The Winter Morning Rain

The dark ​corridor,

​which connects the ​bed near sunset

and the well​-​lit Christmas tree​ ​at Sunrise,

​is my library.​

​The half-read books ​reek of arrogance,

​today they ​exude the scent of rain,

winter rain,

​whose drops tease​ ​me

at the window,

​urge me ​to play musical chairs...

If only I was my daughter,

​or I were my father,​

I would oblige​.

I am neither old, nor young,

just perfect to be

trapped amongst dusty books,

uncertain at sunset,

jittery about sunrise.

-- Leslie

Rain of Protests

​It rains for hours

in Delhi​!

​

The drops,​ young scholars​​,

​enlighten all with free will;

​they join forces, 

might above ​’em old men

hurling soggy, blood-stained

papers balls, 

The officers call it Section 144​.

​Sound familiar?​​

It rains, relentless,

down on anarchy,

carrying​ vigour from the sea,

​​free will from the plains

and vision from the hills​;

the unified front,

a weather to break​ barriers

and inhuman statutes.​​

The storm ​wash​es​ dirt and grime

from the winter leaves,

​cleanses the leathered

conscience of existence​.​

​It ​washes off masks,

reveals the hidden mob

and their savage tone,​

but let​s​ the blood stains remain​;​

​to ​glow in the glare

​of those ​billion flames

​lit ​for a cause beyond

amendments, acts and atrocity.

It rains for hours

in Delhi!​​​​

Poetic Freedom

​I would retire,

with ease, grace and peace

to the farthest ​nook,

if they serve, every day,

slices of plum cake,

and play Christmas vibes all night.

I would move my world,

if they let me write poems

on church walls, pavements,

and on the ​remaining 

one and a half​ ​pillars of Democracy;

red letters strung together

for all to behold, tread on​...​

​Onward​ toward destiny, 

to the shop window​, any window,

for​ ​a ​taste of ​that ​plum cake​... Freedom!​

​-- Leslie​

Picture Courtesy: Sreetama Bagchi, Goa (2017)

Indian Identity Strife

I​ forgot my ID once,

it is a tree now back home,

in my backyard.

... My identification marks,

​birth scars, dots and dotcoms,

are under a blanket

where it hides, 

alongside some books, 

a moral compass, an ethnic passport,

and the Indian constitution.

They await judgement,

for free will is not theirs,

not anymore,

not on these streets.

-- Leslie

Pic: Courtesy DNA

Peachy Love

​​​​Fresh flowers, moist,
float down,
​a bit after t​​he morning sun
lit up your eyes..​.
​
The buds reach your lips,
swaying down from their pedestal,
the lone peach tree up the hill​.​
Coerced​ down by the whiff of 
a mint-laced mountain breeze
​- his breath reaches yours​,​
his soul ​touches your lips,
a dance follows,
​serene like a river's flow,
wild like its roar.​​

The solitary Peach tree near The Goat Village Nagtibba (Pic: Sreetama Bagchi)

Brownian Destiny

​She beholds 'em in awe,

the falling leaves of spring,

the Palash bloom who,

in jest,

tapped her left shoulder;

made her turn right,

towards the right hues of life,

bright red, dreamy yellow.​​

We too,

I sigh and smile,

live our Brownian lives,

swaying with the mystical laws...

Of physics, blessings and fate,

our dreams and destiny.

Pic: Sreetama Bagchi

Clair de Lune

​To hear the silent,

lonely song of the moon tonight,

I strained my heart,

climbed up the winding stairs

of my creative will,

each step stained with sweat

of the masons who built them.

Wonder if they are alive,

do they climb stairs too,

to try and hear this song I crave.

Silence...

That's what we all get,

even the living masons,

the dead artistes,

after a futile chase.

For what we possess is 

a bit of noise, quite a lot,

which we clang up

living by some mortal algorithm.

Look up above, I plead,

in Clair de Lune

lie our immortal visions, life's rhythm!

Dust Hound

Look at him, my dog, chase dust.
After all, dust defines us;

has moulded us into
monuments of wonder;

into beings who wander,

seeking taller high-rises,

looking down at the

smallest wonders of the world.

Ashes scatter... Our souls stay, 

fine, earthly, err... dusty!

Look at him, my dog, chase...

In awe, in joy, in angst even!

Masala Baby and I at Lodi Gardens, Delhi (Pic: Sreetama Bagchi)

Eliot and I

He was ambushed,
questioned, in a dark room,
where is your Waste Land?
Around you, he sighed.

... Near me, I discover,
while I try to gauge
the length of a long shadow
cast by my office desk lamp --
dark, hiding my Waste Land,
lighting up theirs! 

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.

Homemade Heaven!

Winter, her morning songs, calls for a dance; but the heart wraps itself in summer, his lullaby... A good layer of fleece, thick skin of cotton, and a fine lining of love. It's complete -- my homemade heaven!

Pic by Sreetama Bagchi (Instagram: @sreetamabagchi)

The Potter's Pizza

In an existence dear,
beyond spinning stories,
I see a man,
who bakes ​good-​natured
fighters in a clay mould.
Men, they are but clay,
baked in fire, hardened...
yet brittle to reality.

And, in that dream
I see myself​,​
young and grinning,
toss a pizza,
a perfect circle,
made on a potter's wheel
which spins epic tales.
Unlike the boy​
I keep meeting over coffee
at my dressing table.

Delhi and a Democratic Irony

I seek the obvious,

the irony of a 

monsoon morning,

as I leave the lawns

down south,

to the loan sharks

high up on a steep

pecking order.

I seek salvation

among humid, smiling faces,

even as a storm brews, 

in and around

Lutyens' reminders of slavery,

a few signage bright and yellow,

which herald sunrise, sunset,

and democratic bonded labour.​

Ode to the monsoon wind

The moist wind,

laden with words

for a memoir,

reaches me through

the long corridor
that begins at Connaught Place,

stretches onto adulthood

at the cubicle end of KG Marg.

One, two, too many

man hours later,

the dusty opaque spectacles

give way for a greener tint.

It's monsoon outside,

winter in here.​

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)

Ode to Jackie!

He turned to me,

and I saw eternity

sparkle from the 

jaded eyes.

My dog, 

he is old now...

He looks up with fear,

his twilight n my shadow 

he loved to growl at,

occasionally smile at, too.

My dog,

he limps now...

The longing remains,

in his eyes,

he wags nervously,

lest I bring love.

My dog,

he loves to be patted, still...

But, I crave his anger,

his young arrogant growl;

he has never bitten my bait,

can never ever, now.

For he is old now,

my dog, Oh god!

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.

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?

​Teacher, teacher…

The old man

on the wall,

he grins,

he grins at the

young man 

on the cross.

Teachers, both,

displayed on a trophy wall

of a school

meant for life.

But a school built

for barter, banter,

and grey matter takes over

the small matter —

a young mind.

I left teaching,

in haste,

avoiding the crucifix,

a little beyond

a church tower that

rings school bells.

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.