A Sea Lover’s Diary..

The Sea

Though I am tempted to walk
I remain seated on the sands,
Like a specter in the evening,
Loneliness for a silhouette.
Have traded innocence with age
And I am not any wiser.

The horizon lies in the shadows
Somewhere, beyond the growing waves,
Beyond the flickering boat lights.
Waves with each foray reclaim
Another stretch of the beach.
And finally, with the last of their breath
Wavelets kiss my toes.
I get up to sit out of their reach
Only to realize I wanted to walk,
Hear the sea, feel his breath

I was here a decade ago,
On a South Indian sojourn,
With acquaintances and family.
I reveled in my first sight of the sea,
With other kids, on this very beach.
I was afraid that time would get
The better of such childhood memories
And render me indifferent to their joys

And though it felt strange at first,
The gloom began to scatter
And the strength returned to my knees
As I relived the awe-struck delight
At my first sight of the sea.

********

On the Rocks

Timbu gazes at the rising moon,
Heedless to the crashing waves.
Waters strive to unsettle his feet,
Some droplets strike his face.

A precursor to a mythical event,
Cleansed in a silversmith’s flame,
Such is the brilliance of this moon,
It will refuse to wane.
 
A lonesome figure on the rocks,
But in a rare moment of grace.
A trickle of pearls on unsuspecting cheeks
Will quench his unrequited rage.

********

Like a River

An occasional raft passes
On this calm stretch
Silent rafters, their fervor
Reserved for rapids ahead

I recall an old melody
To the drone of dragon flies
Drowned at times by chatter
Of approaching village boys

The river sustains life
Beneficiaries all
The dragon flies and I
The boys for their brimming pots

Privy to many a confessions
Warm the embrace for me
When few moments of solitude
At the river banks, I seek

An angst-ridden tear drop
En route to meet the sea
Tinkle of the waters ensures
An immediate relief

An inadvertent memory
Catches me off guard
It inspires a little prayer
Teardrops, unbefitting now

Peace, a constant companion
Her smile, an eternal refuge
Joy a second nature, like this river
Hers be an everlasting youth

********

To Picture a Verse…or Verse a Picture

‘The others experienced nothing like it even though they heard the same tales.’ <Novalis> 

Let me take the opportunity of introducing my new blog http://picturingaverse.wordpress.com/ . As the name suggests it’s a photo blog, and a joint venture between dad and me. Dad is a keen follower of this blog, besides being a great photographer, so this will be our opportunity to work together. All photographs in the blog would be from his camera, and they will be accompanied by a verse or two, inspired by the pictures. Hope the verses will do justice to them.

It’s surprising how the same thing can mean different things to different people. These verses would be my interpretation of the pictures and I look forward to hearing yours

Photo – Ajay S Nabial

A letter…

The trigger for this post was a recent discussion with a friend. One of the things we touched upon was memorable letters we had either received or written. While I can’t think of anything special that I’ve written, the most memorable letter that I have received was a letter from mom, the very first letter in the boarding school. It is one of my most vivid memories; I was in the 3^rd Standard, in the 2^nd week of my hostel life, finding my way through an exciting new world.  I remember tears welling up as I read the first words. Goes without saying that mom was misty eyed as she wrote them.

A Letter
The first letter in the boarding school
Evoked the most honest tear
I can picture you read it to me
Your voice chimes so clear

‘Shanu’ a childhood friend
Your presence bodes peace as always
Age now bids me to address you ‘Na’ *
Still the guardian of all my secrets

* Mom

Vodka October: A City Diary

Breakfast

A symphony in progress amidst
Murmur from swarming tables…

At the counter,
An expectant crowd awaits their orders.
The chaos beyond the counter is the kitchen;
A delightful lesson in supply chain.
Ten people coordinate the chaos,
Water boils, appliances hiss,
Tea and coffee steam,
Vegetables are being sliced,
Spices are being ground,
The floor is being scrubbed,
Utensils are being washed,
Flames rise higher
As one of the chefs deftly
Maneuvers a sizzling oversized pan,
No body waits long;
Orders are fulfilled promptly,
And plates displaying varied fare
Appear at the counter.
I had once read that
The kitchen is a true meritocracy.
Well, this one is an orchestra too.

In this stand-in eatery,
Satisfied patrons part audiences
Have enjoyed a gratifying
Sunday breakfast.
******

Vodka October

No more
Siphoning off from others’ glasses
And self righteous assertions
‘I don’t drink’

One pint of beer, one shot of vodka
I downed one October afternoon
One pint of beer, one shot of vodka
Without remorse at a friend’s wedding
Generous intake of supposedly
Smooth Belgian beer another evening

A friend advised ‘never drink
When alone or when sad’
I was neither of the two, really…
But I will bear the counsel in mind

I foresee a sober November
And a sober ‘coming years’
Sobriety will prevail
But here is a confession
It was a pleasure owning my drink…
******

Chez Moi

After the previous week’s
Guest induced activity,
The kitchen is a wasteland again.
The disorder is disrupted only
For cups of coffee, some as late
As two past midnight.
It’s difficult to cook for myself alone
And I couldn’t see the cook
Do the same, so I bid him goodbye.
I find it difficult to eat alone
Though it be a one- act- repas.

My conversations peter off with
Observations on the weather
And inquires into work,
Both equally burdensome subjects,
Sustaining a conversation is an endeavor,
You need fodder to keep it alive,
Even for the ones that start promisingly.

My reputation of a ‘lousy host’
Precedes me; the title is well earned.
But I prefer the term idiosyncrasy.
Perhaps you were kind for old time’s sake,
What a wonderful week it was chez moi!
******

To Life

Pleading and prominent over all the din,
The distant traffic signal a seething red,
The sea of vehicles for a parasitic cocoon,
The impatient ambulance wails.
Heart rendering, but to no avail

My restlessness grows
In this taxi flanking the ambulance.
Against its window rests a man’s back.
‘Preserve your mirth, look away,’
‘Roll up your window’ instinct says

His pallor and his hope rising and ebbing
With the rhythm of the other’s pulse,
I imagine the man leaning over,
Watching over the ailing loved one.
Perhaps his father or his doting son

Parallel stories of diverging tenors,
Lay claim to this single moment,
Entrusting it with infinite possibilities.
There a battle unfolds, hope against fate.
But for some it was just another day.
******

Neon-struck

I’m old for such revelry but
I slide across the dance floor,
Under the brilliance of neon
Haze of smoke, whiff of alcohol.

After the first hurried mouthful,
Akin to the taste of chocolate,
Much of it residing in its anticipation,
The thrill at best is ephemeral.

Beer-soaked unaccompanied dandies
Leisurely survey the scene,
How do they lose their way here
All by themselves

No place for the not-so-young,
College pranksters own the floor.
School runaways claim a share.
Pretenders, my friends and me.

We’ve settled down at our table.
A disillusioned colleague squirms
At the sight of an embrace,
Vodka garnished and beer laced

Lasers dart through the neon glare.
I’m tricked into an unnerving trance
By sights of neon-lit celebrations,
And neon-struck tipsy dance.
******

His Music

On a recent evening
I strolled down a neon-lit street,
The busiest street in the city on weekends.
And I noticed in the traffic,
An old man on a dilapidated bicycle.
He played the harmonica with one hand
And tamed the bicycle with another;
He didn’t care for the world.
The bustle drowned the strains of music
And he soon vanished round the corner,
But he was a picture of contentment.
Clearly, he enjoyed his music.
******

The Street

The Street

 The Street – I 

Childhood

 

The naked child runs out, into the street

I suspect from an impending bath

His haggard mother follows close behind

Calling out our names aloud

 

Thus I’m startled awake some mornings

But relieved to realize that ‘it’s not for me’

That the one in trouble is my namesake

The naked child on the street

 

One day, the child sneaked up to a lazing dog

He sat up tall at the sight of the child…

The child kissed the dog on the snout

Much to my fear and his delight

 

The street for the child is another home

Redolent with wonderful sounds and sights

As his mother’s watchful gaze eases off him

To the street he heads, for a taste of life

*************  

Roomies on their street

 The Street – II 

On Christmas Eve

 

I sit closeted in my house

In anticipation of a quiet Christmas Eve

A pressure cooker hisses

At the landlords’ in the floor beneath

 

From the neighbors’ stream into my house

Strains of carols both recorded and live

Another neighbor’s disagreements

On the telephone will last into the night

 

I’ve learnt the sounds from this street

Can not be subjugated by curtains or walls

And from my balcony, it’s an effort to avoid

Chance intrusions into the opposite house

 

From across the street, the mother angrily

Calls out to the now familiar child

A quiet evening seems a distant luxury

So I’ll settle for the street’s small town charm

**********

 The Street – III 

The Camel and the Gypsy

 

A peculiar sight on my street

Reminiscent of sand dunes far away

A desert gypsy, a reluctant camel in tow

Curious residents stop to stare

 

An oddity for a Southern morning

More a moment from a north Indian day

A shrill bell announces the arrival

The perturbed street dogs give them way

 

The camel and the master

Rugged, unwashed, in perfect harmony

A shared beauty of primordial merit 

Of mutual struggles and destiny

 

A temporary focus for this street’s din,

They generate awe-filled delight.

As they stop under the coconut tree

Interested residents inquire about the ride

 

As he helps a child on to the camel’s back

His glistening tribal earrings catch my eye

Would any story ever do justice to

The adventures burrowed deep in his brow

 

I imagine the two setting off on foot

Leaving behind poor but familiar environs

Traversing the country and its thoroughfares

Through winter nights, and rainy days

************

 

The landlord's cat

 

 The Street – IV 

From the Roof

 

I collect dry clothes from the lines.

Thus I find my way up here, on the roof,

Out of habit, for mundane chores

And at times, out of wanderlust.

 

It’s calm here especially at night,

But the roof affords only a limited view.

The surrounding buildings stand taller,

The coconut tree is an obstruction.

 

But the view is enough to accentuate 

The demerits, the disorder in the street,

Its existence seemingly accidental

To the plan of disorderly houses.

 

But with the night, descends upon

The street, calm and a measure of order,

Except for the occasional packs of dogs.

And my street calls it an early day.

 

In stealth conversations over the phone,

And in saunters across the roof

Under the night sky of infinite beauty,

The street offers memorable moments.

************

From the roof - II

 

 

The Street – V

 

On a Lazy Morning

 

Most were inconspicuous

As they hurried down my street.

But you are the one I’ll hope to see

On sun-kissed lazy mornings, leisurely.

************ 

On my wall

***********************

In Pursuit of.…

In Pursuit of.…

 

Verses on the run, now on the loose

Fast disappearing into the horizon 

For now, it’s a pursuit in vain

I steadily loose them against the sunset

 

But I know where they’re headed    

Though it’ll take a while, to catch up

And to convince them to return to the folds

Of a rejuvenated imagination

 

******

Almost a Good Day…

Almost a Good Day…

 

 

I - Morning Blues

 

I conjure up a hopeful country rhythm

To assuage the morning blues

Even the sight of a lovely passer-by

Does little to alleviate the gloom

 

I briskly walk towards the bus stop

A familiar morning story; I’m late

The walk evolves into a desperate sprint

It’s unlikely the office bus will wait

 

But…….  

 

So seated ‘snugly’ on an uneven seat,

I reflect on the morning’s urgency.

Boarding the bus in the nick of time

Restores my faith in life’s little mercies

******

 

 

II - An Evening at Office

 

I step out

Into a pleasant breeze;

We’ve seen the last of the winter.

The weather, the only

Saving grace for the city.

 

It’s dark.

Little had I realized

The day had passed.

A passer by,

At best a silhouette, nods.

I reciprocate

Without recognizing him.

People rush towards

The bus bay; it’s time.

 

On my way to the café,

I cross the open-air amphitheatre.

The amphitheatre is awash

In a velvety milky glow.

‘A very good evening,’

I whisper to myself.

On other evenings I am

Foul-mouthed under my breath.

 

At the café entrance,

 I’m cornered into a conversation.

We part, it was amusing

How his face had contorted,

And his frame shuddered

In exuberance, to generate

A limp handshake.

 

I engage in a little chat

With one of the waiters;

The take-away latté arrives.

On my way to the door,

From the corner of my eye,

I catch a promising sight.

 

In a corner of the café.

It’s ‘La Esmeralda’ perhaps; 

A gypsy at heart with

An appearance to match. 

I leave the café

Convinced it was otherwise.

And her smile had pleaded 

Subtlety in such endeavors.

 

As I retrace my steps to my cubicle,

I give in to the urge to steal

A few quiet moments.

I recline against the amphitheatre steps.  

I catch a glimpse of a half moon,

A solitary one en attendant stars.

I am reminded of beetles

And how they usually die

If knocked over, vulnerable due to

Their inability to return to their feet.

I stretch and kick my legs

Impersonating a desperate beetle.

 

I’m grateful I can get back

To my feet, unaided.

And this evening, for once

It’ll be at my own ease.

****

 

 

III – Tête-à-tête at Midnight

 

Eighteen was to be a milestone

But twenty-one sneaked upon me

Without the promised tranquility

 

Wisdom I reckoned would follow age

Twenty-two ushered an era of hope

But wisdom was the proverbial Godot

 

Need to talk so I’ve invited the Blues

For a tête-à-tête over coffee at midnight

It’s a precarious twenty-five

****

Tara

  

**Tara**

 

The trickery of the night sky,

And the shadow of the descending fog,

And their momentary reign.

 

Though briefly invisible

My star is an enduring cosmic truth

A certainty beyond numbered breaths

 

Under the star’s glow we’ve thrived

So has our sanctuary,

Her primordial element, ‘Chandra Kutir’ **

 

So from the safety of my sanctuary,

I’ll see out the fog, brave the cold

And challenge the winds that run amok.

 

********** 

** my ancestral house in Dharchula, Pitthoragarh 

 

 

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