Untold Combats...!

Unchiselled as a child's pointless search;
my solitary remains, you jagged stones;
that my frantic hands lock quietly away;
from the unholy eyes of glinting barrels;

and i see them faces, rain down gently;
to beckon our bruised and fancy palms;
as time pauses to see how life passes;
from hands to hands and eyes to eyes;

their faces, anon as the mirrors discreet;
some obscured, whileas others discrete;
Like the deathknock, like a divine tap;
an appointment at the haywire address; 

since absorbing into hideous faces achromate;
and lying still thus, all across the pavement;
in solidarity, with the noble warm red;
flowing gently away, from the faces to be;

how noble were the lips, when they lied;
to the doting eyes of a restless mother;
how devotional the heart that pretended thus;
to believe in the limber squeeze of a son's palms; 

So Lord does bask, as angels pay tributes;
to heavenly tomb of these martyred hands;

A Sure Plea...!

Lying littered with nascence, so much fettered with demise,
why this untraced grave of life still a surprising surmise?!

A dazzle of broken promises and an apparition of dreams,
Dancing across the gleaming embers of your silent screams

With all the shore-ward rage and the shores nowhere onshore,
did I watch myself flourish a thousand years and many more?!

For all that I'm not being, is everything save the reality,
for all else I'm Being, represents everything, but the Dream

To exist in myself is to languish in the smoulders of desire,
to live is to thrust oneself into the raging fire of requiem

Would the dread of chancing upon you enliven my intrepid soul,
my heart and being would be woof and weft to this holy scheme

Just put off these embers aflame, choke down your mute scream,
as I dazzle in your broken promises, as I become a shaded dream...!

Stony Thoughts

In a place where humanity is sandwiched between the endlessness of physical oppression and the dead-ends of psychological suppression, it is hard to give form to one’s expressions, leave alone addressing the question of as to how to find deliverance.

This question has long pestered me, in that, either I have to frame my answer in terms of so called moderate, progressive & enlightened set of didactics or in terms of violent, militant, belligerent ideological perspective smokescreen put before our eyes. And to top it all, either way I am relegated to extremism, which, in current times is a vicious thing to get tagged with, however glamorous it may seem. Thus, I am left with no option as an option and no choice as a choice.

Mind is a restless dog, it keeps on barking, till either it dies or ends biting what unsettles it. But that applies to the normal dogs, strays and pets included. Unfortunately, there is a third type too, the ones which are confined in open spaces, tested, doctored, drugged, illtreated, pampered as and when suits the hunters. They portray a wonderful picture of what otherwise the golden words of Gertrude Stein composed, “Everything is so dangerous that nothing is really frightening”. The only exception in our case is that it is dangerously frightening.

The answer, if this is taken to be one, made me wonder as to how shall the (state) guns fall silent, when ironically their reckless booming has constitutional sanction, which in our times is a global epidemic. Somehow the voices inside my head bailed me by shouting out, that, these can be made silent only if you have bigger, better canons, not the cannon fodder only. Not that I don’t care for human life, I do, to the extent that would love to give away my own in order to save another one’s. I might sound senselessly paradoxical, but that is exactly what I was made to breathe in, gulp down, grow up along and live with-paradoxes. In my homeland even paradoxes can go by contraries. Given the atmosphere that I live in, I cannot be principled and upright, because firstly the moment I try to be, the despotism will make it sure that I am the only mute spectator to my own cold murder and secondly, my red hot blood will certainly inspire my fellow brethren to get killed bare bodied rather than being alive with this absurd cloak of Uprightness. And forgive me I am not so great a soul to be ready to undergo such persecution. I am a usual person with unusual responsibilities to shoulder just as every one of you has to, it’s the one me that adds up to billions of you.

In this terrible standoff between me the common man and I a duty bound principled person, that my oppressor has successfully put me in, I am exposed to nothing but annihilation either of my conscience or of my being. These intrinsic sentiment oriented reflections of mine are no less significant than the external reality face, because both of them in essence are borne of a sense of fear, threat, oppression, vulnerability, intimidation and helplessness. I feel just a bullet away from having nothing to lose, and when I arrive at it, I might consider the option of “Similia similibus Curantur”.

You may think of me as a weird irrational person who has lost touch with sanity, because in your world work and happiness largely fill the spaces of your available time, but my world has been filled with gloom, redundancy, desperation, death and destruction. Moreover, I can hardly afford to keep a dog who must bark at my oppressive intruder, I have to do it myself. Even after changing the tactics and altering my strategies, the only thing worth that I realised was that enemy and bullshit remain perennially unmodified

Now coming back to the question in question, It was only after some long sessions of ponderings and deliberations with myself, I had found a possible enclosure to drown my confused, mangled agony in, and I did pour it out there, only to find it turn into a stone in my hand, which I unhesitatingly hurled at my oppressor, not to hurt him, just to kill him right-away, to make him understand what it is like being in a consistent state of pain & sorrow. Adversely, his eyes seem to be as dark and hollow as the barrel of his gun through which he shoots death at me. Thus the answer continues to evade and appear in fits and starts, playing hide and seek with my already blindfolded humanness. As of now, with this thought knocking hard at the morose walls of my numb heart, I neither feel sad or happy, nor accomplished or botched. How soon will this feeling transform me needs to be seen. But transform I will, as long as the spirit of resistance replenishes my being, as long as I am alive. Is not the life itself a sole humongous reflection of perennial struggle and strife, was not I taught that contentment is death disincarnate.

Is it possible for me to reverse the way my thoughts process. Maybe yes, only if I can fix them around the triangular ambit of Past, Present and Future. Yet when I try to attempt the same, I don’t find any triangle, rather it is just the present chasing and scuffling with the past and the future trying to restore the calm, and this orgy goes on circling around with me at its centre. Caught in between this ruckus, I can neither concentrate on the variance without nor focus on its implications within. But why at all should I be so curiously poking my nose in such a hotchpotch, didn’t they keep saying, Curiosity killed the cat and truly so. I am not an Alexander having a million strong army and an endless treasury at my command. I am just another common average man having a lot to fend for, and be responsible for. I have to secure my career, look for sustenance, help my parents, look after my personal and family interests, get married, raise children, feed them, and educate them so they can be a succor in my old age. However, what if after investing so much in me, my parents, my family and the children who I've already started to feel as my respite in my fading days, what the very if, one fine morning or golden evening my children are delivered unto my frail arms, all bloodied and sullied, with the same cold stone locked in their palms that now is staring me in the eye.

The thought yet again renders me blank & dizzy, only these words ringing all inside all around:

“Don’t play for safety – it is the most dangerous thing in the World.”.

Affluence of Naught

He had nothing in possession, that would suit as an offering to the Lord, nothing save the very departing autumn leaf, the sole treasure that kept him breathing, the only throb for whom he came running to Almighty, as though the supplication of one dying, as if a desperate child with a cherished toy in his little hands about to be snatched. All he asked for was nothing, save the fellowship of this autumn leaf, which had seen him through his travails, being unawares. He prayed to his Lord to be bestowed with the ability to disdain all the fruits save the shade brought forth from the propinquity of this leaf.

While being the prayer personified, he wished his blood to be the brook keeping afloat his autumn leaf through winters of abeyance, till they both entered the sanctum of wilderness, till the seasons of love once dead in spring resurrected into an eternal autumn, of flowers drenched in the unfulfilled dew of felicity, of the fruits of desire and crops of penury washed to purity by the rains of sacrifice, of bare earth welcoming the snow, the shroud to all malice stranded in its bosom.

That day, his prayers were greeted by deafen Lordliness, detached from the servant nonetheless committed to the servitude. That day, Almighty looked like a sigh withheld, about to do away with the thumping void of His contrariety and replete substitutes that He so looms upon.

That day, the servant felt like a dole, all tears in the ruthlessly kind palm of love, waiting to bring forth a deluge that would submerge all coincidences along-with their haughtiness, everything conniving to adulterate this sanctified nothing.

That day, he was not afraid of the turbulence of the tryst turning into a whirlpool and engulfing him deep down into the unfathomable folds of nothing.

That day, the stillness of his flickering existence left him thumping and dancing to the humming breeze of obliteration, flowing from the coves of sacred madness and back unto the refuge of nothing.

That Day, he felt like the other end of the distant shore storming up the ocean, to reach through this upheaval, its very own other half, pining somewhere beyond the ever evasive horizons, he craved to defy the emptiness, bring down the skies yet ended up being taunted by the sunset embracing the darkness of nothing.

That day, he felt being a seed, sown in the soil of nothing, rising from and into nothing, clothed in the leaves of nothing, no fruit adorned his branches save a yield of madness, thriving under the sun of nothing.

That Day, the only flame that kept him burning, was borne from the smoulders of his definitive dreams, instilling in him a desire for going up in flames of forgetfulness and coming down like ashes in remembrance of nothing.

That day, his agony laughed out loud, not mocking the sacred loss, rather in celebration of having perchance found the treasure, for which the wayfarer became a journey into nothing.

That day, his eyes were not blinded by the sight of bland contentment, the visions of renunciation held him enthralled, so did the amply ceremonious blankness of nothing.

That day his eyes didn't feel home in the warmth of tears, for there was not a drop to be summoned, nor even the very eyes which had left him seeking the blindness, just able to behold a silhouette of the lantern with a quivering flame burning away at the threshold of nothing.

That day, all he felt was a clamouring numbness, as pristine and as searing as the snowflakes, snowflakes riding on the back of a mute rage, lashing against the bare emptiness of his skin, as furiously as the same holy madness that stormed his heart with a tempest of nothing.

That day, his unbecoming frame looked like a purple and fading shade of an aspiration gone wrong, his shadow though roaming like a wanderer along the contours of his end, the beginning of nothing.

That day, both the ends of the shore felt conjoined, in the warps of separation, in the wefts of some distinguished suffering. That day, their strange feelings purified them off each other's awareness, the very ignorance in disguise. That day, theirs was the consummation in nothing.

Thus that day came to an end in nothingness and he felt at ease with his own infinite distress, he stood prostrating, delivered from the burden of his soul as someone paid for his deliverance with a random tear and thereto revived his choked spirit with a haphazard sigh.

Eyes still closed, he felt a piece of yarn held close in the recess of his heart, a warm tear rolled down from his empty gaze, he ran to the rooftop, flung open the window, buried his hands in the snow, As he felt the chill leave his hands, the sudden thought of a tattered mitten tore his heart to shreds, the shreds becoming one with the piece of yarn.

The Holy Numbness

Isn’t it within the expanse flowing betwixt us;

where we lie afloat, absorbed, as a revelation;

absolved of the riddle of our scorched personas;

banished unto a conjugating sense of desolation;


no enigmas separate me from you, you the veil;

that is casted on my senses, just to cleanse me;

of all comprehension, that fills this holy void;

whose only purpose just to enshrine your madness;


the moment a drop of divine mercy, granted to us;

in lieu of the sea that broods inside your eyes;

and a tormented trickle that flows out from mine;

we permeate by it on the wingbeats of our sighs;


our separation, sustained in the womb of reality;

is the very child about to be delivered unto us;

we will feed it with our fears, with our despair;

and let it grow into a dream wherein we flourish;


mirror of longing you know is such a solitary canvas;

refuses any brushstroke save of the silence of heart;

and when it cracks in the hopestruck faces and breaks;

hope bleeds through its feet, the hand wipes off life;


we just the endpoints of a journey, of a possibility;

gateways to the wilderness of love, the tomb of loss;

for whatever is delivered in the communion of nothing;

is too sacred for desire to attain and apathy to know;

Arrival

Streets lying defeated aside their very nature of oblivion;
each way, as unremitting as longing, as pointless as gypsies;
offers the straight fickle stretches, an escape into drudgery;
a glazed topple, returned apropos, to all perpetual tramplers;

Streets of denial thus awash with the footprints of desire;
and shopkeepers selling but their very fancied deprivations;
to clueless emptors who only know to pay with their wishes;
wishes letting roads turn into a curt palliative miscarriage;

If only the dead heart of firm cold asphalt in its stoppage;
could draw from the flaming motility of aching uneasy soles;
whose only succor lies in enduring the heavy flux of void;
of the hushed white sun held captive by a lorn puddle of hope;

Almost to be delivered into the vacuous grave of fruition;
Like a blotted mire breaking through the still cracks of time;
the terminal void of sky, a mute witness, letting it pass by;
perpetual bounds of nascent stories enduring the coma of trial;

As these sulky amiss lines on the otherwise perfected palm;
like keys glued back to the very monolith of body of locks;
coldly tracing all the farce back to the regretful empty gaze;
unlike the ablaze moon's vain lay to a baffled morning star;

Destitute at the corner, his own musing of the wronged dream;
turbulently assaying to coax his vigilance to the drab sleep;
whereof the watchman pokes him up into another bout of doubt;
into his own begging bowl like moss on the sidewalks of being;

Wrinkles on his palms lift themselves up to embrace the eyes;
eyes not for whatever they behold, yet only for the very sake;
that his vision is a silhouette in the horizons of his sight;
shrine to a desirous road and the journey pregnant with fright;

His heart an undying fright, yet a peculiarity for passersby;
a mere postcard of a face, a clown that amuses their hearts;
the face, now become a journey to the next obscure milestone;
inn for hearts which only pulsate and never throb with love;

The battered but firm clogs, only pillow to his dreamy skull;
loyal solace to his tired eyes for they are the only cushion;
ardently guarding his discourteous desire to be a mere nomad;
away runs everything from him, he merrily into his own nothing;

The Flicker

Tonight, my beloved, your eyes
Are no more a succour,
What is aflame inside your bosom?

The same smouldering clod?
Which in vain you tried to wipe off
Off your forehead!

Why is it then your hands are so cold?
Your arms too, is that the stars, far & many?
Hold my hand, it is a lump of ice, did you know?

I just wiped the moon off, from my window pane,
It was too cold and deathly white, like a widow,
Did you kill the groom, is that the bridal dress?

What is the black smoke, where is the halo?
Don’t go out, I need this flame
My hand, it is a lump of ice, you now know!

And your flowing arms are too cold,
Come hither, let me wrap my skin
Around you, but it is a damp quilt!

Is it raining again, am I being flown away?
The beads shining on your bosom
Oh You! Mother of the rain

Give me your hand, my moist life
better this receding squeeze of my cold hand, 

Rather than the one aflame consuming you.

Please I cant stretch it further
Make a move.
Why are you such a silence?
What was that hiss I heard?