Where Pigeons Play Kho Kho

I watch the 

pigeons play kho kho;

a dreary day, hot,

they face headwinds, life!

I cry, helpless,

where the hell have 

I kept 'em keys 

to the locker?

Yeah, there where 

I've imprisoned my will to run!

Ah, the strides,

towards crashing waves,

always towards home

for a ripe mango,

to the art, words

and all things golden

— from the friendly sunset

to the angry yolk in 

the half-cooked egg,

served with milk, 

on humid Monday mornings

before I rush for fights.

Hardly do I play now,

I stare at open windows,

at the leaves who dance,

young and hearty,

while pigeons play;

yes, I've forgotten kho kho!

Picture courtesy: Sreetama Bagchi (instagram: @sreetamabagchi)

Is the fighter dead?

There, by the red woods,

under a Silicon canopy

that exudes, attracts power,
I saw its steely desire
to climb up...

Creeping along the

bare, brick canvas:

the world as we built it.

Blinded by the lustful flashes

of the one with might,

reaching for the source

of his power,

the upper balconies

of the city

where Lodi reigned,

Modi reigns.

And, in the dark

I see,

lies justified by hope,

I behold a mission,

a questioning vision,

I find the return gift...

A fight still remains in me, but is the fighter dead?

The Fighter!

Comfortably numb at
the knuckles,
but the fighter cries...
The pain remains,
still,
of the elusive
showdown with destiny,
with shadows, the reality.

The draw is simple,
again,
but the warrior burns,
for he has forgot
what pain is...
Yes, what exactly is pain?

-- Few lines in honour of Mike Tyson

Pic: cyberboxingzone.com

 

The Mirrors

In another train,

not so long back,

I never had the need

to turn and watch the

shaky mirrors behind,

which hid my virtual image

beneath the many faces

commuting to work,

to play, to love.

Then, I could only look ahead,

or to the left,

through the iron bars,

and watch the stallion,

with me on its saddle,

gallop alongside the

diesel-powered coaches,

beside the endocrine-driven

life and its dreams;

jumping over small brooks,

crossing meadows, little fences,

and concrete roads;

trails I never took in my life;

the lanes,

now forgotten...

See, now I travel

many a metres

under the precise,

geometrically symmetric

maxims of a teacher

in pristine white coat,

in a lab where

muscle fibres are,

first torn apart,

then stitched back,

to make Kevlar out of

human flesh...

I am forced to look back now,

onto the mirrors

behind me,

they shudder in fear,

are rickety in dread,

for my eyes are cold,

angry, in fire...

As I can’t heal my world,

nor can I stop

them all from dying,

nor can I stop the livingfrom crying!

The Steps

In that cramped space

I call my living room,

the fridge in the blue corner,

she stares at my sidekick,

and grins, mocks me

when I pull it short;

to avoid the charges

she will press,

taking me to court,

for domestic violence!

But, that kick was not

for your cold heart,

I was just tracing the steps,

they named it,

you call it, Bassai Sho.

The steps I took,

when I was toddling

my way to school, to life,

to lies, and the many flings

that made me a man.