Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Let me go
Let me go
Walking past painted streets
Beneath tired old buildings
Towards greener pastures
Better stories with better endings
Let me go
Write my own fairytale
Bask in the sun’s glory
Drink a couple of tubs of ale
Let me go
Release my soul
From this prison that holds it
Bound by chains of wants and needs
Let it fly, soar
Let me go
I do not want to
But I have no choice
This is not my world
A world of dos and don’ts
This right and that wrong
Let me go
No more bills and paper wads of money
No more saying I can’t or I won’t
No more of you nor me
Destroy me, create something anew
Let me go.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
I had heard about it. Floating rumours, mentioned in party time stories, recollected by aging aunts and frustrated uncles. It was all so unbelievable that you were forced to believe in it as they were. As stories and myths, recreated to entertain children. Make them fee proud of where they belong. But everytime I saw my father, I saw a 60 year old, bald, short, passive educated man. The kind of men who work their asses off their whole lived for the return of nothing. Men brought up on values and ideals so strong that their morals might lay foundations. They are not the kind to fight. To take risks. To do what is right and not what they think is.
My father hobbled up the staircase in the evening. From the first look I knew something was wrong. It was different from the regular tired look that he brought back from a day at the office. He slumped into the chair with a grimace on his face. Wincing as he bent to untie his shoes. He asked my help, and as usual I sighed and made a fuss befor e I did help. As I was taking off the shoe, I noticed the slight bump on his forehead. His shin was blackened too. For a moment I was scared. Fear comes to a man before anger seeps in.And when anger does, your first instinct is to scream. I did.
I asked him what happened. And he narrated the whole story. There was an accident outside the factory. A man was hit by a trailer truck. Men gathered and the factory being located in a village area was soon witness to a mob. My father just happened to be in the area. He intervened as the mob was trying to beat the driver. And because of this reason, the people thought he was a part of the same company as the driver. Before he could explain, he was hit.
I was bloody pissed off. More so, owing to the fact that I was helpless. I asked him if he filed a police complaint. “Yes”. I asked him if he could identify the culprits who hit him “well, I don’t know them personally. Forgot to ask their names, but yes. I do know their faces.” I told him he should not go to office the next day. “NO …You think I’d chicken out like this. It’s nothing.” I asked him if he wanted me to come to the factory.”No thanks. I don’t want to be babysat by my own son.” I was royally angry. I didn’t want ot say a word, but what could you do with someone who is like that.
Later I asked him about the accident. Was the driver known to you? “NO”. Well, was the victim known to you? “NO”. Why in heaven’s name were you hit then? “because I interfered to save the driver and advised to take the victim to the hospital instead of creating a ruckus in the middle of the road.” And why did you have to do that? He looked at me like I was crazy. “There were two men almost dying out there. What would you have me do? Stand and watch!!”
For that moment I saw the stories come alive. I saw why my uncles were frustrated with an idealistic younger brother who did not know when to shut up. I could see why people in the society hesitated to talk to him about society problems. I knew why he hated when I took things too casually. For once, I could see I was wrong. I was happy that I was wrong. And for once, I was proud of my dad.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Eyes have a strange way of talking
Telling magical tales,
They travel continents without walking
In mysterious ways.
But sometimes they are not so pleasant
Fear clouds their sight
Black eyeballs shiver like water currents
Like dead leaves on a windy night.
They looked sad and tired
Running away from a cruel world
A world of hypocrites and liars
Who at her curses hurled
And laughed as they heard her cries.
The eyes, they were filled to the brim
With tears glistening like pearls
Tears that cried out to me
Of hope that failed to swim.
She cried because she was sad
That is all she could do
Everyone called her mad
But that was not necessarily true.
“Am I really mad”, she asked me,
“Just because they think so.
But I cannot be happy
Not with what I know.
I know they hate me,
They hate my bloody guts
They talked in whispered voices
Their gossip drives me nuts.
I was a sane rational being,
Till they began talking to me,
Then I started seeing
What so far I refused to see.
This is the world of talkers,
Of gossipers and wily politicians,
Mean neighbours and meaner stalkers
Meanness is their only mission.
Son, you are far too young
To understand what I went through
You do not know what a name is,
It is much more than you.
You build it by the sweat of your heart,
Mould it gently by your hands,
And smile as you warm its hearth
And gaze longingly as it stands.
But this world, this group of animals
They rave and rant at it,
And drive a hammer through its walls
They bring it down .Destroy it.
Now alone through the streets I walk
‘The lone mad woman’.
Because I refused to join their talk,
Like an old mad woman.”
She took her bag and moved on,
Weaving through the streets
Singing a bad tune, an old song
About a man with two left feet.
And all the while people laughed
While she walked on her path
Children made jokes and scoffed
And women spewed their wrath.
I looked around and saw
Man speaking in two tongues
His eyes wily and glancing
Within them the devil dancing
I saw what the mad woman saw
A dying world talking.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Thursday, April 01, 2010
The pain is a killer
When you cannot speak or cry;
Your heart seems stiller,
But you still can’t die.
Every hour your eyes are open
You feel the darknesss close in
Nothing feels good, no one
Every sound is a noise, a din.
Words struggle to form meaning
The brain is in an intoxicated fury,
Hands smash against invisible walls
That imprisons powerless will,
Voices insinuate and curse
And heart struggles on
Wishing to die every moment,
But too much of a coward
To take its own life.
Oh! The suffering of a mute soul!!
To live and die at the same moments
In excruciating pain.
The pain is the only thing
That feels close to life,
The only source of joy
To a dead corpse,
Something that tells it
It still belongs to earth
It has a life,
‘You are alive,’ says the pain
Till the barbs begin to slowly sink in
Extracting flesh from blood
And a silent scream whispers
Out of tired lungs
To pass beyond the grey sky dome
When the screaming is done
And the blood dries up,
There is nothing left
Nothing that is human.
Except the eyes,
Still staring at faraway dreams
Long dead and