high-tech lunch-break

forget about the gardens and trees, 
forget about the soothing breeze. 
plastic light from a PC, 
cold steel from the AC.
come be a coder,
we've got unlimited soda.
now shove that food down 
and get a heartburn.

In the grips of the coaster in my head

my mind is a mirror
my mind is a terror
for sometimes when I prod and poke
it shows me things I'd rather not behold.
but the spiral does not abort
we ride it through if we hit start.
and so I sit, pull the bar until it clicks
and watch my mind show me its tricks.
it paints but no colors that liven me
just washed out browns and blue melancholy.
in its songs I find no glory
just dull reality, drab muted fury.
the stories it  recounts are lethargy
as sombre and sad as a eulogy.

"decadent and perverse,
we've climbed stairs we cant reverse
when the arrogance will give way
the knees will buckle, limbs shall sway.
eyes widen as they stare
into the abyss below, farther than where we were.
jump and hope to cling on by the nails
or fall into depths and start again."

there is no end to our jousts I deem
me and my mind are always at war, it seems.
battle after battle, day after day
i can only surmise, there isnt another way.
for who has lived and been so wise
as to tell me the truth from the lies
when all of this life is an illusion for sure
seen through a mirror that may not be pure.

Thinking on the Move - Beginning of the End

What do I make of the tolling of these bells? Where does my heart stand at the coming of these winds? If it were a fragrant flow, my mind would not be wary thus. Tis a sharp wind, a frigid wind, from places far beyond, where I've seldom been. It speaks of a latent energy buried in the pith of a rolling boulder, as large as a mountain and as loud as thunder. A fever flying in from the changing sky that is a hue of yellow now, crimson then and later a shade of a color unknown. Fluttering garments, windswept hair and a nervous twitch in the fingers and toes. A flag that drooped before, is waving now, the inconsistency in its flutter striking a chord with the fickle palpitations of my own bloody heart. A smorgasbord of emotions swirling and dipping, shifting and falling akin to the nobility and freedom that is now all around me. And yet in its midst is an intangible heaviness, teasing and just beyond reach, offering a momentary chance to touch but never the ability to grasp and control. Grief and goodness, balm and burning, malaise and melody - all bundled into one little fleeting window of time.

The pulse of this moment is as mysterious and bleak as a deep, hidden cavern and yet, it carries shards of a mild hope. Maybe there is a sun there on that distant horizon where this air is from. Maybe there is an inherent hope in all things that are coming to an end. For in every ending, there is a beginning to cherish. If not of anything new and bright, if not the birth of a shining path, if not an inception or a hopeful reprieve, there is always a consolation, however scant, that it is indeed, the beginning of the end.

Of Demons and Ghosts

Ghosts, they are near at hand,
Pounding hard on the front door.
Merry, mad, belligerent and bland
"We come to you from the memory store".

Demons, hanging outside the back door
With crimson eyes and smoky words.
A crack in the wall or a hole in the floor,
Then they float on in, in their hazy herds.

"Its a stormy night and the winds are cold"
"I ought to let them all inside"
"Usher em' in and let the folds unfold"
"For tonight, restraint, is no friend of mine."

A melee of sorts, a silent fray,
As the noise ensues, with no sound.
Ghosts and demons, grim and gray
A motely crew and we're all sleep bound.

Futility

Brick by brick, on a field of green
You built them strong and mighty tall
Walls to make you deaf and blind
Yet you see them still and hear them all

Pillars and beams to bar the sky
Mortar, mud and cauldrons of tar
Visions and thoughts they seep in still
No window unshut nor a door ajar

Curtains, coats and blankets hazaar*
Ales, wines, smoke as blue as the bard
The din of waves and the twinkle of stars
And yet these pangs, they strike you hard.

Forlorn, tired and aching you lie,
Throw spiteful, rabid questions around.
"Wherefrom do these feelings come?
Where indeed can my peace be found?"

A fool you are to think you can try
To shut out from you that which you breathe
When the air is steeped and laden with
Desires and dissappointments of a bygone bliss. 

*hazaar - thousand (hindi)

Anguish

Tis' a poor heart this, slashed and slain.

Intimately familiar with the contrivances of pain.
Anguish flowing like it were never meant to stop,
Swirling amidst the waves and in every cursed drop.

But let there be no mistake made 

In knowing which way my thoughts swayed.

I only speak of a loss of real love

No regrets held, no anger brewing on the stove. 

They say time is a healer and she will cure,

In a hundred years, she will I'm sure,  

But now, who do I chastise with this lowly flame

When all I have is myself to blame? 

An everlasting afternoon

It lingers like an everlasting afternoon
But now I ache for the barren night
Promise is a hazy gleam in the sky
I shield my eyes, I look away.

The rolling seas bring more to lament
To the shores of this quivering dawn
I tell myself it was worth this pain
And then I look for love elsewhere.

Tied up to the memory train
The churning is far too real.
Roiling and seething, like a black storm
In the confines of an undersized ship.

How will I sleep, how will I love,
While I carry it within?
How will I breathe, and make it count
When I'm listless and lost in your spin?

A fleeting gift

I beseech you to stay still

Lest you may stir the air and cause,

This dear moment to slip away

From the grasp of my senses in sway.

Rendered to quaking mush,

By the warmth of her tender touch,

Body, mind and soul - drifting

The veil of heaviness - lifting.

A song on the winter breeze

Sad in words, but of sweet tune

Through the depths of a black window

Adorned by a lonely moon.

I beseech you, my heart, stay still.

Lest you may wake her dreaming eyes.

Lest the world may turn wan again.

At the dying of this bittersweet fire.

Thinking on the Move - Words

These words are lifeless without you.
They do not breathe or feel without your embrace.

You think they are mine and yet, I don't see how. True, I dwelled upon and gave them form. But I would refrain to the best of my abilities from claiming them as my own. I would like to believe that they were always here - floating like orbs in all our minds, but caged by the rawness or absence of a means to express. I only carry them for a while and cherish their essence. Of what good is a wind that wont blow? What good is a seed you cannot sow? The moment they mean something to you, you carry them as well as I. The real wonder is how they go to you and yet from me, they are not gone. A singular ship that sails to its sailor. Read them, feel them and grant them life.

These words are lifeless without you.
They do not breathe or feel without your embrace.

Moving On

As the sun sets upon our stage
We need to move on and away
Lets not talk of the given and the taken
Just remember what came about and what will stay.

The yearning, like a slow flame may die
And leave nothing more than smoke and wax
But in words, songs and memories
May the treasure of our moments lie.

Maybe a day out on an unfamiliar street
Or in green paths of a woody dream
We will be passers by and we may meet
Let our words be happy and our embrace, sweet.

A trinket's wish

Crashing waves, mighty and white
A bundle of exhilaration and fright
Rise, roll, sweep and recede.
Imprisoned by the moon or are you free?

Happy greens, on dancing trees
Twinkling drops amidst your leaves
Sinewy boughs and a trunk of steel
Do you desire to walk and be free?

Standing proud, o mountain high
A temple of beauty, under starry skies
I wonder if beneath your tremors you hide
A dream of wings? an unrequited desire?

Ranger of skies, on steeds of glass
I wish to be as errant as thee
O mighty wind, the freest of all
Lend me your wings and release me.

To touch oceans, forests and mountains alike
To touch minds and hearts and have them believe
Its not folly for mere trinkets to dream
To wish to roam the world and to be free.

Lets go.

These cities, they seem lackluster;
To the mountains we must head.
Away from bright lights and billboards tall,
To the majesty of nature instead.

A late lesson

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.
It wearies me; you say it wearies you.

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born,

I am to learn.

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,

That I have much ado to know myself.

Famous first lines from an equally famous Shakespearean play. The noble Antonio speaks these words I believe while standing at the balcony at a sea port and gazing out at the sea. His friends go on to suggest that it is his cargo currently aboard his majestic ships that are to blame. That his mind dwells upon the possibility of mishap, of his spices and silks being carelessly strewn on the waters of the mighty ocean. 

Back when I read this as part of high-school English, I failed to grasp the true idea behind these words. I was a mere child and children do not know or dwell on the causes of sorrow. Their fare is more primitive - laughter, mischief, instinctive jealousy, hunger, pain. To repeat what causes joy and to avoid what makes them sad. A physical trigger to a physically justifiable and curable feeling. 

As I got on to my motorcycle today, I suddenly realized I was reciting these words to myself. And in an instant the profoundness of these lines came to me, filling meaning into words I had read about 13 years back - a gush of red as today's wine came swirling eagerly into yesterday's glass. Little did his friends know of the nature of this sorrow. All the silk, gold and spices may yet fail to allay the dull despair he spoke of. Laughter, and good company may to some extent succeed where material wealth has failed. Good will and selfless giving better serve this ailment and a fulfilling life lived by ones own beliefs may be the best stance against this invincible enemy. 

The yellow leaves of sadness float about like an everlasting autumn. There is an incurable sadness in this world and its made of unrequited love, of the eyes of the old,  of the loss of life, of helplessness, of the feeble hand raised against the tyranny of money, of all the hunger of children in a world they did not build, of the castles of guilt in our minds and of the stupidity of the blind pursuit of material wealth. 

It gets me down, and when it does I will henceforth remember the saintly Antonio, the shrewd Shylock, the prodigal Bassanio and the clever Portia. More than all I will remember the goofy, fun-loving Launcelot Gobbo - for only by trivializing this life can I be careless and courageous, and by laughing at and accepting my misfortune will I be able to combat the sorrow it brings.

Theaters and clouds

An endless song in a pointless play
Why are we still bound to this stage?
I dont want to be a part of it anymore
Can I opt out? Can I go away?

Let me be

There is a preacher on the corner
Who burdens his own shoulder
With the weight of a deemed properness
"From this path you shall not digress"

These fences of the mind, they stifle me
We know it all and yet we do not see
There is no fear of a false life within us
But the fear of a loss consumes us?

We all have our own rivers
That carve our own banks and valleys
Is it not right to be and let be?
Is it not right to abide by what we believe?

Why do you want to chastise me
With the staff of your beliefs?
When we are but leaves in a doomed forest
Bound to succumb to the winter breeze.

It does not matter if I succeed
By the rules of your book
For happiness lies in writing my own
And in playing by it, for what its worth. 

Thinking on the move - The escape

I often wonder how it will be to feel the wind in my hair on a deserted road outside a remote city in an obscure country. A textured road sheathed in black, a streak of broken yellow down the middle, stretching from my feet to the green mountain in the distance. There is no sun here, not today, not now - take him out of the picture. Make it cloudy. Perfect. No shadows, no sun. Just clouds, the wind, the mountains and I. Maybe a motorcycle. A backpack, worn and dusty, the adventures and miles etched on its tough fabric. And on mine. The smile is not a strained one. Its without the weight of obligations - world imposed or self imposed. Stop when it pleases me to and move on when I feel I want to, all the while absorbing and observing. Here, time does not play taskmaster. It is only a sheet to script landscapes in, to pen down a city on and paint them with the hues of experiences and interactions. A song relayed by my headphones or by the scratchy radio on a rickety bus. Strains of melody that will years later bring back the smell, sights and sounds of a moment. All mine and yet made up of disparate elements brought to harmony by my senses in this puzzling world.

To take off without a care, to throw caution to the soothing wind, and to surf along and sway, and to be surfeited, surrounded and drown in glorious solitude, to be one with a stranger and to feel everything; even the emptiness at the core of my being. Feel it and know its there, so I know I have a role to play, a job to complete, a cavity to fill up with the experiences of my existence.

So who's stopping me from doing all this? Them and me. Mostly me.

Stragglers

Stragglers on a forlorn street
Shifting on our restless feet
Come by and lets talk a while
Oh lets take a walk - you and I.

Thinking on the move - Questions

Where would we be if these walls were no walls? The mind but a mere goblet to sip the spirit of the world in - place by place, person by person. What would we choose if the senses came unbounded, without the judges mallet? An existence guided by inclinations and cues with choices based on the pillars of passion. How would it all be if I was no muslim and you no hindu? If the core values of love, kindness, fairness and empathy were not reduced and degenerated into religion, society, faith, customs, rites and rituals. What would we believe in if we were never told what to think? Our thoughts drifting like ships - of no port but of everywhere and all things human. Who would we choose if we were to be measured on the merits and defects of our individuality alone? A choice bereft of the societal baggage and frustrating, illogical boundaries that people never chose to question.

The end

Thus here my feet shall stop their march,
Where I see as far as my sight does reach
And the land and sky are one to watch.
No mountain to scale, no horizon to breach.

Thinking on the move - Pesky Perceptions

We can only control and express what is within us. Another's actions and feelings, we can only observe, perceive and accept. While observation is the first step, perception is often a watered down truth - diluted by the affection we have for ourselves, coloured by the strokes of a selfish, imperfect mind. So think well before you let those feathers loose into your halls. With every tile they touch, they will strive to consolidate a truth that may never have been. Acceptance is a straight arrow, with the power to cut through perception and recognize the truth, when we are lucky enough to witness or know it. The inherent quality of acceptance is its association with the truth and nothing else, for the acceptance of a lie is better termed as deception, self served or otherwise. Within the confines of these definitions, an ideal setting is one where observations construct ones perceptions which in turn lead to the acceptance we talked about. If the acceptance on its way to the truth obliterates ones perceptions, the person can still be said to have acted honestly. And honesty is as much as one should allow him or herself to expect from anyone or anything in this world.