My Poetry

Days of Innocence

Today when she met me
after three decades,
she brought with her
a deluge of distant memories —
those days of innocence
when all feeling was love
unalloyed by the desire to possess
or the fear of losing,
all friendship was banter
intended to laugh, not to assess
or fit you into a frame
and describe you in terms of
a configuration of traits,
reducing you
to a formula of adjectives —
“bold but cautious”, “frank but stupid”… et al.

Three decades have changed her
completely
and changed me absolutely,
turning us into cockroaches
that sense with their decades-trained antennas
before taking one step,
and, yet,
when she and I met
we moved back three decades
and bantered and laughed
at the same silly jokes
as if what time changes
is not the personality of the individual
but the way he relates to others.

Death

He who died yesterday
was not me.
Him Death had touched
long ago.
Only the Final Bell
was yet to ring.
He was rotten through and through
even when I met him first, years ago.
Even in that long past
when he spoke
you could smell things putrefying
within him.
I told him so, frankly.
Didn’t mince my words.
“Death is not the thing,” I said.
“It is the way you are dying. “
Bit by bit he fell apart
and as he saw himself disintegrating
and others said,
“Look, how nasty it is to decompose!”
he chuckled
as if to cover up some grief.

Rediscovering Oneself

In my desire to outdo others
I ran and ran and ran
And then, suddenly one day,
I found I had left the world far, far behind
And stood alone on a vast expanse
With no one to talk to, or share —
In a sort of vacuum
Where distant voices
Died before they could reach
And none could hear the scream I gave
To let them know I was still alive.

Then I sat and waited
For others to catch up with me.
And in the wilderness of Time
Where the world’s clock was yet to reach
I was left with no one around
Except my Self.

Me and my Self, left all alone,
Talked for days and weeks and months
And gradually knew each other.
I discovered to my horror
That in my race against time
I had badly trampled upon my Self
And almost killed large parts of it.
I felt contrite and asked forgiveness
And while I waited in the Wilderness of Time,
Me and my Self
Learnt to celebrate our togetherness.

Biography of an Imaginary Miss Universe

She did not lie, but kept her promises
Made before the judges,
As she expressed to a raving audience
How her heart throbs for the poor,
While shadowy crowds silhouetted
Against the dim light of the Pageant Hall
Thundered applause
At her faultless articulation
Of her sublime intent.

She did not lie, but kept her promises,
And shook hands with the
Nose-flowing children in slums,
Danced at lower rates
For Miss-so-and-so’s charity shows,
And finally, when elections came,
Contested and won
To become the first Miss Universe
As India’s Minister for Culture.

If she knows what will succeed
And what will not —
Is it her fault?

Inner Strength

Every seed that falls in a garden
Will likely grow into a flower.
Real strength lies in being a flowery hillock
In the midst of a dry, barren desert.

Khaki

Let not the fine khaki dust
settle in your mind
and clog your thinking.

Khaki is the symbol
that you shall bend
right down to the earth
and lift up those
grounded by the atrocities
of others.

Khaki is a reminder
that, while wearing it,
you are not a person
with human wishes, frailties,
ambitions and prejudices,
but an agent of social order,
fairness and justice.

Khaki should curb
your lowly instincts,
so that the higher virtues
are liberated and flourish.

Let not khaki sink
into your consciousness,
as khaki-coloured dust
that hinders thinking processes,
but become the web and woof
of the all-sustaining discipline
that ensures order
within this chaotic universe.

Khaki, when it follows Truth
gains the strength of a Liberator
not the weaknesses of a Tyrant.