life goes on

The lights have been snuffed out of the cities
And the villages,
From the hearths,
From hope.
And yet, life goes on,
For us who remain behind air-conditioned interiors,
Rarely knowing what darkness is,
And rarely bothering to find out.

Life goes on for lakshmi,
Who must spend the darkest of the nights,
Fanning her alcoholic husband whose only escape
From the unbearable heat, is inebriation.

Life walks on crutches for ramu,
Who must use the light of the last candle
His father could buy with his meagre earnings,
To finish the exam that he started last year.
He may not be able to, for his eyes will give in,
Before he does.
And still, it will go on.

It crawls for renu,
Who spends the night tossing and turning
In her nightmares of pus-infested wounds,
That turn real by dawn.

It limps for Daniel
Who must seek employment that
Requires only the might of his muscle,
And not his intelligence, for that today
Depends on a resource he can no longer afford.

And in the corner of the city,
A lady awakes to curse the darkness,
And swears to have a bigger generator installed,
So she might sleep her drug induced coma
In peace.

And that is how life goes on
Even when the light is snuffed out
Of the towns, the cities and the villages
And the thousands of people who find a way
To move on.

shoulders

every word waiting to be spoken turns into verse.
every thought that runs amok, reined in.
confined within the width of white columns.
almost as if to fill the emptiness.
with the chatter of emotions
that i want to lay bare.
leaving me wondering
why i must write at all.

of alms and beggars

She must have seen better times. The glint in her speaks of them and yet, she stands, knocking glass doors of transitory vehicles that have stopped impatiently. I wind down the window and feel the gush of the afternoon sun invade the luxury of conditioned air within. I sigh, place a few coins on her calloused palms. She smiles. And reaches her hand above my head. Gently. And plants a blessing.

With it, she enlightens me. I know now, who the beggar is.

getting published :) finally :) :)

yes! it's happening.
by writers workshop, kolkata.
later this year.
fingers, eyes, toes...crossed :)

sculpt

Cut.
Shape.
Chip.
Chisel. Chisel. Chisel.
Grind.
Polish. Polish. Polish.
Until there emerges art.
Poetry.
Sculpted by a dreamer’s heart.
Finished by a lover’s hands.

If only we brought such passion to life...


watching art / sculpture brings alive so many thoughts

smile

A white toothed grin bursts from hollowed cheeks. There’s radiance in those eyes. And one thinks this is happiness. Until one looks beyond. Bones beneath it all. Bones that scream for attention from within skin. The tattered clothes tell a tale. Of previous avatars. Handed down in charity. Fulfilling satiated souls, but barely filling those hungry. The smile walks on, carrying the light frame with it. Lighting one’s heart. Igniting guilt. Long after the encounter, what remains is the smile. One born from greater endurance than mere existence. one that gently nudges the thought of benevolence into the shame of living in disparity.



was at Ramana Gounder Medical Trust today, doing my usual round of story-telling. saw this for real. have never seen a smile like this before. how shallow our benevolence seems.

speaking of trade

gold
traded for virginity
two cots to hold all the lust for procreation
an almirah to lock up bruises of the mind
pots and ladles on
which all hope was first stirred
and later strained
until all that remained was the memory
of a better time.
bundles of notes to feed greed
a car to announce to the world
what a benevolent family i come from
that’s all it took
for me to wed

when all i wanted was love instead

and now i seek the eternal knot
that hangs down from the ceiling fan
ah! yes, the ceiling fan once carried my tears
outside the window - the gift my father traded
for a pint of his blood

come now,
don’t fear that i will be dead
death came upon me earlier this year
with those three knots in yellow.
remember?




k's grandmom narrated the incident of her house help's daughter's wedding. all that they gave. and...what happens? a few days later, the same thought was echoed by aamir khan in satyamev jayate.