Looking into the sky

The sky is always a sight to behold, in daytime and more so at night

Of all the elements it is the most clear, untainted by anything gross

It is boundless for what binds it are the horizons that are mere illusions

The clear blue is magnificent and more so that dotted with white strokes

There is never a dull moment in the sky except when it brings the joy of rain

That rain which so quenches the thirst of the Earth, is the act it does in some style

Slowly the clouds gather and hide the Sun, dimming the lights

And then one drop at a time, giving the sensation that it will soon start pouring

The clouds come home and disperse once again to restore the sky in its glory

The sky which inspires life to take flight and be free

Pen holder

(Written sometime during 2017.)

There is a wonderful world of art waiting for you to knock on its door.

Knock. Knock.
Who is there?
A pen holder.

You just need to know the password. Ask for a hint?
Key.
Hint.
See and you shall look.

Now, you have to see and look and look and see.
Who are you?
Speak.
Eyes.
Bingo.

Now, after you get inside use your you-know-what and do what-you-do. Now, don't wait.
Hurry up. Enter!
Oh! wait. A warning first - You cannot leave and only enter.

What a boring place it was. There were vast stretches of nothingness all about. Everywhere you look, you can only find nothing. You walk, you walk on nothing. You see nothing. You look nothing. Even your hands, your body and your you-know-what mingles with nothing and becomes nothing.
What is this world of art, wonderful or not?
Doubt arises.
And lo and behold!

There is light all around and all kinds of strange pens. There is something strange about them. They are all pointed. Moving. Towards me.
I move here and there and they move too. Always coming closer. Closer and closer. I got real tense then and when the nearest was almost on my brink I shouted a scream -
'Stop.'
Oh! And they did. Stop.
I kept on looking at the spectacle. For a long time I remember. It was the start of a wonder. Pens. So many of them. All differently colored like infinite frequencies. They seem to fill all of nothing.
Oh! How I wished they could talk to me.
And suddenly the leader made a voice.
What? I was overjoyed.

'Why do you stop us?'
'Why? surely, you were attacking me', I replied.
'But we just wanted to be holded by you.'
'But why should I hold you?'
'Surely, you are a pen holder, are you not?'

So, it must be so

(View from a plane in the feververy month of 2019)

The landscape, parched, already rocky fed with waters from shrinking veins. A sea of clouds with towaering pillars of dust and vapour bringing to mind the formations of colorful columns of smoke witnessing the birth of a star from some space documentary or a spectre from Kubrick's Odyssey.

And the Sun, his majesty, ever prompting the Eart towards itself hangs aloft in its brimming ecstasy.

And the pen, a child of Earth and water, struggling and hence scribbling to capture the essence of this moment, bring back to life the meaning which it had been robbed off.

And the heart, coming to terms with sweet pain of love, the stingings of jelly fish, still cannot stop itself from imagining the far future where only the long gaze of chaotic science can presently reach and accept its wisdom - silence, thou are and silence, thou returnest.
For it fights backs and silences all silences and yearns to make the pen glide to write - it was, it is and it will for it must.

So, it is so.

Queues

Form a line and you will be promptly served
there are just so many in front of you
your turn will come soon, have your notes ready
one by one the line will move as one by one the stairs come down

Departures

You have your ticket?
Can I check your passport / boarding pass?
Please be seated at the cross lanes of weeping lady and concerned mother,
across the candy eating chinese beside the red Turk
Write all you like gazing at the white blank paper
Still hoping - Pyaar se bula aajayegi
Love will find a way.

Love, much like truth, is not a prostitute - it doesn't come cheap, it doesn't throws itself at you - it extracts from you your secret most treasures, your deepest care, your strenuous effort..

No hurry

At the port, in the lounge, the time is set
the clouds hang in the distance, over the mountain
now a burning shadow, there a calm yellow
some wilful sounds disturb the constant hum

Like so many kites on board a jet so many lives hang
the words balm the unsatiated heart
the tight lipped eyes well up a strange shade of purple
isn't it too early to declare her a memory alone?

The ceiling is fake, the lights artificial, the sounds robotic
was this the future the child madly after?
amongst the sea of strange faces, the familiar emotions still show up
(a not so old couple engage in a casual kiss)

The heart will live the night dreaming it is we who kissed after the anxieties and uncertainity of first nights were long over.

Where the sea lions cough

(wrote yesterday looking for a memory that keeps cutting deeper and deeper)

Walk in the night when the world sleeps
The spirits again moving across the space
Piercing the silence, painting the sky a cloudy white
When lovers walk hand in hand forgetting the day's chores

Sit opposite the barbed wire listening to roaring hungry lions
Water disturbed by sounds and airy movements reflecting the glimmer of manly lights
Cool winds fan the fiery spirits shivering the body
Meditate on the coming morning when it will all be hue and cry again

Fly over the bay like a seagull attracted by sea lions' roar
Staring into the depths of oceanic vast richness
The rainbow of moon's light over the moving clouds
Calming the senses, reassuring the night that the darkness would soon give way

Listen to the familiar call of heart's calling
Expecting to solve the mystery of it's desires
Who made the first move that caused the turbulence at this scale
When was the crime committed and how long the scathing punishment would last

To think the maths behind it - if one is other follows
Moving the fingers symptomatic of lively consciousness
Living a life full of rich meaninglessness
As long as the one with the strength of giving it meaning hides behind the cursed veil

The words and meanings shake the inner lonely turbulence
Wishing that the sky would soon fall crushing everything beneath
The show is addictive and hypnotises your countenance
Still the saying goes - shudhosi, budhosi, niranjanosi