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.

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.​

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?

Winter Rides!

The cold blade

that cuts in haste,

through existence,

is hardly noticed

in the rush,

in the obsession;

as I move in circles,

concentric.

Its radius is my will,

but... but,

the start,

and the finish

reek of selfishness;

the point, it’s home.

Working up the cadence and pace on a chilly
morning ride to Gurgaon on my Cannondale

 

The Monsoon Tune

The drops,

transcends in haste through

the once great divide,

to form strings divine

from the Gods to men,

strummed by a southern breeze.

There you go,

a morning concert,

the great Indian guitar

plays a monsoon tune.

 

Pic: msn.com

Dusty Portrait

These fine lines

on a black canvas:

Spaced by fate and summer,

by heartless strokes

from petrol-driven

blunt brushes made of rubber.

The sensuous, sexual curves

your lips smudge, erase and shift,

again n again,

through breaths from the inferno,

from the deserted soul

that lies beyond

this rude State

I visit to earn my bread.

Pic Source: indiatoday.intoday.in

Pedestrian Crossing

They scamper across,

blocking my way

on the busy road

leading to ye dream,

and my nightmare.

I sneer, I jeer, I curse...

But why should I?

Those poor creatures

are just scared,

keen to get home

and churn out milk

for greedy South Delhi bastards.

I let ’em live

in my nightmare,

while,

the cruel you,

killed ’em

in your dream.

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 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.

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

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