For Amma & Achan

Early morning breeze created ripples on the silent estranged distributary of Ganges,
Met me when I walked over the rocks on the shore covered by the shining dew drops,
When I heard a bhajan from the distant temple over the mountain,
I bowed down, chose to meditate and pray not to Gods this time,
But to those who love me the most.

Written on Saturday, December 11, 2004

Khajuraho 2005

The air had so many tales to say,
Some heard, some imagined, some interpreted.
As much as one sees the life in its glory
Child and the mother, a king and the warrior, a beast or the beauty
The song of desires appears as though one turned page by page
and unravelled those illustrations; sometimes here and sometimes there.
Even the mighty tree with its own branches entwined
With the lush bougainvillea in the background, pink and green
Singing the same song and then temple bells ring
And when they breeze past the ones who lay over the pruned grass
Even the rays of sun takes a stolen peek
The creator was God himself, commands a thousand salutations
For the canvass with the right amount for the correct effect,
Alternated with worldly-wises for perfect education.
For thou who seek more is completely misplaced.
To appreciate would require somewhat half the intention or the skill.
Or just why don’t we let be
Anything said less or more will still be anyhow understatements

PS:My heart bleeds to see the poor restoration attempts which in the next fifty years, world will get to see nothing but a combination of dilapidated original and a grieving fake trying-to-be-old new.

Written on Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Lost and found

Rummaging through the shroud of mystery on the other side of the mind
When the souls are out on a rejuvenation trip to an unknown island this time
Was when i discovered a carcass of some latent desire buried in a time frame
Which seems like just that day from the past.
When I blew the dust off it.. I found
the pulse rate, the music, the smell of open sesame in the air, mist over that window,
the rocking chair, the inkpot, the broken tile were still the same.

All that changed is the time,
You and me

Written on Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Always

Of the becoming of a fake artist,
performing a street play,
always,
painting a smile over that pain,
touching up those patches of fate,
on that mammoth canvass,
perched on that wheel chair,
behind the curtains,
waiting for it to dry,
always.

Written on Monday, February 07, 2005

Like thats

Like that sweet music of flute playing behind that mountain
Like that village which still exists with an open door concept
Like that grand procession of a beautiful princess
Like that shepherd lying in the middle of the green field
Like that spinner who decides to buy bangles for his wife
Like that postman who is writing a letter for that villager
Like that teacher teaching under a banyan tree
Like that sculptor who is on a long vacation
Like that farmer who pays back his entire loan
Like that mother who watches her first baby steps
Like that child who gets an extra candy
Like that dhabawala boy who gets five rupees as a tip
Like that dreamer who is still sleeping over that haystack
Like that lover who is silent and saying a thousand words
Like that cuckoo who is waiting for a cheerful moment to sing
Like that bee who is naughtier than before
Like that God who is happy today!

Written on Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Rerun

Deciding to put all the older entries into this one so here i go. Want to keep all in one place. When i read through them I don’t believe i wrote it now and then..but still nice to read as if opening up an old treasure trunk kept in my cellar.

Hi everyone

I believe that one thinks much more soundly if the thoughts arise from direct contact with things, than if one looks at things with the aim of finding this or that in them. Vincent van Gogh

A few this and that are here straight from the thinking and i hope the thinking remain as meritorious as the will, thats a promise to myself. Amen.