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 Dying Winter

The clearing fog...

The receding moisture

from your eyes;

the sun, occasional,

playing a heavenly hide n seek.

The small drops of passion...

Dew in the morn,

sweat at high noon,

whiskey at twilight,

and sleepless at midnight.

The Devilry!

I open the pressure hatch,
          let myself out,
into the murky, Sodium coloured world
          –their midnight,
my hour to trek back, I did time,
          to the beach,
finding warmth in the cold waves,
          and a colder moon.

I dread the darkness in sunlight,
          I must be him;
I see bright lights in darkness,
          I am him, the Devil.

Inhuman Love!

Introduce yourself,
the best of you,
I was asked,

Sure sir...
I'm a boy,
I love to play.

I am a man,
I love to watch
the boys play.

But beware,
I am inhuman,
and that's how I love.

The Fall

The season has a bit

more than the smog

that fills my lungs;

creeping through the
fickle filters I put up

to fight its advances.

It’s relentless, fast

and eases me into bed,

under layers of cotton;

and, a bit of lycra, of late;

as I make love, monitor and

chronicle the flame with a Google app.

Misty Lips!

Smudges, they shift
with each sigh from 
the old artist’s soul,
in between his freezing
brush strokes.
Pure bliss,
his heart creates
the lines which 
let life flow
in a sedate pace,
the perfect cadence
to feel heaven,
which plays hide n seek
in an unknown,
wet, yet misty cycle;
The right music 
to feel you, in the breeze;
to taste your lips in
the fresh green fern
I kissed...

Shhhhhhh!
Yeah, I kissed...
Ever so gently,
so, so softly;
lest I wake up the 
God from his dream.

Our Tomorrow!

This piece of time,

It’s broken;

no, it’s alive,

the Eagle lives;

and circles around

its latest prey, I.

For my time,

I wait!

The sign of life,

the tiny twitches

of my vein,

insults me, and my heart!

Where is my pulse?

Her voice.

Where is my will?

Her smile.

Where is my life?

There, beyond reach,

it’s chained onto the

long arm of the

cruel clock on my right,

in this dark room.

The right time...

Destiny’s hand it is;

now, hold me, my right arm;

it’s time,

it’s midnight,

and tomorrow is ours...

 

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 Unwritten Word!

The Christmas I feel here,
rising from the bushes,
where they walk,
Eden is far, a mirage;
but they walk... Towards home,
towards nothing!

And they all take that trail,
thank their God,
and they shop in joy
for they've mastered
the written word
in their holy book.
But it's too dark to read
the unwritten word,
their constitution,
in their daily lives.

It's Christmas but,
in Zimbabwe...

Bible sale on a pavement in Harare



Ode to Bulawayo

There goes another wicket,
in haste they walk!

I stroll in taste,
Bulawayo’s Queen in my arms,
the soft whisper from
the swaying ol' timers,
the masters,
the witnesses,
the faithfuls beyond the 
east frame of a green canvas,
an oval mirror for men;
their leaves speak of old glory,
of war and peace,
revolutions and blood,
of solutions and dread,
and of love… 

… How will I forget love?
In the promised land
a few Safaris away,
I hunt and shunt
in a game I always lose;
like my dear hosts
who’re lost at home… 
home bitter home!

The Crumpled Dollar

It's winter,
in Rhodesia, in my life
where summer was short
and well rehearsed
to last till that second,
the stage-time,
set by you, your calculus,
and its variables.

You,
ye, only you,
the conductor at my opera;
the director of my dreams;
the dictator;
an autocrat,
who crushed my will,
the murderer I slept with.

I search,
find hope in the smiles
of the hard-worker,
who gives receipts for the
crumpled dollars I pay him.
Oh Zimbabwe,
look... my crumpled heart;
laugh now, please laugh!

That Boy in the Rain

Those three storeys,
shadowless today,
project the layers in the
story of that boy in the rain...

A man walks into the
square reserved for morning prayers,
midday chaos and evening jest;
to splash water on his soul,
to forget love,
to tear open his shirt, feel love...

From the heavens;
from the girl of yore; from you;
from the blonde across the table;
over candle-lit dinners;
or at a beach empty.
But, man he can't love!

He can only kneel,
in pain now,
his will slashed in war.
He watches, in dread,
as the boy fades into the mist
rising from a basketball court.

With that, poof, his memories mix,
into a dull grey Molotov cocktail,
then flow into the polluted gut
of a city of rushed dreams.

While two boys live, swinging, 
their moment drenched in lust,
a thirst for life, yes lust;
their clocks tick-toeing towards truth,
towards the end of innocence,
where they’ll begin to die!

Instagram: Pixeles_

It's forgotten!

Oh I forgot,

just like I forget to sleep,

these days of spring...

When the birds sing, make love.

See, I don't read life,

or its books;

when I find a paperback,

I tear its cover,

build a wobbly ship,

and float it down the drain

that takes out the sins

of my commute,

to the depths of this

city I call home.

Then, my heart betrays me,

halfway through that peeled

bestseller...

Yes, I forgot how to write.

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.

The Empty Room

The deep, long breaths,
signs of a life, its chords
resonate with those beats
I can never drown in wine.
I grew used to the music
rising from the anteroom,
my only room, yes,
no room or heart for more love...

That rear guard up front
is long gone.... home.
But, in my numb starts,
I still see him,
as I wake up for another
day in the cold realities of
the stale and empty man I see,
in the shaving mirror I never use.

The Christian

I looked down,

so did they;

and saw this lone Christian,

bearing a cross,

in the broken line

under the pillars

that support families

in the NCR.

He got a winter break,

while his master,

a man of faith,

was having his free breakfast.

Silence is Silver!

The bell rings,

five rings of glory it is...

Silence! Of respect, wisdom, of pain;

this silence is silver here, 

not golden like the English phrase of yore;

but this day is India's, made in England.

Dust settles only to rise as a storm;

a village bursts into a mela:

Laughter louder than crackers;

laced with sweat, joy, grit n blood...

Yeah, the bond of blood;

now let there be lights, camera n action.

Lights! Those spot lamps tonight,

bright, some coloured ones too,

all but obscure that first rays of dawn

which charted a line; a snaky,

dusty village path for a wiry boy

to scale Mount Olympus as a man.

-- On the scenes at Indian Olympic medalist Sushil Kumar's house in Baprola village, Najafgarh, Delhi, where I watched the former world wrestling champion's gold medal bout at the London Games with his family and friends on a small TV, in his younger brother's bedroom. The wrestler's loss in the final was greeted with sadness before his dear ones and neighbours snapped out of their disappointment to celebrate their champion's successive medals at the Olympics - bronze in Beijing and now silver in London: this to add to his world title in 2010.

The fanfare and that sickening media commotion in this small village on the outskirts of the country's capital is a sharp contrast to the initial days of Sushil's journey. The way he walked alone on those dusty lanes to the village akhara (wrestling academy) and then the training centre at Chattrasal Stadium in Old Delhi; followed by the hardships - the sweat and the blood literally - and then the big podiums...

The lines in this poem salute that journey, salute the great champion!

Sushil celebrates his semifinal win in London (pic courtesy:  www.buzzintown.com)

Focal point: The audience at Sushil's residence

Dark Matter

I needed this today,

yes I did, a darker shade;

this fallen grid grants my wish

and it's still not Christmas yet.

I lay bare, steadying my nerves,

urging the only truth I know

to embalm me gently, slowly,

head to toe, it's my coffin.

It began... a pale white hue,

life drains from my eyes;

then I see dark red,

but that blood thins out too.. It's emptiness!

No! No... This flash blinds me,

drags me away, far from rest,

from silence, from my home;

to face 'em all, the only reality.

The Metro!

He walks tall, the strides

ever so real... A glide surreal,

above the naive rich men

honking out their emotions

to the one ahead of 'em in

the rat race at sunrise,

the crawl back to love

in the red-light hours.

He is immune, I think,

free from the snare

at the toll booth yonder;

they all have to pay for smoking,

for sins... for their luxury;

he just pays with his card

and walks out a free man...

His liberty comes announced like clockwork.

en.wikipedia.org

Drop Zone

I spam you with my sighs,

when my only wish was

to overwhelm your senses

with this rain drop I saved

early morn from the tip of

the youngest leaf of the mango tree;

it still stands tall

near my childhood window.

Are you proud of me old man?

Or do you sigh too,

the "hmmms", for I am 

not a kid, not anymore!

The object of my full attention this morning, at the backyard of my
Kochi home (Pic by my brother Leo Xavier)

Light-Hearted

The drops make random

mirrors on dark lanes,

reflecting pretty n bare faces

I took detours to meet.

Some from college,

many from that school

locked behind an iron curtain;

deliberate, by the bay very much.

Ageing, ancient lights, 

shivering with the monsoon winds, 

led me through empty paths

long after sun and power grids

ignored this shore for yonder.

Like those prodigal sons,

who fight battles, to find their feet on

shifting dunes and waters.

Some beacons remain,

those old boys selling pot,

kids pimping art and bowls of 

hot soup of marinated fish;

some stale, a few fresh;

guarded by tired men,

who are born naturals

in front of the lens.

So are these Chinese nets

and the yellow fever

across the channel,

the new order, from a newer world;

rude and shouting lights,

louder than the collective groans

of dead sailors and dying evangelist teens

in and around the Dutch Cemetery.

MODERN GHOSTS: Lights from the LNG Terminal at Puthuvypu across
the channel  captured from Fort Kochi Beach

GREEN AT HEART: A restaurant winding up the day's business near the
Park at Fort Kochi

OPEN DINNER: Chariot restaurant at Princess Street

OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLE:
The bunglow of Koder Family, the most
prominent business family in Kochi. It
has now been converted into a heritage
hotel. My grandparents used to work
for the Koders and I have run around
this bunglow, playing and studying
during my school days 

PARK n DINE: The Koder House entrance bang opposite the Park
in Fort Kochi

Bung-love: One just can't help but fall in love with the Koder Bunglow.

OPEN HOUSE: The doors of Koder Bunglow, a welcome sign

RED SIGNAL: The night lights give a reddish hue to the house at the start of
Princess Street, even as the whittish glow from the Delta Study school is
visible in the bottom left corner 

NIGHT WATCHMEN: It was 10 in the night and the duo here had their fish
shack open. Perhaps waiting for some late-night customers preferring fresh
catch for dinner

HANDLE WITH CARE: Some of the evening's catch goes into the freezer

MUTE WITNESS: More snaps from the fish stall

NET PROGRESS: The Chinese fishing nets clicked with lights
from the new Container Terminal at Vallarpadom across the channel as
the backdrop

OLD WORLD, NEW CHARM: Chinese fishing nets revel in the
modern industrial light from the Container Terminal

FUELLING A DESIRE: The petrol bunk at Fort Kochi right next to the channel.
This is where fishing boats as well as vehicles fill fuel here. The channel
and the container terminal is visible in the background. Was tempted
to jump in for a late-night swim. 

STREET FOOD: The 'Thattu Kada' opposite Fort Kochi boat Jetty

LONE RANGER: My brother Leo on his cycle heading home after our
little night photography experiment using his new SLR camera

EYE OF THE TIGER: The resident alpha cat of the fish shacks near
Fort Kochi beach

Hide n Seek

Hiding between clean,
ironed linen;
I delay the inevitable,
blocking the pouring love from
pals, aunts and the known skies here,
from touching those
few faded yellow pages
of a kindergarten colouring
book I kept safe 
between quantum mechanics notes,
biographies, Playboys and some
paperbacks I’m yet to open...


I fear that bond
and its strength to
seep through the tiny
pores of my now
thickened hide and into my heart,
holding it home, sweet home.
Away from the dust and storms
I seek now... Shalt receive now!

Cloak Work

The cold cloak I wear,
the one I drenched in sweat
playing ball in my last
Madras summer heat,
to mask the stench of emotions
which will rise still,
to make me cry tonight
when I step out
from one cell to another,
a measured move in life.

Wow, this is new from my man!
Novel also is this detachment
I wore to work,
but the attachments, the roots,
bring me down each time
I look up from my seat...
Memories, printed in RGB
on the faded, yellow ceiling.

 - Written on my last day as a journalist at The Times of India, Chennai.