Eagle

Eagle

O Mighty Eagle

You may not know
That you set my heart soaring

When I get fed up with platitude
You show me the altitude

I have seen you
Perched on rocky cliffs
overlooking the Grand Canyon
basking in the golden rays of sleepy sun
which weave magic into fabric of clouds
where time has carved the red earth
into timeless brazen shapes
I have seen your spiraling ascent
on invisible columns of hot air

I have seen you
Gracefully dogging annoying crows
I have seen your romantic dance
Closing in at jet speeds
To your flight mate
Breaking of just in time
After a gentle touch

I have seen your swooping dive
In ten seconds
From heaven to abyss
To sink you beak into rotting flesh

Neither my sympathy for your kill
Nor your resounding cry
which is perhaps too shrill
No
nothing takes a bit from the grace of your extended wings
Ready to soar
Once more
When the clouds sprout
Where suspended garlands of droplets
Wait for opportune moments
To form a rainbow

You see
We are all opportunist
Driven by our needs
But should it really hook us to the ground
To crawl
Throughout our lives
Caring for next day’s meal
Next season’s nest
When it is so much fun
To try to reach sun
To soar
Into azure sky
Glide on the currents of time

Hang on
I’m coming!

The flower and butterflies

Deep in the woods a strange flower bloomed. The sun shone on its petals resplendent in vivid colors. The winds carried its sweet scent all over. The butterflies woke up from their dream world. They all frolicked around the wild gathering nectar from the flowers.

A butterfly followed the scent and reached the strange flower.
“May I taste a little nectar that you have cooked”? Asked the butterfly
The flower said “You are welcome my dear. Drink your fill while I shower your wings with pollen that I need to send across to other flower”.
“I’m not your house maid”..
“No free lunch..its give and take”.
“You are selfish..you are fake” said the butterfly and flew away.

The flower smiled and waved a good bye. Soon another butterfly came by.
“Have you got some honey”?
“Come on in.. honey”.
The butterfly tasted the nectar and liked it. The flower caressed its wings ..they were soon in love. The butterfly asked
“Would you always be there when I need?”
“If I do how would I turn into seed?”
“but you said you love me..”
“I do but that love can’t kill me.. I got to shrink into a seed”
“Damn liar..soon you would burn in fire”..The butterfly flapped its thin wings in anger and flew away.

The flower shrugged the dew from its petal. It was sad but it hardly mattered.
Another butterfly came by..
“I’m drawn by an irresistible scent”
“Come on in.. before I’m all spent”
“Wow I like the tatse”
“Enjoy yourself..its all yours..what’s the haste”
The butterfly took a sip and said..
“Can you please close the door”
“If I do I’m flower no more”
“but you said you are all mine”
“Yes I’m but can’t you let me shine”
“You cheat..wither in heat”

The flower was really sad. Such a short life and how could it go so bad. The sun was scorching its petals..testing its mettle. The flower cried.

Then came a butterfly and asked the flower
“Don’t cry. Smile”
“I’ll but can you stay for a while”
“What have you got for me”
“little nectar..honey”

The butterfly came in and sipped little nectar left in the flower. Then it sat still..they talked. The flower told the story of other butterflies. The butterfly lent a sympathetic ear. The flower now had no fear.

It said “I told truth and was called a crook.”
The butterfly laughed and laughed and laughed.
“You fool..If butterflies could stand your truth they wouldn’t be butterflies”.
“But I can’t dish out lies”

They were friends..Butterfly stayed overnight..snugged in cozy little flower. As the morning came the flower started to feel weak. Its petals started to give way. It shrunk and shrunk into an ugly little crumpled heap. The butterfly wasn’t ready to lose such a precious friend.
“Do you need a helping hand?”
“No..this is my end”

But that was not to be..The flower had been touched by the flying spirit of butterfly. Soon it turned into a seed and the seed had tiny hairy wings. As the entire wild watched in amazement the seed wafted across the wild seeking a new home. The butterfly wasn’t far behind.

As the evolution continued the flowers mastered the art of luring the butterflies with ephemeral beauty. The butterflies remained unaware but the term butter up became synonymous with flattery and lies. It’s a different matter that the winged seed design became quite successful in evolution and many species of plants use it today, to spread their dominance in the wild.

When love beckons to you

I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem,
by the roes, or by the hinds of the field,
that you not stir up, nor awaken love,
until it so desires.

~ The Song of Solomon

I wake hime up. Knowing the consequences. You know how empty it feels sometimes. The songs go dry on my flute. The pen oozes empty words. Meaning..You need meaning in life as much as water. Hence I wake him up. Knowing the consequences..

And once he wakes up, he keeps me awake. And I wonder if I should have followed Solomon’s solemn advice. But then its too late.

And I’m left with no other option but to follow The Prophet

When love beckons to you follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.

~ Kahlil Gibran: The Prophet

Let’s kill it

Who injected
slow poison
In the veins of our love
Time? Distances? You? Me? We?
Or Chance?

As it lies silent, dejected
And stunned
Watching the prospects of a premature death
With a sort of equanimity and
Nonchalance

Know not what you think
But I feel we shouldn’t have left it
To die in cold
A prolonged and ignominious death
And pretend that it’s a natural death
When it is anything but!

If you think it can’t revive
I would say it can’t survive
For God’s sake
Let’s show some mercy

Let’s kill it!

Written on: Feb 02, 2006

Kaash

The secrets hidden and the words untold
And the couple of questions that left me cold,
But how I wished I could, throughout
Pour the feelings to you out.

The mystic gaze of your eyes
The questions they seemed to raise,
I knew them all in my mind
But how I wished I could unwind

Those dreams and all the fantasy
A randomness filled with ecstasy,
How I wished I could struggle,
To unravel this sweet tangle.

That walk on the sparkling sand
You and I, hand in hand,
Moonlit moment, Ah, so brief
How I wished I could repeat.

I longed for you forever
Full of dreams dying never,
Sad you missed the spark in my eye,
Wished we gave it a second try.

The dreams gone and paths split,
How we lay not close a bit,
How sad an end of a blooming tree
Wished I could change it for thee.

Translation of my poem: Kaash
Transalation by : Ranganathan Ramasubramanian

O my dream

O my dream
O my dream

Don’t just be
A mere wish
Don’t just be
ephemeral mist
form the ground
beneath my heart
be my faith
My sweet heart

Ah.. that sheen
that shivering dew
on the tip of bud
for moments few
vivid it was
so short-lived, but

doubt? I did
not in love’s light
rather wind’s might
that causes fright
don’t play in my eyes
hide in my veins

O my dream

For a few days
happiness bloomed
at the gala fair
of town ’T was doomed
I traded all joy
To buy sweet pain
precious it was
bought few grains
Tried, in vain
To make ends meet
Lend me some more
Love’s pain sweet
O my dream
O my dream

Don’t just be
A mere wish
Don’t just be
ephemeral mist
form the ground
beneath my heart
Be my faith
My sweet heart

Translation of my poem- O Swapn Mere

In Search Of Discontinuity

I am surrounded on all sides by thick fog, blown up from the valley into the lap of the hills. I’m little taken aback by its sheer speed. What a transformation! Within five minutes there is no trace of the hills, no trace of the bright sun, no trace of the world, no trace of life, just layer after layer of thick white fog.

Sometimes I wish that I would wipe off all my past from the canvas of my life and start it all over again. I can see this urge in me as early in life as I can remember. I was awful in painting, quite unlike my sister. There was mismatch in the beauty of my imagination and the skill of my hands to paint it. I would try the impossible. The colors won’t match the colors of my imagination. The brush would refuse to be guided by the dreams. I would sulk at what I have painted. I would try to improve it and then a point would come where the painting would get worse with every touch of the brush and in a fit of disappointment I would pour the bottle of black color on it. That would be the end of that day’s painting session. Black. The color of night..so soothing..

I always have mixed feelings about the present state of life. With one hand I like to change it..with the other I would like to preserve it. The difference in what it can be and what it is, haunts me. But the future is built on top of the past. Neither can I improve on it beyond a point, nor can I can’t pour black color on it...

I need a discontinuity now. A thick white fog which can wipe it off. Then a pouring rain. Then a clear sky. I bet I know how to paint rainbows.

The point of no return

It was pleasant day otherwise.. The pale mist had withdrawn its claim over the lake. The reluctant rays of sun played on abundant supply of reflecting surfaces. Over a cup of coffee we talked, argued, fought and screamed. But the oars of reason don’t work well in emotional quagmires. I was well aware that we were not moving anywhere. What a mess it was.

When the storm in the coffee cup didn't subside I gave up. I started playing with my empty coffee cup, my fingers weaving magic over the cup. The magic did work. Slowly her endless stream of accusations became like a noise from distant waterfall. Angry. Tumultuous. Beating the stones in their watery grave. Yet you can sleep listening to that noise, if only you can make it a background and put some thought in the foreground of your mind. I reached a state of bliss(which surprised myself when I look back).

‘A lot can happen over a cup of coffee'. The lines painted on the coffee cup brought smile in my face. A lot..of course. Before I could realize that the smile was at a wrong time and wrong place, a thunderbolt jolted me from my seat. “Are you listening??”.I could see the anger in her eyes. I knew I still loved her but I was helpless. May be she was helpless too.

I decided to let go. My instinct told me to move on. Ignoring her calls and the questioning glances of curious onlookers I walked away.. not knowing where I was going .. Probably it didn't matter .. All the roads were leading to the point of no return.

Lost ground

The wind updrafts have died long ago…The eagles aren’t circling above them anymore. There were no boats in the lake. The trees have shed all the leaves. He mumbles as if asking himself “Do we die in an instant……” She looks with an air of surprise. ”…or over the years??”

Sometimes she feels as if this guy is just mad. He slips out almost imperceptibly into a different world which she can’t access. And then she is left wondering whether to remind him that he is with her. It’s a curious struggle. She has to keep him engaged in conversation other wise he would “slip”. But she is afraid overdoing it. He doesn’t like talkative people either.

This has been going on since an year now. They did have beautiful moments together. Like that morning watching the lake change its color from dark black to green. The defrosting action of sun bring life back into flowerbed which looked almost dead in the morning. She doesn’t recollect what they had talked during that entire morning but she remembers the warmth of that moment..or was that a shawl.

By all accounts he is much more alive than any normal human being. When he is at it you can’t shut his mouth. When he is curious you can’t just lull his curiosity by reasonable looking answers. But she wonder if he has been that alive in love. He can spark her emotions almost at his whims but when she tried it she has always found him immovable.

He would be humming a song and suddenly ask her how is it? She almost feels as if she has heard it somewhere. Then he would show a crumpled piece of paper and tell her that he wrote it about her. She would cajole him to repeat it and he would. With each word she would feel a swell of emotions. The blissful embrace would be interrupted at the sound of stones disturbed by the steps of passing Nepalese coolie carrying a load almost as heavy as his on weight. Sweat lining his eye brows in that cold evening.

Then he would pick his camera and carefully position himself to take a photograph. The Nepali would give a shy smile but he won’t click. He would just wait until the wrinkle in his forehead tells the story of weight and perseverance. A click later he would smile and beacon the Nepali to have a cigarette. The subject and the photographer would be lost in intimate talks. She won’t understand what Nepali said about the cigarette and she won’t understand whether he understands Nepalese. She would feel the loss of a beautiful moment..feel being forgotten

But no. he would come back…grab her hand to take her to patch of jungle left untouched by the burgeoning town. She would find it hard to keep pace. At the top of the hill amid wild rose plants he would point at a gorgeous red flower. He would tell her that he has gifted the flower to her even before it bloomed, carefully taking of a paper strip wrapped around the branch.. Written in an unmistakably bad handwriting .“For my love”.

She doesn’t know if she loves him. She knows when she does. She knows when she doesn’t. Like that day when he told her that for him, she is nothing but a subject of his photographs, much like a beautiful flower. She was hurt..even more so knowing the fact that he know precisely what she would feel when he says it. But she forgives. She yields to his weirdness.

He looks at her and she too is lost…just like him…what if he just walks away… never to come back…Many things which made his life till an year ago, are losing their meaning.… The shadows were slowly reclaiming the ground lost during the day…inch by inch

The norm

In our village there is an interesting norm. If I grow a tree on my orchard and the branch of that tree grows beyond my field into neighbor’s field, I’m liable to share, half the produce of that branch, with my neighbor. The more simple the life seems on surface, the more complicated are the laws of a community.

There was a person in that village who didn’t like his neighbors. Who does? And he planted an orange tree. The tree, ignorant about the boundaries of land grew in all directions. A few years passed and a wayward branch crossed the diving line between the fields.

The person realized that he will be forced to do the unthinkable.. share the fruits of his toil with his neighbor. That was out of question. So one day as the sun was rising he climbed the tree with an axe and cut the branch.

I’ve no comments on the norm or the implications for either of the neighbors but I do feel bad about the tree. But isn’t that too a norm. In all conflicts the innocent pays.

Fear

What does it take to get afraid? Imagine walking alone in a dense forest..A small mouse that scurries around in search for food, a stump of a fallen tree, any thing, a shadow of anything, a sound or lack of it, a sight or lack of it, is capable of raising a chilling sensation in your spine.

You aren’t afraid so much about the subject of your fear but you are afraid of fear, per se. Don’t try to reason it out. There have been tiger attacks here..Bullshit.. Don’t convince yourself that you fear is reasonable. Just be afraid and you would soon realize that its so silly.

Here you are..whistling a song so as not to focus on the fear which is gripping your mind..Your fear fueling the imagination and the imagination tricking your senses to see a ghostly shape, a frightful sound..

I’ve been around Jim Corbett park in the moonlit nights and I have seen that the fear is only animal that keep with you. All wild animals, in whatever small numbers they have been reduced to, keep a safe distance from humans. They know about you much before you come to know about their existence. And they won’t kill you for a meal because humans aren’t that tasty choice. Even if they are tasty they aren’t worth the risk…You never know when a bullet will come out shrieking.

I believe in rationality of wild animals which makes me take supposedly irrational decisions of roaming fearlessly in jungles. When I went out for the first time my family tried to convince me about the dangers in the wild but I didn’t pay heed. Finally..my father asked “Till what time should we wait before sending a rescue party?” I said "4’o Clock..tomorrow evening". I bet he had a sleepless night. Me?? That was one of the best night I ever had!

Crow attack

Swoosh…. I bent down instinctively..What was that? As soon as I raised my head to look around there comes another attack..A pair of crows..attacking in turn..Keeping one eye on the sky I quickly head for the cover..

It doesn’t take a lion to hurt you. A crows’s beak has enough punch in it to break the skull. You don’t believe..Then you see the wild variety of a walnuts in the hills of Kumaon..These nuts are tough and it takes a solid hit form a 5 pound stone to break these nuts...And crows find these easy enough to break.Don’t worry though..Like any other wild bird or animal they need a reason to attack you. “The Birds” was a piece of fiction.

The adventurous one, among the young crows, often falls down its nests while testing the strengths of the new found winds. As it can’t fly back to the nest, the parents have no other option but to defend it while it hops around the ground below the nesting site. If you happen to come near the baby crow, you become target of the bird attack. The beauty of the attack is that the parents work in pairs. The mother would come down from a tree, and hit you with the beak and then continue to the next tree. If you continue to move closer to the baby crow the father takes off from the opposite tree for a follow up strike.

I soon left the crows to their own devices. But the problem persisted throughout the day. The baby crow caught attention of my dog. While the dog was watching with heightened state of curiosity when crow attacked my mother. She was actually hit in the head and got a goose bump in her skull. The dog, helplessly chained, started barking feverishly. After all it was encroachment of its air space.

The beautiful part of the childhood was the novel experiences like this which happened almost without notice. It was fun. Soon I decided that the best way to put an end to the commotion it to let the dog go loose. The small amount of guilt was soon overcome by the argument that the dog is also part of nature and if it kills the baby bird, its nature’s rule. It was a convenient argument.

As I released the dog it approached the baby crow in a confidant manner. It didn’t rush, the way it usually does while attacking unannounced human visitors. The crow came swooping down but the dog escaped the beak in a quick reflexive move. Before it could recover the other crow made the swooping attack, hitting its back.

The dog, visibly distracted, started looking at the tree anticipating the next attack. The baby crow, on its own accord, hopped into a relatively inaccessible position. The crows had achieved their aim so they remained in the tree, closely monitoring the situation on the ground. The dog, soon decided to put its mind on the unfinished business but the baby crow wasn’t there. It looked perplexed. But the dog soon figured out where the baby crow..As the dog tried to approach there were more attacks. The dog now got real angry and started barking and showing of as it its about to pounce upon the baby crow..The crows on their part refused to give up and mounted a unceasing strike. They started circling the dog and swooping down at an opportune moment. The dog had no option but to give up and it did.

The crow has a special status in Kumaon. Every Makar Shankranti, a festival in the January, the Kumaoni people prepare a feast on the previous night. No one is supposed to eat any of the prepared dishes till crow eats a piece on the morning of Makar Shankranti. All crows are busy that day. Everyone is shouting from their roof tops calling the crow to eat the poori(a type of bread) but they are overwhelmed by the calls

But they do a good job. They take the offerings and transport them to the hiding places and come back. Within 2-3 hours every house in the town gets to eat what they prepared last night. But no one bothered to ask the crow how does it feel on that day? “Aren’t humans lil crazy??”

A drenched evening

Is it not little silent today? The usual noisy rumbling stream is eerily quite.. rushing past as if in a hurry. But then where are the stones? They aren’t talking to the stream anymore. Are they submerged or may be rolling under the stream.. the water has got a greenish.. brownish color .. It had rained continuously for 3 days.. I’m out for the first time since the week begun..

Look at those drops.. Hanging to the edge of grass.. Shining in the evening sun.. “Hey Don’t move..I’ll fall” But the grass seems more adventurous.. swaying in a gentle rhythm of the breeze.. I get a thrilling sensation. A memory of being thrown up in air.. two hands waiting to catch me..to throw me up again.. As a kid I used to laugh..I used to ask for more heaven bound launchings.. But I lack that trust now.. A trust on an invisible hand..that it would be alright when I come down.. free falling..

I haven’t got rid of adventurous spirit.. But my adventures are solo performances..I take calculated gambles. I flirt with chance..but I know I can fall down. But isn’t life a sum of memories of such escapades.. Aren’t we actually meant to challenge the laws of gravity..

Oops..How do I cross now? There used to be a wooden bridge.. Its all gone..I rarely used it.. You may not know, up there what we call a bridge..A log thrown over the stream…You got to stretch your hands and do a tight rope walk across the stream..As you move it moves under your feet.. If you look down the water invites you to lose your balance..So the best strategy is to look ahead and cross.. Trust you legs..

I prefer hopping across..Further up the stream..there was a stone..well placed exactly at the center of the stream..Take a deep breath..One..two..three and jump..It take skill to kill your forward momentum..You have to balance on that stone..wow..You are in the middle of the steam. .vortexes dancing all around you..Touch it ..the cold water from glacier hasn’t gained one degree of warmeth..It can chill you right here..Look at the flow…It can kill you right here.. smashed against a stone..You would be dead before you even now..But you can’t drown..So it doesn’t matter if you know how to swim.. I don’t know how to swim..Look how the mind tries to justify the shortcomings of self..

Today it seems rich in water.. Its still impossible to swim but its ofcourse possible to drown.. My stone is submerged.. Should I jump believing that it would be just under the surface..’Trust your fate..The stone wouldn’t have budged..Water corrodes the strength but not in a day..the stone willed give up..atom by atom. against the unrelenting strokes on water..’

‘No.. it wouldn’t be a wise move..I can cross all right but the sun is about to set..If I cross it would be difficult to come back..’

I. distracted by moisture in my socks..The blood sucking bastards have managed to get in there.. Got to head back. Leeches are interesting animals..Imagine what would it be like to sit still. hungry and wait for you’re your food to come to you..’Buddy…I don’t have too much blood in me..You will have to shed your’s today..Your time has come..’

I put a pinch of salt on the leech..the blood oozes out from its permeable skin..The salt slowly turns red.. crystal by crystal.. I can feel it loosening the grip from my skin..Its dead now..

The sky is turning red too..The wind has stolen the chill from the water..The night would wrap the hills in black shroud..A perfect background for displaying a tapestry of stars.