The Unsung

Thoughts are
Running wild
To fall into words.

And I'm tired of
Becoming just
Another verse again.

I want someone
To come, to
Usher some rains.

Not to write,
But to sing.

I want to dance.
I'm tired of
The unsung.

Void

Here we sit across this
Unwavering silence.

And there's a lot of
Noise inside me.

Do you feel the same?

Only if you can really listen.
I can pour my oceans to you.

Can you lend your ears
And be my infinity again?

Let's Become a Story

Let's become slaves
To this night and
Be lost in each other.

You wink, I'll gleam.
You blush, I'll laugh.
Let's talk from the
Moon to the stars.

You sigh, I'll pant.
The duel of our breath,
Let it drown us in
Luxuries this night.

As the darkness fades
And the moon grows
Jealous..
Let one more story
Of us grow wings..

To take a refuge,
In Brown pages of
My diary.

I'm a Life

I'm good. I'm bad.
Between the
White and black.
I'm a shady
Recline.

I'm not a
Quantifiable piece
Of meat bag.

I'm love. I'm pain.
I'm melancholia.
A rainbow.
A celebration,

Also, a pitch memory
Of darkness.

I'm dark strokes
On the canvas.
Also the mess in
The palette.

More often,
The discarded scribble
On the paper, than
The well-aligned
Parts of my verses.

I'm a story that
Made love under
The fan and
Hung itself to death
Later that night.

I'm this, I'm that.
Beneath, under,
After, before.
I'm a boundless
Beyond.

And sir, or madam.
If you think.
You've understood me,
Then, congratulations.

You've just become
An artist.

Where are you from?

I am from
A place with-

The longitudes
Of heart and
Latitudes of mind.

I'm from
Within myself.

Where are
You from?

Prison

What if you
Fall in love with
The prison
You escape?

Will it..
Still be;
The freedom
You longed?

But, again-
Isn't love a
Prison too?

Blame

I suppose,
Blaming others is a really
Funny evolutionary adaptation.

When we emotionally fail
We say heart is shit. Should
Have listened to my mind.

When we logically fail we say,
Should have followed heart.

I mean wtf is this?
Both are fucking part
Of the same freaking mind.

Maybe blame is a evolutionary
Mechanism to move on with life.

At Ease

The smile hidden
In my mind faces
No hassle to make
It onto my lips.

Breaking the ice,
My words dance
On my fingertips
With utmost ease.

I don't know if
It is the weather but
Today, I feel as light
As a humble feather.

What a disposition.

Wannabe Blues

To have glistened
Daily in your
Elegant shades.

Like a canvas,
I wish I were
The evening sky.

Woven in the blues
Dim, dusky and
Yet, pleasant.

Un-containable Vacuum

Lift that veil
From your eyes and
Ebb away that gloomy
Shade from your face.

Look up, the
Heavens are hung,
The Life around
Has dried up.

Why don't you
Carve a little grin
On your gentle lips
To light it up around.

Please,
Can you break
Your silence and
Fill this vacuum.

Let there be a moment.

Just Be There

You be like that.
Undefined.
Unspoken.
Indiscernible.

Riding my
Utopia.
Feast for
My thoughts.

To be special,
You don't have
To unravel
Yourself.

Just be there
To Inspire.
Like a stunning
Mystery.

Lol

Your pics
Without filter.

Un-combed
Messy hair.

Face with a
Shade of anger,

And the eyes
With lots of kajal.

No wonder I
Started believing,

In the Ghosts.

'Bud'dies

While waiting alone
At a lonely bend and
The time was passing by
Having no ears to lend.

On the long nights; to
Keep your demons at bay.
And some empty
Thoughts away.

Sticking around the neck;
To shield you from toxic men,
The earphones that stood
For you, like a hazmat suits-

Are also called buds for
A reason my friend.

Give Me My Pen

A poem has set
It's pace in me.
Finding a way out,
It's poking around.

It has sneaked in
Every corner.

And soaked in the
Biases I've breathed,
And the opinions
I've consumed,

It has made my
Blood thick.
Veins about to burst.
It's throbbing.

And before it's spilt,
And it's a mess.
Give me my pen.
Let me speak.

Dear, Mr. Monday

Who wants to
Work after Sunday?
Dear, Monday; are you
Not tired of yourself?

Agreed,
Pope was your father.
Childhood was a trauma.
Doesn't mean-

You've to be
'A kick on the nut' face?
And clapper to the
'Let's run this race.'

If only, you
Hadn't made my
Morning tea sour and
Yourself a weekly bore.

I would have Befriended
You. Dear, Mr. Monday.

Cli-mate Change

Remember the days?
When life was life.
Fun was fun, And
Fights didn't go to head.

When I was I, You were
You. We were us.
Lots of food; music.
And time was smoke.

Life was easy,
Everything was simple.
Fog in the winters.
Rains in the rainy season.

I don't know,
When did we become
Global warming and
Lost our summer.

Loop

I'm bored and
Time is slow.
Inside; lots of noise,
My mind might blow.

My what's app is
As lonely as me.
Cliche; even movies,
I don't want to see.

Present playlist is
A sheer monotony.
To go on a trip,
Monies, I don't have any.

So..
I'd to give away myself
To the incognito tab,
Only to meet my
Sweet guilt again.

God! every freaking day,
Is the same. Like a loop.

Porn Mania 1

From holding the paper cuttings of actresses as hostages in our books to stashing the adult books that we read in turns under the bed- adulthood had hit every one of us in different frequencies. Sooner or later we all did it. No matter how disgusting some things were, it’s all just pure fun when we look back. Most of these things happened after we entered the senior house in 2007.

Back then when the internet was still a story we read in books. Asiq banaya apne video song was a popular talk. It took a life full of effort to watch that in my friend’s PC; who was a staff-child. After all what good is a staff child if he didn’t help you to access some explicit stuff like that?

Somewhere around that time, we heard for the first about the blue films aka BF. Yeah! Suck it up… aptly.. I know it, you know it... between calling it BF and porn, we all grew up.

One day, some of the B-section guys started talking about a porno. The migrated guys had managed to pull off a show in the computer lab that morning as they had a CD. One guy narrated the incident to me. He said, “After we settled down in the computer lab, I felt a vacuum around me and when I saw through it; all eyes were fixated on it. And when I laid my eyes on it, the screen literally poked my eyes. It was disgusting, yet irresistible. There was a kind of warmth and quiver in the body. Next period was Jodaddi sir’s. His one-minute silent prayer before the start of the class was a horror. It was like someone had put a mirror inside us to reflect our own guilt. I shivered through the minute. And it was not just me.”

---

Though the computer lab was one place, the usual magic happened elsewhere. Different batches had accessed the stuff in different ways. Usually, the first time happened because of the legacy of senior batches. Our senior’s legacy was the maths lab. It had become a porno adda ever since it was newly established and a PC was put in it.  It was an ideal spot because it was like an outhouse. Totally isolated from the school building and no one paid a regular visit there.

A rod from the window was removed. It was wide enough to slide through it. It was engaged all the time. Things were done so surreptitiously that I suppose for about a year at least; no one had a clue. Most of we A-section boys watched one at the end of 10th class. February 5, 2009. Weird; I remember that date. 

Two guys were inside the lab, operating the PC. Group of we peeped through the window. It was a Tarzan porno. When everything was heating up; a guy beside me who was bit sensitive; started to make weird noise subconsciously. The sight of the clip was so disgusting that it was difficult to watch it continuously. Yet, there was the irresponsible grasp that conditioned the mind. Aftermath, of course, the guilt was there. But we all get used to it, ain't we?

Standing at that last window of maths lab; the first time is memorable as hell. Last week when we had gone to the school after a marriage. Some of we took a moment to peep through the last window. The ten years challenge was practically complete. Also, literally. The date was February 10.

Dharwad

On the darkening blue,
An orange inlay.
The sun's setting
Birds on their way.

Dharwad; No difference.
Smells all the same.
The Mirchi-girmit invokes,
The good old days.

The taunts we made
And laughs we had.
Ran and Roamed around,
Worthy of some pretty scars.

Without any signs,
There was a last day.
Blink of an eye;
Careers, Responsibilities-

Life's now a long drag.

Born Free?

It's easy to
Break out of a prison
That contains us.

What can be done
When we ourselves,
Contain a prison inside?

Or worse.

What if we ourselves
Are a prison!
Disguised as men?

I mean, what better way
To captivate someone?
Than to-

Blow some life into a
Ribcage, give hope and
Convince them that

That they're born free.

And like the cogs of a
Ceaseless wheel,
A workforce is ready.

Real Orphans

Only sleep
Can be a real
Homely refuge.

Without it,
You don't
Really belong-

To a day.
Neither,
To a night.

Not even to
Your home or
To yourself.

And maybe
That is why,
I suppose-

Nobody is as
Orphaned as,
The insomniacs.

Agents of Time

Death is
The final nail;
In the coffin.

Oblivion is
The Rust;
That follows.

One to end.
One to efface.

Only time is
Immortal.
Rest all are
Its victims.

Breathless

You're an
Abrupt surge
In this perpetual
Calmness.

A sudden
Suction of
My serene
Solitude.

In an unwavering
Contempt of life,
You're my dear,
A kick on my gut.

Can't breathe in.
Can't breathe out.
You take my
Breath away.

Cyclic Psyche

How many times
Have I not said to myself
'It doesn't matter'.
And I've brushed away
Your memories?
The songs I've skipped .
The pics I've deleted.

To restrain myself from
Not looking at that turn
We had met.
How many times have I not
Died a thousand times?
Taking shortcuts.
Searching new routes.

And I don't know
How many times
Should I have to squeeze
My beat-box, let it lay out
To dry; before I let you go?
To vent a careless sigh
To tell myself, it's over.

I don't know what's
A thing, most hopeless.
But I think, convincing
Yourself a lie when you,
Already know the truth,
Is one of them and
I'm caught up in it.

Novel Appeals

Sometimes,
The same hunger
Needs to be
Satiated differently.

Need for new eyes,
To perceive the same
Horizon creatively.

Coffee tastes different
On heights.
Even shit costs more
In flights.

Food is poison if
Out of place.
Even a hunter is
Hunted outside a context.

Same stories from
Different mouths,
Sound different on
Same the ears.

Same tears on a
Different face has
Made the Hyena,
A hypocrite.

And when it all

Came down to

A simple question.

It was never about 

The taste of water.

The answer lied in

The appeal of thirst.

A Ravi Day

"Get down at the first bus stand and ask for Toranagatti sir's home. Anyone will point you my home" said Sacchya. Ravi hung the phone, took a tempo. Extending a ten rupees note to the conductor, he said "One Neginahal" and had himself seated in a back seat. Both had been friends since a very long time but had never been to each other’s home. It was some kind of a ceremony in Sacchya's home and Ravi was in no position to deny his insistence. It was hardly half an hour journey. When Ravi got off at the bus stand, the day was approaching 1200hrs. There were shops around, a flag pole in the middle. Few people stood talking in the shade. A man, bright and shine, stood to wait for a bus near the flag pole. Around 40, brown, the white attire of his was quite an impression amidst the usual setting of the place. Ravi thought of asking him for the address. As he approached him, he could see a golden chain around the neck, that was clearly showcased to poke the eyes of people. The pomp of his patriotism was visible on his shirt pocket in the form of a tiny tricolor badge. Clear attributes of a landlord Ravi thought. In a decent tone, Ravi asked the person, "Sir, where's Toranagatti sir's home?" He took a good look at Ravi. Re-adjusted his buccal cavity; to gather some space for words amidst his beetle juice. "Just beside the overhead tank," he said pointing at a faint trail of a road. Ravi took the road. After he walked down for a short while, he saw Sacchya standing in front of a house. Sacchya took him inside saying 'no one is in the home’; everyone has gone to the temple. "Such a big house! What are you a landlord..? Must be having quite an acreage of land too?" Said Ravi in a funny yet awed tone. With a faint smile, Sacchya said "Some twenty-five to thirty acres I suppose". Rolling his eyes with a sigh, Ravi asked, ”All on the lease ?" As he knew Sacchya's father is a teacher. "My uncle used to manage it all. Now that he passed away last month...will have to see.." Sacchya said, looking at the front wall.... Following his gaze, Ravi was asking him about what happened to the uncle when Sacchya got up saying, "Wait, I'll bring tea..." Ravi was no more paying attention to Sacchya. His eyes were fixated on the wall. Specifically on a photo frame. There was a Garland around it. The gold chain....the tricolor badge... the white dress...the man.. Ravi had a stroke like an ache in his heart. He looked around, Sacchya was coming with a cup of tea. Instinctively, Ravi's gaze searched for Sacchya's feet..."Did he have six fingers all these times?" He said to himself. But that wasn’t the concern… he was feeling the presence of a third person.

Masterpiece

Somewhere. Somehow.
There's a story that
Wants to be found.

A poem that wants
To fall suitably,
Into your words.

A painting,
That's awaiting to
Fit into your shades.

And no matter,
How stupid; how boring.
In all your subtleties-

You; in yourself are 
A piece of work.
Yet, unveiled, unfolded.

Grace of Rain

Is this the warmth
After freezing cold or
The calm after
The scorching heat?
It's serene.

It's the rains.

An escaped grace
From among the
Curses of the
Wrecked sailors
And the prayers of
The poor farmers.

Psalm of a Week

Monday is
Melancholy.

Tuesday,
A total trash.

Wednesday, oops!
Tomorrow's Thursday.

Thursday,
What the fuck is this.

Friday is...
Oh yeah!

Saturday...
Hurray!!!

And there's Sunday,
It's Rewind time.

Bomb in Udaygiri

(Koli is a popular form of punishment. Aka murghi in Hindi. It's a position where one has to bend, pass one's hands from behind the knees and hold the ears. Guess the pressure points...)

Shri-BTW must have welcomed that Sunday saying, Aaj kuch toofani karte hain. These sorts of incidents were nothing new to him. They’ve happened to prior to this one. They’ve happened after. But this one from 2009 gets the top slot. The story looks so dramatic and perfect that; many might think I have created it. In fact, it actually happened like it was scripted.

Though Akash Gupta, the migrated boy, was the real victim. The incident was so appealing that Shri-BTW had to be a victim too.

So, that Sunday noon; in the mess. Over a silly argument with our migrated boy, Shri-BTW had to summon him to his house; the mighty Udaygiri. And Akash Gupta, the cute-little-skinny-childish guy was every senior’s favorite. He was always bullied and was asked to recite shayari.

Shri-BTW’s Hindi was horrible. Maybe because of that Akash Gupta didn’t easily couch for his commands. Otherwise too, Shri-BTW was a very easy going guy. Even in the house that day, no one took Shri-BTW seriously. Otherwise, someone like Akash Gupta
in the den of 11th guys would have been ripped apart to tears. On the contrary, others were enjoying Shri-BTW’s Hindi.

As I said, he wasn’t couching well for Shri-BTW’s commands. In broken sentences, Shri-BTW would say, ’Shayari.’ He would say, “Bhaiyya it’s urgent. I’ve to go to the toilet”. Infuriated, Shri-BTW would search for Hindi words and say, “Shayari otherwise, (what’s the word….?) koli.” Akash Gupta would retort, “Bhaiyya it’s urgent. I’ll come after going to the toilet.”

Shri-BTW, took it as a usual excuse and thought he was lying. Also, see, he was getting offended as he was under observation. So, Shri-BTW had to insist; as his reputation was at stake. And he said, “First Koli, then Shayari”. Guptaji had to; as there was no escape. The pressure was building up, everyone had their eyes on the tough guy and the tough guy had a pompous smile that sounded like, “Who’s the daddy now?”

Guptaji wanted to give away what was demanded to escape from there. And from the database,he selected a perfect shayari and threw it away on Shri-BTW’s face. While he was still in the not so comfortable koli position, he summoned good energy in his vocals, and said,“Patthar se na maro mere diwane ko. Bamb ka jamana hai. Udado saale ko”. (Shayari referring to a song from the movie Prem Rog.)

The gush of the wind that followed the last word of the shayari literally created a stampede. The eyes that were cast on the scene were poking away their noses. The atmosphere in the house was scented. There was a grave silence that contained two victims. The one who had the bomb and the one who had detonated it.

Your Gallows of Apathy

I've become
A prisoner of
Your unsaid words.

Before you choke me
In the gallows of
Your of apathy.

Grant me;
My last wish.
Speak to me.

Quench this
Craving and
Absolve me.

Time Heals?

Sometimes,
Time is not enough,
To heal the wounds.

You need to
Shed masks or
Wear new ones-

To move on.

PaperCut

Between the
Unsaid words and
The un-spilled colors.

With our ego.
We carved our ways,
Out of a blank paper.

Guess,
Of all the paintings,
We could have been-

We were destined,
Only till the
Blinding white.

Here and Now

Right now,
I could be; anyone.
Anywhere.

The good. The bad.
Something better,
Or maybe worse.

But I'm here.
At this moment;
I'm just me.

And it has taken,
A lifetime;
To be here. To be me.

A Free Breath

Mind's on the
Wrecked past.
Eyes; cast away.
A bleak future.

Sitting with
A cup of tea.

And,
Sip by sip;
Breathing away,
This moment.

Euphoria

Sometimes,
I wonder;
If you're the colors
Themselves....Or,

A painter,
Who has painted
This perspective
Of mine.
.....
Clouds, the rains,
Winds and
Some shades-
Inexplicable euphoria.

Just Passing By

While I ride the
Wheels of time.
Life's passing by
Like the wind;

Sometimes slow,
Sometimes fast.
Up and down.
Hot and cold.

Is there a destiny?
I don't think so.
We three are,
Just passing by.

Mind and Heart

Aren't we little
Blinded by
Our emotions...

Bit..
Crippled by
Rationality....

And overall,
Totally...
Fucked up?

Mind and Heart-
Halves of same den,
Light years apart.

Agitation

Late in the night;
You come to taunt,
My healing wounds.

Making these scars glow,
You haunt me like
An unexpressed grief.

Powerful; Raging.
A wanna be contained,
Tired storm.

A Storm in a Teacup

Right. Wrong.
Good. Bad.
To be. Not to be.

Decisions. Confusions.
A daily tussle
With thoughts.

Mind is a
Battlefield; and
I'm a war prisoner.

Hiraeth

I'm a wounded poem,
Wandering around;
In search of a
Rhyme-less melody.

If you are one-

Can you give a refuge
To my ailing metaphors;
And aid them with
Your lullabies?

Can you?
Can you be that home?

Judgemental

Increased contrast;
One side it's black.
Brighter; the other side,
It's a blinding white.

Who has erased the
Subtle shades;
The colours that
Lied in between?

Despite our pompous
Sanity; why are we
Still veiled by our
Monochromatic myopia?

Has the world been
Confined between
The '0' and '1' ? Already?
Is there no hope beyond?

Someone

To give refuge to
Those 2 o'clock thoughts.
To cleanse your-
Dust stricken insides.

And to set you free,
From yourself.
One day; someone
Will come along.

And all those songs,
That meant nothing.
All those broken lyrics;
Will make sense.

And then, it'll rain.
Past your cheeks,
Wind will blow for you.
And the birds will sing.

The Stranger Within

Growing up,
Everyone was like-
Beware of strangers!!

No one ever;
Warned me;
About myself.

Everytime; I think
I know myself,
A stranger from within
Pops-up to say hi.

Seems,
Ram is just a
Face of the Ravan,
I already am.

ಕಲಹಗಳ ಕುರುಕ್ಷೇತ್ರ

ಬೆಳಕಿನ ಆಚೆಗೆ,
ಕತ್ತಲಿನ ಈಚೆಗೆ.
ಇಣುಕಿ ನೋಡು ನೀ,
ನಿನ್ನ ಅಂತರಾಳದಲಿ.

ಅತ್ತ ಕೌರವರು,
ಇತ್ತ ಪಾಂಡವರು.
ಮನಸ್ಸಿನೊಳಗಿಹುದು,
ಕಲಹಗಳ ಕುರುಕ್ಷೇತ್ರ.

ಮಹಾಭಾರತವೀ ಜೀವನ.
ನೀನೆ ಕೃಷ್ಣ,
ಈ ಕಪಟ ನಾಟಕದ
ಸೂತ್ರಧಾರಿ.

Robert Frost Parody

Whose phone is this,
I think I know.
The memes might be
In the gallery though.

My good friend mustn't
Think; it's queer to
Look at his phone
Without permission.

I'm alone and
My battery's down.
The longest night
Of the year.

The memes are lovely,
Dank and deep.
Miles to scroll down
Before I sleep,
Miles to scroll down
Before I sleep.

Devaraddi and A Typical Morning

The nap after the morning PT was peace. Sometimes because of irresponsible juniors, it did push me to limits. As it happened that day.

Damn! It’s 7:15. Why didn’t you fools wake me up? Cursing my juniors, with a towel and soap I rushed to the tank. And before I could have contributed anything to world’s water scarcity, I was in front of the mirror cursing my damned necktie.

When my not so shiny black shoes entered the mess, it was over 7:25. Avoiding the cold stare of the principal, holding my plate extended, I moved all shriveled. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation by the knotted face that stood near the counter.

So, I move without demanding extra uppittu from Prakash anna. Thinking, the principal might say something, I take one pickle myself- I hated pickles- as there was no one to serve. I poise to turn and my self-defense instinct sees it coming.

Before his hand hit my face, I stepped back and it hit my chest. The gush of thoughts. Perplexed! What did I do? Before my brain sang possible reasons, I had to face the stare of the audience. A 12^th guy getting a blow is worth a watch for the juniors for sure. And for my classmates; what can I say, they still laugh at me for that.

Knowing no reasons for that- whatever- thing, I was feeling like that Cuban kid from the Kannada movie Ulidavaru Kandante.

Later, laughing at me, someone told me. That, I entered the mess after the principal warned everyone to not have the pickles; as there was no one to serve them.

Well, amen to that.

Hypocrisy

Just because-
Erect, bipedal and
Infected by a little sanity.
Are we human enough?

An attribute to a noun.
Hypocrisy at it's best.

Our barbarism;
Honey coated; with
The justifications of
Our evolutionary triumph.

Until someone else
Writes our histories-
Heaven will go by favor.
And we'll always be-

The 'human' beings.

Limbo

The road that
Enthralled travellers,
Is lost in itself.

The river that
Quenched the needy,
Is athirst herself.

The light that
Lead the seeker
Has turned blind.

Nihilism to be
In the air-

The life that
Was in a flow
Rests in a limbo.

Omni-

Everywhere;
Even when
Everyone isn't.
You're there.
Like always.

In the nights,
For the days.
When I'm alone,
Even in a crowd.
You're there.

And if you hadn't
Come with the
Freaking silence.
Maybe I would 've
Loved you more-

Miss Lonely.

An Unsung Seagull

She was a
Beautiful song
I'd longed to sing.

Lost beyond
All the words,
I'm the ruins.

An,
Unsung Seagull.

Suicidal Head Cage

Should I let these
Blunt thoughts cut open
My veins and run it dry.

Or from this mysterious
Ceiling, choke this
Noisy head to quietude?

Will it be easy to
Intoxicate the insides
And surrender to sleep.

Or off a cliff
Should I just ask the
Gravity to do the job?

What should I do?

Give away myself to
This passing moment or
Laugh at it and let it go?

Why am I not
Brave enough to commit
This act of cowardice?

Any motivational speakers?

Ire

And judgements
Were thrown.
Pride was targeted.

Knives of words,
Hammers of taunts,
Thorns of smirks.
I've contained
Them all.

Having kept in
Mind everything,
Poised behind a
Drop of tear,
My rage awaits;
Simmering.

Don't misread,
My expressions.
Until I can
Actually smile.
You wretches deserve,
The one I've carved.

The Lofty Twenty Thousand

Twenty thousand. The death comes demanding a lofty price.

Those words ricocheting in his head, Mr. Nagappa returned home from the funeral of his childhood friend. The sight of the burial had reminded him of his own old age. Until now, he had never thought of it. For a while, he had stood aloof; like death was staring right through him. He imagined about the crowd around his house. Will there be enough crowd? What about my wife and children? Will they contain that burden?

But more than anything, he was boggled with the words of a peer.

At the funeral, while he got involved in a random talk with his peer group. Someone said, five years back when his father was dead, he had to spend nearly sixteen thousand rupees. The amount elevates because no one wants to come around to help if there’s no alcohol, said another in the group.

Looking at the son of the dead, another said, look at that poor fellow; he doesn’t even have the freedom to express his grief. Given his economic challenges, I wonder how he’ll manage the expense. These days, man is not free even after death. The death comes demanding a lofty price.

After the funeral, all Mr. Nagappa had in mind was the Twenty thousand. Not that he didn’t know about the rough estimates previously. It’s just; he had never really paid any attention to that. Now that he is relating himself to the situation, he’s too concerned. How will my son manage after my demise? The question had turned him weary.

By the time he reached home, it was dinner time. He took a quick bath before entering his home; ate some food mechanically. Without bothering to talk to his wife, he spread a mat in the kitchen and laid down his aching body. The death comes demanding a lofty price. Twenty thousand said the glow of incandescent bulb.

After his wife went to the backyard to wash the utensils, he surreptitiously, sneaked in the hall; opened his old sanduk (metal box). Found his way down to some notes he had stashed. He started counted them. Some new, some old, some crumpled and some worn out. Then he reached for his banyan pocket for few more notes, shuffled them all to count. In the dim light, diving through the quietude…the rustle of currency paper preceded a meek voice,.. one.. two.. three.. four.. five…

Nostalgia

Doesn't this
Lavish lush of
the greens and
The gentle gush
Of the winds...

Tickle some old
Melodious memories?

The monsoons,
Dancing on the roof,
And the birds
Rolling heads
And chirping...

Invoke the forgotten?
Scratch some scars?

While a cup of tea is
Coloring this evening.
Nostalgia is riding it.
Few sweet. Few salty.
Some mixed vibes.

Insomnia

The days are not
Like days anymore.
The nights are not
Like nights anymore.

I'm just,
Differently awake.
Differently asleep.

Thinking of the days
I was alive,
Waking up in the
Worst nightmares.

Most of the times,
I'm more dead
Than alive.

Me Freaking Myself

In my cranium,
There's a den;
Full of beasts.
Some are hungry.
Some athirst.

They feed on,
My emotions
And grow.

The one that
Thrives on
My silence
Is too noisy.

The one
Feeding on
My loneliness
Is most violent.

The one
Brooding over
My insecurities
Making me inferior.

And the one
Trying to control
All of them is
Freaking me out.

Transience

Love, longing,
Letting go.
Why is life this
Obliviously rude?

Why this limerence,
All little emotions,
Were meant to
Fade away one day?

Beyond our emotions,
What are we?
Just stacks of bones,
Sacked in rags of skin?

Tables Turn

A good, a bad.
A strong, a weak.
A demon, an angel.

It doesn't matter,
At what end of
The gun you're.

In the end you will
Also be a good hunt,
For a better hunter.

Predator to a prey.
A matter of time.
In between lies life.

Withering to Sleep

I wage wars on
The ceiling of
My room.

Write theories
On walls with
The flutter of my eyes.

I wrestle with
My pillow from
Left, right to wrong.

My bed knows it all,
About the
Bloodshed in my mind.

I don't fall asleep
Just like that.

Caught up in the
Whirlpool of
Over-thinking.

Fighting the
Leech-like
Thoughts of mine.

Dreaming,
Drowning,
Hoping, Choking.

I wither to sleep.

Answers

Went to the
Mountains
To find
Some peace.

Hit the bottom
Of the river,
In search of
A purpose.

Slept under
The night sky,
An attempt
To find myself.

And then
I found you.

The reflection
I was keen about;
The depths
I wanted to drown in;
And a place
I wanted to belong;

Your gaze
Contained it all.
A world.
A home.

Night- Bike- Chills.

My job involves conducting farmers meetings occasionally. Usually, we conduct meetings in the evening. Yesterday, the meeting got a formal start around 8 pm and was stretched up to 10 pm. And I started my return journey on my bike by 10.30pm. Winter night, cloudy sky, empty roads, slow ride and upon it I sat shivering. Counting down the kilometers covered, all I had in my mind was to reach home without getting robbed.

My home was some fifteen kilometers away I suppose; when I spotted a man standing his hands extended. Giving someone a drop at that hour, I was skeptical. As I approached him, he almost tried to block me. So, I had to stop by. He was a well-built adult; in his 30s I suppose. Looked like a farmer. Tough I was averse, I couldn’t deny him the ride. Then the usual conversation began. He said why he was stranded there. Where he was heading. What he does. Then about his family.

He said he will get down at Neginahal, which is five kilometers before my village. As I talked with him and became familiar, I was relaxed. Yet, in some corner, I had some sort of suspicion. Our conversation took a different turn when he said, sir don’t travel late in the night in this route.

Me: Yes, I have heard of thefts. But my job demands this sometimes.

He: Thefts are okay sir. But there are spirits too.

Me: Oh! Come on man. People just tell stories. Tell me if you yourself have seen any.

He: (In an assertive tone) I have not sir. But a couple of days back one of my closest friends did encounter one.

Me: (In a denial tone) Oh like that. (I knew he would tell the story in which I had no interest at all)

He: He was on his bike late in the night; coming back from Bailhongal.

Me: Was he drunk?

He: Yes he was but that’s not the point.

Me: (sarcastically) So, he was on his bike late in the night and he was stopped by someone asking for a drop?

He: That’s what he said.

Me: (Cliché) go ahead...

He: While the stranger sat on his bike and both were deeply involved in the conversation. Suddenly the stranger stopped talking. And there was grave silence all of a sudden.

Me: (sarcastically) Must have fallen down on the way.

Then, he didn’t reply readily. I waited for his reply for a while. His village was another kilometer away and I was waiting to get rid of him. But there was no reply from him. I thought he got offended by the way I talked to him. Then to break the ice, I said, Annara(bro!). Yet, there was no sound.

His village was hardly a minute away when I asked him if he has to be dropped in first bus stand or second one. There was no response. Calling him a couple more times, I said to myself what’s wrong with this man.
I made a decision to stop by the first bus stand. There was no one there. Supposing he is upset with me, I was imagining his knotted face that would bid me adieu. Expecting the same, I looked back. There was no one. I searched around there was no one.

Head full of rushing thoughts. Confusion, anxiety, chills down my spine and I could feel my heated up ears and churning insides. The bike in the first gear roared. I raced the accelerator.

His words were ringing in my head. Late nights... Spirits... Empty roads... Grave silence.

The Kidney Thief of Neelgiri

Kanakappa entered the school when we were in the eighth class. He was from a really poor family. He way of social interaction depicted that. The questions he asked, the answers he gave; his ignorance and innocence incited lots of laughter.

He belonged to Neelgiri house. Back then, Neelgiri house was a refuge for the peons on the night duty. They would sneak into the house to take power naps in the night. Given their familiarity with all, they used to often get involved in random fun talks and pranks.

One of the popular pranks they used to was removing the pants of sixth class kids when they were asleep. The waking them up to laugh on their face.

One night. Past midnight, they were trying the prank on a kid. Unfortunately Kanakappa- who was oblivious to this sort of things- was shocked when he saw it. As he was a later entry guy, he didn’t have much knowledge of how things work around. If it were another kid in his place, things would have been too normal and mundane. But here we are.

The sight of someone gigantic in winter wear trying to remove someone’s pants; seems his childhood nightmares knocked down his sanity. And all he did was screaming as loud as he can. Calling for help from his seniors in a whiny tone, he screamed, “Yappa, ellaru eddelro yaro kidney kadyak bandar”. Meaning, Wake up ye’all, someone is trying to steal kidneys.

It was loud and shocking that the peons were petrified. They feared being reported that to the principal. But then first Kanakappa was consoled by other inmates. Then he was convinced to not to report with the housemasters or any other teachers.

Sure the guy had pulled the peons’ inside out.

Pretense

I suit up a
New kind of conduct.
Make up myself with
New masks daily.

There's an office
Attire and
A different kind of
Smile in home.

Content expressions
Socially and
Bitter ones
Within the walls.

I've been pretending
For so long that,
Even in a mirror,
I don't see myself.

Hid beneath layers of
Unfamiliar skin,
Seems I've become
A visitor in my own mind.

Let's Walk and Talk

One day.
One random, ordinary day.
I'll steal you from yourself,
And surrender me to you.

Then, we'll go on a walk.
A walk that's not contained
By the shackles of time.
A walk that's not pre-destined.

We'll talk from
Our mouths to hearts.
The moon to the stars.
About the myths of the gods
And glow of our scars.

About how butterflies,
Set themselves in flight.
And fantasies in the
Mysterious nights.

I'll sketch some moments,
You fill the colors.
I'll read the clouds and
You sing to the birds.

And that's how my dear,
We will stash our memories.
In a journey that's deep.
In a life that's bitter-sweet.

You're a Redeemer

It was monsoon. Again.
There was rain,
There was hope.
And in front of me,
There was you.

And there was me,
Seeing you,
Awed and confused.
Clenching my frozen heart,
Afraid and consumed.

Seems you were
A redeemer.
Hammered,
My stupefied heart to
Set the bird inside free.

Now,
There are symphonies.
A hauling storm,
Ricocheting rhymes,
And sheer harmony.

Warts, lots of them.

Where,
There should
Have been
Colorful stains of
Our taunts and fights
And
Souvenirs of our
Cute little mistakes-

There,
Now are just warts.
The kind of drab
Sensations when
Something as
Beautiful as you
Walks away with
No promises of
Returning.

Long Nights

Some nights become,
Sleepless deserts.
Cold thoughts,
Heated up discontent.
All curled up,
I lie dead in the dark.

Old scars light up.
Some regrets and
A lot of guilt.
Bored, lonely and beaten up,
I feel the time that
Passes by my cheeks.

And like an ailing bird,
I flip around searching
For an oasis of sleep.
A sleep that might quench
The emptiness and help me
Through nights.

Smelly Cat Doesn't Share Food..

She had become considerably close. Often meeting her, having food and tea in random places was not a surprising thing by then.

That day in the cafe, while I ordered just tea. She ordered a cup cake along with a masala tea. When the waiter brought the cup cake and kept it on our table, I grabbed it.

She gave that look. The not angry but not again kind of look. I pretended to eat it but before her heart fell out, I slowly slipped it towards her romantically and said,

Will you be my backup?

Gleaming at me she said... Like she already had a ready answer..

"Only if you'll be my Joey"

Then giving myself away to her I wore a ear to ear grin and said...

As long as you're my Phoebe, I'm you're Joey baby..

And then she giggled and extended her hand to take the cup cake.. and before she even realized I snapped and took a bite, shrugged, closed my eyes and nodding my head....said..

Joey doesn't share food.

Starry Dreams

To let you sleep on the bed of
The starry dreams you deserve.
I shall conspire with the sun.
To keep the night hung forever.

To let the world know
How special you're,
I'll embellish some metaphors
With your elegance and
Surrender all of my verses for you.

And I'm ready to walk beside you,
To the end of the any tunnel;
Through any shade of darkness,
To find the luminance that
Can bind us in a forever.

Kiss me or Kill me..

For the stars
You had promised,
I've still preserved some
Darkness in me.

For the rains
You had assured,
I've still kept some
Thirst unquenched.

And for the rainbows,
My bleached heart,
Still waits like a canvas,
In its whitish glory.

Paint me or taint me.
Bruises or some blemishes.
Just don't leave me
Stabbed with apathy.

Not the violence of silence,
Don't want this emptiness again.
Pain or some peace,
I just want to feel . Again.

Wordy Vector

On the long lonely,
Sleepless nights...
You come to
Infect me with verses.

I'm vulnerable,
You're contagious.

And like that
I'm a victim of
This epidemic
Called poetry.

The Forever..

You be yourself.
I'll be myself.
Let there be peace.
Let's not hurt ourselves
With our pretense.

Have your today,
Have some tomorrows.
I'll too have mine.

Then again..
If we meet somewhere,
We'll try to design,
Some beautiful yesterdays
That are forever.

The First Flight

Have you ever tried to set a kite in a flight? Have you ever let your heart feel that redemption seeing something of your creation flying high in the sky? And have you had that feeling of a stab in your gut when the thread was cut and wriggling in the distant sky, a part of you faded away? Also, that adrenaline shot up chase to catch the cut loose kite and the relief that followed after you caught it. Or the despair that remained for days after you had lost one.

Those feelings are age-old. Of the times when old newspapers were uncommon in the home and something as insignificant as a roll of thread needed years of commitment for saving and preserving till the next season. This also involved lots of quarreling with siblings and cousins. But it was all worth it. All worth to see our hearts fly in the sky.

The first time I had seen a kite was in our primary school playground. A couple of guys standing there like wizards. Running around to catch the direction of the wind to set it in flight. That day, then a couple more, all I did was, sit there to watch the magic that unraveled. That surprised face of mine reminds of Pink Floyd’s Learning to fly- Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earth-bound misfit, I.

See, making a kite is easy. Just two slender, flexible, dry mid-ribs of coconut leaf. A paper in the square shape of around one square feet area and some gum. Attach one mid-rib straight, diagonally. Other in a bow shape aligned across the other two corners of the paper. That’s all. The kite is ready. But the most important thing is the sutra, the knot that balances the weight of the kite. It decides the stability of the kite.

As I said earlier, in the era when paper and thread possessed some economic value, without a wailful cry in the home, buying them was difficult. Well, crying is a super-power of a kid, ain’t it? So I used it to make the ends meet. Then I found a guy in my locality who could help me in making the kite. He was a pro. Before noon that day he had pulled off the magic.

In the school playground, he stood holding the kite at one end. I stood at another. As he had instructed, I ran clutching the thread in one hand upon his signal. It took few tries but finally, it was a pleasure seeing it fly while I unrolled the thread from the roll. A few meters up in the sky seeing it fly in the blue background; thinking, what if it entered the cloud or a bird hit it or myriads of such anxious questions spinning in the head. The heat, the cold didn’t matter. Only the flow, standing there giving the thread a slight jerk to maintain the stability mattered.

It is one of such experience that always reminds me of a quote by the legend, Leonardo da Vinci, “Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes with your eyes turned skyward. For there you have been, and there you will always long to learn.” Ain’t it right?

A Beyond Feel..

You might be,
An epitome of boredom in
Someone else's story.
But in mine,
You're;
An unparalleled poetic feel.

A painting that's
Beyond the strokes of colours
And the shades of words.

Doesn't matter if,
Venus is just a planet.
When the light is out,
And gloom is set.
Like a lit up metaphor,
You're my evening star.

The Dog Rescue Squad

That was the last monsoon of our school days. The 2010 one. The encumbrance of the class twelfth was not yet on shoulders and we always had our crazy stuff that was worth remembering a tons of time.

So, on one of such nights, after dinner, it was drizzling and there was no electricity, (a night without electricity was always a great pastime). While we had some chit chat in our house, a junior came running and said, Anna, its Pallavi akka this time. God! Not even the sturdy one, I said and rushed to the Udaygiri house. Sacchya, Wasya and others along with some juniors who held the same concerns were already there. The crowd was a bit big than usual.

It was decided to bury her near the pump house that was near the boys' water tank. Someone carried her and we all walked behind in silence. Digging a pit with a rod was easy as the ground was moist. After the burial, for a brief period of time, we stood there in silence to offer our condolences. The death of this sturdy puppy had ended the dog rescue mission that was undertaken by Sacchya.

Let’s talk about what’s going on. Who’s Pallavi? Why a burial?

See, Sacchya loved puppies. One rainy night he found out some five newborn puppies near the pool that’s by the boys' ground. Without any shelter, seeing them all shriveled and shivering, he was moved. He thought he could do something for those poor souls. So he, along with his squad assured them a shelter under the staircase of Udaygiri house. The waste gunny bags and some clothes provided the necessary warmth. Some daily doses of milk smuggled from mess assured some great nutrition. At least that’s what we thought.

And men will be men. After two-three days, according to the appearance of the puppies, they were named after our class girls. The one that was white was Ganga. The one that was a bit white but frail was Paru. There was one, well built and with a dark complexion, someone called it Renuka. Don’t really remember why the fourth one was called Trisha as it didn’t really resemble her. The last one was Pallavi, very akin to how she looked.

It was fun for some days. Then all of a sudden, Paru died. It was sad. She was buried. Then again, in a succession, they all started to pass. Pallavi had held it for some time but that night she too had given it up. Though it is a funny memory now, it sure was bit emotional then.

Akash Chavan

As a part of the curriculum in the final year of B.Sc Agriculture; the graduates, in my time, were placed in a rural setting for a period of time. The motto behind this placement was to enable students to interact with the farmers and become aware of the practical issues involved in farming. My batch was placed in Akkialur, which is in Haveri district. We chose to settle down in Hangal as the accommodation and the food was promising there.

We took food in a khanavali run by this guy whom we called as Shivu Anna. He was just a few years older to us. It was easy to get along with him and it didn't take long to become close to him. Late in the evening, his place became a routine hangout place. Sometimes we talked at lengths or watched TV. Usually, pro kabaddi had our interests held. Even we played kabaddi for a brief period of time.

Sahana, his cute little daughter was around four years old. A talkative, naughty kid whom we teased always. She went to a nearby nursery school. Daily his father would take her to school in the morning and pick her in the noon. Upon Anna's request, once in a while, someone among us picked her up at the lunch hour as that the time he handled customers. As days rolled by and he became bit more close, we started picking her up regularly. Sometimes we would even go to drop her to school.

I loved talking to her. So, I went regularly to school to drop her or pick her up. Sometimes alone, sometimes with one of our guys. Her class teacher had become familiar with two three faces. One day as most of us were away, Akash Chavan- who usually didn't go to pick her up- had to go that noon. Here, I should describe his appearance. He was of average height with a dark complexion. His uncombed shabby hair, unshaven face and clothing style projected a vague sense of suspicion in anyone's mind. Especially when it involves a kid, no one can blame the person at the other end.

The next day noon I went to school. I entered the classroom. I saw her sitting there with a serious face as her shoe was missing. Her teacher was busy finding it. After the shoe was found, she helped Sahana to wear the shoe and before sending her with me she said, "Anna, dina neeva barri. Hosabra yarara bandra kalsaka hedarki. Adragu ninne bandarva jodi kalsod kasta agittu. Sahana avaranna gotta hidididdakka kalasidvi", meaning please you only come to pick her up. It's difficult to send her with an unfamiliar person. Especially the one who came yesterday arouse an element of suspicion. I only sent her with him as Sahana recognized him.

Well, that was not a surprise at all.

When thug life chose Ravi anna

The second period was over and the third period was about to kick in. Suddenly art mastar, Chandrashekharayya rushed to Sixth 'A', stood at the door with a grave look. The kind of look a predator wears in search of its prey. Then he rushed to the third row and grabbed Ravi. Another teacher whose face was familiar, yet unknown to a sixth class kid was behind him. Though his dark complexion was terrifying, his conduct projected his sympathy towards what was about to happen.

The whole class had its eyes fixed on the prey which was in the grasp of the beast. After a few slaps and thumps on his back, the interrogation started. Art mastar would ask, “Wasn’t that you in the Dharwad bus stand yesterday?” for which Ravi would reply in his terrified trembling voice, “It wasn’t me.”

No matter how brutal art mastar was, Ravi was equally firm with his denial over whatever mastar accused him of. Though he had to go through few more blows, he was finally saved by the teacher who had come with art mastar. He pacified him and made him walk away from that hunt.

From whatever had happened, everyone had a rough clue that it was related to Ravi’s act of absconding the previous day. He was brought to the school by his mama that morning. When the actual story got unraveled slowly, sure all were awed by the stunt Ravi had pulled off. No wonder why art mastar was furious.

That day when Ravi had become Andy Dufresne, he was caught by art mastar in Dharwad bus stand. While Ravi waited for the bus and art mastar had made Ravi realize his worst of the nightmares, Ravi chose his thug life and faced him. When art mastar asked him if he was from navodaya school, he said, ”Ye niv yaar namag gottillari pa. Na namma amman jodi bandeni. Aki ille hogyal” meaning he doesn’t recognize him and he has come with his granny who has left him there while she ran an errand around.

And art mastar had bought it. In a state of confusion and deep contemplation, he had left the place. And that morning when he saw Ravi around the principal’s office, he had realized how he was played by the little brat.

Infinite Love

Mountains are
The love letters,
Written by the ocean
To the sky.

Rain is a reply
From the sky.

And that's how the
Highs and the vast depths,
Make it possible to create
Something infinite....

Something infinite....
Like LIFE.

Life. A sarcasm of time.

Deafening silence,
Strangling thoughts.
A playlist full of
Empty songs.

Played by this
Sarcasm of time,
Adrift like a
Cut loose rhyme.
Where do I belong?

I'm up on a zenith.
Still climbing.
Though hit a bottom.
I'm still falling.

You Noisy Predator

You're anything but quite.
Leading a rampage in my head,
You're an unwavering agitation.

A den of unwanted questions,
Also an abode of utopian answers.
You're, the loudest conversation there is.

Tearing, tying, twisting,
And playing with what's left of me.
You're, my emotions' claustrophobia.

Why are you called silence?
When you're anything but quiet.
You smothering noisy predator.

ಅವಳು

ಅವಳು,
ಈ ಖಾಲಿ ಮನಸ್ಸು
ಹೊರಲಾರದ 

ದೈತ್ಯ ಹೊರೆ.

ಮಾಸಿದ ಗಾಯಗಳ 

ಮೇಲೆ
ತಂಗಾಳಿಯ ಬರೆ.

ಕಣ್ಣಲ್ಲಿ ಕಣ್ಣಿಟ್ಟು,
ತಿಳಿ ನಗೆಯೊಂದ ಬೀರಿ
ಕನಸಿನ ಚಂದಿರನ 

ತೋರಿಸಿ,
ಅಮಾವಾಸ್ಯೆಯ

ಕತ್ತಲನ್ನು ಕೈಗೆ
ಕೊಟ್ಟು ಮರೆಯಾದವಳು, 

ಅವಳು.

ನೆನಪುಗಳು 

ತರಗೆಲೆಗಳ ಗುಡಿಸಿ,

ಮರೆವಿನ 

ಗುಂಡಿಯಲೆಸೆದರೂ,

ಇವತ್ತಿಗೂ ಸಹ, 

ನನ್ನ ಸಪ್ಪೆ ಮುಖವ ನಾಚಿ 

ನೀರಾಗಿಸುವ
ಒಲವಿನ ಅಲೆ, 

ಅವಳು.

A Nightmare Dressed like a Daydream

Climbing up the
Stairway of fantasy,
I was fast asleep.
The daylight hit so hard
That I'd to wake up. Again.
In the same Nightmare.

Now, there's nothing more,
Than my cold bones and
Rags of skin covering it up.

A few questions for which,
I don't have any answers.
A gloom around and
A screen staring at me like
I'm her subject.
Which I'm.

Insignificant Man

I'm a trumpet,
without a voice.
Sitting here,
My wings dead,
Voice shrunk,
Thoughts at siege,
And heart ablaze.

Baked by the sun,
Damned by prejudices.
Containing my simmering ire,
Here I sit cold and calm.

With the stagnant
Tides of time,
I'm walking alone,
To find an end.
I'm a trumpet
Without a voice,
What's spoken in noise.

SHE

She's the pompous
Thunderstorm,
Hauling high
In the sky.

I'm just a meek
Rustle of a leaf,
Lying by
A creek.

How should I conjure
Her mighty attention?
I'm just a muggle,
Knowing no incantations.

I can only beseech
For a sign from her.
Maybe; a glance.
A smile. That can

Ward off this
Dreary longing and
Spread a steady
Gleam on my face.

The Wall

I've seen you, lying dead.
On the grave of your thoughts.
Facing your insecurities,
Torn out. Dumb and dry.

Admiring your own reflection,
Beaming narcissistically,
I've seen you bloat. Full of life.
In all pomp. Jovial and high.

On any other day, 
I've seen you, changing masks.
Distraught over other's opinion,
Too concerned. Pale and shy.

From your apologetic cry,
To a regretful sigh. 
From your simmering ire to 
A guilt stricken wry. I've seen it all.

I've observed you long enough.
I've studied your shades like forever.
I've known you, better than yourself.
And my friend your secrets are safe.

The Intrusion

You're the vector for
My lonely nights.
The breeder of my
Empty thoughts.

You're a tight slap,
When I'm fast asleep.
A choking silence,
When wide awake.

On a hopefully,
Colorful evening;
You're the cloudy intrusion,
That ruined the elegance.

Hermosa

Upon your cue,
On the way down.
My words quiver
To fall into right places.

I'm just the means.
You're the poetry.

These broken lines are,
Just the Interpretations,
And the misinterpretations,
Of the unfathomable
Mystery you're.

A Rainbow that's due

The the day is warm,
My feelings are ripe.
I'm high on her,
I know she's my type.

A reader's ocean.
A writer's mountain.

She's the reds
With bluish hues.
A tickle that has left in me;
A rainbow due.

The Biryani and Aftermath...

It's a special evening and you decide to have biryani for dinner.

You eat it with all excitement and devour it's taste with the best company in the world.

But wait,

Somewhere while you were relishing it, a piece of meat is stuck in your tooth.

It didn't bother you much until you finished your food.

After the dinner, the game starts.

Your tongue on one side, the piece of meat in your decayed tooth on the other. You reach it, you feel it. You rub your tongue against it, it moves, slides a bit but too adamant to come out. You talk, you smile, you walk and laugh with others but yet you're busy in the same game.

Even after an hour, it's stuck. You reach home, sit at study table. You open a book, read, write and do all stuff. Still, the game in the mouth is still on.

Now you're in bed. The game is still on and you can't give up since it's not letting you sleep. Now you even feel mild bruises on your tongue, yet you're on it.

And finally after 3 hours of struggle. There it is, from the corner of the cracked tooth, ready to give up.

And right at one moment, it's out.

Peace!!

The Returned Summer

Sid, the six year old jovial kid was feeling awfully bereaved that summer morning. It had been two days since he hadn’t been able to find his tyre wheel. He had already searched in all possible places he would have kept it. Usually he kept it behind the front door of his house or sometimes in the barn hidden beneath the paddy hay. If he was late and he had sneak into the house without notice of his father. It wasn't the first time it had disappeared. Sometimes his father would hide it to teach the audacious kid some manners but Sid would find it in no time.

Wearing same knotted face as before, he was ransacking the house. Today morning his mother got enraged about the mess he was creating. She caught hold of him, clutching his neck, she bent him. Fisting her left hand, she blew a hard thump on his back. Weeping his stomach out, yelling at his mother he ran away without having any food. The disappearance of his tyre wheel was the real reason for the wailing cry otherwise, getting reprimanded by the elderly in home was a usual thing for him.

The tyre wheel of the bike Hero Honda CD-100 had become his indispensable companion since two months. He had brought it from his uncle’s home. Watching other kids in the streets running around with their tyres, rolling them with a stick, he had always fantasized about having one for himself. The last time he was in his uncle’s home he couldn’t contain himself after finding the tyre wheel in the backyard. His biggest dream of the times had come true and all he did was run around the street with his excitement all day long. The next day, to convince his averse mother to carry the tyre wheel his home, what all he didn’t do? From not eating breakfast to rolling all over the backyard with a noisy cry, his adamant sullen face, which usually gets things done had played its role. By evening he was with his valuable possession in the bus to his home.

The tyre wheel of a motor cycle was point of his pomp among all the bicycle tyre wheels his friends had. This was fast, robust and a thing other kids looked up to. Every evening after school, his pack of six to seven friends went running around. The hunger, the heat or whatever other adult reason we find and blame would not worry them. They went racing along the stretch of fields eating whatever they found in the trees. For that reason, summer was the time they always looked forward to. The holidays and fruit laden trees was unlimited freedom. The mango, sapota, guava and cashew trees were rampant in the region. If not along the road, sneaking into someone’s farm was a routine summer thing. Of course the farm owners did confront them seriously if caught but freedom is not free, isn't it?

That summer was already set. The holidays were declared. Myriads of exciting things that were in the kid’s mind were yet to be unraveled and the tyre wheel was now missing. After leaving home in tears, the kid, though joined his pack but the day wasn’t the same.  He was a shriveled soul looking at his other friends running around competing each other as he ran along them without his chariot. He felt like an outcast.

He wondered if his father has thrown it away or hidden it somewhere. Also he thought about the possibility of its theft, but who would do that? Suspended in his own thoughts he moved mechanically with his friends. The little gang found a temporary refuge near the outskirts of the village where there were good number of fruit trees. Sun was overhead and no one had any lunch plans.  Some climbed the small trees, some enjoyed the fruits fallen on the ground. Sid too enjoyed the cashews and the guava, but he didn't climb any trees; he was not in the mood.

He didn't wanted to go home as he was angry with his mother. But he had to before his father returned home. With hesitation, surreptitiously he sneaked into the barn. Tip toeing through the backdoor he reached the kitchen. His worried mother was relieved at the sight of him. She was still angry but she could understand his pain of having lost his tyre wheel. She didn't wanted to upset him further. So she just chose to offer him some tea and go outside.

She had kept the tyre there. In the noon the neighboring woman had returned it saying her kid had stolen it. These kind of conflicts between both the kids was common but this time it was a step further. While he sipped his tea mechanically, his mother called him in a cheering tone. Seeing the tyre wheel in her had, he summoned all his strength and jumped all at once to grab it. He was happy. His dull face was filled with radiance now. All he wanted was to pass the night and the sun to rise to unravel the day ahead. His summer was back.

I'm a Refugee

Without any;
Twist and turn.
Devoid of any;
Warmth or cold.
My days roll by aimlessly.

Like a refugee
From the past.
To seek an asylum
In the future.
I'm in exile presently.

While time dictates
My expatriation.
I've nowhere to belong.

My Paper Boat

For a promising sail,
For a better,
safe ship,
My paper boat was killed.

Now I'm sitting here,
Wondering about,
The otherwise horizons,
I was destined.

A Forever Feel She is...

A little me,
Is still hooked to her.
Swings whenever it rains.

Yeah!!
She's a strong hinge.
Out there,
Still lingering on the,
Tip of my pen.

A poem I couldn't complete,
A song I couldn't sing.
A forever feel, I couldn't let go.

Moving on

And somewhere down the
Dump of guilt and regret...
I drained my longing for you.

I had to fight the monster,
You had become in my head,
To break the prison that was 'hope',

On a bitterly cold winter night,
I burned our memories to warm me up. 
I'd to move on.

The Way Back to School.....

The last day of the holidays folded all the month long of homely fun. The very reminder of going back to school incited a gut clenching feel. The home that day would turn into a gloomy ghetto filled with only talks of pressing dresses, packing the eatables, taking measures to protect the project works and bearing all the morality talks from the elders in the home. After all the cozy comforts of home, going back to school was a nightmare. The way back sure was a heck of a struggle, battled by almost all Navodayans I suppose.

From waiting in the bus stop in the village to entering the dormitories in the school, there was a choking, uncomfortable feeling. It was like the ‘butterflies fluttering’ feeling when one's hungry. The heart beat fast and the tips of ears used to be warmer than usual. Also, all along the journey, the incomplete assignments reminded the knotted faces of subject teachers and made the experience still haunting.

This anxious feeling had it's stages. It shot up progressively as I got closer to the school. From home to Dharwad bus stop, it was like the silence before the storm. The blabbermounth in me would not talk to anyone more than necessary. After reaching Dharwad old bus stop, seeing the other dull faces like me invoked bit of variations in the anxiety. For example, meeting a topper guy of my class would make me more uncomfortable as it reminded me of the assignments and that guy would have completed single one of them. Again, there were guys like me, whom I met like my own alibi.

Then there was the bus journey from there to school. Maybe the Kyarakoppa buses knew all our extreme emotions. From someone's ecstatic moment when leaving school to the nauseating tread while entering the school. The bus full of navodayans with different shades of paleness carried emotions of its own. From the more petrified sixth standard kid to the ‘holding their shit together’ seniors, all had their own fears of entering the gate.

The final stage of this anxiety began once the bus crossed the pedha factory. There was this room for the peons beside the gate, on which ‘Jawahar Navodaya Vidyalaya, Dharwad’ was etched in bold blue fonts. It was visible from around the distance of some 200 meters. After covering some distance from pedha factory, it was visible. The sight of that churned my stomach every single time till I completed school. My insides quivered and I think that was peak of it.

Once inside the gate, the anxiety faded slowly. The long road, the old faces with some new stories along with the evening roll call by the teachers reminded us our place. The house cleaning, preparing the bed, going to dinner rotating the plate, the prayer and the food laid some ground for the day ahead. Some peaceful sleep and irksome whistle in the morning pulled it out of us to dissolve us in the routine again.

A Black Magic

Am I a fool to try 

to fathom this depth?

Or deluded enough

to think, I cannot?

Or I'm intoxicated,

by the look itself?

I'm drown and dreaming 

about it now.

I know it's not the gravity 

that's making me feel held,

Otherwise why would I be 

this buyoant?

And now i know, why, 

Some magic is black. 

Black, White and Fifty Shades of Grey

The days of black and white,
Are long past gone.
These are the testing times of
Fifty shades of grey.

Speak the truth, you're ruthless.
If you lie, you're shameless.
Just spill right shades of both,
You're a righteous person.

Sometimes, you need to say
What others want to hear.
Ignore the things ,
You don't want to listen.

Trying to convince is a futile effort,
People hear what they want to hear.
You need to wear a mask or shed one
To move on and live contently.

Bound Freedom

Ae azaadi bhi,
Kati patang jaise hai...

Manjhe se chutkara
pane ki khusi toh hai jaroor..

Lekin hawa ke isharo pe
nachne ka khayal,
hamesha chubta rahta hai..

Translation-
 

“This freedom is like a cut loose kite.

Sure there's happinesses of getting rid of the thread.

But the thought of dancing to the commands of the wind keeps on pricking me”.

The Phenomenal Woman

After having a great dinner, I, Sanjya and Satish Anna started to walk down the main road of Mahalingpur. Cracking some random jokes, judging and trolling people,we walked along laughing. An old lady was coming our way carrying a huge basket. She was in her rags  and by the look of her, anyone could have mistaken her for a vagrant, like we did. When she was near us, Satish anna approached her extending his hands with some coins. In a humble tone she said, "I'm a vegetable vendor and on my way to my home. I don't take money". It was awkward to have done to that. Anna asked her sorry and pulled out a short conversation with her.

After the brief chat that followed, we learnt that, she lives alone in the outskirts and daily comes to the market early in the morning with a load of vegetables. She seemed to be in her late 60s. She has no family. Her marriage was a wreck and though she was from a good family, she never thought of going back thinking about her family reputation. The place she lived was around 2 to 2.5 kilometers away from the market and she carried a weight of 25 to 30 kg daily. Though we felt sorry for her, her resolute attitude had left us awestruck. Hers was one such face you can't easily forget.

Briefly after the above incident, we started cooking in our room as we got a gas connection. Our ‘cooking’ involved mostly preparing pulav. Dal rice and egg rice were brought into action occasionally to break the monotony. The cooking demanded a new task of visiting the market regularly for vegetables. Usually Sanjya and me went to the market. During the errands to fetch vegetables we encountered the old lady many times. We deliberately went to her to buy lemons and coriander thinking some extra money from us would help her. Sometimes we used to insist her to take the extra money, but she used to deny it whatsoever. Even if she had no change, she forced us to take a bunch of coriander or the lemon.

Our little trade would never settle without a random chat. It involved usual personal stuff about our natives, about the crops, climate and home. She told us how much the other traders are biased and have prejudices against her. How the Mahalingpur town changed and about some random politics involved in the town.

One evening she became too curious about our cooking adventure. She asked what items we prepare, what ingredients we use and whether we have a gas connection. I don't know if it slipped out of her tongue or she said it jokingly. She said, if possible bring me pulav, let me have a taste of your food. In the flow I and Sanjya agreed. We promised her to bring her pulav, the next day noon. She told that she would be sitting in the same spot everyday till evening and we can come there anytime.

Next day noon around 2 o'clock, cursing the the scorching heat, I and Sanjya walked to the market. The old lady was not there at her usual place. We searched for her for sometime then enquired with others. No one had a clear clue. Then we found someone sleeping near a closed shop who looked like the old lady. There was a basket of vegetables. We were hesitant to approach her initially as she was sleeping facing the shutters of the shop and her face was covered with her saree. Sanjya took the initiative to break the awkwardness and approached her. He shook her and woke her up. He talked to her and gave her the tiffin box and a bottle of water. See welcomed it with a wide smile. We took a leave saying we would come in the evening.

In the evening we went to her to collect the tiffin box. She was thankful and happy. Also she didn't let us go empty handed, she insisted to take the carry bag in which she had packed something. There was a packet of Parle-G biscuits and some churmuri (puffed rice). It was such a magnanimous gesture. We were overwhelmed.

I don't want to call her economic state a misery but somehow I feel she is way too much virtuous and deserves better than a lonely life. She reminds me of that quote by the greatest unfortunate artist of all time, Vince van Gogh. “Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me".

(Title is borrowed from Maya Angelo's literary work. Maybe the old lady matches the frequency of Maya Angelo.)