On The Way...

I was walking down the lane one day,
And I bumped into God on the way.
He’s no big person, as tall as me,
Enrobed in white, blossoming with glee.
His hair was knotted, a few strands flying,
His soft eyes bore tears, but he was not crying!

“Hello, my child,” He said to me,
His chest puffed out proudly.
“Come, let us leave for the sky,
To this earth say your last goodbye.
For your time has come, you mustn’t wait,
As you are Heaven’s newest bait!”

I listened calmly, but what to say I didn’t know,
To my home or the sky, which way should I go?
My end has come so fast? How?
I am still seven, should I die now?
My head was clogged, confused was I,
Without thanking my loved ones how could I die?

“What happened, young one, are you afraid?
Well let me tell you there’s been a fair trade!
I made a baby, a new life,
He has been sent to Oliver’s wife.
With his coming, you are going. Don’t be sad!
For you have made me make Oliver a dad!”

Time For Death

The morning is fresh,
The new day sunny.
Without any fear,
I walk out of my abode,
To face the new people,
My new boss patiently.
Have I slept well?
The night before?
I ask myself questions,
(To overcome my nervousness),
The streets here are different,
The smells too, assorted,
I try to take in all this,
Wondering, whether I’ll be able to digest it.
The narrow lane turns,
I turn with it,
And almost instantly I reach,
My destiny/ destination,
Confronted by a tall structure,
A building or a modern slum,
I can’t seem to make out!
Here I stand, in a mixed gathering,
Wherein, all I can see,
Are humans,
Age, cast, colour, size, no bar
Time seems to fly by, my turn it is,
I get ready to face the heavenly figure.
He is standing there,
Glaring down at me in that mute expression,
His mystical eyes scare me,
Then I realize it,
He stamps my forehead,
I examine it,
A pass mark lies there,
Bold and prominent.
I pass into a glaring light,
I pass the test,
I am dead now,
Heaven awaits me!

The Last Journey

As I walk down heavens path,
A wind, whispers into my ear,
It urges me to look back,
To feel myself how much pain,
Have I caused to others.
I accept this invitation gratefully,
And look back into my past life,
One, which I don’t want to remember,
But have to, because of the cross,
I wear it, it’s boldly outlined,
On my neck, it tells me all the things,
I am able to judge right and wrong now.
I respect the symbol, after all I know it carried him, Christ was his name,
The cruciform bore him until he drifted away, to a place a few privileged go to,
One place, which is said to be paradise!
Now I see my previous years, Opened in front of my eyes, like the book I had read yesterday,
I start feeling the emotions now,
Some of which I can still enact on trying,
The power of the cross is doing it’s job,
From head to toe, I drown in guilt,
I mean I choke, I recall the night,
The ghastly one, where I did something bad,
Which I really don’t wish to disclose.
The cross starts to flicker again,
I’ll tell you my sin now,
I killed her brutally and threw her,
Into, a well from where she never returned
My fair beloved is dead,
Dead because of her beloved,
This is all I picture,
I feel a force inside me,
Tearing my heart apart.
The cross then breaks!
It had dome it’s job, played it’s part,
As for me, I disappear,Into a blinding light, with a heavy heart!

The Known Stranger

He is big, brown, intelligent,
They all know him in Botswana,
In Kenya, he is called God,
Gaborone idealizes his precious mind,
For Rra. Patkinson is a fighter,
He is a revolter against the apartheid.
He has been succeeding of late,
The whites have realized the worth of chocolate now,
Africa is evolving, coming out of the black grove,
It has started to create a space for itself,
In this big, vile world.
Rra. Patkinson soon is leaving behind his jewel,
His mother, his Africa, everything,
He ever fought for, is now losing it’s worth,
As Rra steps into an unknown,
Place as a known stranger,
But will England ever understand,
The worth of the stranger,
Known all over Africa,
The Known Stranger?

Rise Young One, Rise To The Call…

The night is quietly reserved,
And so are the sunflower buds,
Each thing awaits a new day,
A brighter day, a redder sun.
But now is time to rest,
As tomorrow this boy has to do,
Something extraordinary for his mother,
For his country, his rights, he better do so,
Tomorrow he will be free,
Free like a bird, an escaped captivated pigeon!
He will now be able to run,
Eating like a hog will be his new passion,
He is seeing blossoms in his garden,
He is feeling the soft apples on his trees,
And now, he is fascinated by the raindrops,
Now lulled to sleep by the warm loo.
But all this is going to happen,
Someday, Sometime, Some place,
As for the boy, he has to fight,
For his country he must fight the intruders,
And he should drag the aliens out,
For he is the spark of a million,
A true patriot he is,
He is following the path of truth,
This little freedom fighter!

Rise young one, rise,
Rise to the call of your country!

Resurrected Memories

Fifty years hence, I am familiar to the world, but unfamiliar to myself,
Tall, Confident, Big.
A rich man, with a rich beard,
Entwined in my suit, giving that pepper look.

A host of cars at my side,
I can see, slaves at my beck and call.
Shiny new boots perched at my feet down there,
Giving that utter, eternal expression of bliss.

As I pass a mirror, I glance upon myself, and see,
The sudden changes in my childish face,
The immense power in my manly voice,
And the aristocracy in my posture.

My eyes have given away their ghastly glow,
Everything has changed, immediately,
My ears make me hear a deafening silence,
Depriving me totally of my childhood!

I quietly observe my face,
Chiseled to death by the long slogging days,
Nowhere can I see that chubby face, those dimples,
That were once such a craze amongst all.

As my mouth opens, I jump back in amazement,
Such changes, I really have never seen,
The assorted teeth now lie there mundane,
They have forgotten mother’s peach plum pie!

Now I search for that animated boy,
Who was generous, yet strong?
Who has grown with the descent of time,
Into a vile, belligerent man.

I realize the changes,
I realize my follies,
And am shrunk into a tiny worm,
Capable of saying nothing. Nothing absolutely.


I realize that I as a big man,
Am greedy, mean to the world,
And capable of destroying the human race,
Are my pathetic thoughts!

But the memories have opened my eyes,
The resurrection has purified me entirely,
And I promise to change soon,
And act like a responsible citizen with minimal needs.

In Praise Of A Dancing Peacock

Who are you, oh heavenly creature?
You mystical, magical preacher!
As I stand by the window utterly dazed,
By the sight in the yonder, which makes me, amazed!

As the first drop comes trickling down,
Your aqua wings spread out like a crown,
From everywhere a splash comes of hue,
And the sun shines gaily and spotlights you!

Then the sight morphs into a wonder,
And the vast sky rumbles with thunder!
Amidst nature you gracefully maneuver slowly,
With the colourful sight turning completely holy!

‘Bam!’ A bolt strikes enragingly,
Turning the sky into blue navy,
But even then you continue your game,
Like a ferocious lion, no one can tame!

Come day, come night, you dance eccentrically,
Against powerful gusts swooping ferociously!
Heaving your wings like a huge fan,
Spinning around with the wind that just ran!

The rumbling vastness stops crying,
And to fiercly write, I am trying,
But never can I capture you on paper with a pen,
As you are the one, the sentinel of heaven!

Flying High

It all started with bloody hatred,
That tore the earth and fragmented its hues,
Anger that had not been witnessed before,
Spread its tyranny and blackened the blues!

Gusts of stench swept by,
Emitted by the gory masses,
That lay scattered, drained and ravaged,
These once alive, now rotting carcasses!

Where had all the humanism vanished?
That pious talk of sweet sodality,
The sights ugh, diabolic disgrace,
Displaying lurid images that begged morality!

Could one patriotic slogan cause such mayhem?
Could one idea of freedom create such uproar?
Was this love for our countries so chauvinistic?
That it demonized all and swelled the lethal score?

One after another came the beastly tide,
That killed and with vengeance raped
Woman after woman, child after child –
All slaughtered and in red blood draped!

India had seen too much,
Exaggerated abuse bereft of wisdom,
And then on the morning of the fifteenth,
August was witness to India’s freedom!

And thus is the story of her independence,
She silently cried pitying the rage,
While all of us fought like fanatics,
She prayed like a mystic sage!

The black has cleared, given way to blue,
For one day this plague had to die,
And never again shall India be disgraced,
For the tri- colour kites are flying high!

A Reflection

There he is they scream aloud,
There he is in the distance.
Who is that lad, and what is that burning?
Oh! A flame in existence.

He looks so much like me,
With those innocent looking eyes,
And that expressionless, charming face that is
Held up in praise of skies

He marches down the yellow brick road,
Striding stealthily across the street,
Each step this lad takes,
Is followed by a dove’s cry!

The figure comes up to a close,
Then the unnoticed is noticed,
His hands held up strongly against,
A white Flag which is hoisted

I go up to him and ask him,
Who are you? What is your mission?
He looks at me with knowing eyes and says,
I am you and peace is my vision.

The skies can open, the earth can tremble,
The oceans can churn and show their wrath,
But my friend, my destiny is to spread peace
And I will never move from my path.

I am your image, you are the chosen one
Take the world with you,
With your passion, effort and perseverance,
You will create a world which is new!

( Published in “ One Hundred Poems For Peace “ )

The Music Of My Heart

… A faint tune was playing in the background while I was writing this piece. An elegant, eloquent instrumental, maybe from the classics of one of Bollywood’s finest era- the 80’s. While the composers marvellously strummed a popular “Oh mere sona re” on their Sarod, the bass was a soft Carnatic raga that faintly echoed its presence through a Flute. Though this “jugalbandi” of instruments could easily have been called outdated by many, the fact is that all the current pieces of music that contain “vibe” and cause a ravishing trot of outrageous hip- shaking trace their roots to these old melodious classics.

Evolution has been gradual. It has been proven, that every species grows with certain characteristics of the ancestors of that particular Genus. Man for instance is an apt way to look at this balanced equilibrium of evolution. Each one of us is born with an individual identity but deep down inside, the blood running in our veins can be traced down distant generations of our families.

Similarly, the music we listen to today has been influenced in some or the other way by the past. A Veena has now taken the form of a Guitar that plays just the same notes, in a wider range of octaves to produce luring sounds that are capable of rocking concerts! Why then doesn’t the audience get driven into frenzy when a Veena or any other instrument (that shimmers in its antiquity) has effortlessly been played in an equally difficult composition of notes???

The answer- “Such instruments are outdated!”

Well, there may be many who still support the golden prevalence of these antique instruments; I too wouldn’t shudder to say I am part of those who do, but the fact remains that majority of the audiences prefer the newer, more modern instruments for some apparent reason unknown to me (even as I am trying to make up something…)

While many may argue, it all boils down to a matter of interests, may I ask why this interest for ancient Indian pieces has diminished to such a extent that people who listen to it religiously are looked down upon or are called “outdated listeners?”

Guys, if it wasn’t for these classical compositions, how would this new generation of “Aashiq- Banaya- Aapne” or “Shakalaka- Boom- Boom” or “Jhalak dikhala- ja” have evolved for that matter. (So Mr. Himesh Reshamiya, be thankful to the ancient composers of classical music for providing you a vivid selection of tunes to test your utterly nasal tone in…!)

PS1- this article has nothing to do with the fact that I am part of a secret classical music-promoting cult (Indian music specialisation).

PS2- is Shakalaka Boom Boom the story of a deranged, mutant test tube baby????

The Mortality Of Life

Life meanders like the flowing river,

We meander with it.

Life opens like the new, tender bud,

We open with it.

Life bends, like the canyon- road,

We bend with it.

Life grows like the little baby,

We grow with it.

Life slides like a skidding vehicle,

We slide with it.

Life sings like the nomadic bard,

We sing with it.

Life blinks like the sleeping child,

We blink with it.

Life sprouts like the Fushia,

We sprout with it.

Life blooms like the Nasturtiums,

We bloom with it.

Life fruits like the Apricot,

We fruit with it.

Life falls like the fruit,

We fall with it.

The monologue of morality

“ What happened child? Are you afraid? It seems as if something is scaring you badly! Don’t be afraid of me! I am not a ghost! I am a just a pleat of your conscience.

Now speak to me and tell me what scares you!

Come again; is it failure that scares you child? Hmm, that’s one thing which I personally love dealing with! So you are scared that if you fail, the world will laugh at you! Well, if that’s the problem, then listen patiently. For what I shall tell you should just remain between both of us. I shall tell you the story of success!

About eighty long years back, there was a man. He was slender and black and Indian. All he wore was a cotton loincloth and all he ever held was a stick.

This fellow was ‘different’. Not only in terms of his dress- sense but also in terms of his ideas. He never thought of violence as bloodshed. For him, non- violence was the ultimate form of violence.

For him, god was not present in some material form. His god was his ‘truth’. And this is what led him to be the father of each and every Indian who has sprouted in India’s fertile soil. Bapu!

I cannot say that Bapu was of so and so class, no I cannot. Because he was a man, who abolished all these imaginary podiums of status. Everybody, including the animals that bore ounces of god’s elixir, or life were equal.

Bapu showed all of us a path. Frankly, it was the toughest and most crocked path one could ever follow. But it taught us so many things. And most of all, those who followed his path received sure short success. The others, who resorted to crime, were imprisoned in huge walls of guilt while their conscience interrogated them.

You ask me child, how this is related to success, I shall tell you. Follow Bapu’s footsteps. After all, his first step was also in the dark. The most important thing is to muster the courage of challenging your beliefs.

Get out there and ask yourself the same question again and again and again, until ‘you’ haven’t found the answer! What do you think; Bapu was born an experienced strategist? No he wasn’t! He was an ordinary man who cultivated the whole freedom struggle in his actions!

Success knows no experience! All it requires is a start and will power.

During his course, Bapu failed too. There came a time when he was alone, and all that was there with him were his weapons of truth and non- violence. But he didn’t give up and tried and tried until one day, he died but left behind the greatest ever-secular republic in the world. You must be like him!”

… But tears just did not come out…

Dear Diary,

“The tears are not forming,

They have stopped moisturizing the eyes,

For they have seen such turmoil,

I may not know how to cry again.”

It was just last Tuesday that the city moved. It’s puppets-the people danced about on the streets in sheer elation; some coldly sat on the shore. For they knew they had yet time. Many were failures, but not deprived of success.

I consider myself to be such an individual. I had just failed the entrance t Saint Xavier’s where I could have set benchmarks for myself, but cannot now.

The sky had lost its colour of blue that held every inch of the clouds captive. Now, there seemed to linger an opalescent pattern that found its way into the sky.

Irritated with my failed performance, I had found my way to Matunga’s railway station. Though I felt I was in some alien land, but walked towards the platform from where I was to board and reach a place, safer- home. A place where this insecurity would not make me sweat, where I would not feel vulnerable among my own countrymen.

Soon, I was in. The first class compartment of the train bore me in her quiet cabin, on one of her innumerable brown recliners. I glanced around, trying to accommodate myself among these strangers.

Beside me, a naughty rich boy plucked at his olive green sweater. There, near the door a belligerent brat ran from her tired mother who held a big spoon of some tonic or something. I listened calmly to the silenced compartment.

“Don’t touch her!”

These words broke the peace. I forcibly looked back. Apparently, two young- birds had fallen in love. The exasperated mother pulled her daughter’s arms that had found their way to the boy’s fingers. Beside the young girl, sat what seemed to be a little girl. She clutched at her teddy, as if he was all that she ever had.

Suddenly, the train jolted. “Bomb! I say run!” were the last words that I heard from the compartment ahead of us as it rocketed towards the evening sky, hauling burnt masses on our side. Suddenly, the peace waves descended and gave was to pandemonium.

I waited where I sat, rooted to the recliner. I closed my eyes and quietly awaited my death while my mates in the train began to cry aloud. Then I realized that I hadn’t even cried and I shed a tear, then another until I was incessantly crying.

Though the bomb had not exploded in our compartment, the tyranny had still found its way. And then we were aloft; my hair flew with the piercing gusts that cut through the sky. My eyes were closed, but I could sense the turmoil around me. I thus banged on one of the blazing masses of iron and fell to the ground. I opened my eyes, thinking it would be my last look at Mumbai.

Women, men, children, young, old, rich, poor, all ran for their lives. The surroundings had erupted in an inferno and soon came the rain; of mutilated hands, necks, torsos, pouring down from the sky… I closed my eyes.

But, I awoke and gazed into the white walls of what looked and smelt like a hospital.

From behind the door, came out my mother. And both of us fell into an endless embrace. I longed to see the railway station, where I had almost given up hope. Mama reluctantly wheel-chaired me to the devastated station.

The same bustling area now seemed deprived of activity. A calm yet scary silence engulfed the black walls f the Matunga Railway Station. All I could hear was the swishing of a cleaner’s broom.

I gazed in his direction. For, there lay a tattered olive green sweater. Beside it lay the headless body of what seemed to be a teddy once. I tried to cry but tears just did not come out.

A Sad Story

One day, as I was sitting near a huge bamboo tree, nestled somewhere deep in my garden, I heard a groaning sound; as if somebody was in pain. At first I tried to ignore the groans thinking it was some ghost who had come to get me. I even wanted to get up and run but my legs would refuse to untangle from the cross- legged position that I was in.

Oh, how I wish I could run. Even if I had the last wish on Earth, I would have wanted to run. Run, somewhere far, someplace safer, someplace where these groans would not obstruct my time with nature.

The groaning became louder. I didn’t want to look in the direction of the sounds fearing the ghost would get to know that I was here. Maybe, he had still not seen me. I curled myself into a ball to hide myself. The drawing that I had been making effortlessly since the morning sun had risen over the clear horizon just flew with the gusts and went someplace unknown and got lost.

The groaning became louder and louder and louder. Then I heard sounds from the ghost. Somewhere in those groans I could hear the word “H-H-H-HEL-P-P!” This frightened me even more and suddenly tears began rolling down my precious eyes. Gradually, my cheek had become an ocean of crystal clear water.

Oh how I wished my parents were here. Had they not gone to work, they would have come to save me. I would have yelled, “Daddy, a groaning ghost is chasing me!” and Daddy would have come out with his sword and would have slaughtered anything that was trying to harm me, his gem. I would have shouted “Mama, Mama! Where are you?” and Mama would have flown out of the kitchen to save me with her angelic powers. But alas, today both have gone to work and nobody is here to protect me.

Once again to my utter horror, the groans produced sounds like the word “OLI-O-O-OLIV- OLIVE!” Why! The ghoul knew my name! He probably knew that I was a little child who was afraid of the dark and who hated broccoli. If he caught me, he would have taken me to hell and thrown me in a dingy- dark cell, and all I would have gotten to eat was broccoli. I’d rather die than eat those sick, green leaves.

But suddenly, I realize that Granny is also there. I had forgotten that Granny had come the night before while I was sleeping with lots of Candy for me. Maybe she can save me if I shout to her. But wait! Granny cannot hear properly! What if I shout and Granny cannot hear. Then the ghost will definitely know that I am here near the Bamboo.

All I can possibly do is run and call my granny before I am killed, or she is. What if the ghoul kills Granny? What will the helpless woman do? She doesn’t have s sword like Daddy nor does she have magical powers like Mama.

With this sudden upsurge of courage, I uncurl myself ready to leap towards the door. I will not let anything happen to my Granny. But as I am trying to uncurl myself, the groans have stopped. And I am unaware of the fact that they have stopped for good.

Now I think the ghoul has really gone inside the house. I cannot hear him groaning anymore. I do not need to hide anymore. I shall dash towards the house. I dash.

But then I notice, that a rather familiar figure is lying on the ground eyes wide open. This figure looks like my Granny. It is my Granny. I rush to my Granny’s help! But I am too late, the old woman was groaning for my help but I just ignored her and let her die.

I Guess It’s Time For So- Long!

Last Sunday, I finished a good book and for the first time on turning the last page, my heart skipped a beat, my throat refused to gulp down air and an innocent tear trickled down my cheek.

As I kept the book on the shelf, beside numerous other ones, I began to notice all the books that I had read in the distant past and had left to be slapped by fumes of dust.

At first I became a little more conscious of the present, but then after a while, I was submerged in an ocean of nostalgia.

Each and every page, in those hundred odd books reminded me that they once shared a bond with me. That each and every one of those billion words had been read over and that each and every one of them helped to satisfy me by weaving vivid tales, some speckled with cheerfulness, some with melancholy.

What amazed me was that just one book had triggered in me, a series of revelations, that once discovered made me sentimental, however happy. But amidst all of this, I was sad too. How could I have forgotten all of those books so easily? How could I ignore such epitomes of knowledge, just because I was engaged, probably with something more superfluous!

Well that brings me to the message that I am trying to convey. Life is like one big book, which keeps on turning its pages everyday. At one point of time, this book too shall be over only this time, it will not be the book, but ‘we’ who shall be forgotten.

However brave one may be, it is always very tough to say good- bye and to wish somebody adieu with a smile.

So the next time, you do something for the last time, however big or small the deed may be, cherish it forever in your minds so that when you die your soul is content.

Music & Music

Music is the soul of my life. No matter howmuch i may try to deny it, music always compells me to say it all. Everything that leaves me contemplating or just plainly troubled...

Here is a particular piece of music i had written down one rainy afternoon after having taken a long nap. Music knows no time, nor any language, nor a tune. All it knows is provision of a long lasting calm that lets me delve deeply into understanding the beauty of nature and my own thoughts that i am not able to impart to myself...

There go the drops, the lashing drops,
The lashing drops, that set me racing,
For fear of losing these little tiny droplets,
I let them overpower me with their charm...

Drops they engulf my mind,
Colour it blows a serene breeze,
Sounds they create an aura ablaze,
Called music, music and music...

Let these magnificent drops come,
Let me beckon them closer,
Soon they shall transpire softly,
Without even telling me or anyone...

Faith it binds my spirit,
Trust, it surrenders me to the supreme,
Sounds they create an aura ablaze,
Called music, music and music...

My piece was compossed in a matter of exactly seven minutes and thirty three seconds (which is how long the rain lasted...)

I know that all of you who will see this piece will concoct a different tune for it, like the rain, it never sounds the same twice...

Sounds they create an aura ablaze,
Called music, music and music...