non-language

How do you experience without language?
I don't know.
Perhaps, that would be the experience...

Dance of the kite

In a city teeming with millions

One kite flies

Soaring through the smog

Dancing to its own song

Sitting at my window

I watch the dance of the wind and the kite

At a distance, I see a boy

Who sits on the tank

Gently orchestrating the dance

I am caught up in the play

Between invisible string and vibrant kite

I watch till the kite vanishes

Into the sky

Household chores beckon

I finish and rush to see the dance

There is no more kite

And no more boy

i

I evolve into i

slowly and surely

as the flower blooms

countless books

myriad thoughts

paralysing fears

do not halt

the blossom of life

microcosm and the macrocosm

I the seed

I the fruit

All at once

nothing

everything

Ganesh Chathurthi

the drum and the drummer
fused into
hearbeats and drumbeats
drumbeats and heartbeats
within without
one hypnotic trance

the revellers sway
cymbals crash
intoxicated dancers
unending chanters

the idols ride in splendour
a watery grave awaits
the throngs in wild abandon
celebrate the deity's farewell

i watch from my window
a distance very near
i see him wink
as his potbelly sinks
into the muddy pond
by the busy street

nameless

i'm a stranger to my name
i see the letters strung
together a name
that's what they call
but whom do they hark

how do you name
a river of thoughts
constantly changing course
carving new beds
drying some old

the tag that binds
one constricting body
i go by no name
how can i
there is no i

writing

the words aren't mine
neither is the vision
in a moment of blessing
they appear
and then i am empty
gliding through existence
the sands of time
shifting spaces

the oasis appears again
to quench my thirst
the mirage
is my finding it

a game of stones

3 little boys, one game with stones.
in the forgotten corners of my mind,
the memory of the game was covered in dust.
I tried to remember the rules of the game
it was a bit of a haze.
shaking the dust off a few of the moves
brought tears to my eyes.
That was a game I played as a child
my kids will never know of it.
forgotten and fading soon
from the collective human history
someday, someone will stumble upon a game
like I did today
opening a chapter in some book on a wayside game.

saturday evening funeral

barrels of smoke roll outwards

only to be sucked inwards and up

through the chimney

that spits the smoke in bursts

the flames dance wildly

consuming the rotting flesh

the pandit chants his mantras

the mourners still as stone

the fire crackles as it devours

the remains of a once alive body

the mother watches glassy eyed

the flames will burn all night

dawn will see the ashes

waiting to die

death hovers pregnant

waiting to take birth

 lazily eyeing the body

as the clock ticks each breath

limbs lie wasted

eyes a perpetual stare

a disobedient tongue

laboured prana

lives tied together

no moksh for any

karmic travellers

settling accounts

the goddess waits

as she clips her nails

she twirls her locks

and taps her dainty feet

time drips by

agonizing moments

over the labours

to take death

in the moment

the moment is the fullest one can get out of life
a moment experienced in totality is meditation
the fulfilment of the soul’s longing to remain immersed in bliss
no more new age healing
no more mantras to chant or lamps to light
just brilliant existence

TV

the cackle of an old woman’s malice
strikes the same cacophonic note of the television

gone is the touch of the real

all that keeps her sane is the box
with its hysteria and song-

right round the clock,

there’s a god man or two
contorting himself silly,
the long suffering matriarch,
the pathetic wife,
the gorgeous vamp,

the lust crazy villain

she nods her head
and wags her fingers
as cinematic justice is doled in
30 minute servings

mind, body, soul

four walls trap
the mind trapped inside
mindlessly thrashing

in frantic heartbeats

the last throes of life
labour to release

the wasted body

the soul far away
and all within
watches beyond time
knowing and not knowing

one wall of separation

one wall separates

dying

living

a dying man

the copulating son

a bygone life

the present future

a fading heart

the ruthless head

rasping breath

the even snore

a fight to die
the fight to live

my daughter

twinkling little eyes
look up in glee
the merry gleam

soothes my heart

i hold her tight
she squirms back
wriggling free

she starts a game

i look at her
in mute wonder
where did she come from
dancing into my life

the lost devotee

the bells peal in abandon
the lamps die in worship
the mantras a constant resonance

wispy waifs of incense drift

shiva sits smiling
nandi gazing in adoration
white marble and black onyx

in joyful communion

the devotee mills about
amongst the throng
unsure of his worship

he follows the crowd

overt displays of surrender
coloured threads a witness
fruit and flower offerings

recycled from the gate

the devotee retreats
bows his teary head
hot drops of anguish
wash his heart clean

Kids?

Why do people have kids? I have two and I still don’t know why…