloths
Each morning I look at the muse
Enticing me, no, she pleads
As I gaze
And gaze
In the sun’s rays- golden, then white, then gone,
She withers, but never scorns
The sun’s rays
Bring a new day
Astir with the things I do
I rise,
I walk away…

Each morning, the tree sheds a fruit
Each morning, some flowers fall
Each morning the wind sings
Each morning, sin sighs
Oh the flower, jasmine tinged
Each morning, I lie
To myself
My poem breathes in relief,
I still caress
I am still there
At the table where I began a dialog
In sunrays
A woman above me,
Dark, in a canvas stares
The mango tree by her side
Her flowers white in the basket

Each morning, the poem stays
Where I began
As I stare- the jasmine has been there,
In a brown haze
In a glazed past, in the sun’s rays!

The Muse plays
In a green sari,
She stands in the painting
A red lip
A basket on her hips
The Mango tree
The sun’s rays
A window in my lusty gaze…
Framed
Sinful in my heart,
I wait
Tomorrow if I write the poem
Would she go away

I have that pang in my heart
My poem, she stays
A woman,
Middle aged
In a frame
Below that painted tree
The painted fruits
The jasmines
They smell good
Oh?
The sun rays!


Wooing Kamaljit

November 7th, 2010

I was wooing Kamaljit- 16, PYT


Prelude


She stood there adamant- a little unhappy at my arrogance. No, I won’t let her into my car! Now, I must tell you, I, KB, am 17, a little bit of a snob, and she is a pretty young thing, with blinking eyes, tall, and enamored of the town scallywag, me! I am, just being me, TDH to her petite beauty, and admiring her bobbing breasts as she played badminton, and with that, rose immortal poems in my heart… she was worth it!



I


Let me describe my predicament. From the beginning, for that is the place to begin! That is what Confucius says!

I played badminton at the stadium, obviously. Otherwise, this story would not have begun…

My desire grew… within the fortnight, I was lost knee deep in the quagmire of calf love, of Kamaljit’s calves… (two of them in fact- she had lovely legs) as she swung the badminton racket. It was intoxicating.

One day, in fact- Day One, I saw Kamaljit playing badminton. I too was playing badminton in the next court with a fat gent- with a pot belly and a cheap wooden racket- no- the racket was in my hands. I was winning my first point while he was at his 18th.

I was serving the next point when Kamaljit began her swing to serve. I was admiring her, when the pot bellied gent yelled, how long does he have to wait? I served, rather absent mindedly. The shuttle cock stayed in flight for a vertical drop. The racket handle stayed within my grip. The rest of my racket flew headlong into Mister Pot Belly Gupta bellicosely!

Kamaljit lost her point. She was laughing away to glory. She smiled at me…
Since her partner too was choking with laughter, I knew he would not notice my stealing at the laughing heart-throb. Mr. P B Gupta was laughing too. I grinned at Kamaljit! I could make out she was in love!

Or was it? Her irate partner yelled- “Kamaljit kudiye! Service!” (Kamaljit girl, service!)

He glared at me. Which adoring and protective father would not, especially if the predator is a handsome Bengali Brahmin boy, certainly unwelcome in a Sikh girl’s mind? He was also thinking “That too the boss’s son” in addendum to my own thoughts- this I learnt much later, the hard way!

I picked up my regular racket, a Slazenger! I won the game, the next twenty points in a row, while Mr. P B Gupta was clutching his tummy.

What the hell! Love makes tigers of the mice! You know the Chinese saying? A good fortune may forebode a bad luck, which may in turn disguise a good fortune! Good fortune? That was Kamaljit’s presence in the next court. Bad fortune, my wooden racket broke. Good fortune- I won the game!

Kamaljit’s father, Mr. Channey, hence KFC in short, was annoyed in matter of minutes. His daughter won the next three games… as I watched the Kamaljit-KFC match in real earnest.

I liked her!
And her father looked like a wrestler.
I disliked him!

I was thin too, much thinner than him, but weighed a healthy 60 kilos! And I was then a diminutive 5’-6” tall, quite Ok for my age!



II
A month went by, and then two months. I did not break any more rackets.
I had changed my residence, and became a temporarily permanent denizen of the stadium trying to figure out when Miss Kamaljit would come to the stadium, and go back, unescorted, a big if though! I was stationed outside, to see if Kamaljit too went to the gym. Unescorted- sadly, the answer was no! She had a hunk or two with her whenever she went home, barely three hundred yards away.

And it was here that I met KRRK while in vigil at the stadium. Wise beyond my years, he was adopted as my mentor. He was short, 5 feet and a half inch, and squat, a young lad of thirty to my 17 winters. He was unemployed as the rumors were, but in fact he was a sailor on frequent shore leave from Mckenzie McKinnon or some fabulous shipping company! Somewhat impecunious, seamen are acceptable. He lived with Mr. Doraisami Velayudhan, an office superintendent in my father’s office. My father was the boss!

I adopted Mr. KRRK as my mentor. Stories of his exploits with girls at every port of call, as narrated by the one and the only KRRK, had made me admire him!

In short, I asked my mentor, Kottali Rama Rao Krishnaswamy, KRRK in short, how to tackle the situation… he readily adopted the suggestions and endorsed me into his august school- KRAKOW- The KRRK Academy of the Knack of Wooing! In short, that is!

He, not Mr. Doraisami, but KRRK, asked me if I had money for a cup of tea and a cigarette too! Assured, we went into a huddle at Faujdar’s Tuck Shop! Of this gentleman, a pock marked face and a very dark, lanky body were his distinguishing features. Besides, he was an avid story teller- he claimed to be in service in the MES during WW-II as a laborer for two months, but claimed that he had seen action in Japan, where the British Army planted hydrogen oil bombs in Haridwar and Nagapura and burst it with a pair of kamikaze Bangalore torpedoes. He however had a good hand in brewing English tea, and used to serve it with dollops of sugar and milk in somewhat old glass tumblers the size of thimbles of which the bottoms were apparently glued with chitin and gum. The tea was wonderful.

KRRK took a sip, and finished the cup of joy in a blink of an eye! He looked expectantly at Faujdar… Faujdar looked at me. I nodded, and stretched out my fingers- two and took them to my lips. The two WD&HO Wills Goldflake cigarettes materialized on that cue. I had counsel ready to talk, but he raised his palm as if to say wait!

“So you want to impress that scrawny small blinking idiot?” rasped KRRK. I nodded.

“KRRK, she is a perfect girl for me. I want to marry her as soon as I can!”
KRRK considered that for a few moments… he had not spoken for about thirty minutes now. “And how will you feed her?” he asked. I said I would find a job somewhere… or sell tea at a tea stall, and she could make the eats there!
“Boy!” he said, “that is an interesting idea- I guess you would get plenty of customers that way… tell me what is she like when you talk to her?”
I went numb… I had never talked to her before.

KRRK asked me where she lived- I told her she lived in my heart, oops 221 Baulia Colony! KRRK started laughing- “Boy, you have sunk! And, what does she do?” I said, she plays badminton at the stadium. I was lying, she lived near the Stadium complex itself.

KRRK looked at me, a mad gleam in his eyes. He said sternly that one should not look at girls from the same section of the railway colony- this was spread over five kilometers in length and two in breadth. I said I would like my in-laws to stay close to my home. KRRK grinned. And why would I love that? I answered that her father was a National Badminton coach, and the union has prospects for me.

KRRK laughed his demoniacal laughter- “Have you seen her brothers yet?”
Now that was something I did not know. KRRK explained- her two brothers, both elder to her, were dreaded toughies- they played all games and were worked out at the stadium gym too. And the damsel I wanted so badly was dominated by them. They never visited the FTS, “Faujdar Tea Service”. The first was a demoralizing piece of information, a setback obviously! The second was common knowledge!

KRRK puffed his cheeks to spit out an imaginary piece of dental muck! He said in a deep meditative voice, “Tomorrow”. Hope swelled in my heart… I was to get some good advice tomorrow. I was in fact about to woo Kamaljit, at long last!

I walked home with a song in my heart- that merry song on a train ringing in my ears “Oh Queen of my dream when will you come thou, come on come on!” you know the Hindi version of this song, by the late K Kumar from that movie “Prayer”, released in 1969. The events belonged to 1966, 1967, 1968, and has traces in 1972, when she got married off! Was I still wooing her? Make a guess!

I felt good. I was Clint Eastwood chewing a stick in what was that movie? Makhanaz Gull!

Oops!



III
By now we have three characters and the protagonist himself with a K or two embedded in their name! The plot thickens- it is a K- Kitchen, what do you think? Fate was playing cat and mouse, rather, K for kitten, K for KB, K for KFC, K for KJ, K for KRRK… oops that is too many K’s- I lost count- I was in love! The kittens were growing up in a remote corner of the massive Badminton Hall just outside the Stadium, next to the swimming pool

KRRK had told me to write a love letter to the lady with the K in her name, and keep it stored in a sweat proof plastic cover, with a rose petal for effect, in my pocket. I also kept a throbbing heart not in my pocket! It may happen.

I also had my car with me- borrowed of course from the garage in our bungalow. I was ready to elope, just as KRRK had said. They say the wait has sweet fruits in Hindi, which in my native Punjabi ooops, Bengali means Sabre dah Fall Meat Ha Honda! I was playing with wet tresses in my mind…

I was wooing Kamaljit!

FTS was gaining in prosperity as KRRK Consultancy service prospered. I was exhausting my pocket money. And learning history as told by Faujdar! He said he was captured by the Japanese as Singapore fell. After learning that he was a volunteer for the INA, now stranded without money after the British ran away or were capture, they let him set up a chow-mein and tea shop in distant Mandalay POW Camp. When he was about to commit suicide, out of sheer boredom- after too many Burmese girls in the Burma Trail had ditched him, he jumped into the high seas, and was rescued by Captain- one Mr. Jeorgio Hrrisanvsky from Prague and a deemed mercenary, aboard a Yellow Submarine belonging to the Chinese Navy, and dropped off in the Andaman Islands, yes, a mercenary for sure. Then he swam home to Lake Chilka near Balasore! I found KRRK smiling as if it was… what?

This was the ninety seventh day since I had set my eyes on Kamaljit. She still played badminton with her coach and father, the fat Mr. KFC. I kept having nightmares in fear of the two body guards that escorted her home every day!

And I beat the district and state champion in badminton. He left in disgust to join the Film and Television Institute of India, on Karve Road in Pune. My field was clear. He was the boyfriend.

I was elated, for the probability of gaining a toe-hold in Ms K’s heart had increased. My pocket allowance was over each day, KRRC had not told me about the Methods of Wooing Badminton Girls for Dummies as yet! But he had promised… soon!

What? There was an interlude.

Gur Shorn and Gur Tarpaul, brothers and bodyguards to KJ, started using my car to ride home. They were totally happy with me… and once, just once, I went into the Loin’s Den. She was there, kneading wheat flour, and her mother stood just behind the curtains. She had a rolling pin in her hands. Kamaljit did not appear. She was in love!



IV
One day, Mr. KFC failed to escort Ms K to the stadium. He was in fact sick and at home! And Ms K was smiling. There were no other players in the badminton hall- except for me, and her! I had it made.

I pointed to the rackets and to the court. She nodded, yes!
The game began in earnest.

She was serving…

We had not spoken as yet!

The door opened. The bodyguards moved in and led the screeching girl away.

Don’t ask me. A mirror shattered in the distance!

KRRC ate an additional biscuit that day. Faujdar told me a new story, but I cannot narrate that- I was not listening to anything- the screeches of the girl as she was led away… sorry, she was smiling at her brothers- she had gladly gone away, breaking my heart!

And I wanted to woo Kamaljit! I could wait… till the Graf Zeppelin lands in this town? Perhaps!

Hey Buddy, a new story?

How I wooed Kamaljit?

Oh come on- I never wooed her again! And she is perhaps a granny now, but this is a piece of legitimate guess work!


Autumn Rain

November 6th, 2010

Autumn asks, is it my fault if it rains?
Is it too much to say- the snow when it comes
Becomes only a wall in a state of siege
Closeted with memories of innocence

The insane dreams of one fine day
Hostages on the balcony in the last golden rays
You sleep back, into this nest
A sea of black hair on this pillow-
A winter’s first dream plays. . .
within my solitary consciousness

On this last day the rain makes a poem
In the last orange rays, an eventide song!
This autumn says- wait for spring
Closeted in dreams, nestled in that labyrinth
Through the dews and mists,
The snow and haze in winter’s cold arms!

And then you came
My untimely rain…


CONFESSIONS OF AN ASPIRING ENGINEER

November 5th, 2010

I must write a book called My Truth with Explosions! Or, perhaps, Fred Hoyle’s Muse!


It is Diwali Time… and time for a confession or two- may be a series of those. These also explain how we, the kids of a long gone by era, bloomed as engineers these days!


1


He was six years old, and keen to graduate as an engineer at that ripe old age. He was in class 2, rather prematurely, but topping school! He had heard about James Watt’s invention, and knew these were part of his father’s profession, and he was occasionally travelling in railway saloon cars, sometimes attached next to a steam engine. His father was then a Joint Director in Rail Bhawan, New Delhi, but he never took his child to his office, so mean of him! Anyway, most of his toys were railway trains, precious… but he wanted to know what made actual steam engines work. He liked the tracks and a MECCANO #000 set, but beyond that, not much! So he decided on his experiments with the Truth, once in a while.



It was Diwali, 1956!



The small boy in knickers with big eyes and a tousled head held the toy with a wistful look. He had “taken” his Dad’s screwdriver and pliers- he really knew how to play with those. Sometime ago, he had broken his three year old brother’s arm with a hammer… story censored!



The house was busy. The father was busy providing the finishing touches to a paper hot air balloon in the first floor drawing room. Seeing his opportunity, the boy slipped upstairs to the second floor roof top, and opened the railway engine, a year old beauty- he had no use for it. He picked up a piece of coconut peel from the open box containing coal, and placed it daintily into the engine. And then he struck a match, borrowed from the kitchen, and lit the coir. It caught- a smoky fire was exactly what was needed. The boy rolled the three and a half (one wheel lost) wheeled steam engine on the floor, when he heard his named being called by his father. Promising himself that he would return soon to play, he left the engine… in the coal box! But then he was made to eat his evening snacks- milk and biscuits and bananas!



Twenty minutes later, the neighbors called, the roof top had a blaze going!



Though pleading innocence, it was rather hard for the boy to explain how the toy engine, with remnants of coir was found in the coal box… and why was he upstairs sometimes back…



No, I won’t tell you what happened next!


 


2


This time the boy was almost eight, and going to a school 500 yards away from home. He still topped his class- and his father was the boss of the railway district in Samastipur, a sleepy little town. The boy still wanted to be an engineer, and had decided he would major in electrical engineering, after his mother’s cousin, who had just graduated and was talking of valves and positive and negative and coils and… of course the thing worked on electricity from the plug point.



Coils? Plug?



Fine! He picked up the nice looking table lamp from the drawing room. With scissors borrowed from a drawer below his Mom’s Singer, he cut the lead and stripped these… now for the coil? Cut the kitchen door wire-mesh! Coil it, and the two ends of the plug and lead, tie it to the ends of the former wire-mesh component.



What is there? Marconi plugged in his invention, and turned on the juice!



Fred Hoyle was absent when this big bang took place… alas, there was darkness in the District Traffic Superintendent’s bungalow in Railway Colony, Samastipur!



And a very discouraged scientist, nay, engineer, sulked- he hated people who did not experiment with truth, nor admired his spirit of experimentation.


3
http://datastore.rediff.com/h5000-w5000/thumb/65696265685F6B/02witcqxupvyutub.D.0.fulmin.PNG 
Hg(CNO)2, Mercury fulminate is now banned as a common man’s explosive, but it was freely available in the 60’s. I remember peeling off toy pistol caps and collecting the brownish delight in a, holy s**t, empty match box! Our car mechanic, Abdul Aziz, had opened an electric pump and had left a six inch shaft of about one-fourth of an inch in diameter, for me to admire… and I had a matching iron cylinder, two inches in diameter and height, but it had a cylindrical hole, closed at one end… and I was wondering what was the best use for it… what else? Take off the powder from some match heads and stuff it into the hole and ram it with the rod? Nyah, it had no effect…



Being a 17 year old Junior college student of science, offers a great advantage- it is that the imagination really works, with vague help from PK Datta’s Chemistry book! I had fulminate, also used for the “atom bombs”, also banned, and I could see the fireworks. So I rammed the mix of match head powder along with the fulminate, and then placed the shaft in the hole. It was a perfect fit.



I always admire Thor’s hammer, for I was soaked to my ears in Norse mythology. I remembered Loki and Logi, and Friga and blah! Did you say Ragnarök?



Odin hammered the hammer on the shaft’s head… blam!



The shaft pinged off the roof, the hammer departed from my hand rather wickedly, and both landed safe inches away from me- I was horizontal on the ground… the room was echoing.



Fred Hoyle may have learnt his Big Bang theory about this time! I was temporarily deaf for thirty seconds- I realized it was prolonged because of my dad twisting my ears.



There was a patch of plaster lying next to the hammer!


4


After the Bangladesh war, many friends and seniors took away small and big mementoes- actually trash, from Bangladesh. I carried away with me a copy of the Holy Kur’aan in Arabic lying wrapped in a green cloth by the road side, and a belt of 200 Pakistani machine gun bullets. Perhaps some Pakistani soldier had found religion was a burden while escaping advancing soldiers!



In December, 1971, after the War was over, I did not want to keep the bullets. In an idle afternoon, I stripped away the bullets and collected the cordite and kept it in a tin. I threw away the brass (imagine!) and the lead.



My young batman, all of 19 years to my 23, was very perplexed about the cordite I carried with me. He wanted it to burn it for heating water for my bath! I was worried and did not want an accident. To guide him, I, then a 2/Lt, told him to create a long fuse near the intended place of fire. He made the fuse, of cordite, what else- laying it like a trail of sugar to entice the ants! As he was about to light the match, I noticed that the tail of the fuse-trail of cordite, just 4 feet long… 8 milliseconds, time wise, were it solid, was almost at the place where he wanted to use cordite as a fuel, a mini dump of about 400 gm of it!



Before I could say Jack Nicholson, he lit the tail, about 4 feet in length!



The fire was brief, smokeless and almost invisible. The reaction time is rather small- cordite burns in excess of 520 feet per second when compact, though the loose powder does not. I was the more surprised at the new man standing by the fire that never was… the features were however very familiar. I guessed that my man Friday had undergone a rapid depilatory experience. He had lost all facial hair, eyebrows and eye lids included, though not his sight or wits, for he had none to lose! He had perhaps rejoiced in the pyrotechnical methodology adopted but was still grinning in a dazed stupor!



Also in attendance, two yards away was the Doctor, a young captain, totally without exposure to war and war like stores.  He grinned and then developed an unexplainable paroxysm of laughter! We poured water on the Doctor!



When I went home in March 1972, I left the Kur’aan in my father’s custody, and four years after his death- the Holy Book finally found repose with a Muslim family in 2007! It had a special place in my heart!



I bought an immersion type water heater.


5


Much later, I had learnt the theory of the Devil in a DRDO establishment! I know the devil that Mercury Fulminate can be… the rest? I won’t tell you!




I did become an engineer…



Oh, did I tell you how I fixed a glass window in Jan 1973 during a snowfall, after a stone flew off my hands and broke the Major’s window? Another day!



Wish You a Happy Diwali…


Ah, Isaac?

November 1st, 2010

The apple tree shook as if it was hit by lightning and thunder. Below sat a young man, distraught, since time immemorial, he was so disposed.


The apple alighted upon the Earth  like Venus by Botticelli, narrowly missing the head of the young man, deeply engrossed in philosophy. Engrossed? Why do things fall?


http://datastore.rediff.com/h5000-w5000/thumb/65696265685F6B/pzaiscaq1wnre2vt.D.0.venus_on_apple.bmp


And the apple spoke, after changing into a maiden, rather haggard, but pink and yet smiling… Hi Isaac, I am Gravity, and you can call me Gravvy! That was the rule then, everything must fall. Isaac fell. Towards Gravy’s open arms, in love in that momentous moment, an impulse… sadly, Gravvy took two steps backwards, and Isaac fell a little more, on the grass and the anthill…


Alas, that night when he tried to write a love letter to Miss Gravvy, he debated why to fall in love was so mundanely universal and instead, past midnight, when the oil being burnt was at its nadir, flickering and smoky, he realized he would be forever in love with Gravvy, and wrote his epic love story, The Laws of Universal Gravity. Gravity Attracts. Isaac Falls. Apples Rot!


Elsewhere, the light of love went off!


Gravvy was not a trifle bit in love- she was into the philosophy of dancing. She danced the minuet for a while, and thought it over… the next day, she told Isaac, I am going away.


Betrayed, Isaac stood by the Thames, contemplating suicidal love poetry again. He then wrote, the three Laws of Emotions.


1.             Everybody remains in a state of depression unless and/or until he or she is acted upon by an externally unbalanced woman or man.


2.             Everybody remembers his Mom, whenever he or she is jilted. The more the shock, the greater the call- but the Uffs equal Ma!


3.             And finally Isaac said he and she attract and/or repel each other equally.


Having said this, Isaac sat on a newt, but to the latter- a little later, Isaac’s calculi like weight made no differential! The newt Isaac sat upon was transformed integrally into a calculus itself! It was dead.


Miss Gravvy went to Gottfried Leibnitz, a contemporary Hun with ulterior motives. The two lovers fought jealously for Ms Gravvy’s hand, and as to who invented Calculus!


Who was it that said “An Apple a Day keeps the PhD away”? Not me!


Boat Adrift

October 29th, 2010

Azure sea astir
In the winds, sea gulls call out
Black clouds swirl high
Soon rainbows bring hopes that hid…
I dream, do I remember?

In the horizon,
Distant sails flee, rains gather
The lonely one sighs,
Would he ever know I cry,
As boats return, dreams may die

The noon’s sun glistens,
At neap tide, nets silhouette
Baby crabs race, I trace
Footprints that the sea washes
Memories, moments, lifetimes…

Patient tears, weak smile
Tsunami warnings, a swell,
Distant roar tells all
Adrift on a boat, torn sails
Dreams, dread hope die forever…

Woman, starlit nights
Clean sands, wither would you go
He is there, somewhere
Tears merge with the silent waves
Sea shells tell wait till sunrise

Wither adrift, love?
I am here, in your coiffeur
Jasmine dreams I wove
I sailed the seas, rode the waves
I am home, but a little late!


The Prisoner

October 20th, 2010
The Prisoner

The prisoner protested. “You can’t do this to me” he yelled. The heartless jailors just laughed at him- they had been doing this for some time now! They were unhurried and professional about their job. As the prisoner’s screeches grew harder, the female warden took the lead- while the heartless twosome- alien warders on deputation grinned harder at the latest piece of gibberish from the prisoner!

The torture process was very elementary. The prisoner was to be lifted and strapped in. Then they tormented him merrily.  All three would laugh and clap watching the prisoner’s grimaces. Secretly the elder female took pity- but she never expressed herself. The torture always ended with the prisoner needing a change of clothes and a bath. The prison did provide for these amenities. It was an ISO2001-9002 specialist prison- with just one prisoner!

The prisoner pretended to be civil, He tried a weak smile. He was hungry. He needed to be out of the seat- and there- the elderly woman warder had a torture pan in her hands…

The prisoner had a year and half of hair growth. He had no hair on his face, and a puffed pair of cheeks that gave a look of almost divine innocence, but the warders knew better! He could never recall exactly when he had been imprisoned. He was tortured every day at least five times- and his messy body was then cleaned up by the heartless warders with soaps, running hot water and towels.

Today’s torture was special. They were experimenting with the white balls, the white stick and the yellow… eeek!

He was yelling No! No! Noooooo!

The eldest warder had picked up the first white ball as he watched with eyes popping out at the thought of the torture that was to begin now- he stiffened his body… in anticipation.

He liked potatoes. He yelled “do do eeee mumumumumum!”

Grandpa smiled.

The baby wanted to eat! He told the mother and grandmother – “I can take care of him. He untied the baby from the high dining chair specially ordered for him by his father!

“Ah, baby you like the banana?”

Baby smiled his six toothed grin! “Dau”!

Just another day in the prison of love!