The Steps

In that cramped space

I call my living room,

the fridge in the blue corner,

she stares at my sidekick,

and grins, mocks me

when I pull it short;

to avoid the charges

she will press,

taking me to court,

for domestic violence!

But, that kick was not

for your cold heart,

I was just tracing the steps,

they named it,

you call it, Bassai Sho.

The steps I took,

when I was toddling

my way to school, to life,

to lies, and the many flings

that made me a man.

The Empty Room

The deep, long breaths,
signs of a life, its chords
resonate with those beats
I can never drown in wine.
I grew used to the music
rising from the anteroom,
my only room, yes,
no room or heart for more love...

That rear guard up front
is long gone.... home.
But, in my numb starts,
I still see him,
as I wake up for another
day in the cold realities of
the stale and empty man I see,
in the shaving mirror I never use.

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

Dark Matter

I needed this today,

yes I did, a darker shade;

this fallen grid grants my wish

and it's still not Christmas yet.

I lay bare, steadying my nerves,

urging the only truth I know

to embalm me gently, slowly,

head to toe, it's my coffin.

It began... a pale white hue,

life drains from my eyes;

then I see dark red,

but that blood thins out too.. It's emptiness!

No! No... This flash blinds me,

drags me away, far from rest,

from silence, from my home;

to face 'em all, the only reality.

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

Drop Zone

I spam you with my sighs,

when my only wish was

to overwhelm your senses

with this rain drop I saved

early morn from the tip of

the youngest leaf of the mango tree;

it still stands tall

near my childhood window.

Are you proud of me old man?

Or do you sigh too,

the "hmmms", for I am 

not a kid, not anymore!

The object of my full attention this morning, at the backyard of my
Kochi home (Pic by my brother Leo Xavier)

Light-Hearted

The drops make random

mirrors on dark lanes,

reflecting pretty n bare faces

I took detours to meet.

Some from college,

many from that school

locked behind an iron curtain;

deliberate, by the bay very much.

Ageing, ancient lights, 

shivering with the monsoon winds, 

led me through empty paths

long after sun and power grids

ignored this shore for yonder.

Like those prodigal sons,

who fight battles, to find their feet on

shifting dunes and waters.

Some beacons remain,

those old boys selling pot,

kids pimping art and bowls of 

hot soup of marinated fish;

some stale, a few fresh;

guarded by tired men,

who are born naturals

in front of the lens.

So are these Chinese nets

and the yellow fever

across the channel,

the new order, from a newer world;

rude and shouting lights,

louder than the collective groans

of dead sailors and dying evangelist teens

in and around the Dutch Cemetery.

MODERN GHOSTS: Lights from the LNG Terminal at Puthuvypu across
the channel  captured from Fort Kochi Beach

GREEN AT HEART: A restaurant winding up the day's business near the
Park at Fort Kochi

OPEN DINNER: Chariot restaurant at Princess Street

OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLE:
The bunglow of Koder Family, the most
prominent business family in Kochi. It
has now been converted into a heritage
hotel. My grandparents used to work
for the Koders and I have run around
this bunglow, playing and studying
during my school days 

PARK n DINE: The Koder House entrance bang opposite the Park
in Fort Kochi

Bung-love: One just can't help but fall in love with the Koder Bunglow.

OPEN HOUSE: The doors of Koder Bunglow, a welcome sign

RED SIGNAL: The night lights give a reddish hue to the house at the start of
Princess Street, even as the whittish glow from the Delta Study school is
visible in the bottom left corner 

NIGHT WATCHMEN: It was 10 in the night and the duo here had their fish
shack open. Perhaps waiting for some late-night customers preferring fresh
catch for dinner

HANDLE WITH CARE: Some of the evening's catch goes into the freezer

MUTE WITNESS: More snaps from the fish stall

NET PROGRESS: The Chinese fishing nets clicked with lights
from the new Container Terminal at Vallarpadom across the channel as
the backdrop

OLD WORLD, NEW CHARM: Chinese fishing nets revel in the
modern industrial light from the Container Terminal

FUELLING A DESIRE: The petrol bunk at Fort Kochi right next to the channel.
This is where fishing boats as well as vehicles fill fuel here. The channel
and the container terminal is visible in the background. Was tempted
to jump in for a late-night swim. 

STREET FOOD: The 'Thattu Kada' opposite Fort Kochi boat Jetty

LONE RANGER: My brother Leo on his cycle heading home after our
little night photography experiment using his new SLR camera

EYE OF THE TIGER: The resident alpha cat of the fish shacks near
Fort Kochi beach

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.