The Haunting

The Haunting

The trees stand undone

laced with winter dust

as the labourers hurry nonchalantly

on the makeshift ladder.

The bus takes people to purposed destinations

jerks and jolts notwithstanding,

The road that gets built and fills the air 

with dust and smoke

will  ever be built,

notwithstanding death and broken nests.

The thoughts linger around

a death and a loss

That gets forgotten in the daily humdrum

only to surface and resurface

in the unprepared moments.

Nobody ever dies of memories,

even of death of a mother.

One lives with that beloved face

haunting the unforeseen skies

where a sun sets in the afternoons

and night stretches late into the morning.

A Birthday Without Mother

Birthdays cease to be special when we are older, much older. This time I recalled how mother used to wish HAPPY BIRTHDAY to everybody by singing over phone or even in person. She had learnt that birthday wishes were to be communicated that way...by singing. And her that one line contained  utmost love a heart can carry, it was love in its purest form. Thousand moments, thousand small little things come to mind when we think of our mothers. We seem to wonder how we are even alive without her. A mother is the most familiar face on earth, ever dearest, ever closest. When we are not lost in the mad rush of life and are sitting alone, that face, those memories haunt us badly. Something revolts inside, something refuses to accept the truth that, that beloved mother is no more.This wistful longing, this pining will stay with us till death may be. And the eyes will always look for her and burst into tears remembering her innumerable love gestures, and the truth will hurt all the more...all the more...irthdays cease to be special when we are older, much older. This time I recalled how mother used to wish HAPPY BIRTHDAY to everybody by singing over phone or even in person. She had learnt that birthday wishes were to be communicated that way...by singing. And her that one line contained  utmost love a heart can carry, it was love in its purest form. Thousand moments, thousand small little things come to mind when we think of our mothers. We seem to wonder how we are even alive without her. A mother is the most familiar face on earth, ever dearest, ever closest. When we are not lost in the mad rush of life and are sitting alone, that face, those memories haunt us badly. Something revolts inside, something refuses to accept the truth that, that beloved mother is no more.This wistful longing, this pining will stay with us till death may be. And the eyes will always look for her and burst into tears remembering her innumerable love gestures, and the truth will hurt all the more...all the more...

Emptiness all the Way



It seems right

to think that forty nine years 

of the life 

mother took as she went away,

the rest only is a slow forward journey towards the obvious

I am only bidding my time

till the that day, that moment.

How did the bull reach the empty

bosom of the river? 

In search of food? 

The journey from high ground

must have been unnerving.

Yet it is there,with downcast face

munching on grass

pretty oblivious to the surroundings.

The purposelessness grows in an uneasy pace

as the days pass by,

The grass on other grounds grows

greener only increasing the dimension

of the empty spaces,

Even a thorough sweeping of the corners of your inmost rooms 

yields nothing but a void.

One should have foreseen 

such days, and kept in readiness, but who bothers to imagine darkness and empty roads

when the sun shines bright

and the sparrows fill the air with their chirping! 

Going Home

When I think of going home

I remember that it is an empty nest

No noise, no familiar voices

waiting for me,

Mother ,for whom I bought oranges and grapes from the bus stop

is not anymore there to feign displeasure and be happy inside.

There is no blabbering of maids,

no familiar sight of two beloved people

watching television and raising their

voices,one over another, no peaceful

random sleeping anymore

aware of usual presence of two 

insomniac souls.

This way,homes empty themselves

This way,life turns a stranger

This way I walk in the rain,

And come back to cry alone

in my loneliness.

This Afternoon

It is the same indifferent sky,

That peeks in patches through the foliage, the breeze comes in blasts
 and blows the curtain

in the same way, in this lazy afternoon,

as the sun prepares to go down

to make way for the night.

But the world has changed.

Mother is not lying anymore 

on the veranda couch,

Watching television, calling daughters

and sisters by turn,or browsing through her phone, neither is she sitting

on her proverbial throne,

calling out to the maids,to run errands,

expressing disapproval 

now and then.

Mother 's story is told,

Her sick and helpless existence

has exhausted itself out,

Rest of the scenes stand their old ground,unchanged and repetitive.

Only a terrible thirst rises at the throat

and a terrible solitude

grips the otherwise normal

days by the neck,

something says something from the past 
in the kitchen, by the window,

something inexplicable repeats itself,

As if scenes come alive

from another birth.

SUDDENLY

Suddenly the terrain has changed without changing,

Suddenly it has become a long hard road without trees,

Suddenly I find that sleep eludes me, as i stare into the vacuum before me

for long and allow the eyes 

to water to your memories.

Suddenly I find that I am like that orphan who has a lot to say, but nobody to listen,

suddenly I find that my blood longs for you, mother, and a cry emerges and dies in my throat quietly.

Suddenly I find myself homeless in a big house, with only guests arriving and departing.

So suddenly you left without any forewords, that all the noise of the world cannot convince of the

reality, of your departure,

As I reminisce you and listen to your words in my head, trying to see you in the stock pictures the brain definitely preserves,

I bleed and tear,

I crumble and fall onto the earth,

exhausted and burnt out.

Looking for You

The addiction in the blood

struggles to get

to the body,

to the damp oily smell of the saree,

Seeks madly to see and touch, 

that ever so dear pain-striken face.

It is not there anymore,

the rigid limbs and the swollen face

were consumed by fire,

and we saw it all

with unreal eyes

as if in a dream,

We saw the blood and water

dripping from the nose,

the eyes opaque,

the fingers hard.

Still the eager eyes look for your

heavenly face,your grey hair near the ears,

your wrinkled skin,

your thin legs ending

in lovely dried feet, 

This longing will not die , it will

stretch till death, the unseen wound will be dripping blood, till this journey

ends abruptly one day.

That would be the day 

of sweet liberation,  from the torment 

of loss and pain,

and the terrible holllowness

of being orphaned.