Ep

No, no words are needed,

Not  physical presence either!

Just the memory of  stolen glances,

 the chivalry of holding doors,

the searching look and the gentle smile,

is by far, enough! 

Blood

It was blood, your blood,

pristine , crystalline  ruby

that  adorned my palm.

Yes!  you  oozed out blood,

your energy , your  palpitation , your  life force

and, in all generosity, gifted  me

but  in a dream.

Wish

Soul wished to speak to the soul,

awaken divinity

and unlock the  Universe.

But, the gross mind

wrapped in ego

shut the door

and, instead asked,

‘Do you need help?’

Life

Every  moment an appreciation.
The eyes see ,
 the mind fathoms,
 the heart loves.
His creation, His wonder.
Life indeed is beautiful!

Door Keepers

You and I, we're, ‘door keepers',

each other's, ‘official tenders’,

an honor bestowed by the 'door';

gracious, merciful door,

that read the ’unquotable’ and graced this grace.

Lucky, lucky us!

Now, we exchange monosyllables.

‘Thanks!’ ‘come!’, ‘go!’,

that's our conversation

in a span of eight hours.

'SIREY BARA'

‘Sirey Bara’, that was how the villagers addressed him, ‘Sirey’, his name and ‘ Bara’, uncle; ‘big’ uncle to be precise.

He was a man of the village, rugged and rustic, whose permeated sweat   smelt of the Earth he tilled. That wasn’t his profession but a passion and hence done  with all the tenderness.  For the love he bestowed, in return he was blest with abundance. His harvest was always a plenty. It didn’t matter whether that particular year there was hailstorm, or drought. His piece of land was ‘green’ and bountiful come rain or shine. And, his generous heart knew no bounds. If not in the field he would be seen him with a bundle of his harvest of vegetables and fruit wobbling down the cobbled steps on his round of distribution. His list know no discrimination, it was kind of first come, first serve. The house nearest would get a giant’s share and the last, the least, but, he’d make it a point to give all. For little children, it was freshly plucked guavas, oranges or cucumber and for the ladies of the house, it was green vegetables, squash, red hot chilies, potatoes, tomatoes and pumpkin. ‘Sirey Bara’s sight therefore  was a warm welcome to all. You’d know he was coming from a distance by his loud proclamation. He had no refinement or gentleness, therefore, he didn’t speak, he growled! ‘Oi , la yo talai, bharkhar bari baata tipeko.’ (Take this, it’s for you, freshly plucked from the field). The village folks didn’t mind at all, they knew him too well to do so. He was a man with a heart of gold; his unkempt ways was not a bother.

 In return 'Sirey Bara' was served home brewed millet and rice liquor in plenty. By the time he returned home, it was dusk and his feet far more unstable. Sometimes you’d see village boys giving him a helping hand with a ‘dhipri’( homemade  lamp). However, the old man had his pride, the minute they tried holding his hand, he’d protest loud and bold. ‘Na chu malai, mo hirnu sakchu, bujis’ (Don’t dare touch me, I can walk, understand?’) Even in that drunken state he didn’t wish to believe that he needed help, ego reigned supreme.

Like any other man of the village his day started with a big aluminum ‘mug’ of ‘Chang’, (‘home made liquor of rice or millet) and like them, he didn’t walk, he wobbled!  He didn’t talk either, he babbled, because, by the time the Sun was in her full glory, he’d have gulped countless mugs of ‘chang’. That was his source of sustenance, untainted happiness and even satisfaction.  ‘Sirey Bara’ always wore a smile on his face. He didn’t care if his blackened uneven teeth that protruded from his parted lips frightened little children who’d run into the arms of their mother the minute he appeared. Instead, he’d shout, ‘Eeeeeeeeeeeey, yo ta  bhagcha po malai dhekhera. La, la yo tolai , na ru, na ru. Mo ta bara po ta hau!’ (He seems to be running away seeing me. Take, take, this is for you. Don’t cry. I’m uncle, you see.)

 He owned acres of land but was content with his rustic ways. The idea of progressing as the world understands never struck him. Had he desired, he could have made a fortune but such a thought never struck him. His intellect was always numbed under the influence of the brew that he so dearly loved.  His wife and children were kept within the confines of the village provided with bare necessities. They were beauties no doubt and often victims of exploitation who with the passage of time and experience learnt their own art of survival. Often you’d hear tales of his daughter’s courtship and elopement that stirred the village folks’ normal life spicing it up with hot gossip but Sirey Bara didn’t budge. His life flowed in natural rhythm, such ebb and flow were for the village folks to experience, not the ‘old man’.

Eternal he reigned for a good ninety years till icy cold death decided that it was time for ‘Bara’ to move on; he had had too much ‘chang’ and contentment in this world. Now, it was time for change.

The village today is a lost soul, craving to hear his ringing laughter and thumping feet, However, she’ll have to make do with just his memories.

The Whys.

India as is known is a land of many greatness; great history, heritage, philosophy, spiritualism, mahatmas and  gurus,  yet, after every trip home I’m left feeling  perplexed. The land of my birth with such rich history unfortunately, fails to provide me with the comfort and ease of home coming.

  Our great philosophy preaches of the land being an abode of peace and in stark contrast is reality.

  The minute you step foot on the Indian soil there’s noise, screeches to the decibel that paralyzes your senses. Yet to everyone around, this chaos appears natural and they are one with the flow.  

  While waiting to board the connecting flight, I seek for a quiet corner with a Reader’s Digest hoping to read but to my utter dismay this isn’t a place for reading. There’s a battle of announcements of arrivals and departures and movement your eyes can hardly keep pace with. People in my homeland it appears  do not know the ‘art of soft speech’, they either yell or scream. We don’t exchange friendly smiles, we glare or stare. Why I wonder, do we have to be so cynical and scared.

   To add to it, we have flies and mosquitoes in profusion desperate to seek  alien blood and patience. Sad but true, the first hour in my homeland is aching, my mind is a confusion and the brain ceases to think.  I muster whatever needed courage to board the next plane with a consolation that things won’t be that bad. Yes, things aren’t that bad, the view of the place that bred me uplift my spirit, every lane has a memory buried deep and I’m glad to be back but such a feeling is momentary.

  Day two is for running errands and that is when reality hits hard. The land of ethics and discipline lacks both in the work atmosphere. Ask for suggestion and you are given wrong advice, ask for assistance, you are ripped. For reasons unknown, there’s this lurking self centeredness. The first thought in everyone’s mind is to have the better of you since you are living ‘abroad’.

  Second point of disappointment is lack of work culture. There’s no sense of time, commitment, dedication and duty. You talk and take innumerable tea breaks . Taking breaks and passing work is working in the Indian context.

  Then you have endless list of holidays and strikes. In the one week that I was in India, three days were non working days; a fisherman was beaten up so the ‘Leftist’ called for a strike, the bankers were unhappy so their union called for a strike, it was Rabindranath Tagore’s death anniversary so his patriots decided on a holiday. And mind you, all of these were overnight decisions. No, it’s not important if your life comes to a standstill with these instant decisions. You are meant to be flexible and fit in; after all you are in a land of diversity.

  Organization , discipline and patience are ‘foreign’ words; the roads are a swarm of rickshaws, vehicles of all sizes , pedestrians, cyclists and ‘cows’ with everyone huffing and puffing to go first. No rules of any sort prevail. In a land of overpopulation the ‘me’ and ‘I’ dominate. No one wants to compromise or even consider.

  The concept of malls may have crept in but how about mall etiquette? Why does music have to blare? Why do announcements have to be made? Can’t our people read and understand for themselves? Why do we have to push? Can't we wait for our turn? Why do security people have to check at every entrance and exit? Why do sale tags have to be put when there’s no sale? And, why can’t people be pleasant?
 Everyone looks so angry…wonder why.