of rights and blights

Rights - the goddamn Rights
the citizens and the denizens
the peoples and the politicians
the power brokers and the power creators
the starved and the well fed
the poor and the rich
the disciples and the gods.

Rights - they exist in abundance
for each one for every one
attaining different parameters but always there
but the convulted textbook left out the Duties
Rights to perform Duties.

we cling to Rights and shirk from Duties
it's always not mine but somebody else's
and the leaders scream from rooftops
what they forgot to do or don't want to
from rostrums of glory they address the shackled
birth Rights, human Rights, dying Rights - blah, blah
the votes they gain theirs by Right
and Duties - there weren't born to perform
so forgive them and save the world.

Enlightenment

the room was graced by a soft glow
my legs were deep long shadows on the opposite wall
late in the night when it should have been dark
and the domain of the nocturnal creatures start
the little table lamp was lit.

for months it lay in a corner
desolate, unused, covered with dust
days, when the power it held
was a prisoner of its shell.

the darkness for it was comforting
but it was a dream, a mirage
for in its very bosom it held light
the essence of its creation.

so I told it
evolve from the dark you lamp
of your meagre light do not guilt
when all the lamps the world over shine
will you create enlightenment
Suddenly the room became bright.

A Tribute

A FEELING OF ELATION AND SUPREME JOY
HEADY GIDDINESS OF A CONQUERING ARMY
STANDING ATOP A MOUNTAIN PEAK
REACHING OUT TO A PASSING CLOUD
GLIDING ACROSS MY OUTSTRETCHED HANDS.

A MOUNTAIN PEAK OF SAND AND CEMENT
SALUTE TO A BRICKLAYER'S SKILL
AWED BY THE CARPENTER'S DRILL
STRENGTHENED BY A STEELMAN'S PLIERS
HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE, HIGHER EVERYDAY
WHILST TOILING UNCOMPLAININGLY.

A SLIP AND A FALL, DOWN TO ETERNITY
APPEASING THE GODS, AN ALTAR OF SACRIFICE
BUT TO DEFY THEM, IS TO CREATE
A SKYSCRAPER
MY PEDESTAL TO THE UNIVERSE.

The compromisers

The harbingers of peace
And apostles of compromises
Spread gospels of cowardice
Listen, agree, and cave in
Stand on the foothills of the Himalayas
Coax the hordes to lumber up
And pull down those that reach the summit.

And pull down those that reach the summit
How dare they acknowledge the salute of the mindless masses
Smear them, trample them, kill them
Bow to the twinkle of little stars
Pull a veil over the moon's majesty
Greet your moronic leaders with a cheer
That spreads a balm over your fears.

feelings

nothing creates a tempest
as a darkening horizon
nothing demolishes a myth
as sight awakened
nothing embraces life
as a brush with death
nothing magnifies the morn
as a black night
nothing is as bottomless
as close friendship
nothing shuts the logical
as a deep yearning
nothing fuels desire
as a heart filled with love
nothing brims over
as intense want
nobody does that to me
the way you do.

call of the suburban rail

come come come the railroad beckons
six in the evening and time to go
to your own sweet home in the distant suburbs
where the fire's lit and the dinner's warm
rushing wildly from the point you come
gushing from skyscrapers a flood of burst pipes
from flora fountain come in hordes
dodging through the madding crowds,
emerge from the maze of the lanes down fort
your determination your guiding force.

wait under the portals of the huge terminus
oblivious to the sounds of the teeming multitude
rivet your eyes on the indicator board
catching your fast your prime motive
it's coming on eight you haven't time to wait
pull-push-scratch-barge-knock-you're seated
the hungry train gobbles voraciously
no place to breathe when the whistle's blown
speeding along at super pace
angry wheels on placid tracks
skiping stations halting at signals
spewed forth finally like volcanic lava
reaching home a battle-scarred warrior.

come come come the railroad beckons
it's eight in the morn and time to go
wouldn't like to miss the fun, would you?

solitary demise

it's bright hue catches the eye
accidently fallen or deliberately thrown
an excess from the offerings
or, scarcity of reciprocal feelings
a God missing his due
or a beloved kissing goodbye
decoration on an idle idol
or decimation of a romantic dream
consigned on the morrow to a flowing stream
or permanently ensconced in the dark
interiors of a favorite book

lying on the road
with an unknown past
and an indifferent present
in solitary demise
a red rose on the road.

sauntering hills

nothing's of much consequence
nothing's so dear
nothing's everything
but nature supreme.

as serene as a ghost
draped in a white mist
as reassuringly calm
as feels a safe toddler
clutching his parent's fingers.

a beauteous blanket
of love and hope
an undulating landscape
of peace and tranquility
nothing's so enchanting
as the rainfed hills
in the grayish of the monsoon noon.

Reaching Home

A CHILD
REMORSELESSLY ABANDONED IN THE NIGHT
CAN THE DARKNESS ERASE A MEMORY
OF COWERING AWAY FROM REALITY.

A DISTANT WAIL - A START
APPREHENSIVE
SLUGGISH STEPS TRAMPLE THE GRASS
CREAKS OPEN THE GATES OF LIFE
DECADES OF WISDOM PEER DOWN
AT CLEAR UNBLINKING EYES
A TREMOR GRIPS THE WITHERING FRAME
DORMANT EMOTIONS RUSH UP
ENVELOPS IN WARMTH THE SURVIVOR
A PARADISE FOR THE BASTARD.

Vermilion

A nonchalant walk
towards life saving desire
a stranger's life depends on them
on those casual - serious steps.

Asunder the earth
tear out its bowels
when your hand's groping around
what it'll find is hope.

Where religion is discarded
Caste - creed brushed aside
where the frown on our face
is replaced by an ethereal glow

And the eyes brim over uncontrollably
witnessing unbelievable generosity
donating their blood to a stranger
vermilion on a woman's forehead.

Manjunath Gurpur Prabhu

Konkanya is no more. He died Sunday, August 30, 2009, at Manipal Hospital. The man that helped cremate countless souls finally found others doing the honors. Did he die? No. He was liberated. The last couple of years had seen a gradual decline in his health to the point that I, who considered himself a friend, prayed that he be spared the suffering. So when the inevitable finally happened, why am I not sad? Strange! Not so. Even a week after his death, I speak of him in the present; that dynamism, that vibrancy, that ability to hold people in thrall, yes, sometimes even complete strangers - like the time this gentleman suddenly rushes out of my readymade garment shop, Lancer, onto the road where 2 laborers were carrying a heavy cupboard and pointing in the direction of his house says, ahh! Amar Apartment le jaao. Even they could not hold there smiles. Or, a fortnight into his marriage, he makes a statement in my shop, "arre mera Biwi kya chappati banati hai (long meaningful pause) - mai balcony mein kata hu." Now, the incongruity of it hits us all until one of us, don't remember who, quizzically asks, "matlab." He retorts, "chappati bahut kadak banati hai - bahar phekne ke liye!" Imagine the uproar that followed. For him, I was "last piece" (his version of my style of selling my clothes) or "hanger" (his version of drooping shoulders). Incidently, I quite sacrilegiously must add, he was the "thediya" as all photographs (where he deliberately used to stand on the outskirts so his full profile could be accomodated) would certify. That a huge chunk of my life is intertwined with this gentleman is in absolutely no doubt. He used to sell my shirts (which he was the finest ambassador of) in the bank where he worked and always paid my promptly, but what always worried me was, was he recovering the money himself. When asked, he would politely ask me to shut up, but till today I still retain that modicum of doubt regarding this.

Then, there was always this air of vulnerability about him. Believe me, it would shock him were he to know I harbored such thoughts, but yes it always was present, especially after his diabetes or rather, after his marriage (both were closely intertwined). The vulnerability followed a rather extreme lack of understanding of what his medical situation could cause him. Whether, from his point of view, it was fait accompli or plain bravado, or worse, tilting against life's windmill, I still haven't been able to decipher, but this certainly led to us friends being overprotective, which he hated very much. There was this time when he asked that I present myself in Bombay as he felt he was kicking the bucket. I rushed into the ICU, and one his his first statements through all that rigmarole of tubes running through his body was, shhhe, bhelpuri khaneko milta tha tho kitna aacha hota. Part bewilderment part anger made me ask 2 passing nurses that the patient requests bhelpuri; they gave him a stern shut up and he in turn gave me the devils eye. Very apologetically, I told him I was just relaying his request. Then, still in the ICU, still with tubes running all around, this worthy asks me if the small window on the ICU door showed his bed. When I replied yes and asked why, he said, so I can wave to someone outside. Now, what should be known is that he was completely blind in his left eye and about 30% vision in his right! He wanted me to inform so if somebody peeped, he could wave. These anecdotes could go on and on, what they certainly cannot do is fill in the spirit that was Manju; sorry, is Manju. Even in the worst of times, like when on the hills of the western ghats when he berated me acutely for having made fun of his God, my apologies having no effect on him, I have never felt hurt or angered. There was this bond built over the years that seemingly effortlessly transended all such human frailities. He accepted me, warts and all for what I was, when in good mood pulled my leg to all possible extremes, but could never anger me as I understood his situation completely. Yes, there were times I was spiteful and did not call him even though he was always in my thoughts, then saner minds would prevail and I would speak with him. He was a very complex personality. Maybe some day in leisure, I'll be able to read my friend completely but not now. Now, I'm glad for having known this guy. He lived life to the brim and in his own way taught me valuable lessons about life. Do I adios him. No way. He is still very present with me, and I'll always be on first person terms with him. I cannot think of a finer obituary for my friend, the man who could make me laugh, Manjunath Gurpur Prabhu.

Let tomorrow be mine

Trials, trivializations, tribulations -
Apocalypse of political morals,
Morons and thieves rule the roost,
While the righteous squabble.
The landscape in sight dominated by mediocrity,
Reeds that sway in the still.

Reeds that sway in the still,
While sturdy oaks are consumed by fire,
The carpets of filth spread their tentacles,
Enveloping the once green meadow.
But how long can the meadow be denied,
Hands of scythe that cut through the morass,
Of fear, ineptitude, greed.
Oh! for tomorrow to be mine.

a girl by the window

she stood there still
serene calm of defeat
on a young-old face
a shriveled hand through the grill
she stood there still.

no cause for modesty had she
no coy glance at a handsome face
to do that was a weakness
in her state she could ill afford.

large sunken eye gored me deep
blaming me for the cause
of a hungry stomach and lost youth
one irreparable the other irrecoverable
she stood there still.

her anguish flowed into me
and i brooded over existence
and philosophized over life
and cursed the generation
that had ravaged her utterly
and the train filled - started to roll
while she stood there still.

With one eye bandaged signifying the end of an innocent stye and looking like an Indianised version of the pirate Long John Silver, I entered the bank amidst glances of ire, fear, and resignation.

The chief teller came towards me almost bending double and said - I know who you are and what you've come here for. I grinned widely at this unexpected welcome. You've picked a very inopportune moment to do what you've come to do - he continued. Not exactly - I replied. I think I'll be able to stash away a lot of cash doing this. We'll go out of our way to stay out of the way - he said ironically. Don't do that - I retorted; I've come only minimally armed - thinking of the ballpen I carried and if a pencil was required, it would necessiate taking the assistance of this kindly soul.

The air was quiet for a while.

We have taken the liberty - after arrival naturally - of switching off the burglar alarm in case you become - he made an elaborate gesture which I interpreted as nervousness. Yes - I retorted - a man's got to conduct business without these small nuisances interrupting his concentration. Naturally - he said. In fact, at this very moment, the staff is busy opening the vaults for your convenience - he said. Oh! I muttered not wanting to express that small twinge of displeasure I felt at this unexpected delay.

Did you ....er....conduct this....er....operation in Delhi in the recent past - asked my friend hesitatingly. Oh yes - said I confidently, though if the truth be told, my sales figures so deep in the red had the effect of reflecting that exact color on my boss' apoplectic face.

By now everyone had both their arms high up in the air and overwhelmed by emotion at this show of solidarity, I raised a fist in silent acknowledgement and prayed that the management concedes their union's unreasonable demands whatever they were.

There was a long silence all around before the man ventured to murmur - you can start what you came here to do - all the while dumping bundles of thousand buck notes into my reluctant arms. No thanks - I replied removing the Gandhi from my pocket - all I came here to do was open an SB account with your bank.

As I left I wondered why the man looked so relieved.

residing problems

where in the world shall i dwell
in memories of the past bygone
among foolish endeavours and stifled pride
overflowing ponds and scorched riverbeds
fragrant roses and gloomy carnations
lofty ideals and crumbling reality.

where in the world shall i dwell
in the omnipresent halo of the now
among civil urbans or gregarious peasants
chicken paneer or dried up crusts
necessary enemies or unwanted friends
a roof over my head or a starry umbrella.

where in the world shall i dwell
in utopian dreams of the future to come
among oceans preluding a dipping horizon
or deserts reflecting a midnoon mirage
stepping on a cowherd's beaten trail
on hanging on a tail of a passing comet
walking among stars by deeds performed
or performing a performance for wilting laurels
where in Hell shall i dwell?

Lucky's Bar

the old shuffling steps have heard them all
tinkling wares and creaking chairs
whirring fan and blaring radio
regulars troopings and strangers treadings
going down straight or on the rocks
cooling ale and heated tempers
heated tempers otherwise subdued
fiery tongues otherwise dumb
memories nourished by courage brought.

the old shuffling steps have seen them all
smoking rooms and cramped feelings
young man John by the corner
draining his sorrows of a shattered romance
sharped witted Bill with some friends
celebrating a little just for fun
where people on the brink come to think
with a bottle of gin all left to drink
and everyone gains thats for sure
the losers their sorrows and winners their pleasure
the honest their sufferings and crooks their rewards
and most of all during earl morning hours
he behind the door counting his cash
proprietor of the Dream House called Lucky's Bar - cheers!

rest in peace.......

this piece was scribbled in 1988 in justifiable anger (mine). Those were the days of being at the mercy of Doordarshan.


twenty-fifth January ninteen eighty eight...

The sad demise of Indian sports. Indian sports which was ailing for quite some time, died a natural death on this day. Even as we bow our collective heads and try hard preventing our eyes from blurring, there is also a monstrous public sigh at something which should have had come to pass ages ago. The obituary to be written of that fateful day runs as follows.

Trivandrum. Final one-day match of the seven match series. Bald pitch (sign of old age). Srikanth, who should have been out first ball, goes on to score a career saving century, after which he promptly hangs his gloves. Commentators, those creatures with no knowledge of contemporary cricket and an abundance of memories of the past decade, (verbally indisputable because of low public memory) praise him as if his presence heralds the coming of the second messiah - cut.

The cameraman is in a dreamy cloud of inebriation, which explains why the camera zooms off to long leg while the ball is resting contentedly in the keeper's gloves. Again, showing a replay of a superb catch taken, whilst the one having done so is in a high state of euphoria, the catch having had been taken 10 seconds earlier - sob.

Siliguri. The land of football crazy people whose players are the cream of this land. Their opponents, the Bulgarians, are playing a football match while our not-so-young youngsters are watching. The Jawaharlal Nehru Cup For Communist Countires being played at Siliguri is a fitting cremation ground for the land of half-baked footballers - sad.

The alter ego for this highly regaling match is provided by the Door-dadkhan transmission which in a fit of nervious tension blanks out every time the players approach either D - sick.

Thus, the Jawaharlal Nehru Cup For Communist Countries and the Caribbean whitewash have provided an added impetus in hastening the sad but necessary demise of Indian sports, Amol Dutta's "chodna math" and Rajiv Gandhi's blah blah notwithstanding - amen.

solitude

where to wake up is a pleasure
without the presence of time
nor the shadow of trouble
where the air smells fresh
and the birds sound happy
the universe their playground.

where the afternoon naps a must
and the evening tea is a habit
strolling down the lakeside
crystal clear waters reflecting a kite
the heaven its zenith.

where the crackling sound of burning logs
turn glowing embers into stars
and the stillness of the grayish night
overlaps the dark horizon
a black hole looming large.

no comments

this came to me from someone....forgot who......am not responsible for its contents.......so don't drown me in a glass of water...........



A man walking along a California beach was deep in prayer. All of a
sudden, he said out loud, "Lord grant me one wish." Suddenly the sky
clouded above his head and in a booming voice the Lord said, "Because
you have TRIED to be faithful to me in all ways, I will grant you
one wish."
The man said, "Build a bridge to Hawaii, so I can drive over anytime
I want."
The Lord said, "Your request is very materialistic. Think of the
enormous challenges for that kind of undertaking. The supports required
to reach the bottom of the Pacific! The concrete and steel it would
take! I can do it, but it is hard for me to justify your desire for
worldly things. Take a little more time and think of another wish,
a wish you think would honor and glorify me."
The man thought about it for a long time. Finally he said, "Lord, I
wish that I could understand women. I want to know how they feel inside,
what they are thinking when they give me the silent treatment, why
they cry, what they mean when they say 'nothing', and how I can
make a woman truly happy."
The Lord replied, "You want two lanes or four on that bridge?"

of life

of wetting cribs and night long wails
flinging arms wanting to be picked
thirsty mouth awaiting a feed
crinkling smiles and joyful steps
into life's everlasting circle.

of growing up and going to school
starched trousers proudly worn
birthday shoes gleaming black
mischievous eyes upto some prank
pulling wool over somebody's eyes
coming home with muddled clothes
layers of dirt covering your shoes.

of bristles growing on the face
learning what a man's to do
lounging about dim corridors
of the college building gray
eyeing girls and delayed heartbeats
studying hard but not succeeding
meeting a dream and falling in love.

of starry nights and rosy cheeks
moonlight soft and silent waves
holding hands and walking on the sand
tender love in your arms
looking forward to a fresh new dawn.

of tiny tots on your back
while you play the horse so strong
wife smiling in the kitchen
readying a palate of your desire
exchanging presents on your anniversary
loving your wife a little bit more
for the joy she has given will never be equalled
and the love you share will never go stale.

of reclining forehead and middle aged worries
growing wise to the ways of life
sitting in your office whilst the children grow up
wife complaining about the grocer's dues
sharing old moments of laughter again
proudly showing your family around.

of easy chairs while the sun goes down
gracefully aging both of you
teaching the grandchild how to walk
looking into each other's eyes
reminiscing about the days gone by
without regret for yesterday
nor ambitions for tomorrow
waiting for the day to end.

Promise to

Fluttering dothi atop a dais
abolishment of poverty is the name
of the game that's played
on pre-election's noon.

It reverberates in the valleys nearby
cries of awakening fills the heart
the air is agog with anticipation
of a paradise within this world.

Catapulted to glory with a massive mandate
creates a tempest of a different sort
the winds of change passes over
shrouds the town in eerie darkness.

A tottering wall collapses
remnant of a much battered phrase
it's clear again but somebody's blown
last heard had clung to a chair
that landed a thousand mile away.