Pentagon of Friends

The host sits patient, lady on chair;
I took the stands relaxed.
the trial is on, her questioning eyes;
Your Honour, am guilty; I was late.

Rain held my breath,
darkness held my bath.
The dancers left for dinner,
as five stay back in the room.

The royal one stretches out,
all white, cute as well.
Church and the high noon mass,
her Sunday tales with the chips.

The bubbly one, the Caligula
she can't hide with boots so small.
Sharp wit and sharper smiles,
all rise, a gourmand in the hall.

My buddy here, fair n handsome,
destined, designed to sway 'Ma Lady'.
We'll ride, drive and fight tonight,
seasoned pro with his machine and mix.

Dessert bell, bowls from heaven,
missed stick-counts no more the talk.
Happy vibes, this circle of friends;
Hey, it's five, it's a pentagon.

Sensei n me!

Arigato; and the revered bow,
my eyes touch the master's feet.
A way of life from the Ring of Fire,
the art I had grown up with.

Arigato; for the guided moves,
the mixed strides of a ballet of war.
This sword I will temper with care,
by gentle blows in lukewarm fire.

Arigato; for the life and fights,
insights and the hindsights too.
Turning left and a twist of hand,
guarding my back, breaking my fall.

Arigato; for I had all the time,
more than my blood, the younger.
The pain and sting as I kissed your hand,
was a pleasure, a mix of red and salt.

Arigato, from the third year,
the cycle near that Jewish house.
The hide n seek between meditative monks,
fighters; me then felt the pulse.

Arigato; for the teacher touch,
and the words as your trusted aide.
The counts made my supple flesh,
the pen gave my heart the wings.

Arigato; for those clenched fists,
as I twisted out of an exposed back.
When I bled and fell and stood again,
never a man but made something close.

Arigato; for this divine path,
lost, nay I'm back on track.
Digital wilderness and Saki fog, fight;
the legacy, Yeah I'm still alive.

(An Ode to my dear dad, my karate master and my guide in life. 'Arigato' is Japanese for 'thank you' and frankly speaking, I don't have enough words to thank him for the goodness he has added to my life. The picture above was taken when I was four odd years old, just after my promotion from white to yellow belt at my dad's dojo in Mattancherry, Kochi.)

Highland trip

A flickering tube in late-night shift,
dots of light merge in motion.
Behold a finite meaningless mosaic
- our target, two pairs of tired eyes.

Foggy; yet, no one hits the yellow lamps,
the smooth ride onto grassy plains.

His handiwork - the table spread,
day's efforts turn night comforts.
A joint force, we make that climb;
a level plane, the take-off point.

Laughter, but who's joking;
this serious time for making peace.

Harvest's on with the blown out grains,
replaced by a fresher yield.
Potent dose of a highland shrub,
to weed out all that lover's pain.

White smoke drives us up,
no missing notes the sail is smooth.

Dreamy eyes aren't waking up,
arise, her invite for the retro mix.
Swings and kisses, guns and babes;
tough men die as the focus fades.

Sleep... a voice from afar,
long after that Thunderbird song.

Effort and life

A rushing creek, motorised hum;

as water drains to the bigger world.

Sweat and a sweet li'l toil,

dad begins, a son completes;

a double team, a dream team;

and work moves in our unsteady pace.

A near futile but worthwhile dig,

to drain and clean our backyard pond.

Scoops of mud and slush,

marked yesterday by blood and sweat;

of mama's dear ones and my own clan,

we dreamt once, built inch by inch;

'five year' plans and more at times,

unfinished still but green and fresh,

castle and our personal guard

- this world is mine, built with love.

Not even an hour's gig,

but my heart sings, zeal and gay.

I became that kid today,

the one lost three years back,

walking out to a world of words,

making marks of the worthless kind.

My days here now fills a void, the strength;

the will, growing to fight those ugly ghosts.

Love Canvas

Whitish - red, blue and the gray;

black mix here and there,

the Artist's mind roves,

the moving canvas, modernist strokes,

unfinished but a beauty to behold.

Crimson lines, faded and short,

night is young, His girl wild;

the lover's lips will fill the rest.

The disc's on, rolling beats;

disco lights and party raves.

Spilt paint on the floor,

his tongue mopping every ounce of juice.

Light's out, but life's not;

mix and birth, beauty of love.

(On the evening sky, the unfinished painting, by an
artist busy making love with his girl)

Swine Watch

Yes I did, I met the doc;
he looked at me wary eyed.
I ain't a terror, I cried;
you swine, he smiled.
Let's wait n watch, eat these n be good!

Enchanted Elliots!

Misty night, oh, the feel;
the highland realms, without grass or fuel.
Fair, the four-course treat just starters;
even that goosebump served in purple linen.

Ah the drops, first my ears;
then the trickle, kisses all the while!

Twilight sky, the crimson blink;
the expanse beyond, bluish gray;
their knot - fireflies, stars behind screens;
and right at Elliots, behold, the prophecy!

A German Jew's number game,
comes true in an heavenly turn;
clock dilates with relative ease,
it's magic, not science my friend.

Feet wet from the milky pool, a mirror;
the river, time and her steady flow,
slowed dreamy by the sea,
and light shows, the plot thickens.

Minds drift east to the glow,
waves spread out in a tantric,
concentric ballet, a hypnotic spiral;
streaking across the grains of gold.

The man - all flesh, heart n beats,
the elements add the sparkles.
Shower, no hurry no worry,
we were drenched before it made its stop.

Maestro, the bamboo wand;
and the spell from the sorcerer's breath!

(I've tried here to give words to the images that went though my mind as I enjoyed flute maestro Hariprasad Chourasia's concert at Elliots Beach last Sunday. The pictures were taken by SL Shanth Kumar, my colleague, one of the best creative photographers in town)

Eagle's Wings

A valley, bright yellow streaks;
by divine intervention, the colours mix.
Rays filter through the glass canvas,
an artist's dream of heavenly shades.

This feast is what brings me here,
the cherished visions, His work;
the healed soul; His word;
and the quenched thirst, wine and bread.

Full, august I sat, what next;
the lift above the silver sails.
Draft by her timbre soft;
Eagle's Wings, I'm free as a bird!

(To the Sunday voice at Santhome)

Rain Amour...

Drops, life turns green again,
pitch lightens, the voices in me;
from grunts to whistles n tunes of love,
feeling beats, breathing fresh;
a brief stop near, I'll hug you tight,
rain, where's the pain gone, my friend.

I walk, my senses aflame,
heart caressed by birth, the sweet scents;
Earth, her thirst quenched; amour, amour!
Rain, stay in bed with me, my love.

Smiles, the splashes, a bud in play;
it's always fun sailing the clouds.
The slides and falls, slushy hugs;
rain, keep me young eternal, my girl.

(It rained here a few days back, yeah, it rained!)

I Snooze, I dare!

I snooze, delaying the alarm bells;
a while, seconds precious for I'm a man.
Saturday night; dreams, a distant free world.
I snooze, I dare to trash the etiquette;
set for you and me - the enslaved bunch.
Ya, I snooze, awake to the ugly truths.

That old house...

Yesterday, I was searching online for some pictures of my favourite place in the whole wide world, my hometown Kochi, when I came across a traveller's blog which had this picture below with the caption: "An old house in Fort Kochi which badly needs renovation."

Well, my memories raced back to the good days of playing football wearing a tie and uniform, yes, my school days. And now I just have to tell the Mr Traveller and his partner that this is not just an old house but this is where my dreams took shape, a place where boys tried their hand at becoming men.

The poem is my attempt to walk back to those days when playing football and running behind "virgins" from the nearby girls' school were our biggest priorities...

That old house...

Yeah it's old, haunted I bet;
but it ain't a fossil, not yet.
It brimmed life once, full of zeal;
young, naughty teenaged brats.
Then the only world I knew or cared,
pals, soccer and the hidden books.

Ninth grade - year of virgin love,
when Slash ruled with strings n Rose.
Here I took my baby steps,
naughty smiles and breaking hearts;
hidden treasures, the thirsty kid;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

Creaking wood, creepy rooms;
dust storms, that British fan.
Bunked hours, the beach boys;
the stolen rides to Princess Street.
Casanovas - primed hearts, the iron bikes;
and cane candy from Henry dear.

Those windows, well, they lit my life;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

(On my school, St John de Britto Anglo Indian Boys', and the most charming of its classrooms - the ninth 'C' division, with direct access to the beach, life and more...)

Nine beats and a bit...

That trigger-happy single shot,
the eight strings finally resonate.
Music fills the air,
the sub-sonic cadence.
Muscles dance in a rhythmic trance,
harmony of life, the divine poetry.

The world stood still, sweet li'l wait;
nine beats and a bit later, the moment.
Bolt strikes again, the flashes;
a wall comes down in Berlin, where else!

A jester off the blocks, the baby;
stallion in gallop, the strides;
salutes in the end, arms raised;
Usain's made it true, the man!

Shooting arrows, breaking barriers;
child's play for this gentle giant.
Even foes remain gay in awe,
he has mastered time and space.
Spikes, tights, gold and olive crown;
the king's conquered world and hearts.

(To Usain Bolt)

Dog Biscuits

Oh, that's great, they say;
your master's as big as they come.
Owning minds, limiting dreams;
behold the leader, who bringeth the good Times.

How does it feel, they ask;
being paid in gold and likes.
Little do they know,
but, I'm a dog, not man!

Heel, roll, jump, stay;
good boy, here's your doggie treat.
Biscuits, creamed and salted; fooled;
tail between; I lick my wounded pride.

Vembanad Love

That old banjo, serene;
the strumming, in sync with life.
An old song, the ringing bells;
those nights, the carpet and the shivers.
The lazy afternoon flow, drowned
- in ideals, a dreamer, the serious trio;
then the plunges to your moist depths;
Vembanad, the secret love.

Was younger then, no wiser now;
the wild days, adorable brute.
I could hunt though very blunt,
life called and I turned my back.
Swimming, then drowning in bliss, oh youth;
my simple mind, where's the toddy pot?
Papa, this is where I'd make love to her,
Vembanad, the Lady in Blue.

Slow, the music fades,
No, let it be, let me sway.
I kissed didn't I, that summer night;
I danced didn't I, that monsoon hit.
Nay my love was pure and soft,
never lust, I saw your soul.
That is why I made love to you,
Vembanad, the lovely bride.

(Looking back to the days spent on the shores of
Vembanad Lake in Alappuzha, Kerala)

Full to the Brim

Down south from where I breathe,
right by the Bengal Bay, this cove.
Fruits, goodies and hearty laughs,
a canopy of love to keep out the sun.
Streams of affection, the breeze I feel;
a mother and son, their little world.

An hour's toil, elements, the dust;
sweat flowing, but worth it, no doubt;
as I stretch, my legs relaxed;
full to the brim on every count...

... My heart - with the mama's care;
my soul, with the positive vibes;
my eyes, not tears, yes, with joy;
and my tummy, with the fish and cheers.

(To DD and mama)

I'm Broke

I'm broke, the month-end blues,

when my wild runs down bright alleys;

the card swipes and friendly toasts,

catch up, a reality check, I'm broke.

The manicured, recessed paycheck ain't any help,

'peanuts' for monkeys, go eat or starve.

Gliding my pen for what? Fake orgasms!

Wake up, just look at you, man you're broke.

Lost in Transit

West, the light fades;
the act over, recess bell rings.
The stage gets empty, slowly;
the buzzing motors taking them home.

As far as my eyes would take me,
I scan, life in the city, crying out to me.
Standing atop the mount of the doubter - St Thomas,
there's no doubt, time's running out for me.

Red now, the clouds glow;
a flight climbs, two land.
Some leave for love and life;
while others come - good for them, what else.

Good for me, what was that;
I never had the sense to think for my best.
I came here with no dreams as such,
time and love never changed me, even now.

Passion, no; confused loyalties, yes;
I'm bad as I've ever been.
I looked down on my world today,
only to know I'm lost in transit, somewhere out there.

'Kid' of Pop

It echoes still, the retro chimes;

In my mind, deep the music plays.

Taking me to those days of fun;

when mama made sure you drank your milk;

and my neighbour Vinci made it a point;

I woke up swaying to his morning raga,

‘Beat it’ lines from one Mr Jackson; man!

I took shape, those years that rocked,

the Billie Jean and Thriller scores;

gave my legs the freedom I know.

I could never do the moonwalk bit,

but I sure could dance, who wouldn’t;

when Jacko snapped his fingers once;

it was disco time, it still is; dude!

I didn’t know who Jackson was;

I was a kid who could sway, not think.

Mama told me, he sure can dance;

I saw him too, through the tube once;

VHS it was, Middle East gift;

my uncle’s version of rocking town,

coming back with bucks off Black Gold.

Now I know a bit of this;

how Jacko tried to get it back.

While I played soccer with pals at school;

he played hard ball in a grown up world,

doing the rounds as Jackson Five;

scarred he was the rest of his life,

from missing years of senseless fun.

Glitz, glamour and cheering fans;

he loved this world, or so we thought.

The only thing he wanted was,

to get those years back, be a kiddo at home.

He was amused by the lights and bucks;

but was never at ease in all the fame,

and drowned himself with killers of pain.

Neverland, he lived his dream,

but the life he lost was forever gone;

from wonder to a walking freak,

we made him so, we selfish men.

We just wanted to dance to him;

and never could see the withered hands;

covered by the whitest of gloves.

This is the tale of the King who was,

a child trapped in a man’s face; broken mask.

He died shattered, misery I heard;

living a life he started to hate.

Angel of sorts, Oh that he was;

made us gay with his soul, his voice;

'Kid', not King of Pop; play at least on heaven’s floors.

(To Michael Jackson)

Luz and Love

Remember I'd come here once,
to see you smile; at your doorsteps I was.
Months back, a lonely Thursday;
we spoke a while, amidst the happy crowd.
You had time for me, though You were wanted by all,
the first time I stood at this House of God.

They sang your praise,
while I sat with ease.
I couldn't sing, but I did pray;
not for me, but for a special one;
and You smiled and spread the light,
on everyone and I was blessed.

Your grace brought out the best in me,
and Your love I felt on my second visit;
when I wept and wept for my silly sins,
while You wiped and wiped;
till my mother came home,
to comfort me on her lap; I'm the lucky one.

This day I came to You,
thanking You for another gift.
My day was bright when I heard a word;
my dearest came out with flying colours.
Light the way, Oh dear Mother of all,
Lady of Luz, the brightest of all.

(In praise of Our Lady of Light, Luz Church, Chennai)

In Delhi for 'Carobar'

MS Dhoni might be thinking about the "Catch 20" situation he walked into two years ago! The 'captain cool' led India to the title win in the inaugural T20 World Cup in South Africa, becoming the face of Indian cricket overnight. His long locks took him from Ranchi hills to 'Desi Beverly Hills' stardom (read: close encounters in Bollywood and of course the million dollar endorsement
deals).

The win also put Indians as the pioneers of the slam-bang game and then came two years of fun in the sun. But two IPL's later, it was reality check for the merry Men in Blue as the thin ice gave in. Dhoni cut short his hair and the "gentlemen" from England, "pirates" from the Caribbean and
the "chokers" from South Africa made sure the Indian defence of the World T20 title was cut short at the Super Eight stage. Mud slinging, controversies and autopsies followed but who cares. As Dhoni says: "In my short career I have seen worst defeats than this."

Of course the Indian captain was referring to the 50-overs World Cup debacle at the West Indies. Well the Men in Blue are professionals to the core. As millions sat silently in front of their Idiot Boxes late in the night, seeing the Dwayne Bravos and Wayne Parnells rip apart their dream, the Rohit Sharmas and the Suresh Rainas were caught live on video joking and smiling at the team dug-out as their pals were losing in the middle. Why should they be sad? A loss
is a loss and they have many other battles to fight tomorrow. Besides they have other carnal pleasures to look forward to - the many girls they would be flinging with during the twilight hours being just one of them.

While the average Indian, including my 'journalism guru' were getting drunk to mourn about what was and what should have happened. But, to be honest, I don't care as I have bigger and better businesses to attend to. After all, I'm in Delhi for "Carobar".
Deputed to work in the capital city for a month, and drafted in to be part of the T20 World Cup central desk, I was in the thick of it all. I must say I was a little skeptical as to whether I would feel comfortable in the big office in Delhi. But then I realised, I am here for work yes, but there are other more important and fun "business" I should perform too. Life's 'hectic' for a sports
journalist here you see, 'very hectic'...

"I never expected this man. It took me by surprise," I had answered my friends back in Chennai after the first day of work in Delhi. I was going through the boring motions of the "how is work there buddy" type you see.

Well I was told I would be part of the desk in Delhi and I came here to do a decent job and go back home with my "rewards", whatever that may be. But reaching here I realised, I would have the pleasure of other "Carobars", to survive the Delhi heat.

For the hard-core South Indian's benefit, "Karobar" is a Hindi word which means business. So what important business is this... Well very important one and if I miss it I may regret it the rest of my life. I am joking of course.

The Delhi Times-Sport Karobar is spelt Car-O-Bar which basically is the regular, after-work drinking session at the parking lot outside office, in between the cars. Man, it has been years since I have drank standing in a public place. I remember it was during my college days I think
that I last did that and perhaps that's why it was love at first sight, or rather first peg, with the Carobar for me!

We four foreigners (guys who were deputed from other centres) - me, Vinay Nayudu from Mumbai, Aby Jose from Bangalore and Archiman Bhaduri from Kolkata, were at home in
no time. For Vinay and Archi-da, it was all so familiar of course, as they have been here and done this many a times. But for me and Aby, the guys who are in the "early twenties" it was
novel and boy it was fun.

If something takes me back in time to college days then why wouldn't I love it? As the boys stand huddled around the Delhi boss Alok Sinha's car, sipping from non-biodegradable
glasses, talking about the day's work, talking about sports, about love, about the hills, about girls, about next day's work schedules; I used to lean back to one of the cars and just smile as memories of stolen parties at the P&T quarters road near my college rush back.

Those were days of reckless fun. There it was more "bike-o-bar" than car-o-bar and the next days plan would be which movie to go or which girl to say "I love you" to. Basic dreams and aspirations I would say. Now it's basic too. Next day's plan would invariably be, as the Delhi Big
Man Alok puts it: "You guys come in around 4, we will work out the plans, the first pages we will send at 7.30, then we will get the match results, second page by 10.

"And then couple of you can stay back and update the late match and go home. It won't be a problem for you youngsters. And do find time in the day to go around Delhi and have fun," Alok, who thinks I'm just in my early twenties, used to add.

Simple plan but as effective as the Tilakaratne Dilshan's "Dilliscoop", the shot that captured the imagination of many during the Twenty20 World Cup. And his innovation almost gave the Cup to the Lankans. But the 'fun-loving' yet focused Afridi-types in the Pakistan team broke the
Islanders' magic and took home the silverware.

It was supposed to be a big occasion for us Indians, as we were defending a world crown there in England, and how often do you see an Indian team do that. But the big occasion in the "small" game got to the big boys I guess.

I have always said cricket is hardly a big game though, global game to be exact. I mean, only 15-odd country play the eccentric game so how big can it get. But it's big here in India. Guess we are madly trying to vindicate the travel brochures by following this game as fanatics. "India,
the land of eccentricities and surprises", the flashy travel literatures say. So let it be, we will follow the mad game madly!

FROM EXILE TO LORDS was the headline given by us after the final, saluting Pakistan's triumph, and as we wound up the day at our third-floor office, the captain of our team, turned to us boys. "Chalo, let's quickly start our business. Cheers to Pakistan. Cheers to some good work."

... IT"S CAROBAR TIME FOLKS - the big business in Delhi!