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I get engrossed
In whatever my dear one says
What is spoken is so little
What remains unspoken is wealth
He does not teach
What amount of firmness is necessary to make a tortuous path effortless
How one can stay spellbound in the constriction of cacophony
To maintain the demeanour amidst irritation
That one can build the barricade of infinity inside borders
He does not teach
How to infuse artistry in the blank spaces
How to fight a round in the bohemian illusiveness
The days and nights spent with him
Stay hanging like a canvas
colourless or with multihued layers
Look back at him
With the completeness of possibility
or scribbling with emptiness
and learn the lesson of self-control
Amidst abundance of eloquence
I hear a silent beat being reared
He does not ever say
About the colours getting dried up
or hazy self-confidence
The folktales of the firefly acquiring
the trick of saving the hues of rainbows in their wombs
Even after knowing well the harshness of world
He does not speak of any advance preparedness
He only stitches a path to hold the feelings of soul
Proceeding through which
one can ignore blinding sparkles without anyone
Thousand words gets drowned in stillness
He can speak so much in silence.
Many things can be said before falling off
or else
An entire night can be dawned by looking back at the flowers of memory
But cannot bear in the shut eyelids thousands of bells of various options
Some things are better stalled before it falls into ears
Some happenings are better lost better it happens
Some paths are better walled before it makes way
It is better to hit a thicket
Before the bird with its broken wings falls spiraling down thud on the ground
It is nice to show the return path to the girl
As she recites the last poem with trembling voice
Putting hand on hand and bosom on bosom
It is nice to leave the body along the force of the cotton white yacht
In the dark moon night that is silenced by all the gloom in the world
It is nice to be able to stitch a path in the weightless speed
How nice it is to be able to drop off the teardrops of illusion
Before it falls down
Or sometimes it is much better
To pray once more
for the weariness lying heavy filling up the queue
before it falls over once again
The shower of rain eagerly expected is yet to come down.
A wind is blowing
The glassless frames of the window covered with paper of the oldest Guest House in the town are getting hit repeatedly by the force of the wind.
A growth of wild herbs
Through the gaps of the grills spaced widely
Outside the window the scribbling of the growing banyan tree
Though a shower of rain does not visit the city
The window is damp and the room too
A pencil of ray of the afternoon Sun is an added feature of the room.
Guest come, guest leave
The guest house becomes full to its capacity, and gets empty again
The guest house turns tipsy in intoxication at times
Or else turns silent with the long call reaching the ears wafting in air
There is no religion of the guest house, no choice either
At certain times the guest house is full of aroma
The eyes crossing by hangs on the gaps of the doors of the guest house
Sometimes a drain flows by under the doors of the guest house
On the floor layers of dust dances and marches
The always expected shower does not reach
And a light breeze slightly shakes the guest house
The guest house knows it has no one as its own, neither anyone non related
Yet in between on a nonchalant midday at the chance of no one being present
It spreads the bleeding wound kept hidden in its bosom to dry on the floor
Repair continues, carefully manages by dusting and cleaning
Sometimes at this juncture a strict homemaker enters
The floor turns mirror clean
The cockroaches scattered by the spray makes the guest house feel lighter
New newspaper gets pasted on the darkened walls of the guest house
Calendar flutters on the clean dusted wall
God finds a shelter at a tiny corner
The guest house continue to look at everything – amazed.
Days roll by, a cup of hot tea spirals up by the window
Days roll by, the whistle blows at the exact moment
Days roll by, the homemaker grows new limbs
And the homemaker leaves one day with a smiling face.
Guest house understands it does not retain any memory
Neither there is tears of joy or burden of cholesterol
People come, people depart
The rain slated to arrive do not come
A gust of chilly wind shakes the guest house
The guest changes, the time too
Just eyes of the God with broken leg do not change
And the picture of the homemaker he continues to gaze through the cobweb and soot.
Like the agony enveloped by senses
Limiting lines given to fingers
weighed down by words
It is as painful
as to adorn the empty memory and pitiable experience
to survive in the balancing line
without both getting lost
How can people carrying the agony
in their daily chores for the successors
lead a growing possibility without hassles
The aqueous fingers would shape up to perfection
A certain wave of power of life
Trousers of memory or charcoal of hunger
Where would the stumbling be placed neatly.
These days the sun of solitude burns
With many such arguments and counters thereof
It is kept alive with adequate fodder
The discussion on the poem
that I wished to compose for the successors
And the sun of my perception
Appears never ending.
"I bid the chords sweet music make
And all must follow in my wake"
-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Just at that spot an agony remain a stationary path in serenity
And we continue to peel off layers after layer slicing our original form
Will the time leave anything for something ominous to happen
Still I ruminate the time winning dreamer
Wandering from origin to self existent to search thousands of options
I get singed and burnt and turn into a mound of sand
Gradually I am unable to finish reading the life considering it a lyrical poem
And am not able to think
The change of scene as destiny
Yet can one put a long jump through a gap out of these in the infinity
And the footprints can be left undamaged
Don’t wish to leave without seeing it
Making the shadow of rest longer
Building a long path in the luxury of thought.
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