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.