The curse of the yellow cup

The nerves were smoothed.

The blood didn't rush to the head;

it flowed languidly,

caressing the walls of blood vessels.

The three day old yellow cup

of lipton tea rolled 

on the table-

to and fro, to and fro-

like a pendulum,

cursed for a lifetime.

Its oscillation,

synchronized with the fan

and the breeze.

The leaves outside hummed

a tune, a strange ancient tune.

The breeze,

of course was the artist.

Suddenly,

a leaf flew from the open window,

invaded the sacred space.

The leaf escaped inside the yellow cup.

The cup's curse lifted.

It's oscillation stopped.

Maybe, the leaf was licking

the three day old dried remains of tea.

Was it the breeze or the leaf,

which lifted the curse,

the question

reigned the dreams that night.

Autumn's Symphony

The afternoon sun of September
was flirting with the remains
of the monsoon clouds.

The ashes of the clouds were weak.
Their cinders couldn't reignite.

The last rains,
as September draws to a close-
they are like Schubert's symphony no.9.

They can't listen
to their own music.
They turn deaf,
shining brightest before dying
just like a dying flame.

They do get to see the applause.
After all, yellowed leaves
fall in appreciation.
But, their deafness fills them with anger.
Their composition on their own ears
falls with silence.
They see the notes clung on the staff.
They know each moment
when the movement changes.

The trees are laughing.
They're enjoying the concert;
Who knows
if they will survive the winter,
and the spring and summer,
to hear again autumn's symphony.

Why would he have lived, if not for the memories.

"Ok, so, you want to go, right?"
and she turned away.
"No, not really.
My wishes go with your wishes, you know".

And, now,
remembering those conversations.
Why would he have lived,
if not for the memories.

"What is the difference between existence and living?"
He says,
"I am living right now,
I don't ever want to end up being an existence".

There are slight imperfections
in Schubert's piano sonata in D Major.
Its plain,flat, too easy
not to put your own little strokes.

There are certain memories.
They are not permanent.
They are hypnotizing.
They require triggers.

Schubert's piano sonata
was his trigger.
It was a switch
he hadn't and didn't want to turn off.

Why would he have lived,
if not for the memories.

Dylan and Dylan

When she left him,
Dylan wrote Blood on Tracks.
He sang about loneliness, Lily and Rosemary.
Nobody gave him shelter from the storm.
Ravaged, on the street,
blood covered his tracks.

And here, I am,
on a crisp Friday mid morning,
after two cups of coffee,
listening to Desire.
Dylan sings of Mozambique.
He sings of Isis.
He sings of Black Diamond bay.
He sings of one more cup of coffee.
I think, somewhere in 1976,
Dylan fell in love again.
The blood on the tracks was never washed away,
flowers just covered them.

I was reading a Japanese author,
when Dylan interfered and
snatched my concentration
away from the book
towards

the 100 watt speakers.


I don't complain
because
here, I am,
typing of Dylan.
And, few people
make you type.

The Artist: Part 1

It had not been like this from the beginning. He barely encountered people who smiled, looking at him, in recognition. He felt that the more he was closer to the people, the crowd, culture and the civilization, the more he receded from himself, the more he declined to understand himself, his inner emotions and demons.

Sitting on  a rocking chair, he gazed into the never ending landmass of  Peterhof. Peterhof was a village just a few miles of St. Petersburg. The icy chilly winter of rural Russia had forced him to make a shell around him. He just sat on the chair, reflecting; thinking about those lost years on the streets of Europe.

Food in Peterhof was in plenty. His landlord, Mr. Bulgakov,  who lived in St. Petersburg had provided him with a butler and all the basic neccessities were included in his rent. He woke up in the morning and the coffee and bread were waiting on the bed stand. Since Mr. Bulgakov's house was one of those few homes where electricity was available, hence Paul could enjoy a hot bath in the large Russian style bathroom located at the far end of the hall. The hall boasted of excellent 16th century furniture and a portrait of Ivan-the terrible hung above the opulent sofas.

After his breakfast and shower in the morning, Paul made it a point not to have newspapers in the house and spent the noon in Mr. Bulgakov's excellent library located on the second floor
The large windows extended from the low windowsills to the ceiling. A generous amount of winter light slanted into the library through these windows. It was near one of these windows, between the two bookshelves of Medieval Russian literature and Modern French poetry that he found his secluded island of rocking chair. These days, all he read was the history of the czars. Their blood thirst and abhorrence of all human principles didn't effect him. And, moreover, to his surprise, he even could find justification in the heinous actions of the czars and that is what made him discover this new numbness about him. He was amazed at how unresponsive he had become.

But, he barely read a page, when his eyes strayed outside the windows, onto the barren fields of winter. The expanse of his view ran unpunctuated. No mountain, stream or river obstructed the land encrusted with the snow. The soft light of the afternoon and the electric heater warmed him on the chair. He didn't even remember for how long he had not been into his saloon. He thought that Dimitri, the ever invisible and omnipresent butler, must have cleaned the saloon and taken good care of his incomplete works.

His years in the cafes and saloons of Paris were the most productive ones. He had met and trained under some of the greatest names of the time. His work had received much appreciation at exhibitions in Vienna and Paris. Some people even compared him to Camille Pissario. He had earned a good amount of money in those early years of century when art was thriving in Paris and the financial security encouraged him to explore new avenues in his art form. He had always been from his youth, inclined toward impressionism and the outdoors always inspired him in his art. But , lately, he was experiencing a strong disenchantment from everything related to nature or beauty based on primary views. There was a strong sense, pervading his thoughts, of the things that lay beneath it. He was interested in the actions and emotions of humans, how and why they acted like this and the utter disparity he saw in the industrial area of London seemed to question his very basis of art. He wanted to express, what he saw as the reality, through his brush strokes. But, the moment he tried to reflect the reality on the canvas, his hands froze.

He lived with this artistic block for a year until it became too difficult to face himself. He lay awoke at nights for weeks, thinking about the empty canvasses. He barely ate. His only, friend in Paris, Dr. Dupont often came visiting him due to his deteriorating condition. One evening, as Paul was serving a drink to Dr. Dupont, the doctor could see how he had aged in the bygone year. He had lost a lot of weight. The clothes hung loosely on his shoulders, barely giving away the contours. His eyes and cheeks had sunk. Dr.Dupont, who himself was a psychologist, had been giving him medication and observing him closely.
The doctor said " Paul, I think you should leave Paris for some time.It'll help in your health."
"But its here that I have got all my success" Paul replied.
"I know about it. But the past year, you've been struggling to paint. Your health has been deteriorating.Moreover, being aware of the happenings of the art world will even affect you further."
"Dupont, you're not getting me. My problem is different. I don't have any psychological or a peer problem. Its more of a creative one."
"Then, living in Paris will hardly benefit you because if it had, then you'd not have been in this condition".
Sipping his whisky, Paul seemed to reflect for a moment and then said " If you insist, I'll try that too. But, where shall I go?"
"Go to America. Everybody is going there these days. They say its the new cradle of art.Democracy, equality and every modern principle is being put to test there. If you want, I can arrange a cabin for you on the cruiser?"
"No, wait, Let me think about it. Lets meet tomorrow at the Champ Elysees. I haven't been there for an year".

A city's dirge

After midnight falls,
silence pours in
on the thoroughfares
of an unknown city.

Empty benches wait
for tomorrow's couples.
And, the cigarette stubs of today
are decomposed by the night.

The shops and cafes are sleeping.
Their rolled down shutters,
their cold colors conceal
the warmth inside.

When the dawn breaks
and morning comes
shutters will unroll
and coffee jugs will be filled.

Sandwiches will be served
with french sauce
Newspapers will fly
to the empty balconies.

All shall happen,
but for what?
For the city shall
have long died.

(P.S. The above painting is David Casper Friedrich's Wanderer above the sea of fog (1818).)

The Search

Search of themes,
Characters,
stories.

A bottle of mineral water,
cities crossed in a single bottle.
He threw away the map last night
from a bridge, into that black river.

The smoothed corners of the map,
jeered him.
His search ran against
the map's life.

Tonight, he will throw his watch.
Their hands have enslaved him.
Why should he watch the round dial?
He will break one more bond tonight.

His search,
a series of venegance.

Maybe, a day will come
when he, himself,
will impediment
the search.

And, maybe,
he will overcome himself.
He will break the bond,
one more, in his search.

He will end his life.
The search, incomplete.

What was she to him, anyways?

What was she to him,anyways?
Anyways, but life.
She, who
thawed the ice of solitude.

There was a flow of time,
like Archimedes' moments.
Every league,
marked by her subtleties.

He never charted
the depths of the monologues,
which breached
his solitude's quietness.

Now, when his eyelids meet-
a world of vapours unwraps-
those silvery moments
ceased in the grey vapours.

What was she to him, anyways?
But life.
What is she to him, anyways?
But memory.
What will he be to her, anyways?
But decadence.

A couple of dogs

She stands,
on a lonely stretch of road.
An unmapped creek
flows beside.

The road not taken,
she knows the lines by heart.

She has not come here,
due to a promise or a meeting.
She comes to this road,
everyday, to meet nobody.

A couple of dogs
always walk up to her,
through the oaks-
their paws always bloody.

They don't bark.
They just communicate,
in the doric columns of moonlight.
She treats them,
applies antiseptic and bandage.

And, they cross the creek.
Swim across it,
with just their head
floating above the water.

But, today
a wolf will come.
She knows it.
With clean and sparkling teeth.

And when the wolf
crosses the creek,
the clear water
will be smeared with red.

She waits for the wolf.
She has forgotten the watch.
She waits for the nobody.

A brief ode to Silence

If there was so much silence,
an eerie quietness.

If there was an unforced silence.
Not like-They make a desolation and call it a peace.

Then, I would immerse in this silence,
let myself be steered by its currents.

I would say, all I have to say to you,
in the sips of my coffee.

I would listen, all I have to listen to,
in the changing pitches of your breath.

I would understand, all I have to understand,
in the furtive movements of your eyes.

Such would be the silence,
and such would be our conversation.

The Absurd Ghazal

No, not another verse
on existentialism.
Enough of it.
These days, what I write
hardly counts as verse.
I feel an utter randomness
hazing the pattern-
the pattern-
that always reassured me.
On this 10th line,
I don't know
how this verse will end?

229 seconds,
I am still stuck on
this 15th line.

And then Thom Yorke
pierces my heart
with his icicle like voice.
I am lost
in the bends,
no green clearing
all is a confusing mix
of black, brown, maroon.

The rain,
it has taken its flight
for England again.
Everything-
me, the rain, and IC engines-
all is absurd.
And it nauseates.
It places a spark plug
in the dormant brain,
blasts off
all that was phony,
pretentious-
and a white layer
of absurd remains.

Artaurd's defiance
in the theater of cruelty-
the cries ring in my ears-
clearly.
Reality,
purity displayed as putrid.
There was a honesty
in the cries.
There was
nothing absurd.

No reason at all,
no consequence,
no phony emotions.
What you call filth
is beneath the beauty.
Its the filth
that I want to see.

Beauty is absurd.

Midnight Brain Damage

The lunatic is on the grass.
The lunatic is on the grass.

A cool breeze wafts
through the open doors,
standing ajar,
welcoming breezes and insects.

I slip, slip deeper
in my chair
weaved out
of the bamboo sticks.

The lunatic is in the hall.
The lunatics are in my hall.

Oh!,bamboo
A green covered paperback,
swimming before
my closed eyelids.
It was the Hungry Tide.
Sunderbans, tides, mangroves, crocodiles
Houses and boats built of bamboo,
Wait! Concentrate.
A storm,
my chair shredded to pieces.

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill

No, I don't fall.
where is the hard ground of my room?
My eyelids still closed. No, stuck.
I hear the roar.
The river's roar
coupled with a tiger's.

And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

On Goddard's Breathless

Jean Luc Goddard's movie À bout de souffle ( Breathless) was never in the mainstream cinema. And, neither ever, it will be. The movie was genre defying for its times. Goddard's fearless direction proved to be pivotal in making the film a classic.

Back in 1960s, Goddard and his contemporaries often discussed in the French cinematic circles about their search of something new. Their desire and passion to carve out a separate identity for French cinema led to what we know today as French New wave. 

Goddard never liked the idea of a novel-adapted cinematic culture.He was absolutely averse to it. The director, in his views, was more central to a film rather than a writer. The script need not be a thriller or intense love story to make a good movie. Goddard with his excellent direction could make seemingly everyday stories involving. This was a clear cut rebellion against a system where Alfred Hitchcock movies were striking gold at the box office.This was a quest for modernism in cinema, akin to what had happened with literature four decades back.

Breathless starts off with the character of Michel- a petty criminal who steals a car- murdering a policeman who is on his trail. Helpless and penniless, he turns for help to his American girlfriend Patricia. Patricia is a young girl, studying journalism at university. Her character defines the modern American woman in Paris; one , who is easily absorbed in the quiet and comfortable hustle of the city. Her ideas about sex and relationships seem to be heavily influenced by the feminist writers of France. Sleeping with random men doesn't in the least of ways shapes her moral personality. At one point of the film, she says "It's sad to fall asleep. It separates people. Even when you're sleeping together, you're all alone."

 Michel is very much aware of this fusion of French-Americanism and is very vocal to her about how he enjoys sleeping with her and while on the run, he accosts her in the middle of Champs Elysees and offers sleeping with her that night. At another point in the movie, he goes to her hotel room and declares his love for her. She thinks over it. Their conversation on the hotel bed has some of the most extraordinary dialogues of all time. When she asks for sometime for thinking , Michel says "Women will never do in eight seconds what they would gladly agree to in eight days." There are many cultural allusions that are used in the movie.Michel is generally unaware of these references. 

This is seen when Patricia asks him "Do you know William Faulkner?"

"No. Who's he? Have you slept with him?"

Patricia starts sleeping with him, granting him asylum. She knows he has stolen a car but she is unaware of the killing. In no time, Michel's face is all over the newspapers.The police starts trailing him and also questions Patricia about his whereabouts. She denies accquaintance. But , when finally, Michel finds a hiding place through a mafia friend of his, Patricia faces a dilemma. Before sleeping there, she hints him about her tenuous and subjective idea of love and 'sleeping together' " Don't count on me. I sleep with a lot of men". In a sudden of chain events, she informs the police about him while buying the milk next morning. She very coolly tells him about this and asks him to escape. He escapes, and is shot on the street. 

Dying he says " That's really disgusting". 

To this, Patricia asks the detective "What did he say?"

Detective replies" He said"you really are a bitch.""

The movie finishes right on the street scene. There is no climax. Goddard in his portrayal of the city life brilliantly showcases the monologues and conversations. There is a minimalism in the direction and story. The post production work is perfunctory. Goddard never aimed for the smoothness in his cinema. He had his flaws and that is what made his cinema real, everyday. The dialogues mattered the most for him. He worked on them like a carpenter perfecting each exchange.

Its more than half a century from its release. During the movie, Patricia once asks Michel "What is your greatest ambition in life?"

"To become immortal... and then die."

I feel there was a shadow of Goddard in Michel's reply.

Reading Dickens in 21st Century

It always intrigues me as to, why Charles Dickens, to many seems to be the ultimate paragon of the art of novel writing. Any bookshop’s segregation devotes at least a shelf to Mr. Charles Dickens novels. All these works, that have enjoyed the epithet of classic, for over a century now, are hefty for the eye and hand. Every reader is handed down Dickens at some point or the other in life.

Dickens was one of the greatest, reigning and holding sway over the European literary world, when European arts and culture were at the cusp of modernism. What was to come in a few years was completely different to the Victorian style of prose employed by Dickens. The range of characters, settings and highly descriptive prose of Dickens have become his trademark.

One of Dickens’ most reputed works, A Tale of two cities, which, contrary to all relationship models between bestsellers and literary substance, is listed by Wikipedia to be the bestseller of all time. In A Tale of two cities, Dickens dealt with the theme of duality. He just not used it but staged it on the grandest scale possible in his depiction of Paris and London, separated and joined , by the English Chanel. The very first line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”, shifts the prose from a singular form to a dual one, as if , there were two planks on which the reader is standing and steered forward  by a fine and delicate balance. The French revolution, where the entire set of characters molded by Dickens is thrown in, was both a strong and highly universal background at that time. French Revolution, with the peasentry and lower strata of society revolting against the age old injustices done to them by the aristocrats, was the first of its kind of social upheaval anywhere in the world. The perseverance of people had reached the limit and the angst with the system led them to ask questions both from themselves and their fellow beings. This growing resentment is very much palpable in the Book I of A Tale of Two Cities .

However, it was the storming of the Bastille -that Dickens uses with much precision- that was symbolic of the revolution. Dickens very deftly shows the post revolutionary period. The lack of government, public trials, widespread apathy of any kind of institutions and class become the guiding principles of the French society. The fact that the book was published in 1859, 70 years after the French revolution, was in itself a stroke of brilliance by Dickens. At a time when the younger generation was growing disenchanted with paying obeisance to the upper class, Dickens tapped into the undertones of the society. The book was very topical and pertinent in its content, ideas and at the same time, maintaining the virtues of a pleasant read.

But, what is it, that makes the book enjoyable even now, in the third century of its publication? The times have changed; most of the countries are not plagued with the same  social prejudices, even the revolutions that we are seeing (in the Middle East) are of a different character.

We live at a time in history, when class and categorization are starker than ever before, even though few of us acknowledge it. The rich are becoming  richer and the  poor poorer. The disparity and gap is humongous. The divide, whether on social or economic background, is something innate to any society. Dickens explored the fact on a social scale while we find ourselves facing this on a far reaching and wider panorama.

The Tale of two cities, is and always will be the perfect novel. Charles Dickens wrote at a time when authors often came from the upper class genteel society. Dickens on the other hand had spent his childhood in dark and dingy slums and not in lavish English gardens. Hence, he always had an inherent duality in him- something every author aspires of.

On Sartre's Nausea

Jean Paul Sartre's Nausea stands out as the best work of philosophical fiction, as I would like to put it, in the entire 20th century. The book, released in 1938, came at a time and place, when philosophical duels were happening with so much fervor and passion, as had not happened from the time of Socrates in the western world.

Nausea, by Sartre's own admission, is a work based on the philosophy of existentialism. The book centers around a character called Antoine Roquentin, a troubled writer and lonely man residing in the French town of Bouville. It falls in the nouveau roman(new novel) category or fictionalized fiction wherein the protagonist is trying to write a great work of literature and his struggle of writing this book in turn becomes the novel.

Roquentin is a lonely man. His life is very much routined. There are no adventures as such. He is trying to write a book on the life of Marquis de Robellon, a 18th century diplomat. He goes for walks in parks, sits for hours in libraries and takes his meals at Cafe Maleby. At the library, he meets a man, whom he calls Autodidact.Autodidact is a humanist whose sole aim seems to be reading all the books in the library; his reading goes on alphabetically according to the name of authors. Roquentin has some intermittent conversations with the Autodidact. In these conversations, Roquentin mentions how he has travelled the whole world from Asia to the Africas but there is no evidence of this and all this might be happening due to his mental state.

But Roquentin can't write the book with the pace as he would have liked to. Often, in cafes or in the street he is struck by an acute ailment which he calls nausea. This ailment isn't physical, there is something philosophical behind this. Roquentin is in a fight with the whole city. He is irritated by the bourgeois of the city; their superfluous nature. When, on a Sunday, he walks on the streets, he is struck by the crowd of people, their actions and habits that don't ever change. In these periods of nausea, he asks why does he exist? What is existence? He can't help it when every object around him-tree, chair, bird- starts peeling off the layer and shows what's beneath it.  He is driven to think that there is no reason for existence at all. He has attained freedom and might as well end his life and hence the existence. He sees the trees as carrying off their existence as a sign of their weakness, the roots and branches do what they have to do out of their functionality. He says that the trees go on with their existence because they can't end it. He finds everything superfluous and says that the seat on which he is sitting might as well be a dead donkey. He sees people in the cafe and thinks that one of them belongs to the same group as himself. Often he writes about his ex girlfriend Amy , who suddenly sends him a letter to meet her after five years. During their conversation he discovers that he and she think very much alike. Hence, chances are that both the Autodidact and Amy are echoes of his own personality. Roquentin abandons the idea of writing his book and says" He can't write about the existence of past when his own existence is superfluous".

Sartre uses the idea of contingency or randaomness through the fictional character. Roquentin, when under one of the attacks of nausea,  says that under everything that has got a name or which exists, there is a superfluidity. We call the 'tree' a 'tree' because we can't call it a cat or dog. There is a randomness in his own life " I am going out because there is no reason of my not going out ". It ridicules him to see everything in this world carrying its miserable existence, their name; while he can see the absurdity of all this. When he abandons writing his book, he feels there is no reason for him to carry on with his life. He feels a freedom like he had never known before. He sees this randomness as the absence of making choice. He has relapsed into a nothingness. He has found the absurdity of his life.

Sartre ends the novel, when Roquentin decides to leave for Paris but misses his train when he passes out in a hotel of Bouville listening to jazz. He thinks that he has to write a great book, something which goes beyond the mundane existence.

Nausea isn't just a book on existence. It's a book which rekindled the flame of philosophical debates that had been dormant for years now.

How shall i recognise you?

When you do come,
after crossing the oceans,
how shall I greet you?

How shall I recognise you?
On the airport,
among the myriad faces,
the cafes, the hustle,
the glint of greeting somewhere,
the frantic search somewhere else?

(Dear reader,
you are wrong to think that.)
Because this is 17 September,1974.
No mobile phones, no emails.

Just some letters,
hastily written,
the pen bearing your brunt.

No telephone calls either
for I never had a home
nor telephone.

Just some letters
how shall I feel your presence?

I know,
America has changed your handwriting.

But, I shall wait,
till the Boeing slides in the hangar
Till another Boeing
comes from London,
I shall wait, even if,
America has
changed your face.

Unknown Titles 2

I see,
you have become old,
not grown old;
Just become.
Your face is what
but a lump
of crinkles, cracks, crevices.
Something leaks out of it.
Something slimy, clammy, yellowish, demonic.

My eyeballs are stretched
to the limit.
Your torso is visible in the yellow pool.
Does your lower half still possess legs?
Or are you a centaur?
Is this a metamorphosis,
liken to Gregor Samsa?

The liquid reaches my toes
It climbs up my legs.
It has already tinged
me with yellow.
It gains my bodily altitude fiercely
as if my heart houses a magnet
for the liquid.

Your eyes flutter
for an instant.
Something you want to say
but the quick flutter subdued by forces unknown.

Now the cracks have opened wide.
Streams of yellow shored by you.
There is a mirror behind you,
visible through the widening streams and creeks.
I see myself in it,
but not me, not me.
Not yellow,
but red, blood red.
Not cracks,
but holes, widening diameters.

Unknown titles

People, things,
trees, bushes, tentements,
catchments,
Those misshapen mountain
Matted by verdure,
incomplete masterpieces of God.
They lay arrayed on the arid canvas.
The canvas, still present,
waiting for redemption,
in near future
from past's abandonment.

The canvas is strewn
with images
It tests my vision's expanse
Too much to behold,
as I rattle by
Click, click, click, click,
A rhythm beneath my foot
Or wait, listen tactfully
Is it the symphony
purely synthetic,
borne out of iron, diesel and slightly poetic?

Now, descending from heart of this verse,
you have reached its knee
on which it stands, staidly.
What is that tapering serpent in the sky?
Maybe, the iron monk
is breathing out.
The monk pierces the air,
slithers over water, slowly
on its iron mates.

The time, at which its written
is three ceturies
past industrial revolution.
Why now? It's highly unsuitable.
Maybe, I am pastoral
Now that idylls have become soul less
Synthesizers have replaced clarinets
Somethings always return, neverthless.

A poet's room

He sat on the wooden chair
His elbows on the wooden desk in front
The wooden couple
gazed at him, eyelessly
Their eternal wait on his room's floor

They had infected him
As he waited
for the tip of his pen
to sprout a verse on the paper
The tip and paper met
in a insipid touch
No sparks flew, neither the words ejected
No muse appeared, neither did it rain
No providence and nothing divine

Byron lay to his right, Burns to his left
A portrait of Keats, hung behind his back
Their freezed words and faces
mocked him.
All he wanted was Auden's occult
to bring all the bards
back in his roomly congregation.
To enquire about the art of words
How the structures they wrought
How the muses, they found
How the ink, they precluded
from drying in the pen.
How the climes they sought in their works.

No one came.
Nothing written.
All of the room just gazed.
Listening to his breathing.
A shadow elongated on the sheet
concealing his failure
as the sun slipped from the dome.
Who wants the candles?
He wants even denser darkness
Heavier, stronger.
to conceal him from his conscience.

On your ghats, my foot in the sand

I stand at your ghats
Foot deep in the sands
Foot and sand
The link, the knot, the bond
Its all in the sand.

Weaning and Waxing of the nightly fruit
Sometimes he hung high
And I relapsed in a sleep
while you sang your lullaby
At times, periliously close
he came to you
And you raged
your waves high and mighty
trying to eclipse
his coquettish advances
You roared
Slapping islands, overturning masts
Awoke I lay
My foot in sand
Lest I do not face your wrath
You turn your face
Leaving me alone
I am the witness
Standing on your ghats
My foot in the sand
The morning ascends
The sun shooting up
From your bosom
The night's lover
Drowned by morning's glory


The sun reaches the tipping point
From shores unknown
the clouds cover your glassed face
Some jealous sister? Another lover?
Moths flutter in my gut
My foot in the sand
You stayed quiet
Acquiesced to your fate
They pour down
Filled you up to the brim
Teary eyed, Helpless
The sand washed away
Broken is the physical bond
Stronger is our metaphysical love
The flood is your tears
You cry for the parting
Alas! Do not cry.
Fill the streets, the city
Drown the ghats
Drown me in you
Dissolve the sand
Dissolve me
Break me into unintelligible fragments
And spread me
To your deepest corners
And Mightiest crests


For I might not return again
To stand at your ghats
My foot in the sand