Today, the morning is late

Today, morning,

Is not like every other morning –

Today, the morning is late.

 

But we understand –

We know it can happen sometimes.

We will wait.

 

We know who to blame.

Or maybe we don’t.

We have our suspicions, but we are silent.

 

The morning maybe sulking,

But it will come.

It cannot die. Can it?

 

We can learn how to live

Without light.

We are used to living with less.

 

But the morning will come soon.

It is only late today.

It cannot die.

 

***

Words

Leave the words out in the sun

To dry;

Let their moisture be suck’d out

Let their texture be rough,

Weather’d.

.

Words will need a hard skin

To survive;

To face the heat

Of your apathy,

Your scorn.

.

Hide the words when they are young

Tender, innocent;

Wear them

After they die,

Like mink.

***

The Great Democrat

He always has a smile ready

Has that son of a gun –

And has a tear or two to spare

For the funerals.

 

He loves his people

And all that belongs to them –

He is their father and teacher

Rolled into one.

 

He is the greatest democrat

He has never lost an election –

Why, when people want to vote

He lets them give him two.

 

His wisdom is unsurpassed

All respect his legal mind –

And when the law fails to serve

He helps the lady blind.

 

A protector, a defender, a nationalist

He is the scourge of the enemy –

And the way he is a-going

In an year there won’t be any.

 

His name will be writ in history

(To that the History Department will see – )

He will set right the ancient wrongs

And set the country truly free.

 

The papers are full of his praise

As they should, for he does no wrong –

And the schoolchildren are glad to study

His autobiography.

 

And that his good work may not go waste

He teaches and prepares –

His wife and sons and daughters

With due care.

 

***

An Ode to Greed

We want more,

And more, and more…

 

How would this poem sound

If I added, “and more”

A few hundred times more?

 

Never mind;

The fact remains

We want more,

And more, and more…

 

***

 

Rumi

Life is fire,

And hatred

And passion,

And desperation-

Life is not lived

With calm reasonableness.

 

The stillness of mind

Reason and balance

The shadowy peace

Of the quiet lake

Hides death, or,

Maybe, something else.

 

Let Rumi talk of love

And peace

And of miracles

Of faith – 

We shall ask Rumi of all that

When we die.

***

A long wait

In the death clutch of life

Hating love with all tenderness

Defying reason with passion

I live on.

 

Imprisoned within my ‘self’,

But free from loyalty or location

Driven, greedy, insecure,

I live on.

 

Waiting for the ‘sign’

And doubting reality

With the devotion of a fanatic,

I live on.

 

Never letting a moment

To linger long in memory; filling

The void with phantasms

I live on.

 

Brutally banishing beauty

And rain and rainbows;

Embracing the scorching desert sand

I live on.

 

All dawns are the same

All nights imposters –

Waiting for the true morn,

I live on.

 

***

I wish I were

I wish I was

Substantial, material

Solid, tangible…

Someone I could understand

Relate to, or

Describe.

 

I wish I was

Talented, or a duffer,

Rich, or poor,

Handsome, or ugly,

Brave, or a coward,

Successful, or a looser,

A leader, or led…

Or had any quality

That can be safely attributed

To what I call

Me.

 

I keep seeing

Different people

In the mirror – faces

That keep making faces.

I know for sure, I am not

The image that stares back

Like an actor

That forgot his lines.

 

The exact point in the universe

Where I seem to be,

Never leaves me;

I wish I knew

If this coordinate

Is a mathematical abstraction

To prove to someone a point, or,

A myth

Or my hallucination.

 

I only know this for sure,

Nothing exists in the vacuum,

Nothing that is substantial

Or unchanging,

In the space

That I call

Me.

 

***

 

The house that moved in

I was surprised to notice

That the old wall that used to stare at me

– When depressed –

Has moved into my new home

In my new city.

 

But then, it is just not the wall

That has moved in.

The entire house

– the house that I left behind –

Has crept in. Surreptitiously.

 

I notice that the corner,

Where I used to put my long chair

To read, has now occupied

The best part of the drawing room

And sits there, calm and confident.

 

The old shoe rack and the bookshelf,

And the grim portraits

Of unknown ancestors,

And all the other useless relics

Seems to have been dragged in by the old storeroom.

 

This storeroom, of my old house,

Has quite a personality. It collects

Memories, like cranky grandmothers do.

It used to accuse me, I remember,

Of ignoring it – which I did.

 

The storeroom has now moved into

The big, sunny guest-room;

I do not know if it feels itself

To be a guest in this new house

Or just wants more importance.

 

The happy, creaky door

That doesn’t shut properly,

And the windows that don’t open easily,

And the tap that loves music,

And the garden-hose that lies coiled

Like a serpent in the sun,

And the small red bicycle

That is cheerfully waiting for me

To turn young and ride it again,

And…

 

Oh, the entire old house

Has moved in quietly, unbidden, uninvited,

And with a confidence that says –

“I will not leave you

Till you die

Whether you like it,

Or not.”

 

***

May Day Rally

 

The sullen faces

with red flags

and red shirts

totter slowly

towards the park

for the may day rally.

 

 

Thousands of sullen faces

some with children

on their shoulders

trudge along,

braving the sun

and thirst.

 

 

The call is given

to shed fear and unite

and be free; promises

are given and taken

to make the world

a paradise.

 

 

The sullen, tired faces

totter back to their shacks

for tomorrow is not

a holiday; the huge iron gates

and the smoky chimneys

look glum, waiting for them.

 

 

And they all wait for the day

when the promises

will be kept

and the children grow

and not be fearful

and for the elusive paradise.

 

***

The valley of flowers

The lonely valley

Was bathed in a riot of colors

Just after the rains.

 

The flowers bloom,

After the rains, every year,

In this desolate land.

 

The dance of beauty

The colors and fragrance

Are for the bees and the moths.

 

I gasped –

‘Such a waste

Of beauty!’

 

A little yellow flower

Asked-

‘Was the world created,

Do the flowers bloom,

Do the peacocks dance,

Do the rainbows happen,

Do the stars twinkle,

Do the waves splash

For you?’

 

I returned

From the valley of flowers,

Lonely and silent.

 

***

 

((The valley of flowers is in the North Indian state of Uttaranchal in the Himalayas.))