Fishing

Sitting on his raft,

the young one fished for the moon.

The sky’s daughter at night,

had caged his heart.

She vanished every time

his fish-hook touched the water.

She made the young one wait.

He waited along to spot her.

The night never let him take her home.

Disappointment is all he took along.

But, he would come back the next day.

Today, “good morning” said the sun.

Netra-chodus

An omnipresent phenomenon.

A growing one.

The quota is already overgrown.

The number allotted – Millions.

And it’s overgrown.

By millions.

Libidos.

It pops out of their minds.

And you can see it.

Evidently.

In their staring eyes.

Their sunglasses stare at you.

Their spectacles.

Their legs.

Their armpits.

Their body stares at you.

You start adjusting your clothes.

Some don’t.

Irrespective.

Stare they do.

The age group of ‘men’ stare.

All of them.

Young.

Old.

Older.

Younger.

All of them.

Stare they do.

The train compartments.

Empty.

They make sure she feels it’s crowded.

With their eyes on her.

It always starts with glances.

And their heads never turn back.

Sticks.

In that direction.

Sticks.

Really.

In a temple.

They’ll stare.

Why?

Because, women are God’s best creation.

Apparently.

In groups.

They’d be playing the game…

“The first to blink will lose.”

Alas.

It’ll end in a tie.

No one will lose.

It’s their hobby.

To eat that forbidden fruit.

They feel, it’s their birth right.

Staring.

Sometimes.

They stop staring.

At their opposite sex.

Only to stare at their partners.

To compare themselves.

What does he have, that I don’t?

They think.

Whatever.

But stare they do.

Netra-chodus.

They should get a life.

Not the staring life.

But something else.

Something worthwhile.

Their eyes can act as a ‘scanner’.

They can get the job as a ‘sniper’.

As a ‘watch’ man.

It’ll work out.

Just fine.

I’m sure.

If only Crime Master Gogo was the one who sets the rules for this breed.

We’re sure to have a lot of ‘gotis’.

Bored. Since I can’t shout.

I am bored. Like, for the last week or so. It’s a weird sort of boredom, because it hasn't happened for a reason. But I've been still trying to figure out the reason. And now, I'm bored of that, too.

I’ve learnt not to be dependent on people for my entertainment. For anything, in fact. My learnings weren’t of any use, I realised today.

A few colleagues of mine are shifted to a new office. They’re gone. Effectively, from a minute-to-minute conversation that I used to have with them, it has come down to pretty much nothing. To make matters worse, I don’t really connect well to the ones who are left behind. So much for my belief that I could connect to anyone in this world. So. The week gone by has been a boring one. Didn’t give me much to look forward to. Although, it gave me this – A reason to write / scribble / pen a poem down.

Voila!

Scribble.

Scribble.

Dribble the bubble.

Trouble the whistle.

“Fweeeeeennn!”

Let it blow out.

Throw out.

All that you can.

All your let-downs.

All your angst.

Use it.

Since you can’t shout.

Write.

Write.

Sit tight.

Write about your fright.

Being bored almost all day & night.

Pen down your boredom.

Go out. Write it out.

About the dullness.

About the monotony.

Use your pen.

Since you can’t shout.

Going crazy

I wake up on the wrong side of my bed.

And everything that’s wrong

starts falling out of my head.

I look at the winding road.

They talk to me.

Tell me a tale.

It says,

‘Life is running by.’

And then it stops speaking.

Suddenly.

‘Mood changed?’, I ask.

‘Walk on, you’, it replies.

I think to myself.

The roads caught on to my depressing state.

Chuts.

I talk to the road.

‘You are the one with the holes,

you character-less soul.’

And I smile.

It stays still.

Doesn’t move.

I care less.

Down the same road,

I see you walking.

Towards me.

You smile.

I stare back at you.

You talk to me.

I scream.

Then,

I cover up by saying,

‘The bed made me wake up

on the wrong side.’

She stares.

‘What? My bed does that.

Yours must be a normal one.’

She continues staring.

I stare back.

I know I’m blabbering.

She knows it too.

She’s been with me long enough.

She kisses my forehead.

And speaks.

‘Something has happened, surely.

You want to talk?’

I give her a surprised look.

‘Is going crazy “something”?’

Clairvoyance

I feel liberated

in between breaths.

I feel so alive.

I feel good.

I see more;

only when

I close my eyes.

I sense. I realise.

I carry the burden of

an upsetting truth.

I respect it. I hide it.

I am the person.

I am the body.

I am the mind.

I see the light illuminating.

Before it turns on.

I see my future arriving.

Before I reach for it.

I see love coming to me.

Before hate takes over.

I see.

More than a friend

I can’t

see you as a friend.

Just can’t

say that you were one.

I can’t

stop searching for someone to love.

Just can’t

say that we are done.

Talk

My eyes.

Fixed at you.

Just to find no reaction.

I put my eyes back down.

In disappointment.

Wondering what you might be thinking.

Wanting to know.

Eager head.

Don’t know exactly what am I looking for.

But I am sure I want to talk.

To you.

About nothing.

About something.

So,

would you like

to talk?

To me.

Not inside your mind.

On the outside.

Use your words.

About nothing.

Or everything.

Just talk.

To me.

Fun Poem

I thought of writing this fun poem.

And, I have started with it.

I didn’t even realise, and I’m done with 3 lines.

This being the fourth.

This being the fifth.

Like I said, I thought of writing this fun poem.

And, I have started with it.

Oh, damn. 8 lines done.

That’s it. Poem over.

Mom, you're the man

It was 4 in the morning.

She was fighting.

Fighting with all her will.

She switched off.

But only for a bit.

She’s 61.

She can afford to take some rest.

Took some rest from the struggle.

‘Struggle’ found it tough.

In the hospital,

the doctors found her tough too.

She was, in fact.

The doctors, teasingly, called her a boxer.

She didn’t know anything about boxing.

She just knew ‘boxes’.

The ones that packaged her rice.

And her saris.

She’s fond of saris.

A lot.

In the hospital,

there was a beeping machine

planted right behind her head.

She wouldn’t have known what was it called.

I didn’t know either.

But, who cares?

She didn’t.

In her deep slumber,

she must be counting the beats of the beeping machine.

And matching them with

the neighbouring uncle’s snores.

She’s not a musician.

She thinks she is.

She must have crafted some words.

Must have sung it aloud,

scandalising the doctors.

She’s not a singer.

She thinks she is.

She was tied.

Her hands and legs, both.

She had a terrible back ache.

She must have still danced.

To her own song.

She’s not a dancer.

She thinks she is.

She’s all strength, though.

She’s all heart.

That’s what she is.

I want her to know it.

I wanted to talk to her.

Talk to her about my work.

Talk to her about my girl.

Talk to her about my nephew.

I was waiting for her to get up.

She made me wait, but she did.

She asked, “How long was I asleep?”

I smiled.

p.s. I haven't yet spoken to her about my girl.

When humanity died

He looked at the car right behind.

Blurry, his vision. Tired, too.

Looked for things to hold onto.

Couldn’t find any.

Saw a bike lying on the road.

Realised that it was his.

His first buy. From his first salary.

Tried reaching for it.

He couldn’t.

Pressing his hand against the floor wasn’t helping, either.

His hands were bleeding.

He could hear something.

People, he thought to himself.

Put his hand up in the air.

‘Up in the air’ was just a few inches above the ground.

He was looking for help.

Some help.

Some kind.

Water, at the least.

Didn’t find any.

A few consider it bad manners to look closely at other people in public.

Red. His favourite colour.

He saw it splashed all around.

Right in front of his eyes.

A little, on the white car behind him.

On the bonnet, specifically.

He pressed his hand against the ground. Again.

A little harder this time.

Screamed out his son’s name.

In agony.

Some feel that responsibilities are diffused and diluted.

He could hear something.

People, he was sure.

Raised his hand high up.

High was high enough.

He saw a vague figure.

Man or woman he couldn’t figure.

He heard someone asking him something.

It’s a man, he thought.

He couldn’t hear him.

His brain was shut.

And so were his eyes.

Almost.

He heard a loud, irritating noise.

Followed by a lot of babble.

People. He was happy.

For once.

He felt lighter in his head.

He smiled.

Through his eyes, he could see.

He could see a van.

He felt that it was a van.

He could see bright, flashing lights.

The voices around lowered.

To his surprise, his vision brightened.

He saw himself.

Lying on the road.

Helpless.

Dead.

I felt alive. Saw the death of humanity.

What if

Everyone wants to have a great relationship.

Carry smiles that stretch longer than their faces.

Have it all-day long.

Have an amazing time.

Have it all-day long.

Have great sex.

Have it all-day long.

The other side.

Thrown out.

Kept aside.

The tough communications.

Not thought for a minute.

The awkward silences.

Not thought for a minute.

The emotional psychodrama.

Not thought for a minute.

And so they settle.

They settle and wonder,

“What if I go through all this?”

They ponder over it for years.

The question then morphs itself.

From a ‘what if’ to

“What for?”