The Happy Wanderer

A thought sparks up in dim light, And wedges past several footstools To transform into a lingering piece. Toadstools bright with color Deck the narrow course  That the thought pursues And impart their color to it. What started out as a little thought With some force, some gumption, Becomes, unknowingly, a poem With  a meaning  That was never intended it, But which it assumes cheerfully. The soul is the thought A little lost, meandering Surfacing through more powerful words.

Miracle we feel you, Happiness rapping at the door When we have less than a few choices, The heart just wishes to soar... Feeling blessed at the beauty of the moment, Not cursed that there aren't more. Miracle we feel you, Singing tremors of the present Encore! 'Tis a miracle we feel ourselves Just content to be right here just now With plenty to look forward to, sure, But with not much to lug in the tow. Not much to compare and weigh against Precious little over which to pine and lament Cartloads to plan and commit over Bearing in mind that the present moment Is the one and the only bright Cover. P.S.: Post-dated poem: This poem was written during the initial weeks of the lockdown, in the light of the bright side of the situation that had suddenly, abruptly, overtaken the world. Just because we're in a storm doesn't mean that the storm can enter our hearts!

It's drizzling. The pecks by a sparrow's moist feet Are trickling down the window Engulfed by tiny water-drops. Like bandits in a forbidden prison, Infamous once, forgotten thence. They add the sharp knock on the pane To their unconscious water-work. As if to cut and saw the glass And then gently heal it with The flow of the whispering water.  A squirrel feels her claws take on  The force of the bark of the Ashoka tree. The brusque bark bristles against her fur And soothes, caressing the irritation That some wild-berry, immobile Inconspicuous- a tiny twig, red fluff Had unwittingly inflicted. As she defeats gravity with the friction Of her claws- she enters the sight Of the birds at my window-sill. The bottom of her eye catches their wink And flits upward. Was that a smile? Oh yes, mild and bashful, but a smile still. Now she has not only herself rolled up But also the corners of her lips. Until a crow almost deafens her ...

Book Title: Gulliver's Travels Author: Jonathan Swift It was the period around the break of the eighteenth century, in pre-industrial Europe. Olden days, nascent notions of science, archaic styles of raiment, poetry, art and prose, the constant tug and pull of the Church with a rebellious public, the state maintaining a subtle but favorable balance between a minuscule chunk of the various deviations made by visionaries from its established codes, dubbing these as the 'manifestation of its progressive views', and the core of its existence, its hegemonic presence. There was a moat between the autocracy's intentions and the public's perception of them, so that the physical moat between the Royal Palace and the towns and countryside was much revered and respected. Or, if I may say so safely, at least to the extent, that a world-renowned book published by a progressive Irish satirist emphasizes his pride for his nation with a great deal of force.  Which made ...

Some pictures remain latent Some jigsaws incomplete Some ideas, still nascent, Some dreams, not replete. Some pathways extend from by-lanes In the old mind's new furrows. Buckling in cobblestone pathways To the edge of a beanstalk Or the end of a rainbow. Some wishes pop into the garden Of a bright day's best face. Juggled by the harrows In the rocky field's edifice. Some actions go a-begging, Some resolutions, snapped in two. While alleyways are opened For fancies, strong-willed and true. And herein, tossing and turning, Wizened passions seethe in the turmoil. Worn and spent and weary, Send their siblings a-churning. The molding execution Under the brunt of persecution Retains her fancy colors And mutters a few curses But no more. Jerked before the threshold Whence dust and work Would dress her down She folds her arms In the deep relief and mild chide Which are the gift Of ignorance.

Cascades of ink splayed over the floor Rustling paper, groaning windows. The pirouette of the calendar as it lifts its chin up, mockingly. And a dull brown table, except for some motivating dishes Which sit upon it alluringly, but impatiently. Ink whisked over yellowing paper An exasperated shadow against the curtain Silhouetted against both fancies and targets. Now the kink the mouse, next the gentle rub of the keyboard Writing what, to whom, and why? An archaic style, a cliched theme, a verbose manner Pole-vaulting on mere morals- 'strong foundations.' Too dangerous, success may run thin There are no listeners, no readers, until the sweat Has gallantly exhausted itself. Reflected against an honest screen Distracted by self, persuaded to leave On the verge, tug of dreams, tug of new words Staying on, leaving reflections bereaved. But why? With no takers, no one who can Read the thoughts in words that you deemed special. No one can ...

My garden has been turned into a bleached landscape. Blanched green, as if an effect had been added digitally. Overwhelming and pungent, the green clouts itself, Billowing against the howling gale, and reaching out to more green. Muting all other colors, which drop to their deaths, Without complaint. Only the green survives, Clinging like a weather-resistant cloth to wood and metal. Some weeping, some chuckling, some creeping  Into the limelight. Some withering, some bowing, With a rain-dew touch that sets them all a-glowing. I hear whispering, and wailing, as well as pining  And complaining. The harsh wind carries all these secrets On the brass strings of its precious instrument. No other Business for today. It's green's day to shine. 

Someone drew out thick black boundaries Claiming that the boundaries drew themselves Around her. It was the black magic Of her intellect, or her physique or  Her creativity- they said. Tipping The fencing with golden slivers And a golden gate, which she was told Would open if it was beckoned by deserving. But that's too much to believe of The girl who lets rainbows  Dance in the solidity of each color. Rainbows can't gallivant in black light, They quivered, shivered and crept away. And she saw only too clearly, the bold Strokes of black that confined her Mercilessly. Her eyes were black With despair. She reckoned something Within her was the artist of black. Voices eager and shallow reiterated Her first instinct. But they were only  Wise and caring to her then. Voices Drawn in self-imposed boundaries Which appeared self-sure, confident To the one who had actually so been. She bore the pain with patience and Toyed with the...

The wings of summer had been botched by humongous rain-clouds, as peals of sunlight remained streaked against the forlorn tapestry of the unknown. The gallows were being opened. The glint of the metal dashed against a pair of chestnut-brown eyes, searing through a horrific melange of paradoxes. Aware, yet oblivious. Cognizant, yet deranged. Willful, yet carefree. Mystic, yet worldly… Those very eyes that had betrayed nothing, that had retained an unnerving state of emotional equilibrium, an eerie degree of poise, had just shed their inscrutability. But with no spectators. They were alone, awake to the realization that an aura of self-composure had just been penetrated. They were free from public scrutiny. But were they free from judgement?   Thoughts swiveled in concentric circles through eyes that could give away as easily as they could shield. The foremost was this: Someone is about to be judged who is completely alien to judgement. That was true. If eyes could dis...

Colors flinging on bare screens Azure washes and magenta tides. A new life being born Crescent strokes and dashed stokes Clement skies, a new world Grey eyes wallowing with New emotions. No one thought that Monochromatic pictures of grey Botches of white and black streaks Could be beauty. The deep grey eyes saw the world In black and white So she created her world in colors And took everyone's word For its godliness. Those grey eyes, soft as velvet Yet as forgiving as wool Held within them a creator's pride And a sufferer's confusion. Our world sees in color But perceives in black and white So some saw one While others saw the other.

Stillness, pressing its feelers On every human being, disregarding Age, metier, disposition, position. Throttling the gay rhythm of our lives, Like the slow purge of virulence that Has been inflicting meditated, painful deaths. Just like a motion picture, when the reel is faulty. One day teeming with life and activity, The next abruptly brought to close, panic Flooding the Earth, uncertainty gripping Every nation, caste, sect, class. As we stood, hand in hand, only metaphorically, A fresh light illuminated our lives, as a quest for Solidarity, unity, surpassed our regular worldly desires. So what if this is a war, but which war could have brought The world on the same stage more than this one? It is a war that will avert real wars in the future. A battle that will forge mutual respect and trust, Curtailing ill-founded sentiments that were brewing, Now forced to beat a hasty retreat, and review The concerns and energies that humankind actually needs. What a Cur...

Look at that young one there, frolicking without a care, Pirouetting through tunnels of chores to the Cove of Pleasure. Basking in the sunlight that casts but a glint on the Lustrous Lake. Fingering the ferns in the Forest of Foes, all easy and ready for combat. Look at that young one, standing joyous and free,  With self-advancement as first priority.  Look at that young one, wishing to tough it out in the Cavern of Opportunities, Wishing to wear off the 'I'm home' look and on the fine brink of success. Her lifelong dream, like a subconscious strain, was to clasp that Torch of Excellence. Which may bring so much light, as to dazzle up the World of Economy To the brink of injuring the eyes. And she cranes towards that dream, jostling through the Measly Maze of Competition. But how far does the Light of Luminous Lasers spread its wings Does it reach the homes of others, a victor in its reach? Or is it merely a victor in its intensity? An i...

Got the song in my head, Running like a cassette, And I feel my wings spread out wide.. Got the breeze in my bones, It's keeping me going, As I feel the pulse just coursing..( coursing) Where did you go, that voice of mine, Playing levels of tricks inside..( inside) Where are the miracles you make? Where are the chances you take? Are they just throttled, choked up, In that throat of mine? ( mine ) All effusion which could become me, Just stays within, hoping to be free.. Hoping to be free.. Long days, tired hands, but the spirit can stand The test of time, it's running away with me, But it just coughs up within, not ready to be free. Not ready to be free.. So you think I am shy, Well, that's a strange epithet, Because I'll own I'm not shy enough To keep my dreams to my chest.. I will let them all soar in the sky, Making a rainbow up so high, I can hear myself speak but the voice just Stays inside. You can try all you want, Beckoning it...

Does silence speak? Does she command your attention. Does she demand of you, "Listen, if you want to be heard." And yet we cannot deny that she has a voice. A voice singing all day, longing for some attentive listener, That poignant voice, untouched, unfazed,  That has wept, chuckled, smiled, In such angelic solitude as not to be solicited by all, A voice so rare, it escapes notice, Except to be called,  The Sound of Silence. A voice that belongs to an earnest chatterbox, Which is so alien to us that it does not elicit attention. A voice that can carry us to distant places, Distant by means but not by fancy, Can we fish out our gadgets and tune into her frequency? Can we train ourselves to discover what may surface once We have cajoled that godly modesty? Yes, it's possible, but what can she have to say? What is it one feels when silence speaks? What is it one hears when she beckons? What is it one has to don to hear her? Her voice ...

Give me the perfect birthday gift, That I can unravel in solace, The morning after you have departed, Without the slightest trace. The wrapping-paper bright as a gemstone, The ribbon smooth as velvet-silk, The address complete and sweet as ever, And not a mere cursory word to my ilk. The insides cushioned with foam, The gift betokened in a box. The box of cardboard, wood, or marble, Each a notch better, but stay away from glass. So I take my cutter, seize my scissors, Place the address under a paper-weight, Gently unwrap your efforts with an effort, To equal your ablutions great. As the cutter gently penetrates the seams and tapes, I feel my curiosity surging, my heart pounding, And la! There's the brown cardboard box, Neatly sealed to prolong my hopes, hold my dreams aloft. Then I gently cut through the packaging, preserving every piece, Discover a bubble-wrap but let the inevitable temptation abate, Rub my hands, pat myself over my recent handiwork, A...

Embarrassments, Are inevitable; they bring out the joy in dignity, The pride in stoicism, the charity of clarity. So let us pick moments, That confer this indefatigable joy on us, And dwell on them with much primness. We don't want to create another such moment. Rule Number 1: Embarrass yourself, if You have to,someone. Let people talk about you in any strain, Let them cast on your character any refrain. While you eavesdrop silently, gulping down anger, Rather than reappearing valiantly to embarrass the stranger. Rule Number 2: Let them praise you, duly and unduly; When unduly, keep denying the praise, When duly, also, keep denying the praise, The second seals the bargain, it's the cream on the cake. Smile, blush, assent at the end, It will severe rather than make amends. Rule Number 3: When you intend to praise someone, Just stop short at the most ill-timed moment, and Temper your compliment into a casual remark, Smooth and cool as the Niagara Falls! ...

My hands were trembling, My lips quivering, My eyebrows twitching, My eyelids flitting. I felt the basketball push against my palms, And slither down the court. I felt my dialogues dance over my lips, And then run riot. I felt my brain ambush the answers, But the answers seized my brain. I felt a bold rush of assertion, Which diminished in my veins. I felt so much that words were unjust to my emotions. I felt guilt purge my stead, anger stall my gait, Embarrassment fish out the bait, Panic moisten my skin, regret dampen it cold. I felt uncomfortable being myself, I felt the need to metamorphose. I dreamed the dream of molting a new leaf Over all my shortcomings. I cursed myself, I may have cried, But then I took myself to court over that outburst. Who's the prosecutor, who's the defendant? Who's the whipper and who's the snap back-er? Who's waging the attack and who plans to bounce back? Are there two, or does one do both? Because I felt ...

I am ‘Stereo-Type’. And that’s where I begin Living up to my name. I am the type that runs in stereo. Until someone finds another friend of mine. Who, by accident and coincidence, Happens to go by the same name. What is it when you know that your picture, The picture that descends in display to the world. Hides behind your masterpiece, An understatement hoping to be unfurled. It’s ME. You tell the world, through words and all else, All that you aspire to make the world believe. You create me, You nurture me. You repeat the refrain, and I grow vain, You make the clamoring millions see me. But it’s nature’s command, that only thou shall see, Right through all your make-believe. You play my card through and through, By going on being what you think the world approves... Oh! I feel used! But I thrive on it, Yes, I thrive on it. I am your public face, Your ambient masquerade. How powerful you are through me! And yet as powerle...

Who is that young maiden, Whose face I see plain, Washed and touched and dimpled, By the summer rain. Whose hand is it that extends, To catch a sampling of the Sun, But ends up instead with little rainbows, Trapped and caught to stun? Whose eyes are those which twinkle, Like little stars in a sand-clock old, Wings of the whole world’s sorrows, Bells of bronze and gold. Who is the young dainty lady, Who can carry a smile so bold, When grief is being pelted at the dimples, That the summer rain beholds.

Joy is free, To roam the gardens, trespass on grounds, And have a jolly good time. We complete the picture, and it glistens with the touch of joy, That each jigsaw piece lends it. Joy is unflavored, not ornamented by some chemical and medicinal remedies. Raw is the joy that is born of several fixtures that just need to be there. And so it shines in its own purity. Joy is when I bite my tongue in worry about how long you've been downstairs, Only to have you plunge indoors with an apology written all over your face. Joy is when I can reprimand you and thank God for you at the same time, Joy is when you pester me with your demands, when you whine and dissent, And I either concede, or stay rigid, unwavering, For joy is both, as joy is just you. It is all the many reminders that you're around, happy or wistful. You flinch at my errors, you laugh at all I don't know, And I thwart any upper-handedness by playing bad-cop. How lucky am I to turn...

We exchanged our poems, Which had been penned, scratched and blotted On single-lined notebook paper. I gave mine, she handed hers over, I smiled, she did too. Then we turned our backs to each other, Sunken in the glory of the words Of another. Nodding, in appraisal and beaming in pleasure, Perusing over some words and etching others in memory.  Marveling at the theme, visualizing the setting, Approving of the many characters, nodding at a monologue, Laughing if the effect was comical, brooding if airs were wistful, Then turning to face each other, running this play of emotions Through a single expression plain to decipher. Then a nod, which exclaimed, "How well we do understand each other!" Slightly ruffled, turning away with grace, Only to gnash our incisors in chagrin. I'm thinking, "Oh, how good is this poem, how well does she write!! It'll earn her worldwide acclaim." And then, "She must have found my piece ...

"How much further are you going tuck yourself into the shawl, Sammy?" A pause. The whoosh and wailing of the winds that roamed so often in the dusk. Then a muted reply, "As far as I can go for the shawl to take my original place." The voice was soft, trembling in the tormenting gales of winter, but firm. Oh, steely firm. And I knew that smile. That mischievous smile that had been blanketed by the chap's own strong will. I couldn't see it then, but I knew it was dancing away at its own will without an audience. "So what's the plan? Going to shirk all week long? Going to hide like a frightened mouse till the coast is clear?" "That is the plan." I heard a faint tremor of excitement in his voice. The fireflies chirped and I started. Normally, I would simply have said, "Well, I leave you to your own gloom', but there was something in his tone of voice that made me sit up bold upright, and inquire, "Tell me all about i...

Peacefully the world lumbers Dreams en-castled in its toils, Like a fortress under siege, Quivering, galloping, surviving The harsh torments of weather and grain. Which knight is to know the dreams nestling In hearts that confound themselves whenever a leap Is made for the aspirations that they shelter. Are they not quenched, drop by drop, by those reprimands? No, they are not, and no knight, soldier or warrior is to know. For the perspiring hands brave themselves through all else Their fingers burnt under the light of their own ambitions, Their hearts bled till completely parched. Their faces blackened by the soot that has no bearing On their aspirations. Are we not like these brave-hearts under siege? How many times have we marveled at prominent personalities? Our attempts to emulate them embroiled with their own Share of triumphs, bittersweet like chocolate, Follies, tangy like the best oranges. Disappointments, sour like the most acerbic line of a teacher, ...

Hands on my eyes, I walked through the tunnel That fate willed should impose itself On the bandanna-laced lady. Pitch black was the tunnel but no embers Could the cloth that filmed my eyes give way to Even when the Sun smoldered in all fierceness. I was blinded but free. For options I had few, amounting to none, Walking straight ahead, unwavering, stolid, I'd put all my stakes on that one. And poured in it all trust and hope, That warmth which the friction of the greatest Ambitions, hopes, dreams, fancies, fantasies, Only could kindle in the absence of luxury, In  confrontation with a waft of all the tribulations That life could hand out; but I was faced with none, Just with a gripping uncertainty that fettered all doubts, Because it heralded the most colossal trepidation.. I was blinded but free. Free from pangs of hesitation, tremors of fear, Blinded by the power of belief, Because I knew, that the tunnel was corked From the light by my apprehensions. So ...

A phrase that has been haunting us for a year, at the minimum, has been 'Board Exam'. Take my word for it, unarguably, it has been doing so for generation after generation, and, for as long as the Earth remains the only habitable planet in our Solar System, it will continue to, unfortunately, do so. We who stand at the threshold of this perilous festival (by anywhere between a year and a day) should plaster it onto our foreheads, in big, bold, black letters, "BOARD EXAM," so that nobody questions our morose faces, our sunken spirits, our listless behavior.  And everyone leaves us alone, to-be-warriors, immersed in our carnival preparations.  Of course, we need some encouragement. A few inquiries to pamper our morale. A few prods to sharpen our swords and pledge to surrender all else before the enormity of this mighty war.   So people keep asking us to give them pedas after we triumph. This battle is like no other that we have fought. The countless other vic...

We are all stranded in our homes, our doors are pseudo-barricades. No, it's not winter. At least not in the Northern Hemisphere. The sun is beating down on our gardens, roads, shops, parks, schools, malls, but there's no one to capture its glint, no one to warm their minds and hearts with its warmth, no one to perch hats on their heads and film their eyes with cooling glasses. The people are at home. And the homes are cool, for the most part, but if your A.C. is out of repair, you can't get anyone to repair it into working order. Because the repair people are also at home. Are they dodging work? I wouldn't say that. Is it a welcome break? Nope. But it certainly is a break called for, necessary, vital, absolutely essential. So we're working at home. And those who have been given summer breaks, or had them already, the kids, are working too. Not necessarily on their studies right now, for they deserve the break; they're chipping hard at their self-contro...