The Thorough Gardener

He left us
when he was 82.
 
He died in his sleep,
peacefully, the staff said.
He sensed his departure
two days
before his final breath.
 
He called his wife,
his sons, his daughter,
told them
he could feel the chill,
he could see the light,
he could hear the calling.
 
That afternoon
when he closed his eyes
in the silence of the hospital ward,
he dreamt of:
the bloom of yellow flowers
and the sharp scent
of freshly cut grass
in his garden,
the lull
of an empty train station
on a misty morning,
the smell
of peppery mutton chops
served with piping hot rice,
the endearing sight
of his granddaughters
grinning ear to ear,
the roar of a soccer stadium
as he pushed his way
through sweaty tackles,
the sparkling excitement
in the stark black eyes
of his kid brother
piggybacking on him
through busy city lanes,
and his airy walk
melting
into the white, warm,
welcoming light.
 
He left us
when he was 82.
He remained 82
ever since. 

The god speaks

I don’t cage my bird,
I don’t clip its wings.
 
I am the sky,
all of it.
You are the breeze,
you are the joy
of the breeze.
You are the leap,
you are the freedom
of the leap.
 
Together,
we are the universe
folded in a mote of dust,
inseparable
in all the atoms
in all the motes
in all of space and time. 

Sanguine

I love your work,
how you articulate your ideas,
how you strike a chord within.
I adulate you,
I am your fanboy,
I spend sleepless nights
thinking how your work
ruffled many feathers.
 
On quiet rainy mornings,
I close my eyes,
surrender to the siege,
debate with you in my mind,
and I choose gray
over your black and white.
I burn.
 
In those blood-red moments,
I witness
my rebirth.

Notes on a baby’s first visit to a pond

Nestled and tucked         
in her father’s rocking arms,
she opened her eyes
after a dreamy siesta.
Her wonder-filled senses
soaked
in the sudden burst of colors.
 
She blinked
at the streaks of sunlight
dancing on the tiny ripples,
her cherubic fingers
tried to grasp
the flight of damselflies,
she tasted
the fresh bloom
of water lilies and marsh marigolds.
She leaned forward
and caught glimpses of:
egrets
nesting in the reeds,
wild geese
taking off into the clear blue skies,
grayish-brown toads
diving into the warm waters.
 
Startled
at the barks
of their family dog
chasing after some wagtails,
she let out a milky burp.
 
That summer afternoon,
the memory
was etched
in the deepest layers
of her subconscious
like an impressionist painting,
only to come knocking at her door
years later,
in a cold, lonely, candle-lit space
of her dorm room,
when she nursed
her first heartbreak.

Cloudburst

The fog 
in the mind
precipitates.

The clouds
swell
and dissipate
in a wispy halo.
The silver lining
buzzes
like an alarm clock.
The spectacle
draws me in.
I bare my chest
against
the storming deluge
like a fabled warrior
drawing his sword
against a fire-breathing beast.
 
I wipe
the powder
from the tip of my nose
and wait.

An Uncomplicated Man

 

He's a manchild,
he's a wolf cub,
crowns himself
Nature’s Masterpiece.
 
He sulks,
he clings,
he lashes,
he lets go
for the briefest moment,
then grips tighter.
 
His silence is no wisdom,
his stillness is no self-reflection,
his overbearingness is no love.
 
His hunger
is voracious,
his lust
unquenchable,
his greed
for the things that destroy him
inexplicable.
 
Sometimes,
I watch
my Doberman pup
gnaw at a bone –
compulsively,
mindlessly,
pointlessly,
like sane people
doing stupid things.
 
They wrestle
like brothers of the same litter.
After the rush of adrenaline
wears off,
the pup
lies on his chest panting.
My exhausted man
stares at the ceiling
and gleams
as in post-coitus.
Ever ready for another round,
the pup
stands on the summit on all fours
and yelps
at the alpha of the house.

A Simple Girl

 

She's a contradiction–
either shines merrily with the stars,
or sheds the glimmer,
by her own will,
to become one
with the darkness.
The overhanging,
self-doubting,
gray clouds
suffocate
her to death.
 
A rainbow,
even in a dream,
is like antimatter:
eats away
at her element,
decimates
her being.
 
She thrives
in black
or white.

an unremarkable life

When memories bite
he swallows the poison
and folds
into the ordinary,
unblinking.

Time
etches 
a faint wrinkle
on the canvas
of silenced words. 

A Dish for the Ravenous

There're animals
on both sides,
the most despicable, horrible animals,
who twist the narrative
for an inch of land,
for an imagined god,
for a trivial slight,
a slight passed on
across generations
like a Chinese whisper.
 
The same twisted narratives
are churned,
blended with new sentiments
to appeal to emerging appetites,
garnished with fallacies,
plated
as an appealing dish,
served 
ice cold
to the famished masses.

The hollow vessels
echo
with deafening chants
of 'absolute justice'.

When it rained fire for a hundred years

Shiva arrives with Parvati
to pay obeisance
to the victor of the battle.
 
Among the walls 
of the steep mountains,
the victor stands tall
in full glory,
his enormous visage
rising to the skies.
His flowing mane
radiates
with the glory of a thousand suns,
his blood-stained, 
razor-sharp teeth and nails,
are forged
from the elements 
of the darkest chambers of hell–
elements, 
so virginal,
they were untouched
by light and other forces of nature
for eternities. 

His deafening roar
splits the heavens in half,
fuses the elements.
From the turbulent waters
emerge
catastrophes,
micro-worlds,
and entire universes.

All the other gods
watch the spectacle
from the safety of their realms. 
Shiva moves closer
towards the mountains.
His ears
are ripped
by the thunderous wrath,
his eyes
are blinded
by the blistering fury,
he fights the torrent of comets
hurtling towards him
with the sheen of his trident,
the projectiles turn to dust–
the ash strewn grounds
and his ash-smeared body
turn cold,
yet his feet
instinctively
start tapping
to the primordial drumbeat
that shakes the earth, the sky,
and all the dimensions in-between.

Shiva manifests
into every beast, monster, demon,
and a combination of all,
to stop the apocalyptic force,
but is decimated
every single time.
 
Parvati,
unaffected and unscathed
by the chaos,
walks past the exhausted ascetic
into the melting mountains,
into the expansive mirror–
summoned to action
by Shakti herself.
She crosses
the rings of fire,
enters
the domain
of the vanquisher’s blazing aura,
and gently touches his shimmer.

Engulfed
in mother’s love,
the beast
calms down.

War and Peace

In the story of civilization,
the shadows 
of every suppressed generation
idolize a Hitler,
the hunger
of every self-aware generation 
search for a Buddha.  

We 
are either riding 
towards the next tipping point,
or already
perched 
on top of it.

Temporal

A snowflake
lands softly
on a bright red fence–
nature's 
briefest crescendo.

A robin
shrugs off
the melting powder on its crown,
disappears
into the bluest blue.

Wanderlust

Time
is never a straight line.
 
The being
jumps
between
the past, present, and future –
between
memories and worries.
 
When
the mind
transcends,
the roots
pierce deeper.
 
Time
pauses.

Playing God

My cat
pounces on a gecko,
not with all its weight and might,
but gently.
It blocks it,
releases it,
strikes it,
teases it,
plays the bully,
before delivering the final blow.
 
The hero
has his redemption arc,
the villains too
shine
in rare moments of kindness,
other mortals
eke out a living
with the little they have,
and well,
god being god– 
teases
and delivers.

Of gods, godmen, and the gods among men

All the great gods are dead.
 
Their cathedrals,
their bejeweled crowns,
their elaborate scriptures,
turned to dust.
 
Their angels,
their henchmen,
their institutions,
their flags,
their guns,
their pride
rule the age.
 
I search for them
in the crowds,
in the confused faces,
in the little gestures,
in the humble acts,
in the noble lives.
 
I feel
divine presence
in minimal schemes,
in simple plots,
far away
from the world of excesses.
 
My altar
is at the god
of everyday wonders.

for those little, soul-sparking orgasms

He climbed mountains,
crossed oceans,
and went to the end of the world
to swallow
or gently sip
the smallest wonders:
a songbird,
a snowflake,
a field of dandelions,
a glorious sunrise,
a wild orchid breaking out of a crevice,
a meal under a humble roof,
a puff of smoke from a stranger’s cigarette.
 
He crossed
the wild frontiers
to live through
the salt of a different sea,
the whiff of a different cake,
the weight of a different light. 
 
He wandered 
among the ruins
of an ancient civilization
for a gasp
of an idea,
for a grasp
of an idea.
 
He roamed
among the streets
of a small seaside town,
beams a smile
at an old lady in a balcony 
dusting an heirloom rug. 

The Prophet – The Age of Crumbling Walls

He was in deep slumber
for too long,
in absolute silence,
in stark darkness.
Ages had passed.
The space
around him
calcified.
One day,
a terrifying growl
resonating
from the deepest chambers
awakened him.
 
He landed softly
on the freezing floor
and tried taking the first step.
His bones crackled.
For a moment,
his senses were startled,
his being was stunned.
Gravity
sucked the weight
of his existence.
His frail body,
made up of
feeble twigs and fibers,
collapsed.
 
Over the next few years,
he chipped
steadily
at a corner of a wall,
close to where he slept.
He was stubborn
and persistent.
He lost everything
in life:
what he stood for,
who he stood for,
friends and folks
who stood by him.
The puppeteer
cut the strings.
There’s nothing more to lose.

When a hairline crack appeared in the wall,
he pressed his lips
against the gap in the stone
and sucked in the life in the air
from the other side.  
 
His mind
played tricks with him.
The streaming sunlight
nurtured
the god complex.
He banged his head against the wall
and chanted
to the outside world:
Infinity
does not exist.
This is all there is.
There’s nothing beyond.
There’s nothing beyond us.
 
The chanting continued
night and day.
The crack
became bigger.  
At first,
nobody listened.
Then came a cat,
then a couple of sparrows,
then a human being –
his first follower.
As the days passed,
more and more followers
assembled
outside the enclosed shrine.   
 
One spring afternoon,
the wall
finally
gave in–
he pushed his way
through the dust and rubble.
The crowd
went berserk.

A prophet
has risen
from the ashes. 

The Prophet – The Age of Falling Stars

The leader of the clan
emerges
from the underground cavern
after four years
of self-imposed seclusion.
The dust
and the stink of death
have settled. 
His eyes ache
at the deluge of light,
his lungs
rejoice in the cocktail of wonders.
Two tribesmen
fall at his feet
and offer him fruit.
He breaks open
the pomegranate
and squeezes
the sweet juice
into his mouth.
The crowd behind him
cheer loudly
and start dancing
to the trance
of thumping drumbeats.
 
He raises his hand,
hushes
the euphoria and jubilation.
He announces:
This is the taste
of the old world.
 
The one-eyed seer,
the oldest of the council,
squints
and spots
a blazing comet in the sky.
 
Infinity
stares back at the prophet
through the cracks.

Home, Far Away

I am driving at 70 miles per hour,
mind goes blank for a few seconds
lost in thoughts of my hometown:
 
childhood, friends, silly pranks,
rain,
muddy playground,
my right index finger trying to balance
a drop of water that slid off a window grill,
first crush,
dried chrysanthemum tucked within the pages of a dictionary,
father –
a regular small-town boy who grew up too soon,
dropped out of college, skipped his teen years,
mother – left us too soon, no memory of her,
my first pet, a betta fish in a small bottle –
named him after my first crush,
fed him crumbs of dried worms and egg yolk,
the colours and flavours of a festival,
a twinkle in the eyes of the elephant god.
 
Two oceans apart,
thousands of miles apart,
thousands of memories tucked away.
I instinctively
swerve the car to the left side of the road,
the last thing I remember
is blinding lights
engulfing my being.  

The drop of water
slips off my finger.
The colours and flavours 
fade away.

Godavari

She’s a world of contrasts.
 
She giggles like a schoolgirl –
her mirth
jingles across expansive corporate halls
cutting through smirks, sighs, and half-smiles.
 
She waits
coyishly
in silent corners
for a glimpse of her beloved.
 
She mothers her little sister
through struggles, heartbreaks,
tantrums, and tiny demands,
and is stern at harmless trespasses.

She wails
her heart out
into the muffling arms
of a pillow.
 
She’s the spirit of buzzing lights,
She’s the eye of the tiger,
She’s the deep of the forest.
 
She’s broken multiple times–
on the inside and out:
by a mother, by a father,
by a friend, by a partner.
 
She's a shard of glass,
She's the flame,
She's the lantern in the storm.

Like the Japanese art 
of fixing broken pots,
she works on her cracks
sometimes obsessively,
sometimes as a habit– 
each time
emerging
as a bearer of darkness,
as a warrior of light.