Tearaway!

The drop trickling down

an old rut, hidden under
a thick brush and worn-out
leather; a man at large.
Oh, you've grown up;
ready to sin, ready to win.
 
And this water,
yeah; it's his heart weeping,
for he was still taking a
noon nap after mama's lunch,
when the world did many a Mach. 
The sonic boom afterthought,
shook him back to reality;
tears ain't virtual anymore.

Edit Cage!

Dog days are here to stay;
bones, less marrow, are thrown
into their cracked shot glasses
by masters of a trade, younger than
the oldest profession this biz,
but filthy more it sure is.

Whores ’em are noble,
for they barter flesh, dignity;
while these whip wielders
deal in souls and breed zombies
to edit the bones - snarling, biting
in greed, caged near the source!

The Peace Pat

Bliss patted his palm,
in a pink frock with flowered smiles,
from an island beyond a lacquered
picket fence of many.

The arched brow above her jewels
questioned his will to play,
while around they all pray.
Man, he chose to wave and woo
her into those naughty,
tiny steps up the sunny aisle,
for a gentle pat; receive he did,
that sign of peace with meaning.

(I was kept busy during last Sunday's service at Santhome, for the little girl two rows ahead of me found me amusing...)

Love Ethic-uette!

That wasn't pure nor amour;
oh, the one from the east!
For if love had ethics
and you were in love,
you will never elope with
that stranger I showed you once!

Stranger is life still,
capital bliss for you;
in neatly trimmed winter days,
and on a warmed bed made out
of fallen branches from the
tree of life they once named honour;
in real haste it's down to a stump,
But all's fair, indeed it is!

The Write Key!

Baby Steps in happy Garten!
Firm, her gentle grip led
me up the magic stairs
to where rivers silver stream
amidst lush green life;
the Eden of Words.

Morn, I knocked for a voice!
It rhymed with the artist's hold
on my sword, the one I swish
at will for bread, love, for sleep;
in awe I froze and
she stepped down, an altar!

It indeed was one, a temple!
Lambs tiny, soft and naughty;
given candy and songs
to nourish 'em into 'solid men'.
Wait; easy she saw through the
smile of a Christmas kid.

You little one of many?
I leaned to my name,
for a kiss, wine and a high.
These jingles for her ears;
a gift for the key
I used to unlock my world.

(An Ode to Yvonne, my first teacher! She used to put me on her lap and hold my hand to guide me through the contours in the copy book. She taught me the alphabets and the many words I use now so liberally to make a living... Yvonne and Uncle Willy live in Canada now and were in Kochi this year to celebrate Christmas with family. The lines were written just after my visit to her place, the old family house in Fort Kochi where I used to run about singing rhymes as a three-year-old...)

Evening Count

My life remains coloured,
this season by the tired Sun,
who smiles on party mammals
warming up, merry indeed.

But the gold plated evenings
are not for me, never any more!

I was dragged out of this feast
a fine day, when my uncles
were not watching my back;
for I had a beard, and gloves
to fight, but I never could
punch the thug down and
now I sit in pain as
evenings turn to night and boys,
they laugh for they have
a new morn coming.

Alas, I have only tales of loss,
of those numbered pics in paradise!

Scent Percent Christmas!

The wise ones float and get swept
into a cone by the shallow winter,
letting the old watchdogs of
this Colonial Fort light
a bonfire to keep the native stings
away from their cubs, near the bay;
but the smoke signals usher in
a time for love…

Glossy ones on the beach path
get eclipsed by late noon;
for the humid Queen glitters
in a mat-finish; her powdered cheeks,
a gift with kisses from the Highland Lord,
whose songs let the bells chime
for the Anglo Choir and their Hallelujah;
it's time to rejoice…

And find joy in the blend from
Desi chefs with foreign rum,
the grains fermented with plum;
sweet enough to make you plump,
but kids, we swarm the baker's pride.
A slow jog and it's hard to miss
the dancers burning Santa, they're high;
a new life! From the ashes it's born.

A time for life with all its charm;
Christmas is here; ah, the infant's scent.

Bass Choir

Singing with pride, hear ye;
'em gay lot, fresh out of their
flooded flats near that
National Park where deer
cross roads to meet sleepy kids
walking their talk on strings,
stretched to its limits by silly calculus;
while men rush to get warm.

Their choir, led by fat ones a million,
the Bass, who can wait hours for food
and dive deep to stay alive,
then jump up to breathe and make love.

Tonight they hog the lights,
with extra spark from Sopranos,
who we never catch on TV;
the playback singers, feared
for they hum for the ghosts.
The Composer's proud - look
at Her streaks of joy shimmer;
the very tears that made them sing.

Child's Play

See! Led into this flower gorge,
afar I hear the falls and smiles forge,
from the fresh clatter of drops
on seasoned, polished rocks.
The spray tweaked my lips,
and the mist rolled my hips.
Lights! At a middle-school ground,
trees in uniform, a church West bound;
the papal's man rests in the South aisle,
while kids play ball, their tones a Nile.
A granted gift for they're loved,
it came back this noon, I'm wowed.

She! Her voice binds hearts in its charm,
and pulls 'em into a flow so warm.
To the window down the aisle,
where coloured frames bend for a smile.
The portal glues worlds four to one,
as I take that plunge and I won.
Innocence! The trip in speed of light,
through her pitch, on His glory and might.
I sob, then smile and run out wild,
into the field where glory is mild,
and comes packed in a vanilla cone,
laced in soccer n salt in an evergreen zone.

(It was Children’s Day and the service at Santhome last Sunday had a surprise - an innocent voice that took me back… to a playground near the Arabian Sea)

Shallow low...

I wish I was lost, playing
in that field way below;
breaking shackles, and the
rut from dreams of proletarians
and their bald-headed run
to office each morning.

The dark depressed pitch,
a gift, in a silver platter
by daddy dear to the
bastard, brought up
by pay-roll husbands,
canned milk and man toys.

I could only touch, just;
the manicured grass
and skim a few lines out
of it to feed my manhood.
For I have to leave, to scavenge.
Aye aye, boss I'm hungry!

Marilyn and I!

The Caress! I felt her dreamy eyes,
a twinkle in the blue wash
at the French window near my heart.
She the one, a Norma Jeane,
framed in her virgin flight,
smiling behind the gloss of
stainless glass. Goodnight,
her whisper a lavender whiff.

Norma! I hushed onto the
mist from her breath on the pane,
before I touched her finger
for a fleeting pulse; life's brewing dear.
Yeah, she let me blot wine
from her parted lips,
naughty; red from love,
black-and-white by birth.

Twelve! her soul opened
in my dream, in a skewed
sequence, one each through
the dozen ports of bliss my
host, the rolling stone,
gifted beside a warm bed
in his penthouse world
of cars, books and pals.

Marilyn! Indeed I cried;
for she faded as the shallow
quick sighs of Cupid turned deep;
a slumber near the queen, whose
knights left her squinting at the
selective lights of a silver world;
and prone to the sedative pains
of that mansion between dunes.

(An Ode to Norma Jeane; a tribute to Marilyn Monroe! Special thanks to my pal Sid for letting me peek into those twelve, strategically placed, time portals.)

Mist call

The pistons jest past
the rustic walls and
the old gate which
leads the hungry beyond the
red stones of the Mughals,
and to the red meat and chefs.

The drive turns the
vultures of the hot day
into vampires, who mix
blood with water, before
the chilled gulps, thinning
the flayed nerves further...

... Till that sleepy merchant on the
east wall start shedding light
into the happy hours; the soles stutter,
a slip here and a sway there,
and a surprise! A glide
through mist, an early winter call.

(A typical night out in Delhi after the rigours and figures of Commonwealth reporting)

Voluntary Flicker!

Ever-crescent her smile,
with a voice which quenches
thirst in measured drops.
She, the gentle one, lighting
the busy alley with a candle;
the voluntary flicker, a couple of yards
from the pigeon holes
where just numbers roost.

(Her smile was what caught my eye - a wary one, this volunteer, stuck in between work and pushy journalists at a Commonwealth Games venue . She manages both though, in her own pace, her own world - a world I only watched from afar...)

Holy Water

Sealed with a red band
of love, yeah the same
colour of life which once
nourished me into this world.

Wrapped in a glowing mantle
of white, yeah the same
warmth from the heart which
let me dream, let me fly.

Filled with care to the brim
with dew from that
unbridled river which once
steadied me with kisses million.

Holy indeed these drops
I've kept tight, saved for
the day the desert heat
burns a hole in my soul.

Hell Bound!

They were here, right
beyond those septic walls.

Chained to hunger and
to the bloated greed
of 'em dream raiders.
Hunters, with cellular whips,
and silver pieces wrapped
in contract right from hell,
written by the darkest one.
Oh... They were here.

Our conscience slimed from
the blood-stained modernist stokes
as the "slaves" knelt down to
pick a morsel from the
sweat drenched sand grains
of this "free" land - their mother land.

Yeah, the democratic irony;
they were here, right here.

(Slavery, bonded labour, it seems we are still in the middle ages...)

Come rain or shine

The trip, to iron out
the crumpled, peeled skins kept
hidden behind doors near a bed;
took me down those school lanes,
towards the beach.
A detour - drooling, then dreaming
o'er a common-man's car
at a rich-man's porch,
before a refreshing li'l shower
during the hasty retreat...


... From the jest of a romantic who dared
to challenge the flair and flares
of the smiling, late-afternoon lover;
best of 'em both for this pedalling fool!

Bile You Were Sleeping!

Few fermented paper cups,
emptied in stolen gulps,
and left to rot in a soggy pile
within a junkyard for verbs.

Sideshows of the miserables,
governed by demigods in war
across an ocean, for gold;
men are men, so says the idiot-box.

... Dying for bets while sleep-walking
through fixed matches of life,
laughing in arrogance while failing to
contain the bile from a whithered liver.

Sliver Lining!

The ceiling balloons with
tickles from a million
drops of passion giving
goose bumps on Her belly;
and then the let-out
in an impulse lasting
a couple of man-hours,
the moments of gold, worth.

In a thatched time machine,
near a tiny steam engine
huffing to keep me warm,
the spirited guard setting the tone,
fresh brew - his lady keeping me firm.
And those days under an open roof;
when kids played ship-builders
and dad played stone mason;
memoirs smiling from the mist
rising at the feet,
an hologram, coloured.
And I shiver in this sliver from yonder.

(South-western monsoon in Chennai, in June! Am happy with this unexpected splash of love. Aren't you?)

Cradle Chi

A drop, her warmth

running through my
tired spine - cracked from
the long, dry stand at work;
from the self-induced
burn for youth after work.

But a sip from the brew,
took me back to her womb.
The cradle where once I felt
the resonant 'chi' rise
from few good men and
those li'l ladies, the brides to be!

(There is something about that bottle of wine in my cellar at home. A sip from it and I am taken back in time to when life was simple - to my mother's womb. But why? Well the wine was made by my dear mom, the fermented spirit from grapes squeezed gently by the very hands which squeezed mine long back to reassure a teary-eyed boy that she will be back to pick me up in the evening after my first day in kindergarten)

Nature's Call

Waiting out the act
of eternity, which shook

the very bare forms of lives,
the flattened domes of
the socially downtown
and politically uptown
district of a fishing hamlet
turned culture capital.

Men in checquered flags
hide in the midnight shadows,
shying from the yellow fever
which grips them all
with the setting sun yonder.
They wait... for waves
to rush in and douse the spirit,
sweeping dreams under the dusty carpet.

Cleansing through genocide,
her ways so crude yet precise;
leaving scars only on the
half-nude proletarians
of a muscle driven democracy;
led by a poet with shades
to hide his shame; yeah, sun-glasses
to keep out the glaring truth...

(The tremors from the earthquake in the Nicobar Islands reached Chennai too, waking up the average city dweller from his slumber. Men came out of their warm beds to the roads to wait... For what? The fore-warned Tsunami or to see the falling dominoes. Intriguing, human nature is!)

Wrecked Smiles

Half filled immigration forms
and unfulfilled dreams
burn together in a mangled
pile of metal, plastic and
scattered pieces of His best
yet fragile toys so far.

Strapped in for the final surge of
G-forces before the first of
the many urges and splurges
of love and the li'l pleasures
of a small-town reunion;
lie in tatters now; a few metres
late and it was in smoke, the smiles;
gloom n shock and a wreck left for us all!

(The crash victims in Mangalore, may their souls rest in peace...)

Copulation Explosion!

When in doubt, copulate
with the first of the yellow
eyed ones in the dim
light of hubs where cubs n
funk and trance call the shots,
and red lights mark the spots.

Copulate, the art of need,
use and being used;
proving the theories, economic,
by market geeks for Sensex drives.
Useful for the Zen-sex jives,
this, the oldest of trades.

Copulate, indeed the need
of the hour;
Copulate, indeed the word
of the day;
Copulate, indeed the balm
for those sores;
Copulate, till you laugh
no more no less.

Copulate, the jaw-breaking joke,

in a night full of verbs,

in a room full of smoke,
under a roof tiled by friends,
to ease nerves and fly.
Copulate, don't forget yo mate.

The Drench Connection!

Why would I shy, aye fear?
There's life in your beats,
these drops softening
the wrinkles on a parched land
with something better than
the humid, salty trickle
its so used to from the
bare tillers of its skin.

Why read good old pain tonight
when ye feel the rain,
in a ride - slip n slide;
an enlightened sleepwalk
to a bed near the beach
where dreams await,
and visions of a dance as
angels above kiss my brow.

The connect made up there,
right where we belong;
in that spring of youth she loves,
while I can just sing 'em monsoon songs.

Sonshine on mama's day

This indeed my mother's gift
- from her days filled with
smiles adoring the might
of a man of love at his house.

The flickering candle a shy
witness to her passion;
no, she will never take no
for an answer; it's her womb praying.

And the baby gets the cheers
from the gathered lot at noon
to revel in the most glorified
sacrifice ever by a man.

Lord, the rebel gets the lauds,
his presence here as gift
for the dearest on her day,
rewarded with claps; wow!

Made possible by her hails
with beads to one virgin
and her smiling son in pain;
divine, blessed you are mama!

Cry n Dry!

Yeah, you glowed indeed as
waves of passion flowed towards
the naughty ones - boys and girls;
ah, the sensuous grace
during moonlit camps when you
gently flowed into their world,
a belly dancer from the heavens,
snaking to a divine tune.

Ageless beauty, why ye picked
the heartless of all to
bare your bosom; see
your cracked lips now and
the jaded mirror near your
navel where once the young
laughed at their reflected souls
before bathing in your depths.

You let them in each time they
knocked; giving them
treasures from your fertile womb,
gifts from the mighty warrior.
The nights when ye beauty
inspired all 'em poets who drank
wine and then raped thy beauty;
the damned who never loved you.

Barren, the dried springs
of life now as trucks from pimps
mined your virgin bounty
to build their bloody world
of false promises with concrete.
I cry, my tears not enough
to fill your dried veins with salt
to wash down the capitalist muck.

Where is your anger? The
monthly cycle when you swell
and flush the sins by tourists,
who keep their conscience and
passports safe at resort lockers,
right within the fake world built
by selling your divine flesh.
Yeah, I see death in your blue eyes!

A Box Seat

But it was my bed
for the greying part of
the night; when the birds
all of 'em flew from high
to still higher branches.

Foraging for meat,
fighting for cultures,
the truth and worth
unknown to the fools,
who sang first and swore later.

A front row, earth the couch,
for me after riding down
a glossy techno lane
to quench the thirsty hawks
- my friends at home.

Back to the airy nest - my bed;
the whistling longshoremen,
warmth from an oceanographer
and pegs from six tempered strings
soften me to a lull so brief.

Hound Sight

Loved by the sly
four-legged female,
would-be wife to a dog,
later mother to his sorry litter.

Nights, my wounds are licked
and they flare open. Her poison,
saliva and the salted Marina air,
burns right through to the bone.

Her family, the hungry pack of domesticated
wolves in a concrete jungle;
chase for my blood,
my legs saved me that night.

And this day, she
came home with love,
and left with a pound in her mouth,
severed right from my chest.

Digital Henge!

Different mixes, yet colour's
the same old light red,
golden even; as we climbed
separately to a higher plane.
Me, at an open-air lounge,
pocketing chips with strikes.
While they, my friends, hit
the highway for half-cooked protein.

Minds meet, levelled after sharing sips,
waking up to the truth, slowly;
at the back seat of the car,
brought during the good old days.

And the young tramp, the monster
with fire even in his yawns;
gets a mirror, the mature gent
pointing out the open gash
from an angry burst there,
a false sense of superiority here,
and a fading sense of humility,
but still with that fool's gold - ethics...

... Or so he thought,
it ain't gold, but only
men posses it; good men
like the two drunkards tonight.

A circle is drawn, blueprints
for a Digital Henge to replace stone.
Where honour forms the pillars;
one, two, the count should grow
and mortals will carry light,
flowers and idealist offerings
- simple words with love,
a virtual space to celebrate life.

Then the legacy from pioneering
a medium which stops
the greedy man from landscaping
a backyard desert in the tropics...

... Which also stops the snarling
editor from cutting trees, talent
and the cub's well-written stories.
Making world perfect or so
the vision - the duo, drowned in
whisky, amour on beanbags;
holding arms and fading off...

... With technicolor dreams
'bout waking up to a new world,
right where we were born,
among familiar shades of blue.

Dry Spell

Once, now so long;
when you, in many
of 'em sepia frames,
just answered to the
silent wail. That psychic
bond, strengthened
by a platonic chord of
blood and cells.

The dream, nourished by
nitrates from a son and
phosphates from a mother.
Creating a fertile plain
to sow and reap, the reward
- a peaceful night,
after fighting demons
on a prison island.

Now, the eternally long days,
when even tantrums,
bush-fires and tears
fail to awaken your breasts,
to the needs of the
crying orphan.
The well is deep but dry,
drought's hit the promise land.

Divine Click

Us! The touch etched
in our hearts, and captured
in shining silver.
That moment,
not virtual, can't be digital,
as it is we; romantics!

A wish - coming together,
just us again in sync;
just two, the pulse
searching, craving love,
in a warm hug;
followed by the click.

Camera and our hearts,
make the divine choir;
as you held me firm
with a smile.
Shy, very happy and...
Very much home in your arms.

(A birthday gift for a real 'loved' one)

Plain Rotten

Worse, a recess and back to worse;
six months, three and last week;
now the pointer shows rot, a lot;
seems stunted the growth.

Waves from hell, less frequent, still swell
to burn and force answers.
The swine, a double agent, breaks;
giving out a creative cry,
while crawling through
the slimy grey within
a thinning curly prison.
Don't you glorify this silly chore...

... To paint a scape,
cute, sweet this day,
depressing in a week.
Knock knock! Those grand illusions
at noon with high fever.
A victim; beguiled by the
women in red, men in whites
and his psyche, a regal black!

Vice Visor

Morning and a broken mask,
the agonist in pain.
Yet the persona stays,
ready for sin
- of the flesh and
that modern man's
Achilles heel
- the extended night n life;
and welcome prayers when
the red skies get lighter,
while the bile gets darker
in anger; then hangover.

The organised recluse,
goes by the book -
a worn out heap
of newsprint, held together
by poetry, ego, phone sex...
And incarnated siblings,
variables ranging from
the foxy and cruel
to the proxy and novel;
a sweet 'un and the real
- a mirror image - the blood bonds!
The visor's repaired; time to swipe.

Kokeshi!

A Fresh bloom-spread,
over a plush glow.
Her new dress?
No! The print
a darker tan of red;
he turns to look again.

Waves shallow n soft,
a morning spray as Sunday sets.
Her new mane?
No! The stream reflects,
sure a deeper twirl,
he had to look again.

Mist, white and light;
lukewarm - the breath.
The smoke in chains?
No! A whitish halo
from a fighting lung.
Kokeshi, the christened doll.

(Kokeshi, a Japanese doll... She caught my eye in the newsroom...)

Due Adultery!

Spotlight on! The morning sun
shines on her divinity,
as the child bearing hips
appeal in harmonic motion.
A white cloak hides her glow
yet reveals her bow,
years add the grace,
as two naughty eyes,
gyrate to a hypnotic tune.
Hooked? A circular
classical ritual follows,
for the art of playing the game
that bringeth a new life,
sustaining Adam's clan.

Entranced, my morning
liturgy left unfinished,
as paths change
to keep focus on her
shimmering flares and
for a friendly smile;
then a brunch,
with sips from The Copa.
But the dame, lost in her
musical notes,
fails to mark the pale pony with
his tails up, the Pheron
sweating with feverish eyes.
And pheromones mix into thin air!

Her bind, a social contract,
the chain golden; her beauty enslaved.
La Belle vanished behind
her urbanised, successful man;
a sorry specimen, lucky to enjoy
her warmth and bites,
till death do them apart,
or till the due adulterer's wand,
the latter I wish,
to break an ancient code,
the seventh command
that locks out love...
All just to taste her dew.
Snap; ye moral fool!

(The beautiful lady in white at the park. My morning walk is getting colourful by the day...)

Race Retainer!

Two chairs right beside
the centre of a Gothic cross;
laid down centuries back;
renovated, seems a few years.

Yoke, the law of nature,
at the flowered aisle
inside the wide fuselage
of this weekly flight to salvation.

High the pitch, feedback
as the wired mouths
get tuned to hum and usher
in a new life for the couple.

Love unites their desires,
vows join their lives;
an act to sustain the race,
or is it a race to quench the thirst...

... The dried lips of a traveller
caught in the shifting dunes,
tired of the mindless mirage,
finally kiss the spring of life.

(I reached way late at church today. Service over, only a few decorators remained and they were dressing up the place for a wedding. A big day for the couple involved . I sat and watched the men go about their work and did my bit...)

The Unfinished Song!

Four days and a bit;
over, the role of a
keen passive observer.
Amused by the glint of
recognition from beauties
in proximity;
and others - them cute,
unknown smiles.

This day, heartfelt comments
just flowed, patting the warrior,
a soft-spoken
boy from her land.
Oh, he smiled as I told
my tale with her.
Please do sit and recite,
the offered chair.

But my wish,
it remains unfulfilled;
a chance to feel that smile,
which caught me at the stands,
and pulled me to her lap,
where I lay
to write that song,
but unfinished! The angel flew.

And so will he,
lucky this young one,
he destined to be
so near that glow,
her hands of gold.
While I curse
my mortal arms,
take 'em and give me flight.

A fancy, nay a dream,
to touch her eyes,
and share a thought,
through the plain n honest
language of hearts,
and then to let her words
fill the blanks
of that unfinished song.

Orphan Age! Orphanage?

The meeting call on
a “fine afternoon”;
free of human and
inhuman Chennai traffic;
as the elite celebrate
a tradition with a new year.
Sugarcane and a pot full
of goodies for some,
food for thought for others.
It was time for beer!

And the men talk of
spoilt seconds with snobs.
Why waste time here?
For a heart, and yeah...
An eye for comrades lost in migration!
A flight towards set goals for some,
confused priorities for others;
as tummies bloat - with grains,
solid and fermented.
It was time for antibiotics!

And sleep... Lovers keep distance
and also keep me awake;
life flickering by the flared up
desires from bared breasts
as hearts open... My life!
Then a time for homeless birds,
perched atop a Casa; dinner
with spoons, knives, forks and jokes
as families keep foreigners away.
Orphan Age; or an Orphanage!

Jaded Sabbath!

The eerie dull glow,
a sudden change in tone
shouts out; for attention.
A divine attempt to pull
a cruel joke,
a show of reality,
to a man who was only there
to feel the glow.

No glow, just a cold,
metallic shade,
jaded silver; remember the
rotting fish at Kochi beach?
The murals playing mind games,
bringing forth strokes
of realism into a
romantic outing two days old.

Lost in the shifting lights
as covers get blown
to smithereens by
salted winds from the sea.
The way out, passing a man...
Aaah... With no legs,
a starving old lady,
and the homeless...

No charity left to share,
when you're confused,
angry and hungry.
This Your world,
or is it Your Sunday joke?
Sabbath is it?
As the drag began
riding a new found love.

(The landscape was dull and depressing... Church brought out a different colour this day)

Eclipse Bloom

She’s near, I feel
the tickle, her smile,
the breath on my chin,
as she whispers,
in an ancient tongue,
the flaming song.

I sang along in free verse,
with dew, a trickle down my cheek,
the kiss I felt in the rush;
I was missed, heart crossed,
the tired spirit’s haiku notes
were cherished? Am I dreaming?

I fly, under the shy
man in the sky this day.
Hiding behind his lovers wail,
Eclipsed? Nay he drinks
wine from his girl's bosom,
and smiles naughty coming out.

His glowing aphrodisiac
- the glorious rays show
the way out from a partially
eclipsed heart, towards love.
The path of gold,
where my senses warm...

... To her bloom, she’s here.
Long the journey,
but, oh... she a fairy,
here and here do stay...
Stay for more - the songs,
and love here and there.

(Solar Eclipse, a once in a lifetime occasion, occurred today. Where was I? I was there alright. But was floating or rather flying too. She! She gave me wings...)

Naturalised Security

Search for her,
for that touch, softness;
signs for not being in the
wild yet; not yet.

The insecure kid ran,
awake to a setting sun, for her;
whose breasts made him
the man who can bleed.

The insecure man,
lost in a water world
of sarcasm, did turn;
but to nowhere?

In the days of second chances,
he had a womb.
Now, in nights of corrigenda,
he cries and runs, a static flight.

That summer his tears,
wiped by the Donna
in the room across,
she was cooking stew.

This winter he called,
answered by an angel
in the cellular grid across town,
she was brewing love.

The caress, a naturalised sibling;
a sign - the cliched half full glass.
He's in a new city, not in the
wild yet; not yet.

Hit & Limp case

A resolute vow,
of playing the soft lover,
through cheeky words
the day they met.
Four long months since
the first dance in the wet;
and then the wait,
for the joyride now.
Fun! Till a test of luck,
lasting mere seconds;
but the stress-fatigue,
looks set to last the life...

-------------------------

Miles many yet to float,
down the snaking,
placid river of tar;
under a winter sun
- mild for this land,
yet harsh enough to
burn every inch of
my throttle hand.

Sedate drift downstream,
the order of the day,
till the rapid stretch;
urged by her soft voice and
the quest for the sunset port;
rushing me into a trance.
The trees blur as I
pushed her for the first time.

Then, a sudden shift in beat;
and a call; made not by choice,
but the hand of the unknown;
or perhaps the hymns by the
good souls at Hope church;
as I stood yards away
from a wail; the spot where
blackness crossed my path.

He, scenting his bitch,
tip-toed towards fast love;
hesitant till a final dart, across;
after his nosy psyche caught
her pheromones in the air and...
... It was late, for me,
an helpless bang, the shudder,
and a left shift; the moment's over.

Silence, with a slight shiver,
shattered by the lament,
of a life broken by a bolt unknown.
A cruel twist to his tale of love;
ah... the sin in it all,
the selfish bastard me,
not easing the gas,
banking on some percentage law.

But a sharp burn
the swell near the tibia,
- my sentence quick,
for the rush of blood,
as the howl maddens,
and eyes stare;
I mount for the run after the hit:
Limping; my leg and her fork.

(It was just sheer luck, or maybe divine intervention which kept me from falling and possibly getting crippled after running over a dog at nearly 90km/hr while riding from Kochi to Chennai. The dog lost its legs, sad! I sprained mine, lucky! While the bike stood firm with minor sprains of its own, as thoughts of God and prayers rushed into the grey matter between my two ears.)

Bypass!

Fresh start, the morning ride,
leaving a pal and his
concerned tones with
the warmth of a friendship
- thicker, yes; way firmer than
his bedroom's two-feet wall.

The hum from her heart,
my ride, whole of a third of a litre;
her Cubic Will pushing me on
till the junction where
once I told bedtime stories
to a sibling, forgotten.

Aye, the morning crowd
in the small, sleepy town;
acts crazy and more,
waving to catch my eye.
I dare not look left!
I can't, lest I see her eyes.
What if I do?
I'll stop, can't help...

... And carry her,
singing that old lullaby...

The hum was steady,
and the hypnotic,
asphalt gradient kept me
from breathing a while;
stopped me from turning left,
towards a little love...

... I bypassed a town
and the long lost peace...

(Holiday over, Christmas at home was fun. This time I had a post-holiday incentive too. I rode my new bike from Kochi, my home town, to Chennai. It was an 800-odd km long ride. Lot of sights, stories and yeah, while bypassing a small town en route, this flood of memories...)

Foetal Curl!

The wake up call,

from age-old morning tweets.

Yes, the chirp choir,

not the bird-brains,

in wifi networks.

Earth's mother here, still!

But I ain't ready

to begin my day.

The soft cushions

and December chill,

keep me home, near her;

my mom; she's still in bed.

A good morning gets better,

as twenty nine years of poison

by corrupt electromagnetism,

becomes null and void,

under her grace,

as I snuggle into the foetal curl.

Her perfume from the heavens,

a mix of manna and love.

The lullaby all so familiar,

beat from the heart of gold.

Safe and sound I doze,

back to the womb, this morning.

(by my mother's side)

THE SILVER LINING!

Whitish fluorescence,

it's divine - de lux;

the walls of this pyramid.

Yeah, right here,

near my home.

What? Out of place?

It's right here, outside my doors;

but close to our hearts.

Indeed, far from the land

where Pharaohs built 'em first

- larger than life; them all now

just mere sand dunes.

But here, my home here,

they glow and it's bright,

the steps shimmering,

an incline to the spire

of Santa Cruz, the Basilica sizzles,

this, the Fort Church.

The buzz, my home here,

it's louder than loud

- the festive karma, parties,

wine flows with every smile,

friends, family n tourists,

all welcome, the party's on; forever!

A Christmas town, my home here,

in full spirits, hearts to the brim

with love n small fermented sips,

good old Fort Cochin.

All chaired by the big man,

at the centre where it begins, a gay parade.

To him the minds drift, glances shift,

- the collage of neon

with a risen subdued star - the topping.

Stands tall this Tree of Gifts,

as babies smile, boys jump,

and girls sing a forgotten tune.

Then a little bit of fun,

long-maned boys club, drunk!

Bikes zoom down the boulevard wide,

gliding under the smiling cloud

- a sponsored silver lining

for the 'retro surfer' in us all.

Cochin, my home town, sure knows how to dress up for Christmas. A drive down Fifty Feet Road towards the beach kinda gives you the feeling that you're in an avenue in Las Vegas - all lit up on both sides with stars and a ceiling of silver 'glowing decor'. This 'boulevard with the silver lining' begins at Veli Ground, the place where the Cochin Carnival Rally starts and a couple of kilometres later ends by the beach... Right next to the harbour mouth, near Santa Cruz Basilica - the fairest of 'em all!

Lift of faith

He called out,
to his best man.
Perched high n dry on
his fleeting self-made ride;
the Iron between
a man-made beach
and a concrete bond
- his big bro, the badminton pro.

He smiled, no fear here,
the gentle lift is near.
Certain is his road to bliss
where awaits his glass of milk,
breakfast and holiday songs.
Not the prodigal type,
he did follow the bigger steps,
till the higher stop.

Racquets thrown down,
the senior senor opens
his arms for the loving hug and
a gentle pull with all the might,
a sibling in labour.
Muscles stretched but
who minds? The loner did!
He stopped, smiled and... A trickle...

(It happened this morning at the park. Two kids are going home after their morning revelry at the enclosed playground within the joggers' pathway. The younger one climbs the three-feet Iron grill but finds it too huge a hurdle. Help is at hand though; his big bro, five inch or so taller than the cute one. But he is there; there for his brother...)

Fast Forward!

Lunch at a semi-spheric cave,
a floor above the bank tellers.
The furnished circle
cut in two - the table;
with a two-inch radial canyon,
letting eyes drool at the long legs,
crossed far n beyond in display.
The glow and scents draw men
away from his destined date
- the seasoned mass,
built with steroids by
'em silly genetic engineers.

The manicured orange stumps,
a rain-stained wide-screen tele show,
and graphs - strokes by a modernist,
the psycho-analytic architect,
and his bloody attempt to make tourists,
aliens and the time-starved,
hungry corporate sharks at home.
This, with the chained melodies,
form the urban watering hole.
A place to hunt, meet mates,
make mating calls,
quick love and of course,
some fast food for thought!
Is it? The fast-forwarded evolution.

(A fast food joint in Chennai)

IDES OF DECEMBER

The fifteenth, the Ides
but in December here.
With rains and signs
of the ominous;
indeed, the old soothsayer;
true he has always been.

The man's words forged
during a wild fire within.
It's not the starved acidic gut,
but from the quilt,
woven out of thy neighbour's follies;
talked in the net, in hushed tones.

His words stopped me
for months here, till
laughter took over
from the lay-out chats,
touche, toast and the vibe,
after the afternoon swipe.

Beware of the Ides,
not just of March.
For their straight mane
is crooked enough,
to twist your tale
during the judgement days.

The Lunar Circle

The bright lady in the middle,
of a static ring, concentric,
luminous, it's magical,
the half-shy moon tonight.
But bold enough her show
the truth through her smile.
Behold this lovely circle,
of music, wine and
a small band of friends.
In a roof-top huddle,
the kicks, smiles and sighs,
till morning's reality show...

Ah, the Good times; the beach, terrace; the moon and of course - Sid and our gang...

I saw his face in the mirror. The features clear enough though slightly distorted from the drops of condensed water rolling down.

He was standing on my right side, holding my shoulder and assuring me everything’s fine. But he wanted me to trust him and walk out with him. I was reluctant. “Why should I? I asked myself. “I feel safe here”, in front of the wash inside the men’s rest room of Park Sheraton Hotel, Chennai.

If I walk out, I was afraid I would pass out or worse, I may make a mess on the dance floor and thrash the party, which was, by the way, the celebration of the launch of The Times of India, Chennai edition.

It was the summer of 2008 and there I was; one too many Patiala pegs later, in a big mess, and that too in front of all the big shots of the organization I would be working for God knows how many years.

And the man holding my shoulder, trying to drag me out of my ‘toilet nest’ - Mr Siddharth Saxena; my then new boss!

Well Siddharth is a ‘strong’ man, but he would have to be stronger than ‘strong’ to make me release the grip I had on the wash basin. Being a former wrestler, I do have my strengths and in my stubborn mode it is worse. But he did coerce me out, his assurances moving me to the lobby and a sofa there. Now, I’m not sure whether it was a sofa or the floor but I was sitting and he was wiping my face with a tissue and asking me to drink a glass of water and I was constantly blabbering the ‘S’ word.

“Sorry boss,” I kept saying, to which he replied, perhaps his first so-called Gyan (read: advice) to me. “Arrey, why are you saying sorry? You drink to get drunk. Good fun man!”

One and a half years and a couple of months later, yesterday, I felt an even firmer hug across my shoulder from Sid. Oh yeah, “boss” and “Siddharth” slowly but surely transformed to “Sid” and Sid was leaving for Delhi and yesterday, the 8th of December, was his last in Chennai office and in between handshakes and parting pleasantries, he hugged me.

He hugged me with the same strength with which he rescued me when I was down for the count in a hotel toilet half way between consciousness and sleep, the kind of alcohol-induced sleepwalk that we all have experienced a couple of time at least in our lives.

Then I saw his face on the glass once again or rather through the glass this time. He had swiped out one final time from Chennai office and looked back and waved through the glass door. His face, like in the Park Sheraton mirror, was visible through the semi-opaque grated lines on the glass.

Then he disappeared down the steps. I know I would meet him again but I wanted reassurance and so I messaged him. Asking him to take care and telling him, “I’ll see you around boss”. To which he replied: “Sure, keep your chins up guys.”

Keeping our chins up!

How can we not be proud and be without keeping our chins up boss? I wanted to ask. That’s how he moulded this team.

I was the second member of his team here, the first being Hari, my Indian Express boss. And I got on board with a mental handicap. I was not that confident about my reporting skills as in Express I was a desk guy and was good with pages, very good. But in reporting, though I had good writing skills, I was kind of unsure whether I would be able to deliver.

During my job-interview, I put up my best persona, fighting the good-reporter case as Sid measured me. Knowing Sid, I’m sure he would have seen through the facade, but from his later words, I figured he had felt I was a good guy.

With the same strength, not with arms like in the Sheraton wash-room, but with words, he gave me opportunity after opportunity and in no time, I was writing with flair and the only problem I faced now is that I can’t write “small copies”. That’s how confident I became in a few months' time.

What about the rest of the team? Well, Dwaipayan, cricket writer of Chennai, shifted from his hometown Kolkata to be here and the reason was only Sid. I can bet my lost ‘Target Variable Pay’ that there was no other reason. And he is very upset Sid is leaving, but “Dwai Da will be fine, we all will be fine”, Sid had smiled during our farewell beer-lunch.

The man believed a team lunch is never complete without beer. “A proper adult lunch,” he used to say.

Sarath, Krishnakant, Pavitra, Hardy, designer Kannan, Hari, me, the team was made to believe it was the best and we became the best. We were asked not to compromise with quality or ethics and that’s what we did. Of course, arrogance came with it too, a tinge. And at times we did screw up, as Sid puts it “the shit-nesses”. But it’s all in the game and luckily no big mess-ups happened and he was the kind of guy who would watch our back. So nothing could bring us down.

We will have our chins up I guess, there is no other choice.

The day before yesterday, I was riding with Kannan after work, taking an all-so-familiar route, a little down the East Coast Road to Palavakkam and Siddharth’s home. We were having our last team party there. When I turned to the entrance of his colony, right at the beach, I said to Kannan: “Man, we’ll sure miss this place.”

Kannan’s answer was a philosophical affirmative and so began the final terrace party at Sid’s beach house.

Our Skipper brought the “best rum in the world” - Captain Morgan - as we settled down at familiar positions on the terrace. The moon was half bright or there about, the night was chilly and then Kannan pointed out something.

“Look, there is a ring around the moon.” Indeed there was. A circle, just like this circle of friends - Sid’s band of brothers with a ‘sister concern’ (Pavitra), bonded by common spirits and a common vision on how to have a good time.

Now Sid had to get his camera out for this. And as usual he got busy clicking slow-shutter snaps of us, the moon, the night and the beach. He has done this umpteen times before and I have to say, each time a different colour comes out, a different perspective of the place and its ambience.

Be it the picture of the only non-drinker in the group - James Hardy - standing near an half-empty bottle of booze or be it Sid’s friend Mr Anshuman Roy, glowing in the dark. The pictures told the story, of fun, and of the long talks which would end when the dark rum in our glasses begin to glow crimson red with the sun's rays from the east.

Yesterday night was no different. The clicks continued while I stretched myself after a couple of pegs and was listening to the rather animated talk between Siddharth, Sarath, Hardy Kannan, Krishnakant and the occasional high-pitched contribution of Pavitra. The topic varied from Chennai to movies to music and back to movies and...

Well, I dozed off only to wake up five minutes later. I sat up, took few more sips and again faded, Siddharth's take on some movie being my lullaby. I repeated this routine three more times I think before I heard Sid's voice call out.

No, not wake up Sid, but: “Wake up Leslie. We will go down and eat.”

To which, I jumped up saying: “I'm here”, as if to tell him I never slept off during his farewell party. But doze off I did and peacefully too. It is a luxury I enjoyed only at his place. I even had my own bedroom there where I used to crash after a night of gulps, music and football.

Time for the “Last Supper”, Said our host. The gang had their fill while I decided to take it easy with just occasional bites of chicken. That's when Sid asked me, “You holding with me right.” That was his way of asking whether I was good for a couple more drinks.

“Yes,” I said. And the drinks were poured, our talks given a musical backdrop by Dwai Da's high-pitched snoring. He was taking his morning nap on the floor next to the dining table you see.

Time was around six in the morning when the guys decided to call it a night or rather a day. Ah, time for the cliché... Good things never...yes, they never last!

The saturated morning air with an overwhelming scent of dew made us, for a brief period; forget the fact that this is the end of a lovely chapter in our lives.

“Get lost and let me sleep,” was Sid's answer to the question whether he will miss us.

“End of a chapter in our lives,” I told my squash-reporting partner Hardy as I walked down the gravel lane towards the main road, looking back once and there he was, clicking with his camera...

I shall not introspect as to what it meant working with Sid. We all know what we gained from it and he knows what it meant being with us. Some things are better left out of blogs.

As friends, me and Sid went for swimming lessons, almost went to the gym together, went for a cycling trip, for movies, drank and philosophized on life, went shopping to buy Diwali crackers and woke up his neighbours at three in the morning bursting them. And in between all that hard work, found enough time to make a few hundred pages.

Not bad for one and a half years, I guess!

Transfer Season

Fall winter the year before,
a happy bunch sweats out,
at a fresh, red newsroom,
and later chills out,
at silky-moon terrace discs.
It was December,
time for the hot n mild,
the loved-by-all Chennai season
when local sweaters come out;
yes, "coldest" time of the year.

With transfer tales, the open window
at distant jersey-lands,
the higher leagues where millions count
- the Euro soccer songs and goals,
filling up packaged spaces
- our work in the day,
our passion in the night;
led by the player himself,
the one with the camera.
No! No flashes,
just the changing ISOs,
and shutter speeds,
and clicks lasting minutes.
His subjects, drowned in rum and waves
- music and Quality food;
pose with effortless ease,
for pictures, stories;
yes, the team of the year.

A year down, the time;
a new transfer window.
The family's back,
he, never crest-fallen,
returns to the thick,
holding the reins
of the red-ride, his wheels;
down the capital lanes,
to his love and life.
He leaves in a day;
dreams taking a northern shift,
the captain's off,
to a light-green splash;
yes, the deal of the year.

(These lines are for a good friend, Siddharth Saxena. It was part of a poster we guys at the sports desk designed for him, our boss for one and a half years. As a boss (Sports Editor), we were his first team, and I would say, he was lucky to have the best around. But then, he was the best boss around so naturally we had to give something back to match that right?)