Love Canvas

Whitish - red, blue and the gray;

black mix here and there,

the Artist's mind roves,

the moving canvas, modernist strokes,

unfinished but a beauty to behold.

Crimson lines, faded and short,

night is young, His girl wild;

the lover's lips will fill the rest.

The disc's on, rolling beats;

disco lights and party raves.

Spilt paint on the floor,

his tongue mopping every ounce of juice.

Light's out, but life's not;

mix and birth, beauty of love.

(On the evening sky, the unfinished painting, by an
artist busy making love with his girl)

Swine Watch

Yes I did, I met the doc;
he looked at me wary eyed.
I ain't a terror, I cried;
you swine, he smiled.
Let's wait n watch, eat these n be good!

Enchanted Elliots!

Misty night, oh, the feel;
the highland realms, without grass or fuel.
Fair, the four-course treat just starters;
even that goosebump served in purple linen.

Ah the drops, first my ears;
then the trickle, kisses all the while!

Twilight sky, the crimson blink;
the expanse beyond, bluish gray;
their knot - fireflies, stars behind screens;
and right at Elliots, behold, the prophecy!

A German Jew's number game,
comes true in an heavenly turn;
clock dilates with relative ease,
it's magic, not science my friend.

Feet wet from the milky pool, a mirror;
the river, time and her steady flow,
slowed dreamy by the sea,
and light shows, the plot thickens.

Minds drift east to the glow,
waves spread out in a tantric,
concentric ballet, a hypnotic spiral;
streaking across the grains of gold.

The man - all flesh, heart n beats,
the elements add the sparkles.
Shower, no hurry no worry,
we were drenched before it made its stop.

Maestro, the bamboo wand;
and the spell from the sorcerer's breath!

(I've tried here to give words to the images that went though my mind as I enjoyed flute maestro Hariprasad Chourasia's concert at Elliots Beach last Sunday. The pictures were taken by SL Shanth Kumar, my colleague, one of the best creative photographers in town)

Eagle's Wings

A valley, bright yellow streaks;
by divine intervention, the colours mix.
Rays filter through the glass canvas,
an artist's dream of heavenly shades.

This feast is what brings me here,
the cherished visions, His work;
the healed soul; His word;
and the quenched thirst, wine and bread.

Full, august I sat, what next;
the lift above the silver sails.
Draft by her timbre soft;
Eagle's Wings, I'm free as a bird!

(To the Sunday voice at Santhome)

Rain Amour...

Drops, life turns green again,
pitch lightens, the voices in me;
from grunts to whistles n tunes of love,
feeling beats, breathing fresh;
a brief stop near, I'll hug you tight,
rain, where's the pain gone, my friend.

I walk, my senses aflame,
heart caressed by birth, the sweet scents;
Earth, her thirst quenched; amour, amour!
Rain, stay in bed with me, my love.

Smiles, the splashes, a bud in play;
it's always fun sailing the clouds.
The slides and falls, slushy hugs;
rain, keep me young eternal, my girl.

(It rained here a few days back, yeah, it rained!)

I Snooze, I dare!

I snooze, delaying the alarm bells;
a while, seconds precious for I'm a man.
Saturday night; dreams, a distant free world.
I snooze, I dare to trash the etiquette;
set for you and me - the enslaved bunch.
Ya, I snooze, awake to the ugly truths.

That old house...

Yesterday, I was searching online for some pictures of my favourite place in the whole wide world, my hometown Kochi, when I came across a traveller's blog which had this picture below with the caption: "An old house in Fort Kochi which badly needs renovation."

Well, my memories raced back to the good days of playing football wearing a tie and uniform, yes, my school days. And now I just have to tell the Mr Traveller and his partner that this is not just an old house but this is where my dreams took shape, a place where boys tried their hand at becoming men.

The poem is my attempt to walk back to those days when playing football and running behind "virgins" from the nearby girls' school were our biggest priorities...

That old house...

Yeah it's old, haunted I bet;
but it ain't a fossil, not yet.
It brimmed life once, full of zeal;
young, naughty teenaged brats.
Then the only world I knew or cared,
pals, soccer and the hidden books.

Ninth grade - year of virgin love,
when Slash ruled with strings n Rose.
Here I took my baby steps,
naughty smiles and breaking hearts;
hidden treasures, the thirsty kid;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

Creaking wood, creepy rooms;
dust storms, that British fan.
Bunked hours, the beach boys;
the stolen rides to Princess Street.
Casanovas - primed hearts, the iron bikes;
and cane candy from Henry dear.

Those windows, well, they lit my life;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

(On my school, St John de Britto Anglo Indian Boys', and the most charming of its classrooms - the ninth 'C' division, with direct access to the beach, life and more...)

Nine beats and a bit...

That trigger-happy single shot,
the eight strings finally resonate.
Music fills the air,
the sub-sonic cadence.
Muscles dance in a rhythmic trance,
harmony of life, the divine poetry.

The world stood still, sweet li'l wait;
nine beats and a bit later, the moment.
Bolt strikes again, the flashes;
a wall comes down in Berlin, where else!

A jester off the blocks, the baby;
stallion in gallop, the strides;
salutes in the end, arms raised;
Usain's made it true, the man!

Shooting arrows, breaking barriers;
child's play for this gentle giant.
Even foes remain gay in awe,
he has mastered time and space.
Spikes, tights, gold and olive crown;
the king's conquered world and hearts.

(To Usain Bolt)

Dog Biscuits

Oh, that's great, they say;
your master's as big as they come.
Owning minds, limiting dreams;
behold the leader, who bringeth the good Times.

How does it feel, they ask;
being paid in gold and likes.
Little do they know,
but, I'm a dog, not man!

Heel, roll, jump, stay;
good boy, here's your doggie treat.
Biscuits, creamed and salted; fooled;
tail between; I lick my wounded pride.

Vembanad Love

That old banjo, serene;
the strumming, in sync with life.
An old song, the ringing bells;
those nights, the carpet and the shivers.
The lazy afternoon flow, drowned
- in ideals, a dreamer, the serious trio;
then the plunges to your moist depths;
Vembanad, the secret love.

Was younger then, no wiser now;
the wild days, adorable brute.
I could hunt though very blunt,
life called and I turned my back.
Swimming, then drowning in bliss, oh youth;
my simple mind, where's the toddy pot?
Papa, this is where I'd make love to her,
Vembanad, the Lady in Blue.

Slow, the music fades,
No, let it be, let me sway.
I kissed didn't I, that summer night;
I danced didn't I, that monsoon hit.
Nay my love was pure and soft,
never lust, I saw your soul.
That is why I made love to you,
Vembanad, the lovely bride.

(Looking back to the days spent on the shores of
Vembanad Lake in Alappuzha, Kerala)

Full to the Brim

Down south from where I breathe,
right by the Bengal Bay, this cove.
Fruits, goodies and hearty laughs,
a canopy of love to keep out the sun.
Streams of affection, the breeze I feel;
a mother and son, their little world.

An hour's toil, elements, the dust;
sweat flowing, but worth it, no doubt;
as I stretch, my legs relaxed;
full to the brim on every count...

... My heart - with the mama's care;
my soul, with the positive vibes;
my eyes, not tears, yes, with joy;
and my tummy, with the fish and cheers.

(To DD and mama)

I'm Broke

I'm broke, the month-end blues,

when my wild runs down bright alleys;

the card swipes and friendly toasts,

catch up, a reality check, I'm broke.

The manicured, recessed paycheck ain't any help,

'peanuts' for monkeys, go eat or starve.

Gliding my pen for what? Fake orgasms!

Wake up, just look at you, man you're broke.

Lost in Transit

West, the light fades;
the act over, recess bell rings.
The stage gets empty, slowly;
the buzzing motors taking them home.

As far as my eyes would take me,
I scan, life in the city, crying out to me.
Standing atop the mount of the doubter - St Thomas,
there's no doubt, time's running out for me.

Red now, the clouds glow;
a flight climbs, two land.
Some leave for love and life;
while others come - good for them, what else.

Good for me, what was that;
I never had the sense to think for my best.
I came here with no dreams as such,
time and love never changed me, even now.

Passion, no; confused loyalties, yes;
I'm bad as I've ever been.
I looked down on my world today,
only to know I'm lost in transit, somewhere out there.

'Kid' of Pop

It echoes still, the retro chimes;

In my mind, deep the music plays.

Taking me to those days of fun;

when mama made sure you drank your milk;

and my neighbour Vinci made it a point;

I woke up swaying to his morning raga,

‘Beat it’ lines from one Mr Jackson; man!

I took shape, those years that rocked,

the Billie Jean and Thriller scores;

gave my legs the freedom I know.

I could never do the moonwalk bit,

but I sure could dance, who wouldn’t;

when Jacko snapped his fingers once;

it was disco time, it still is; dude!

I didn’t know who Jackson was;

I was a kid who could sway, not think.

Mama told me, he sure can dance;

I saw him too, through the tube once;

VHS it was, Middle East gift;

my uncle’s version of rocking town,

coming back with bucks off Black Gold.

Now I know a bit of this;

how Jacko tried to get it back.

While I played soccer with pals at school;

he played hard ball in a grown up world,

doing the rounds as Jackson Five;

scarred he was the rest of his life,

from missing years of senseless fun.

Glitz, glamour and cheering fans;

he loved this world, or so we thought.

The only thing he wanted was,

to get those years back, be a kiddo at home.

He was amused by the lights and bucks;

but was never at ease in all the fame,

and drowned himself with killers of pain.

Neverland, he lived his dream,

but the life he lost was forever gone;

from wonder to a walking freak,

we made him so, we selfish men.

We just wanted to dance to him;

and never could see the withered hands;

covered by the whitest of gloves.

This is the tale of the King who was,

a child trapped in a man’s face; broken mask.

He died shattered, misery I heard;

living a life he started to hate.

Angel of sorts, Oh that he was;

made us gay with his soul, his voice;

'Kid', not King of Pop; play at least on heaven’s floors.

(To Michael Jackson)

Luz and Love

Remember I'd come here once,
to see you smile; at your doorsteps I was.
Months back, a lonely Thursday;
we spoke a while, amidst the happy crowd.
You had time for me, though You were wanted by all,
the first time I stood at this House of God.

They sang your praise,
while I sat with ease.
I couldn't sing, but I did pray;
not for me, but for a special one;
and You smiled and spread the light,
on everyone and I was blessed.

Your grace brought out the best in me,
and Your love I felt on my second visit;
when I wept and wept for my silly sins,
while You wiped and wiped;
till my mother came home,
to comfort me on her lap; I'm the lucky one.

This day I came to You,
thanking You for another gift.
My day was bright when I heard a word;
my dearest came out with flying colours.
Light the way, Oh dear Mother of all,
Lady of Luz, the brightest of all.

(In praise of Our Lady of Light, Luz Church, Chennai)

In Delhi for 'Carobar'

MS Dhoni might be thinking about the "Catch 20" situation he walked into two years ago! The 'captain cool' led India to the title win in the inaugural T20 World Cup in South Africa, becoming the face of Indian cricket overnight. His long locks took him from Ranchi hills to 'Desi Beverly Hills' stardom (read: close encounters in Bollywood and of course the million dollar endorsement
deals).

The win also put Indians as the pioneers of the slam-bang game and then came two years of fun in the sun. But two IPL's later, it was reality check for the merry Men in Blue as the thin ice gave in. Dhoni cut short his hair and the "gentlemen" from England, "pirates" from the Caribbean and
the "chokers" from South Africa made sure the Indian defence of the World T20 title was cut short at the Super Eight stage. Mud slinging, controversies and autopsies followed but who cares. As Dhoni says: "In my short career I have seen worst defeats than this."

Of course the Indian captain was referring to the 50-overs World Cup debacle at the West Indies. Well the Men in Blue are professionals to the core. As millions sat silently in front of their Idiot Boxes late in the night, seeing the Dwayne Bravos and Wayne Parnells rip apart their dream, the Rohit Sharmas and the Suresh Rainas were caught live on video joking and smiling at the team dug-out as their pals were losing in the middle. Why should they be sad? A loss
is a loss and they have many other battles to fight tomorrow. Besides they have other carnal pleasures to look forward to - the many girls they would be flinging with during the twilight hours being just one of them.

While the average Indian, including my 'journalism guru' were getting drunk to mourn about what was and what should have happened. But, to be honest, I don't care as I have bigger and better businesses to attend to. After all, I'm in Delhi for "Carobar".
Deputed to work in the capital city for a month, and drafted in to be part of the T20 World Cup central desk, I was in the thick of it all. I must say I was a little skeptical as to whether I would feel comfortable in the big office in Delhi. But then I realised, I am here for work yes, but there are other more important and fun "business" I should perform too. Life's 'hectic' for a sports
journalist here you see, 'very hectic'...

"I never expected this man. It took me by surprise," I had answered my friends back in Chennai after the first day of work in Delhi. I was going through the boring motions of the "how is work there buddy" type you see.

Well I was told I would be part of the desk in Delhi and I came here to do a decent job and go back home with my "rewards", whatever that may be. But reaching here I realised, I would have the pleasure of other "Carobars", to survive the Delhi heat.

For the hard-core South Indian's benefit, "Karobar" is a Hindi word which means business. So what important business is this... Well very important one and if I miss it I may regret it the rest of my life. I am joking of course.

The Delhi Times-Sport Karobar is spelt Car-O-Bar which basically is the regular, after-work drinking session at the parking lot outside office, in between the cars. Man, it has been years since I have drank standing in a public place. I remember it was during my college days I think
that I last did that and perhaps that's why it was love at first sight, or rather first peg, with the Carobar for me!

We four foreigners (guys who were deputed from other centres) - me, Vinay Nayudu from Mumbai, Aby Jose from Bangalore and Archiman Bhaduri from Kolkata, were at home in
no time. For Vinay and Archi-da, it was all so familiar of course, as they have been here and done this many a times. But for me and Aby, the guys who are in the "early twenties" it was
novel and boy it was fun.

If something takes me back in time to college days then why wouldn't I love it? As the boys stand huddled around the Delhi boss Alok Sinha's car, sipping from non-biodegradable
glasses, talking about the day's work, talking about sports, about love, about the hills, about girls, about next day's work schedules; I used to lean back to one of the cars and just smile as memories of stolen parties at the P&T quarters road near my college rush back.

Those were days of reckless fun. There it was more "bike-o-bar" than car-o-bar and the next days plan would be which movie to go or which girl to say "I love you" to. Basic dreams and aspirations I would say. Now it's basic too. Next day's plan would invariably be, as the Delhi Big
Man Alok puts it: "You guys come in around 4, we will work out the plans, the first pages we will send at 7.30, then we will get the match results, second page by 10.

"And then couple of you can stay back and update the late match and go home. It won't be a problem for you youngsters. And do find time in the day to go around Delhi and have fun," Alok, who thinks I'm just in my early twenties, used to add.

Simple plan but as effective as the Tilakaratne Dilshan's "Dilliscoop", the shot that captured the imagination of many during the Twenty20 World Cup. And his innovation almost gave the Cup to the Lankans. But the 'fun-loving' yet focused Afridi-types in the Pakistan team broke the
Islanders' magic and took home the silverware.

It was supposed to be a big occasion for us Indians, as we were defending a world crown there in England, and how often do you see an Indian team do that. But the big occasion in the "small" game got to the big boys I guess.

I have always said cricket is hardly a big game though, global game to be exact. I mean, only 15-odd country play the eccentric game so how big can it get. But it's big here in India. Guess we are madly trying to vindicate the travel brochures by following this game as fanatics. "India,
the land of eccentricities and surprises", the flashy travel literatures say. So let it be, we will follow the mad game madly!

FROM EXILE TO LORDS was the headline given by us after the final, saluting Pakistan's triumph, and as we wound up the day at our third-floor office, the captain of our team, turned to us boys. "Chalo, let's quickly start our business. Cheers to Pakistan. Cheers to some good work."

... IT"S CAROBAR TIME FOLKS - the big business in Delhi!

My Madonna Of Santhome

The lady greets with the warmest of smiles,
as if she’s saying, I know you boy.
I stand charmed in front of her,
awe struck by her beauty and grace.

I stop to say hi maam, mother to all,
she ruffles my hair and says it's all fine.
From her humble eyes one could never tell,
she holds the key to the entire world.

Her eyes have the kinda depth,
which makes the oceans seem a wading pool.
Blue rays; peace she gives to one and all,
who kneel before her in honest faith.

Her folded hands once held,
the King, promised to man by God.
Queen mother of the highest she is,
but spends time down here with little us.

Covered in gold she is of course,
but the real glow is from her purest self.
Virgin mother to the God in flesh,
no wonder she lights up the dark.

She comforts me, the afflicted one,
and agrees to love me, pray for me.
This even though she knows for sure,
I've fought her Son, been rude to him.

Around my neck I carry her charm,
Rosary from the Holy Land.
I've never used it to sing her praise,
but she doesn't mind, she pats my head.

“Come on child, be at peace;
I'm the mother to all of you.
Naughty one you are I know,
but I care for you as I did for Him.”

I kneel down and bow my head,
and my feet get wet from salty drops.
Tears of joy it was this day,
I'm in love with this Lady of Hope.

Lady of Mylapore for the rest of them,
but for me she is Madonna dear.
One who leaves me to be myself,
yet love me for what I am.

I needn't pray to her; she hears my soul,
“You just be good,” she told me so.
Please touch me now, Oh beauty of heaven,
and my heart sings out – “Salve Regina”.

(Verses for Our Lady of Mylapore at Santhome Church in Chennai)

Remember the book buddy!

 

First day in a new ‘old’ school,
fears and all the childish whims.
I meet you and what ye do,
make sure I got the welcome cane.

 

Foes we never could be,
as from then on we are in it – a pair.
The first it was of many to come,
teachers spanked, but together we stood.

 

Then came the days of love
- of music and of the fairer kind.
Books, cassettes videos and all,
we saw it and learnt it whole.

 

Remember your finger spins,
and those late night fitness runs.
Those were the days we never cared,
of jobs, life or even losing hair.

 

Splitting ways – you went on your own,
to learn the art of nursing wounds.
While I stayed put to live a lie,
in the cheap thrills of campus fame.

 

You became hard and strong,
but remained honest deep inside.
I learnt from you buddy of mine,
to look beyond and dream things big.

 

I never tried but things changed,
I flew away from the nest I grew.
The day I got a job of worth,
I remember you were amongst the happiest lot.

 

Up and down, life went on,
you never flinched, as things got bad.
now that you’ve got your call,
to reach the shores were Caesar once ruled.

 

You will flourish in the Roman land,
and will reach a higher plane.
Look you will to these old days,
Of rains, pains and joking pals.

 

The you will open this book,
the first you used to learn your new tongue.
“Parla pocessino Italiano,” you’ll smile;
remember this book buddy, Oh yes you will.

- Leslie Xavier

( for Bobby, on the day he left for Italy and a new life - a friend forever. The book mentioned here was a 'learn Italian' book we both had brought to study the language during our college days. Things didn't work out but today when I was searching my dusty table drawer I saw it and thought I would give it to him with  a few lines...)

Dew Drops

It's just an appreciation of two special friends of mine...

The younger one follows him,
sparks of faith, trust and hope in her eyes.
Things which could only come,
through years, a score, of being around.

It's not the face she reads,
but also the person's thoughts;
who else could get it right,
who else other than his sister own.

Behind him she enters the House of God
- High Noon at Santhome Church.
Prayers, wishes and love all round,
Sibling bond shining through.

I befriend them, talk to them;
but could never figure their silent words.
Thoughts which one would only know;
by knowing the other for "18 years".

Gods sure are smiling on 'em
- they have each other in a lonely world.
But we all seem to have someone,
what matters is whether they'll be there.

That's what makes 'em special so,
big bro he'll always be.
He says it between the spoken lines,
words which I could catch with ease.

They are making my day for sure;
lonely Sunday's will never be there.
Sprinkled care I'm getting now;
sharing smiles of the loving kind.

- Leslie Xavier
(... to a lovely brother-sister pair, Ryan and Madonna)

Noon flight to Bangkok? No! Friends made for each other? Yes!

A normal lunch at an "uptown" restaurant, nothing special happened. Until I realised the person in front of me, my pal, is perhaps not as weird as me, but someone who's just as close, just right and of course, she's a treat beyond words.

 

To be honest, it probably was not in the league where we could say, "it was an enchanting gourmet trip to Thailand". But for the couple of amateurs that we are, I guess it was fine. We had our Thai lunch, from one of the "good" if not the "best" Thai restaurants in town and we enjoyed it every bit, partly because the food appealed to our taste buds and partly, at least for me, it was a company I cherish.

Well it was yet another Thursday, weekly off, another day to feel lost, as I usually am when my body can't cope with a mind which is still on overdrive, from the previous weeks' up-and-down run in the valley of no return - my office, the ever-alert newsroom cum editorial.

It was time for the weekly rendezvous with my friend to renew the 'lunch connection'.

Checking out the different foodie joints in Chennai is what I do with her and this week the draw went to Thai cuisine and the first name that came to my mind was a small door I see every other day, while going to work.

I usually take the TTK Road while cycling to Nandanam and to my office, just because the trees lining the street protect me from the relentless mid-afternoon Chennai sun. And I sure have noticed the name "Benjarong", which they say is one of the best Thai joints in town.

But is it true? Is Benjarong Thailand personified?  I don't know as I'm not familiar with Thai cuisine and even Thai culture, though I do know a few things about Muay Thai (Thai boxing) and the bicycle I ride is also an import from the South East Asian paradise.

So Bangkok, here we come, albeit in an auto rickshaw, not Thai Airways.

The place itself, when you enter, gives a feeling you can chill, be yourself and have a nice left-to-ourselves lunch.

But then it better be, otherwise who'll bother to go there next time. I know I won't. Because for me, the ‘gastronomical’ journey I undertake with my friend here is rather secondary to the emotional joy-ride I take when I sit opposite her and indulge in talks, ranging from the choir girl I would love to fall for, to how vast her chocolate wrappers collection is.

Yes, I know what is going through everyone's head now. Who is this friend, who's eccentric enough to collect wrappers and end up having a treasure huge enough to fill up the entire cupboard in her room and who fights tooth and nail for it when her roommate tries to clean the mess.

Well, the people who know me think I myself am a weirdo at times. So I guess we are just friends made for each other.

Anyway like I said, we are in this Thai "island" in the middle of "Tam-Bram country" and I am not the least worried whether what we eat is authentic or not. It looks, smells, tastes and even sounds OK to both of us. The food was great. So our gourmet curiosity is satisfied.

But beyond that, the whole experience, at least for me, was not a flight to Bangkok, but a flight to the roof of the room we were lunching in! A trip which showed me my inner self in relation to the special friend opposite me.

A trip I took, when I was sitting in front of her, eating my desert, while she had already finished hers and was eyeing mine with suspicion. Yes shedug into my dessert bowl as well, that’s what makes her special. No cosmetic airs about her at all...

Coming back to the flight; I floated up to the ceiling, had an outer body experience so to speak. I was above the table and I could see us both chit chatting. What are we doing there? No beating around the bush here. I wanted a straight forward answer. So Leslie, what's up doc?

Can't you see? We are finishing our lunch and with it, we are finishing another page of our "Friendship Log". A page which has some weird "leaf and peanut laced in a sweet sauce" appetiser, a chicken starter wrapped all over in bamboo shoots, pan-fried noodles, lamb, and dessert - all Thai style.

But more importantly a page which also had, the speciality of the day - "the chets and molus" fermented in love, the sweetest of ingredients known to any chef, and of course, the words of mutual respect, admiration, and, how can I forget, the small fights...

And yes, the three dots mean the story will never end here, it'll continue, my hope is... for eternity, if not forever.