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.

The Sale

Summer sale on for winter wear, 
I just can't wait for that
retail salesman and his
market theory that always wins.

At sultry Chennai, it's a jest, 
but I'm hell bent on
buying that glossy jacket
to sweat n cook in it...

As it's winter here for me, in May, 
middle of the great Indian summer; 
where is my soda lemonade?
That boy drank it all, years back!

Sound of Silence

It's hard, harder for I have
to sift right through the
junk-filled sewers
that maketh my memory.
Some memoir I will manage,
stink rising with every sigh.

Every step I take, I fail,
in that search for silence;
for stealth to approach my
foes to make 'em all
feel the pain I endured when I broke
my nose n bones, but the will remained.

That will, I plea every day,
with the morning rays,
to aid me, to find the steps,
the small silent ones,
I took as a kid, smiling;
but my heart is heavy now...

... So big in girth now
that even my baby steps disturb peace;
it's louder than the buzzing fan
or my panting lungs,
both try to pacify in vain
the cells that burn, they burn.

It's High Time!

That green cover was
just perfect, 
for it leaves my mom glad,
her son has a roof.
My shifting, swaying roof
is loyal to me though,
with random leaks,
it lets me revel in the 
blessing from the heavens,
opening me to truths,
the ones I truly belong to,
the ones which cleanse me...

It can keep me in a
happy warp for hours,
watching a ship sail out yonder,
or those two boats which always 
struggle to take school kids to
tuitions and then home.
This, the time when
sunsets never charmed me,
its romance never touched me,
as I was gay with the waves
and the digital snaps of ships
I will go home n copy on paper.

Then again this shower
did make me shiver
n run home for a blanket,
a cup of tea too,
which was always kept warm
for I was loved.
But the days vanish,
into thin air, the western winds blow it,
along with the clouds, to the hills.
Beyond my reach,
yes, I dread the climb and
the heights I will reach.

For I'm a man, destined to fall;
the higher I am, the bloodier my death.

Credit: Wikipedia

Hollow Music!

The morning song this day
was dry like the withered branch
of the speaking tree
just outside my window.

It maybe the summer heat, 
or is it this headache?
That turned your voice
coarse n bitter, between stale breath.

Maybe it's the curse of the lost
Spanish Hollow I played with ease, 
my fingers strumming in blind passion, 
knowing its every sigh...

The music flows still, 
a meaningless, lustful tide; 
the senseless tunes composed
by the devil at large, the fallen one.

Men at Work!

They dug pits for me,
every night did the king's men,
as I called it a day at office
to say good morning to love!

The cycle rolls, even now,
a sick, slow n steady workflow!
But Psalms force them to
fill it up in the mornings,
my coffin's not ready yet,
they forget the zen too;
for they still are hard at work, 
lining their gut with cancer
cells to end their sorry stories
in pain... So it's written!

The Glass Cage!

Breathe I should,
inhale deep, just as I get
sucked into the depths of
a bed that's not mine.
I'm not home,
just a lonely tenant here...
 
But I choke on their love,
for they are all smokers,
and they blow white puffs
onto my face, into
my battered lungs beside
an ailing, erratic heart.
 
And I grope for the window,
to break its stained glass... Yeah, my cage!

Ides of March

Fools, Brutes at best,
mobbed in lust,
for power, a coup to mute
his voice in history...
The Republic shouts,
Caesar is dead!

Statesmen, fools none the less,
gave their king
a gift meant for Gods,
immortality...
As they wrote in blood,
the Ides of March, Beware!

Blood flows again,
and again,
March to summers many,
through the bitter winters,
across Europe, Persia, the new world...
The red clot on a white robe
still stands out, but why?
For he was Julius,
not just another Harvard graduate
at an Oval Office.

A fine line

The fine, naughty
smile on her open lips,
the jest in her
naughty eyes which
always light up at sunset...
A proud glimmer
in 'em all tonight,
for she has two guests...

... Lovers, poles apart,
but lovers... lovers...

The man, a loner from the
north, from the highlands
where warriors hide behind
the masks of bards;
his muse tonight has gems
from the morning star,
strewn on her evening gown;
they held hands at the beach.

... At the front courtyard
of their host, 
basking in her pure
white affection,
they danced...
While their emcee,
she spread out a dinner
on a silver platter.

- The Pole Star, Venus and the Crescent Moon were aligned this evening. A union of lovers!

Tone deaf!

These familiar roads
make me fear n brace,
the lanes are marked 
in white footprints
of infants and school kids...
I ride without lane discipline.

A warm night, the wind from the
seven seas comes funnelled 
between the dreams of
sleeping, hard-working men;
into the vents of my helmet,
they bring a song...

I've forgotten its lyrics;
I left behind all the tones
for a grammar school
and now a drummers role sans music.
Just left to herald the darkness I’ll find,
a little beyond the next right.

Crisscross

I cross this strait,
once a day now.
Once upon... a life time ago;
it seemed like life, twice over,
the rush to find my space,
but the calling 
was never heard,
now or even then.

Morning, it was then,
the push for a young heart;
it is in repeat now,
but just half a tread at a time
for this another man in me,
noon it is now.

None to watch my back,
the burn spreads there;
sweat trickle and tickle
down the neck till it
becomes an itch
that drives me further,
a li'l farther, down that path
of no return...
Where I will lose the 
original sin in me to age;
and the will in me 
to the measured
words of an editor,
out of control, out at large!

My best friend's wedding!

A room full of strangers,
the talks begin in earnest;
on traffic, on cars, buses
and some writers...

Then the promise, Gateway opens,
handshakes follow in Swiss precision,
time zones merge, their families too,
well set on magic stones.

A room full of friends now,
the bride's smile broadens into
their lips, I'm in;
seat belt is fastened, I'm home.

Wedding, the march to record books,
the rush to catch a
flight of fancy, of dreams n reality;
their life begins, on Skype now!

- A wedding gift for a dear one, a special one

Street magic!

The dust settles
gently o'er this large-hearted road,
the widest for miles,
a generous king among commons,
some of whom are spice traders,
narrow but they charm the senses...
Few others are pious,
temples being their life,
mosques their only world,
and some sell churches n history
in stalls on their love handles,
but they're not whores.

A few socially responsible men guide
kids to schools n football grounds too.
Beach is where the Romeo stand,
right by the crashing waves n Chinese nets;
while the local illuminati woo
tourists and hearty fellas
to bay-side bars and 
art cafes for Indian culture,
a decoction, forming storms in cups
and tall beer mugs!

Back to the street-smart royal one,
being dressed by drunk contractors
for the year-end parade
where he lets his subjects
dance to the tunes of Christmas
and a New Year of hope.

The beach walkaway in Fort Kochi - the Romeo among streets here (pic credit: hotelsfortcochin.com)

(On the narrow lanes of Fort Kochi and the premier among them - The KB Jacob Road (50 feet road) which dresses up every year for the Cochin Carnival, ushering in the new year...)

Art of Denial!

To infinity... Spreads this
off-white canvas below my feet;
vandalized to insanity by
the stomps of arrogant youth;
by plastic waste from drunk,
mindless punks straight out of college
and their campus-recruited IT jobs;
guised as hard-working fishermen,
who fight the waves of change
to provide school uniforms for
the smiling ones and snacks for
the smirking, bribe-belied cops.

T'is, the time for my painting here,
but my will fails to power the strokes
across its breadth,
legs fail in the sprint across its length
to my bike parked yonder.
I can only crawl to her feet,
begging her to adopt me
into her depths,
urging her to let her salt
seep into my blistered heart,
cleansing it with burn,
the scars will remain black though;
a dark reminder on pale skin
of my stand now:
Helpless at the edge of the canvas
I need to colour fast.

I had my crayons,
have also seen those water-hued days,
even wax and fabric paints
and 'em fancy acrylic I found in college;
but I wanted just coal,
just black and white
from mother earth,
who always denies me my due.
But I still dared to ask:
Please, a li'l love this day...

AC/FC: The band!

For once I stayed up;
after all, it was Milan's
honour this day
to host the Band,
but not of the Billboard charts
nor one for grannies or Grammy...

... Still they eased those average teens
from the second third n fourth worlds
to change channels and 
their obsession with
tanned beach babes
and their samba; 
or the dreams of a night out,
dancing to cocaine with a Sabatini,
a tango under the silver moon
by the Rio de la Plata.

Now they all sway to
the smooth flow from a 
Spanish guitar strummed by
a Nou-bred Argentine,
tuned to perfection
in a proud Catalan dream.

3.20 in the morn here,
six hours ahead of
that smile from Xavi,
the Italians mourn;
but the tears thrill 'em all
as the boards sang anthems
in flashy neon:
3-2 it is for Barcelona.

The boys kept their stripes all,
earned a few more,
Milan in Black and Red,
while Green lights adorn
the glittering Palau Blaugrana,
the hues and the many phews!

(Thoughts during the UEFA Champions League classic between AC Milan and FC Barcelona yesterday...)

Saturday Qualifying

Sir Stewart smiled,

the knight's many chequered flags

spark the V8 that

powers his young eyes,

wrapped in a magic weave

of proud Scottish sunshine.
 

Schumi did part his lips too,

so did Vettel and the young-uns,
at posers with magic drumsticks

and jokers with rusty, septic swords.
 

... It gave them orgasms!
Hell yeah, it did...
 

While o'er the counter quotes
eased the pain in their lower gut from
paraphrasing the one-and-a-half minute long
lap dances, the misery and mystery of it all.
And the tycoon chose to eat while
they blew his trumpet.
 

Night, the city lit up with
headlamps rushing home.
The delivery boys readied
a rich spread on the dinner table.
A li'l more than four hundred
words got laid on the front page
for the pleasure of millions.
Out came whorish squeals on Facebook;
from the dark lanes

it made its way to the pit-lane

and the paddock behind.

Three days of timeout
from rum n coke in a tainted glass,
to champagne in a circus flute.
 

Then there were rumours

of multiple pleasure,

beside the pit-lane exit,

in sync with the downshifts

into the opening corner.

More a sigh than a cry,

from an Italian lady in red;

as she climbed towards newer
heights of ecstasy, beyond the second corner;

round n round, hips and laps.
 

They all qualified for

a Sunday party,

while I made the grid for a hike,
after a Saturday high!

(I was also present at the Buddh International Circuit in Greater Noida for the inaugural F1 Indian GP. Yeah, the ‘mystery and misery of it all’...)

Room for more!

Shipbuilders, ’em southerners
are busy with their hull...
It belongs not to them,
the Iron, nor the hammer
they use to bring percussion
to the fore in an orchestra
conducted by a very tall,
old man in Red tux.

Hey, I too can float,
an airtight skull sets sail;
a few shots down the vein
and I'm on my desk,
making a couple of pages,
before forgetting the stanzas of a 
good dream... I never take notes!
Visions never appear on paper either!

Slow n steady on two wheels
I come back to reality,
watching my beloved's concrete bosom glow,
revelling in the attention from the sun,
the naughty old westerner
trying to woo his favourite gal,
a white-skinned one on stilettos,
to spend the night with him.

He fixes the spotlight on her;
sad, so sad, he is setting,
a temporary death,
or is it just twilight sedation
for doctors to work on him
and he comes out again the morrow,
young and handsome to date her again,
the soap opera continues!

View from my sixth floor room east window at Medical Trust Hospital in Kochi

(Thoughts from my hospital bed in Kochi, on the view from my sixth floor room, my trip under sedation and the setting sun...) 

White coat, dark court!

Heal me doctor
for I've sinned,
but just in my deeds.
Yet “banished,” said he!

The hunched over professional,
bespectacled, white-coated
and smiling, walks out on me.
His evening busy; hands warmed
with soft leather gloves,
he strolls to a garden in bloom.
His bed is comfy too
while a cold hospital cot awaits me.

“Banished,” he said again,
for you dared to try singles.
Indians can only play doubles,
ask your Paes or Bhupathi!

Yeah, they've won Grand Slams,
but I have no choice
for I am forced to stick
to just serve and volley!

Thank you doctor,
I shall begin my day
in darkness now;
the floodlights are dead
at the fenced singles court
and they refuse to repair it.

Rain Check

"Yes, yes! Right here mama,
I ain't out in the rain!"

The skies opened
to re-christen the birthday boy,
cleansing his veins and lanes
off grime and some crimes;
flushing his soul and sewers
off original and some duplicate sins.

But all I heard, between the quick
baby steps on concrete, was her voice,
which once made sure I played by
the rules written in the mist, in bold italics,
by the waving index finger
I held walking to school.

But I can't lie, can I?
This grey carries my sin,
sprinkled in between
the fresh shoots you planted
while I waited by the window
for my paper boats to dock.

"Yes, yes! Right here mama,
never in the rain, I play with fire now!"

Rain!

And as I look out of my flat window here enjoying its sudden appearance, I hear my mother call. Many times!

Of course she is nowhere near me to call out my name and check whether I am inside the house or busy floating paper boats in the rain.

This used to be a regular call when I was a kid growing up in Kochi where rain is part of life just like the sun.

As a kid, though I was less naughty than I am now, one of my ideas of fun was rain and the inexpensive, low carbon-footprint activities surrounding it -- like sliding in the mud, making water skis with coconut tree branches, netting tadpoles and tiny fish in the small pond at our backyard, and of course miniature boats.

At times even my grown up aunts (mom's sisters) used to join me. Till my mama intervenes, calling out my name, asking me where I am and reminding me that I am not supposed to be outside.

The call stayed with me.

Later, even now as a 30-year-old, whenever I am left in peace to listen to the rain I hear my mother and her voice of concern and caution.

"Leslie, where are u my son, don't go out in the rain."

And I heard her voice today.

But rain is not my worry now mama. It is fire that I have to deal with every day.

I wish the days were as simple as the ones involving monsoon showers and paper boats. But at least I have my mama's voice with me and her beacon guides me to brief yet fulfilling visits to the simplicity of existence I once enjoyed.