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Tuesday, November 30, 2010


Today an emptiness sits on my shoulders,
and far far away
a bird glides just above the waters
away and away
till it turns a dot
becomes one with nature
gets into my room
and i am
what i am
as you know me...

i seek you
Beethoven's Ode To Joy...



Your graveyard
among the crowded ones in Bhawanipore cemetery.
That it lies flat and the naked earth exposed
makes it more recent, your passing away,
you more close though five years ago.
Makes your living with us till yesterday,
your last day’s words alive and ringing true
 – a bell – like the quarrelling screech of a crowd of shaliks
from the neem tree from our bedroom window,
at the scampering squirrel’s continuous clittering.

I caress the earth, the roof of your room,
your own room,
the way i caressed your hair
refusing to believe the RMO’s words
that yours was artificial breathing
your skin soft, alive.

Craving for company
in the crowded emptiness
 of that eight-by-twelve room
at 6.45 am after the harsh news  
i called up Sucheta, Shikha,
their breaking voice ample for companionship
to bring my lost mind back.
Tony’s calm and composed voice
all the way from Dublin
possessed all the clarity as yours,
for i told you then that they were coming,
there’s no more worries.

Waiting, i spoke of the one Sunday
i couldn’t meet you and mom,
missing out on a phone call another day,
sepia-blue-yellow feeling of guilt.

I caress the earth, the roof of your room,
your own room,
and the mud-dark earth feels warm,
the little gravels, grey black red
wakes to my touch.
You speak through the trees’ voice
birds’ chirps, graceful moves of grass strands.

Remain close to nature as you always wanted,
we will not enclose you in marble covering
cold and artificial cross
and dumb cherubs
with wings and sweet nudity.

Coffee Meet

Coffee meet (after two years)

In the canvas of the café
you appeared quiet as the rain
your silent footfalls softly spreading the smile
that blended with the light in your eyes
that spoke with the syllables
of the quiet ambience inside.

Minutes painted our conversation
into Tagore and Dylan.
Picasso followed with his cubism.
Even your Spanish and Italian tour
sat at a comfortable corner.

Facebook came and went by
before my coffee turned cold
(and you reminded me)
and Beethoven’s 7th symphony
almost epithaped a dying rose.

Your Mexican Mojito
rested halfway through
when academics and careers
appeared on the canvas.

Edging our way through the silence
you finally won in paying the bill.
And when we left
the blended colours of our smiles
gave the last brush-stroke to the canvas.

But when a Keatsian plenty plagued me
I went back
to complete the incomplete painting with the words:
When you left
I found God’s footprints on my floor…