Home

A thatched roof, they say,
Holding shine and rain at bay,
A place that's warm and safe,
Sans discomfort or srife,
Where one's greeted by smiles,
And faces and sounds familiar,
Where neither men,
Nor food is alien,
Where smiles, not words welcome,
They call many things home,

But who knows the true meaning of it,
Of a home's open doors,
That it lies not in an array of bricks,
Or in frangrant smoke of cooking food,
That home's a force that beckons,
A warmth that calls, arms outstretch'd,
Into the arms of a woman,
Who's waiting to serve the love she holds.

A Walk Alone

Carrying the heaviness he cannot lay down,
He heaves a sign, bearing a frown,
Stifling his boiling frustration within,
He gasps out, struggling to breathe in,

He sets out, leaving all behind,
Upon a walk outside, a journey within,
Hoping to escape from his own self,
But carrying still, the carrier of burden,

Unaware of his route, on he walks,
Wishing to hear his soul's talk,
Walking faster still, he turns back,
Hoping he's ahead of his worries and thoughts,

Further, he walks, now slower,
For his breathing's calmed and his pressure's lower,
He proceeds ahead, on the side of the unknown road,
That time's traversed a million times,

Into the night, he moves on,
Wishing for the streetlights to stay on,
A jolt of fear breathes life back into his chest,
And he sees he should return, for his own best,

He quickens his pace, feeling lighter,
Away from the race, his face a little brighter,
He smiles to himself, taking a familiar turn,
That looked so new, in the absence of the sun,

He sees now, as he sees his home from afar,
That his life isn't his self, nor are his burdens and fears,
That they're just a fabric wrapped around him when he's cold,
Staying only as tight as he wills,

He turns now, to face his beautiful home,
Refreshed, nay, enlightened, with a wordless wisdom,
Ready to look his problems in the eye,
And conquer them, with newfound zeal.

The Clock

Tick away, my dear friend,
As I stare at your face with no end,
In impatient anticipation of that waited hour,
Or perhaps the arrival of untellable terror,

You're the only friend when I'm loneliest,
My sole companion on sleepless nights,
Listening to my woes so patient,
Your ticks pounding like a a caring heart,

You hold me forever with your arms long,
Feeding me with the power to become strong,
Healing my wounds like I'd never thought,
Leaving behind even a scar not,

If only I could touch your face beyond the glass,
And your hands could reach out of the pin at last,
I'd embrace you 'til my arms hurt,
And hold you there, 'til we're pulled apart.

A Song of Life

Lost in the tiny world they dwell in,
They live, breathing in what the air lends,
Consuming the fruits their trees yield,
And fending from work their fields need,

Oh they seek their joy in the sun that shines,
And in the dark when the moon hides or wanes,
Begetting children their bodies bear,
And providing for them for they know they must,

Smiling in the delight they bring to others,
A gift for a wife and a toy for a child,
Beings whose true form they know not,
And yet, count, in vain, as their own,

Oh what a life, this pathetic life,
Racing ahead as age rises,
It slows down when they wish to leave,
Stretching old age so the horizon's unseen,

Blinded by the misery of their present,
They await their end, passing day and night,
And when peace might come some quiet day,
Their breath leaves, so sudden, so quick,

Oh what was the purpose of this strange existence?
A question that shines brighter than the liver,
When asked, it flows through the woods, o'er the fields,
And the answer? It's a lifeless, cold corpse they left behind.

On a Dark, Lonely Road

I walked, slow, on a dark, solitary road,
On a cold night, sans trace of a soul,
A silence filled my within and without,
And my throat too tight to hum a tune,
My footsteps tearing into the eerie quiet,
My heart beating faster with each shift,
From eerie quiet to echoing tread,

The urge to stop beaten by an urge to flee,
My pace quickened before I could will it,
And I walked ahead 'cross that long street,
To find some quiet, a calming one,

Relieved I resumed a slower pace,
Drinking in each still thing around,
Until I saw, within a dark car,
A sight I would never forget,

'Twas a woman, an agless one,
Of profoud beauty and a charming smile,
She saw not me, nor anything else,
Just stared into the blank, with a knowing gaze,

I could not help, but stare at her,
Though it was an unsettling sight to behold,
For her face spoke of something eerie and strange,
An unearthly sight, an unsettling scene,

Her face shone bright sans a source of light,
Perhaps it had a lustre of its own?
A shine of a kind that erased all age,
That shone like the moon sans colour or shade,

I knew it was something that wasn't meant to be,
A strangeness that could mean no good,
And yet I stared as I kept walking,
Moving faster ahead though my legs'd started aching,

I painted her face in the canvas of my head,
Looking without a blink, despite my dread,
She turned around towards my side,
And I took to my heels, without turning behind,

I've walked that road countless times now,
Each time wondering who it was, I'd seen,
I've seen not her, nor any car there,
But her face, it still lives in my head.

See Not My Frame

See not my frame, weak as it may seem,
It speaks not of what lies within,
See not my name, it's simple and short,
Sans the grandeur it christens,
Judge not my stride, queer and funny,
It cloaks the wisdom it carries 'pon it,
Hear me talk, of that which I know,
And then you shall see genius glow.

[With]In the Confines of Solitude

How beautiful a passtime could it be,
To weave words from thoughts within me?
When my companion in solitude,
Is the pen dancing with my digits?

When thoughts that play in the screen of my head,
Spring to life, ceasing to be dead,
Spitting such delicate strokes in the canvas of my book,
That stir souls that grant them a look?

Fools are they who laugh at the alone,
For they know not the sound of the mind's tune,
It collects colours from sights and songs and words,
Painting such works that bring awe and tears,

They sleep, they sing, they read when lonely,
Fleeing from thoughts that fill their minds wholly,
Letting not the pressure within subside,
Opening not, the doors of their heads,

Yes, appreciating art is as sweet as it sounds,
It fills one with pleasure unbound,
But many know not the feel of art,
Flowing out their arms, into another's heart.

Epilogue:

Lock'd you are, they say, with your thoughts,
But they see not the power that's been unlocked,
The chance to turn and look within,
To listen to the beats of one's own heart,

To watch the movement of the stuff of the mind,
To dance within, to these tunes of a kind,
To listen to the music that brews inside,
And to record the bubbles that escape your spirit.

From Poetry to Prose

The lines of poetry trickle down slower,
As the force of their flow lowers,
Condensing into thick, long lines,
While commas freeze into full stops,

Grammar hardens, turning rigid,
While the heart that melted now turns frigid,
Its skin now thicker, smirks cold without reason,
Analysis takes over, while emotion breaks at this treason,

Language raises its hefty eyebrows,
And slowly smiles at the mighty prose,
For it isn't often the case,
That surrender stops the flow of words,

The valve of the heart-tap closes full,
While the pen takes a break and rests still,
And then it dawn upon the holder of the quill,
That words now flow faster still,

That in poetry, it's emotions that flow,
While in prose, the rational glows,
Beating the speed of heart-spun words,
It dances to the tune of logic and sense,

Prose then smiles, glorious and proud,
Its wrds ringing, clear and loud,
Sans the dreary dreams of poems,
It recites its purpose, brief and to the point.

This work was inspired by a poem that came in the Bengali film, Baishe Srabon (poem link)

A Tribute to C504, H13, IIT Bombay

A cool breeze blows from the window,
Pushing to close the open door,
It blows freely like never before,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

An unfamiliar silence brews within,
Sans the sound of my scratching pen,
Devoid of the noise of pointless, loud chatter,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

The window is open and so is its shade,
Pigeons startle at their echo that sounds loud,
Cheerful at newfound space they enter,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

The plugpoints heave a noiseless sigh,
Breathing in deep from their nostrils three,
For no device for work nor tea's plugged there,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

The shelves, they flex their stiff muscles,
Now liberated from the load of my books,
Their cobwebs give in lazily to the soft breeze,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

My neighbours let out a quiet smile,
Dancing in the joy of their newfound tranquil,
Untouch'd by the noise of my loud speakers,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

The walls within that bore it all,
Now stand emancipated, silent and tall,
And yet they shed a painty tear,
For the space within is freed from my critter.

An Ode to Solitude

I've bolted the door my dear,
Won't you come hither,
So I may sink in the pool of your presence,
And hold you in a tight, endless embrace,

I look into your eyes long and deep,
Forgetting my fatigue and my urge to sleep,
For I cannot but wonder in awe,
Why so many flee from your side,

And yet they do, racing ahead,
Quite often hitting their head,
Into crowds swarming noisy bars and lofty malls,
All in an attempt to escape your presence,

Do they not see, bright an clear,
That in crowds you are nearer,
That you fill hostile company with more ease,
Than the remoteness of a quiet, solitary house?

I see them deluded, and trapped in the notion,
That solitude exists not in commotion,
Trapped in that thought, they bide their time,
Their whine forgotten in the intoxication of wine,

Our door closed, I now forget their fall,
And I draw to you, in response to your call,
I lift my arms giving up my fight,
And walk into yours, for you to hold me tight.

Without Words

The words that once filled my soul've deserted me,
Now spilled onto my sheets of paper, that lie before thee,
Or forgotten by my blessed memory -
Lock'd in that keyless chamber where some thoughts might still lie,
Waiting in vain until they die,
Thoughts that once broke my heart, slipping away before I could note them down,
Hiding deep within my head, while I sought them in vain,
Ones I craved to see, and thought hard,
But whose faces I no longer remember,

And today I smile, for I can drink a scene in quiet,
Letting its beauty quench my pain, flowing unhampered,
Stopp'd not by that filter within, that collects the residue of words,
Letting the rest flow within, while I jealously note these,
Blots of ink that dimly capture the moment,
That others might enjoy, and praise and applaud,
While I sit, freed from the compulsion to write,
And from remorse of losing the sight,

I now see the moon, a white orb in the sky,
A sight, full in itself, not hindered by a thought astray,
I shall sit here, drenched in this scene,
Drinking it in with my every sense,

Filling my every socket with this,
On and on, 'til my stomach hurts,
For I know for sure, that this won't last long,
That something shall come up, perhaps a noisy throng,
Or the plague of words might rise, moving my wrist,
Or a dumbfounding problem that makes me leave in haste,
And I search within for a means to return,
A way to come back to this refuge, this zone,

Before I know, my insides shift,
Morphing themselves into a brush, swift,
Rendering this moment, with the paint of thoughts,
So I can revisit it again, when I choose,
I see, now, that time's a river that flows*,
That if I seek to return to this instant,
I must pick a means to capture and pin it,
That if it's not a poem, it's another art form,
And if I must truly be in the present, I must learn,
To let it go.

Written between 9:30pm and 9:40pm on 9.6.2017
Final edits by 6:33pm on 10.6.2017

*This line is inspired by what my father told me about writing. He said, "Time is like a river, and writing is an attempt to capture a frame of its flow." He proceeded to tell me about how much one's writing can influence someone else, since I'd never know who would be reading it and how they would connect to it. For that reason, he said that I must always provide a positive solution to life's problems, and to give hope that there is a way out of even the darkest corners of life.

Beside You

Oh how I seek to flee far,
From this world of burden and work,
And sit by your side,
On the cool grass outside,
Feeling your presence near me,
Filled with wordless glee,

Looking not at you, nor the lake ahead,
But at the full moon far above our heads,
Eyes fixed, looking into nothingness,
And ears listening to the song of silence,
Hands beside you but touching naught,
My senses closed, working not,
I perceive a bliss through another medium,
Filling my soul, from top to bottom,

Perhaps it's the presence of a life,
A known life, a one that lies,
Quite near, in the surrounding ether,
A one that's perceived uniquely by just another,
A connection that words can know not,

Unexplained even by the greatest poet,
Known to the one that sits by its side,
Felt by arms that have no form nor shape,

Nay, its a hug, an embrace that's felt,
By souls that choose to not hold back but melt,
Each letting the other's presence in,
Filling all the space it holds deep within,
With the essence of its perception of the one near,
Hosting no doubt, nor fear, being completely clear,

It's a bath together in the stillness of the surround,
Where two souls are together and alone,
Oh such is friendship and such is love that lives,
Seeking not something tangible but seeking still,
To sit beside, hold a hand or lean upon,
On a dark night, sans a watch or phone,
Walking in limitless space, sharing a timeless moment,
Immersed in talk but a talk when quiet,
Sans words but engaged in constant exchange,
Lost in each other but feeling safe,

Such moments, though rare as they should be,
Make up the true being that's me,
Adding priceless gems to the calendar of my life,
Ridding me of the need for strife,
Redeeming bottled up pain and irk,
Which flow as tears, from a melted heart.

9:00pm at A422, H13, IIT Bombay, 16.5.2017. Trivial edits up to 9:21pm.

The Heart

Creatures of startdust they say,
That prowl about land, night and day,
Evolved from animals allegedly lower,
Beings who consider their intelligence flowered,
They capture phenomena and predict acts of Nature,
With physics and math and put them on paper,
But none speaks of this icy mass,
That exists not before it melts,
Its only proof is the water that flows,
As tears trickling down red eyes,
What flows is water, and something did melt,
So it must be ice, says their papery math,
But they grow all emotional, giving it another name,
An experience that isn't but is, they call it the heart, sans shame.

2:05pm 7.1.2017 at room while re-watching Jaatishwar Climax
Trivial edits at 3:08pm on 6.5.2017

Unaware

I live, like I've lived forever,
Like I'll always be here,
Immersed in seeking joy in vain,
Anticipating no pain,

Unaware and oblivious,
I fail to see even the obvious,
Jumping upon the smallest chance,
To forget my woes,

Oh do I fail to see the future,
When I shall be tossed about by nature,
My whole reality being crushed,
By the pitiless, dark jaws of death?

A few seconds' pondering at Cafe Mondegar at 11:55pm on 2.4.2017 while sitting with the folks

An Ode to Sea Waves

I stand upon higher ground, feeling safe,
Beyond the reach of the waves,
But am I ever out of reach
Of these billows that touch the beach?

To some they're perturbations brought by the wind,
Crests and troughs upon a humongous ocean,
But to me, it's a fluid that washes my soul,
Coming and going but consuming me whole,

For my soul is touched by these waves that soar,
Reaching heights over the sea, just to lick the shore,
Showing their might and then slowing down,
Teaching us all to hold to our calm,

They do this in earnest, day and night,
Each time trying harder than the last,
Putting on a tranquil, musical dance,
Sending me off into a silent trance,

Lash the waves upon the sea coast,
Wetting grains of sand before they dry up,
Moistening the wood of tied boats,
And caressing the feet of those who stand close,

I stand upon the sands, wielding my pen,
Writing down words that flow from within,
And as I do, I stop to see,
That the sea without is also within me,

That over time, the water's conditioned my being,
Into seeking bliss only from a lake or sea,
That I can never sit in peace near a river,
Like saltwater creatures, in fresh water,

I stop to think if something's wrong,
If I'd gone mad to reject the flow of the stream,
For once and for all, and then I see,
That the flowing river too, bows to the mighty sea,

I stand there, drinking it all in,
But am I not a fool to think that I can?
I think I'm a great man observing it all,
But when it gobbles me I see its size in full,
Water that eats me up alive,
Why the whole world with space for more.

Written on/before 1.4.2017, major edits made on 13.4.2017

After Sunset

I missed that last peep,
I could've had at you,
My sky is still lit,
But you've gone away,
You seem so far,
Though it's only for a day,

Oh dear sun,
Are you the source of my joy?
For when you leave,
All I find is glum,
A reminder of the time,
That has lapsed and gone,

Of the hours,
That could've meant more,
And of the hoofs of death,
Coming closer,

I love to watch you set,
And the dark night too is pleasant,
But not the dusk before,
For I see an orphaned sky,
Whose lustre fades by the minute,
Getting duller in shade,
Up until the stars arrive,

You are duty bound, yes,
But there are hearts involved too,
And so I pray,
Go as you wish,
But please come back soon.

Written on 25.2.2017 6:47pm at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

The Corpse

Wrapped in cloth,
Unaware and taut,
The once person lies,
As a log seating flies,
Rigid and cold,
Expressionless and old,
Kidding life, soul, function,
Name, why, even pronoun,

It lies there, motionless and bound,
Awaiting decay or cremation,
Not responding, yes,
Its so called vitals a mess,
Some organs functioning,
While others not working,
And we dig them out,
With not slightest guilt,

What if the soul is still stuck in the body?
Unable to find another to embody?
What if the corpse responds not,
But still feels pain and things hot?
We discard them for their movement's stopped,
And our meters show numbers we know to count,

What if they need something we can give?
A little help of a special kind?
I know my path is headed that way,
And my feet tremble as time pushes me ahead,
I'm terrified to walk down that road,
But haven't there been billions who've gone before?

As a writer I've felt that there are fleeting moments when someone else writes through my pen. I cannot take credit for this poem. I'm forced to put my name down as the poet but I know for a fact that I've been merely a device for these words to flow through.

Written at 26.2.2017 at 3:37am on phone, when in bed at C504, H13, IIT Bombay.

The Foundation

Oh this world is a shaky build,
Yielding at a little touch, even a finger's wield,
A ghost story with me at the front,
Stable and quiet at the outset,
But collapsing when I look back,
Into the foundation of this shack,

Its established customs built,
Over a floor of silt,
with cotton bricks that show a rigid face,
Held loosely upon a ripply base,

Oh my soul boils in unrest,
Unable to accept this jest,
While the masses follow it like flocks,
And I cannot but question its blocks,

I seek to strip it all down,
Not merely its robes and gown,
I shall peel its skin, its flesh,
And untie the knots of its complex mesh,
Down to the skeleton of its spirit,
'Til nothing remains but cold, white dust,

Talks of love, of honour, of power,
Of language, of art, of the thirst to discover,
Of joy, of pain, of wisom, jokes and puns,
Where do these lie with white, dead skeletons?

Or is it perhaps that formless soul,
That moves these bodies which drop when it's gone?
A spirit that's written of, sung upon,
But not plotted on paper by the science of man,

Is all this a lie, this life, this whine,
Perhaps an illusion upon the canvas of time?
But of what use is beauty that isn't beheld,
An inert existence that shall never be held?

Why do these insentient things endure,
Evading death and retaining their allure?
Oh of what use are pretty things,
Without an eye to see them?

Or do they live and breathe too, like us,
But an air that we can't witness?
Or is this life pointless and alone,
Stuck in a well 'til it withers to bone?

Am I the only creature that lives and sees?
Staring into eyes that move and limbs that dance,
Talking to lifeless beings that respond to my call,
Which smile back until one day they fall?

Is it just an emotion that drives me mad?
Giving me thoughts when I'm happy or sad?
Formless feelings that drive me fast and slow?
But don't feelings change too when a hormone is low?
Do these fluids dictate thought and senses,
Or do they merely come when one feels?

Oh what am I without this machine of a body?
An objective pair of eyes,
That sees this world, cold?
Or am I a subject that seeks not a friend?
Where is sacrifice in this speck of a life?
Or is it foolish to judge a thing by its size?
When such thought consumes, drowns the mind that thinks,
No matter what the strength, nor the might,
It is crushed and erased, each night by sleep,
And for all by death,
Leaving behind dead words,
That shall forever haunt the living.

Written on 7th February, 2017. Major edits made on 17th February, 2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

I Seek to Be

I seek to be,
A leaf on a tree,
A squirrel on a bough,
A beast in the jungle,
A snake in the swamp,
A bird on a branch,
A tree in a forest,
Like a drop in the sea,
Where I'm no different,
From the one beside,

I seek to stay hidden,
While in plain sight,
When none but me,
Knows of my presence,
I seek to go with the flow,
Receiving and embracing gift and blow,

To live in harmony with the soil,
Until I become one with it

Then when death comes,
It will be unceremonious,
As my birth and life,
With no pomp and no show,
Just silence and quietitude,
Like when I was born and when I lived,

And I shall wither with age,
Not disease,
I shall ripen and bend,
Wth a full heart and a fuller life,
Dropping from my tree,
Like leaves in autumn,
Like a candle when extinguished,
My life shall pour smoothly,
Into the holy bowl of death,
Only then shall culminate,
A life that is whole.

Written between 12:45pm and 1:41pm on 17th Feb, 2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

வெட்கம்

மணமேடையை கண்டவன்,

அங்கு அமர்ந்திருந்த பெண்ணைக்கண்டேனா,

அல்லது சில நாட்களில் அமர இருக்கும்

என்னைக்கண்டேனா

என்று பகுத்து உணர தொடங்கும் முன்னே,

வியப்பில் மயங்கியிருந்தவனை

கடித்து, முழுதாக உண்டது

வெட்கப்பாம்பு.

அவ்வெட்கத்தை மறைக்க இயலாத

தலைப்பாய் தோல்வியை ஏற்க,

பொங்கி வழிந்தது

வெட்கத்துடன் ஓர் புன்னகை.

I behold the marital stage,
And before I can figure out,
If I was watching the bride seated upon it,
Or myself sitting there in the near future,
I, intoxicated by amazement, was stung,
By the serpent of shyness.

As my turban concedes defeat,
Unable to mask this shame,
The embarrassment leaked out,
Along with a smile.