The moving finger writes.............

The cottage stood by the sea, at the far, distant end of a lane which led from the main road, which further connected to the National Highway that led to Mumbai, the city of bright lights and big dreams. It had a wicket gate leading to a small thatchet garden. The house itself was a small, one-storeyed building of brick and wood with a tiled roof (as was the norm in this part of the country) and barricaded windows with Venetian blinds tightly drawn at all times of the day. The construction was surprisingly Victorian, as if an Englishman had lost his way and decided to settle down in this part of the country. To complete the illusion, the house even had a chimney, which had never functioned, but nevertheless gave passersby a reason to turn around and look at the house. The house was painted in a dark shade of gray, which made it look even more forbidding, especially during the winter season, when the small patch of greenery in front of the house would change its colour from green to...

(Pune, 2011) There were stars the other day When I was walking down the road, Crossing the bridge that led Over the river that runs nearby. Stars that shone down upon this place That I now call my home. Home is a difficult expression; The definition keeps changing, Like the arrow of a compass That travels North, East, West, South. As I have travelled, and stayed Across this country. Evening by the river Hooghly, Another time, another place. We sat down watching the Bridge in the distance As the falling sun played Its colours over the horizon. Peripatetic city- celebrations, grief, love, betrayal, Wrapped in the miasma Of festivals, processions and life. We watched from the café as life went by In Calcutta. Cut to another time, another place, Torrential rains, Roaring waves of the Arabian Sea, Hills in the distance. And the Netravathi river winding through The edge of Mangalore. I sat and watched the scene From th...

( 2010-11- Mumbai / Kolkata / Delhi/……Anywhere) The clock strikes twelve- Happy New Year! Traffic and bright lights; fireworks fill the sky- Pubs and hotels, enjoying the moment; Drunken men and carefree lasses, Living it up in the alleys, asking for more. And while the merry goes on, Asking for a better year that softens the wrath, The ragged child on the pavement turns over, Mutters and goes back to sleep. HAPPY NEW YEAR. There’s a cold wind blowing- “cold wave” this year; “But, Comrade, do you feel the cold?” “No, I am busy polishing off my Red Wine.” “Comrade, were you there when the bombs struck The procession last month?” “What a question….it was time for my afternoon siesta!” Comrade is happy, he does not feel the cold; Neither does that old wizened woman in the corner - Grief numbs the cold-her son was bombed to death last month. HAPPY NEW YEAR. The “happening” party, clubhouse, drinks on the rocks; There’s an Ukranian ...

( Delhi , Winter, 2010) Foggy, unreal city, Night at day. The sunrays have bid goodbye, The moist air strikes the skin Like a cold sabre. Dark, shrouded characters Seen through the haze; Scurrying crowds, Hurrying in the mist. The spark of a welder At a construction site; Fire meets water. Dimmed lights glow Inside cavernous buildings. Fog lights of passing vehicles Cut through the haze; Dust rises from the wheels, Mixes with the fog And forms a cumulus. The white, moist cloud Flies around buildings, Nuzzles across window panes; And thus having made its journey, Quietly hangs fluttering Like a bat from the trees. Mist rises from the water, And hangs above the frothy canal; The cold wind blows From the snowy, distant north. Huddled by the roadside, Freezing limbs are warmed by Blazing fires. Foggy, unreal city, Night at day; Life goes on.

( 2010) She lies listless On the hospital bed; Dull grey eyes Search for a flicker of life On a dusty landscape. Does she remember How it all begun? Darkness envelops A hospital ward, And a wolf crouches Steadily towards its prey. A sudden lounge; The wolf has struck; A man from the shadows Who’s laid her low. What’s this excruciating pain Around the neck? The fangs have tasted blood. Her eyes dim, The world closes out, The claws of darkness descend; And a benefactor Is violated. The wolf walks away And joins the crowd. Crying shame, “progressive” nation; She lies there today. Ages have passed; She prays for death. (For Aruna Shanbaug, Mumbai- the victim of a ghastly and brutal rape 37 years back, who is alive today in a vegetative state while her perpetrator roams free)

(Near Delhi, 2010) Chasing the sun On a hot, windy afternoon, Amidst the rising and falling hills At the edge of the city. The rising buildings- Embryos of a new megapolis, The rocks that were cut out To breathe new life into the millennia. The silent forest, That greeted men from times unknown. Black smoke from chimneys; The sun sets behind the Aravallis In a haze of crimson red. A lone temple holding its own on the hilltop, The flag of religion blows in the wind. Leaving the city behind, The metalled road cuts through the hills- Towards an unknown new destination. It’s evening now; The procession of two-eyed metal monsters Cuts across the hills, Lighting up the road. Silhouttes of trees against the darkening sky, The plains fade away in the distance; A solitary star keeps vigil from above. I move on Somewhere, someplace else.

(2009) I stood by the sea, where the waves were lapping The trees were napping, on the distant shore. The last rays of the sun left a golden haze The closing minutes promising the morrow more. It was here he had stood, lapels flapping Drenched in the saline winds of the shore. It was here he had stood, and here he had fallen Till we found him once no more. The winding road that comes quaffing The palm trees that ring the marine shore. Saw him as he went down And came back no more.