​A ​Fever​. The​ Fervour!

The still air,

hot, dry and dejected,

reminds​ ​of the fever last night.

Where​... when,​​​

in a mindless act of restlessness,

the citizen, a protagonist,

took an umbrella,

stood on the terrace,

and sang the rain song,

cried for childhood!

It was windless even then,

but the trees swayed,

a ​dance, ​​a trance,

to the tune of

amendments made in haste,

in hatred,​ ​in ​​apathy​... 

Oh, the fervour​.

Fever it is​,

in ​the many shades​ of skin,​

​in the diverse ​layers of nationhood.

-- Leslie Xavier 

Ode to Lutyens' Dew

The morning dew

lounges in her hammock

at Connaught Place,

it's still winter, a Sunday!

I search for coffee,
but skip breakfast, or did I?

Wow, I did jump a few signals,

to enjoy the smiling traffic

-- a few vintage cars

and dogs of Lutyens' Delhi.

My day just slit up!

Here comes

the last act of

my work holiday,

I watch the world

honk and vroom into a

melancholy sunset.

Thank you, luxury.

The little mercy,

my gift for a day

—a slit in the

blinds, bloody binds,

it expands my horizon.

From dour LCD walls,

to a greyish, Lutyens' green.

Naked Resolve

The strength in 

his resolve

remains true to its purpose;

it makes music.

Exposed to the 

morning scorn and humidity,

he walks tall,

and naked.

The monsoon's been good,

it floods the lanes

with dreams,

and turns land to

sea,

sea of humanity,

sea of hope...

He was always a 

sailor,

but away from his boat.

The Rain (From my Office Window)

​Words reach out

through the glass pane,

with trembling heart

and shaken resolve

they beg for a dance;

hear ye, raindrops.

 

They feel the haste,

the receding clouds,

the fading music;

and then, a rainbow

jumps off the million-dollar

skyscraper called hell.

Heartwarming Winter!

Good morning,
fog and frost...
A bit I struggle,
the hazy dreams,
then snuggle,
hide my face from
the cold stares of
a winter morning sun.

There, I find warmth
in the heart
that sings my lullaby
these nights so long.

The Climb

There, I never had time,

to think, or,

to look back at

what I just left behind:

The shade,

the safe confines of a

heart at rest, away from the

muscle and hustle of love,

on a recliner.

There, I took the

sharp left,

to begin my

erotic slither up

your contours,

your lips, and your

heaving, heavy breasts.

I was defining,

reiterating, like those milestones,

the stubborn life,

and, now,

a stubborn death,

in truth as well as lies.

So, judge me, will ya?

This day, for life...

Lest I die before

I return to your arms again.

But, I better not die this morn,

noon, or at the campfire,

chewing boneless fish,

relishing the formless bond

with boys old

and men young.

Back, on the incline...

I better not sleep,

I better not stop for Facebook,

for a frame in its video.

My movie is beyond you Mark,

just like the beauty

of the valley is to me now,

the taunt from a virgin,

while I scale the

mother of many.

In her beauty,

in the roundness of her being,

I burn, churn...

The turns, the ferns,

passing mites and mates,

gangsters, their families,

good Samaritans,

school scholars,

and finally Jesus,

His house I stayed, a minute;

for the Host, the pure mountain air,

laced with salt, lemon,

and a prayer.

After years I communed,

on my elbows, aged and wise,

hunched over the

drop handles,

as humble as I could ever be.

The final kick,

I searched,

the last three furlongs,

smiling at the amused boy,

the bemused man;

smirking at the

crowded market,

and swearing at the porch,

for it meant the end,

as I felt the rush

shiver through my body

and leave me,

to fly over a misty lake,

towards sunset,

and a brighter tomorrow,

for all of us, fingers crossed.

The lone man

I spent talking with,

hours up the path,

o’er smashed oranges,

past angry apes,

side-stepping haulers,

trawlers and tourists,

had already punched and killed him.

That insignificant

little bastard we call Limit.

(On the 52-km climb up to Kodaikanal, which I cycled last month, on the last day of KC500, the 500-km charity cycling ride from Chennai to Kodai)

THE UNCORRUPT

Hope in!

The missing links maketh your day,
filling your hours with hope.
And hope drives the universe.

Father figure
The going was tough, but,
the tough was falling around him,
and they Baptized him Father!

Vain blood
An old man at the frontier;
where are the young n brave?
Oh, they bled Blue to death in vain!

Armful Cancer!
Armed rebellion against cancer!
We can't let you amputate
our mother, ye modern sage...

Hold on
Intriguing, the air is still;
for the whole nation holds its breath,
Democracy is in labour tonight.

A nation built on hope, blood and sweat. The fluttering tri-colour -- a dream of the Father of the Nation and the thousands who laid down their lives and the millions who made sacrifices -- is in danger of becoming a nightmare.
A man from that long-lost “age of national pride” has come forward though, to keep the Indian dream alive. But the young are lost in their own little world of self importance, while the nation bleeds and rots. And another “Saviour” tries to cut our Mother to pieces – Armed rebellion!
I see my brothers and sister doubting Democracy and doubting our constitution, the backbone of our nation. These are dangerous times. It’s time we acted and acted boldly.
JAI HIND!