Paint, Blood and The End

I prefer the setting sun, when the clock nears the end
To the rising one, full of uncertain promise,
When you don't know the beginning from the middle;
Where the day will go, you are unaware.

The setting sun is a symbol of everything good
In a world where nothing is certain;
Because promises are lies, and embellished truths,
Realized only by coincidence.

I prefer the void of leaving someone
To the impatient beginning of relationships
When people are full of energy and trust,
When all there is can be lost forever.

I prefer painful, heartfelt words
To poems that will render me happy.
For there is truth in only one of them,
And poems can easily be taken away.

I am yet to meet a malevolent person,
Which is why there isn't, I am certain,
The need to doubt the intentions of a man
Who leaves you bloodied and brutalized.

I prefer sweat and blood to conditioned hair,
Wrinkled skin to the pale white cream,
Ignorant men to the preachers of this world;
I want your face, not your mask.

The closure in the evening West
Makes the day worth living again;
Misery will end and so will happiness,
And you will fall asleep to wake up again.

Endings are more glorious than the start,
Because there is closure in the finishing line.
There are no chasms, there are no peaks,
There is the end and nothing else.

Rime Of The Modern Oilman

The wind here blows twice a day
From the blades of a chopper that comes and leaves-
The only time the ocean ebbs or heaves,
As the men that pray are whisk'd away.

On-board come fresh muscles and blood
With pumping hearts which yearn to return-
As the wheels turn and the oils burn;
As the drill-bit churns out the ocean's mud.

The show must go on - come sun or rains
As the world can't be of oil starved
Even if machines conk or arms be half'd
Or if man o'erboard to seek mermaidens.

There are pigeons on this floating pile of steel
Unreal birds which have never sighted land
They were born here, they will die here and
They'll never be birds whose chirps are real.

Men, unlike birds, have at least the freedom-dream
Through TeleVs, telephones and data-cords,
Lost in the voices of lovers, wives and wards
And in the occasional laugh at an internet meme.

As the clock ticks a month, routine sets in
The drills go on and bodies are toned
But too long at sea and the mind is torn
As the engine's sound is your merriest din.

Eventually tired of the same porks, chickens, beefs
Your Cap'n calls - 'Go home, now you may.'
For the wind here still blows twice a day
From the blades of a chopper that comes and leaves.

Wish

There was blood that night, with pain and sweat
And each jagged rock would draw some more
As they eased their way into his every step,
Until they’d take all his blood away.

He continued the climb unhindered by pain-
Wounded flesh is dead to a sore mind.
He knew the end was not too far
And his prayers would be answered good.

The temple of the gods was now in sight
With its great iron gate dwarfing the sky
And walls of black stone capturing the moon.
His prayers would be answered tonight.

As he dragged his dying body within
He mouthed a prayer to appease the lord
And looking to the heavens, he said out loud,
“This is my wish. Just let it be!”

There was thunder and there was rain
The ink was torn by battling clouds
Waters froze and the wind howled.
The dying man took shelter and he smiled.

He began his return along the same path
Now glistening in the moon, red, with blood
Fresh wounds were made and now there was pain–
To the fulfilled mind, every pin a sword.

He returned home as a contented man.
Once his dream, was now for real
He knew he needed nothing else in life.
That was the day the Wish-giver smiled.

For he knew no wish is a wish forever.
A granted wish changes the world we know
In such a way we cannot yet perceive
Until we no longer want the change.

A few days later, an unfulfilled man died.

Lavender Girl

The decibel is upped, swallowing the still
In the burning lamps, red turns green
One thousand people palisade him, til’
He’s aware of none but the Lavender girl.

Standing her side, he watches her long
Until in her eyes, he finds his own…
A maudlin sigh, then with a smile so strong
She gazes at him through the cast-iron bars.

He has grown to love the way she laughs
And wishes she wouldn't do any of it now;
For when your world is being torn in halfs,
You cannot bear to listen to that voice.

As a monochrome man on grey cement earth,
Clumsily, he clutches the cold window grille
Black and white and colours without mirth
She reaches out but cannot touch his hand.

He opens his mouth so he can speak
But words don’t flow from a gated heart
Words for the brave, tears for the meek
He fights them back as the Lavender girl leaves.

Bow out with dignity, to himself he says
Kill all passion and restore peace:
He begins to erase their together-days
And erases a part of himself too.

The moment has passed, the train pulls away
Along the platform, he keeps up pace
Knocking over many an invisible man
As he wipes a tear off her face.

A million greys pile upon him
As he gasps and falters; seizes to run
He watches the train disappear dim
That Lavender shade is his no more.

The Song Remains The Same

Clear the desks; pull some chairs
Stash the bucket in the shelf…
Shroud the books; slay the sheets
Get up! You’ve got work to do.

Hoard some cash, be very tight
Do not buy and do not give.
And then all! Splurge it all…
Fling it all: Y’ know when to.

Let the windows give away
And let the sky come bursting in
Making way for endless fumes
Of smoke of evil and endless joy.

Grab the caps, light the flares
Get the speakers out once more
Let the cake come, when it must
Fix the old bulb up tonight.

Draw out crapes ‘n streamers encore
And write the names upon the walls–
Splashes of paint and sparkling text
The magic canvas is a glittering hall.

Revive the jukebox from days forgot’
Relive those old joys born anew
Reset the table; Repeat the song
Renumber the spirits alphabet-wise!

Get the knives and spoons and forks;
The dinner is ready – delectable, grand…
Steady the staircase – that infinite one
Which will take you to heaven tonight.

Keep the phone nigh – at hand
To answer all those midnight songs.
Now set the beat and up the heat –
And wait for Earth’s complete round.

Don’t forgive but do forget
All that past that wasn’t right
Indulge! Rejoice! Promise! Ascend!
There will be a party tonight!

With The Flow

Deeper, deeper – I was dragged
Until only blue remained;
Murky, turbid, whirling wrath…
I fought. I fought. Then I waned.

Tossed about with murderous flair
I clawed my way; I was hauled and keeled
I seized each wave with immense faith
And then again, as they did yield.

Like whips and daggers, the spray outlash’d
Puncturing my chest now fresh with breath
And then the logs came floating by
Meandering gently with the flow…

Yonder lay shore’s seductive sand
And yet it lay so far away
My every stroke towards the shore
Rendered harmless by tumultuous spray

I stared at the logs floating by
Riding the crests; gentle, unmarred –
And then the logs went floating by
With the flow, a few wrong yards…

Burning eyes and flailing limbs
Bursting lungs; I felt heavier now
The current was strong; I could still
Shore myself, with one more blow.

I fought to keep my dying breath
As I stared at the logs floating by
Once mighty oaks; so meek in death
They would live and I would die?

I stared at the logs floating by
And managed a smile at the irony,
Drifting away with effortless ease
So what if they swam a few wrong yards?

The easier way of the logs beguiled
The flow was too strong to oppose
So I wilted in the pellucid flow
And maybe now I’ll enjoy the course.

Face Off

Burning red eyes in the darkness fix'd
A cold stare, unerringly ahead,
As if to shatter the air betwixt
Himself and wherever he looked.

His chest heaved heavy under the breath
A cold dry draught hurriedly inspired
And as if to bring life to apparent Death,
The air was warm through a choleric fire.

In a brilliant blaze of magnificent wrath
Became apparent the scars of conflicts prior
- Evidence of battle and the tumultuous path
Taken by his Life, Fate and Desire.

His locks were heavy, dark and curled
Flaunting an air of immaculate power,
An intrepid heart and a spirit unfurled...
So mighty did his countenance tower.

His lips curled to suppress a smirk
As if to forget the gashes of ere
Seasoned in war, Past ne'er him irk'd
As if he kept only the Present near.

It was a deadly, menacing face
Like one never to be seen before
Or after. For not even the minutest trace
Of emotion seemed to linger on it.

And then came by a squeaky man,
Absolutely mortified by the sight
From which even the best men ran.
This visage was mankind's blight!

The coward crept up behind the face
And he made brave, though filled with cold,
So as to pull the mask to his own face.
Now he could terrorize the world.

B(e)ards!

1. There has been an alarming rise in the amount the rhyme-intake I have suffered in the past two weeks.

2. I have been kept away from my blog for far too long.

1 + 2 = (the following)

And it began with a great Big Bang,
Spluttering and spewing rocks a-tonne…
The heavens roared as the rocks soared,
Leaving us – the third rock from the Sun.

And then came the chivalrous TRex,
While Thunder-lizard still gnawed on tree.
The Ents grew and Archaeopteryx flew;
The Earth had sprouted, Life was free!

Ever since then, there have been Bards;
The Beedles and tree-tied Cacophonixes.
Be whatever type, a poet’s figments are ripe
Unravelling Life’s sundry paradoxes.

And today we shall go forth; we shall
Attempt to consign, categorize and classify –
These rhymes and schemes; their crimes and dreams…
Into Ballad, Tautology, Death and Lie.

There are many forms and kinds of verse
Much more than there are kinds of any other thing!
Ranging from terse to plainly morose;
The wisest pen, as does every ding-a-ling.

In a world so vast and wide…. and weird
I try, desperately, to analogize…
But then Hey! Just a letter ‘E’ away,
I find ‘bEards’ closest to my prize!

‘Beards’ and ‘Bards’ have more in common
Than letters – two incremented thrice
A Bard for a season; a Beard for a reason
And vice-versa decidedly applies!

There’s the modern clean-shaven man
As unremarkable as his shaving blade.
His verses are blank, but intelligent prose does rank
Among the best poems ever made.

The stubbled gentleman is beyond salvage
For a cynic, a disbeliever is he.
With no time to save; no wonder – no shave!
His rhyme: A troubled Ode, Suicidal Plea.

Then, there are French-bards. Vive!
They are romanticists to the core
Fair maidens blush; while wading mush
Every line attempts to hit your heart for Four.

The rugged Mountain-men are a rarity these days
Their unmistakable ballads resemble holocausts more
Than love stories; or Vampires on trees
Though unpopular now, they’ll go down as folklore.

The Goatee is the most plebeian form
As he attempts to take conquered ways.
As different from the rest; as a joke from jest
He bleats out ‘rhymers’ at alarming pace!

Then there’s a motley collection of twisted forms:
‘Soul patches’, ‘Mutton-chops’ and untrimmed ‘Art’.
Harder to explain, is the Women-poetry strain
Which I shall save for ‘B(e)ards’ – 2nd Part!

"I didn't steal it!"

After a spate of serious posts, I have to break off! And what better time than when Christmas is around? Apart from the promise it holds in the form of cakes, goodies, Saint Nicholas and well... mistletoe, Christmas tales have always held me rapt with attention! From Christmas Carol and ol' Ebenezer "Humbug" Scrooge to 'Home Alone', I've found them all rather interesting. Here, I refer to the greatest Christmas villain of all time - The Grinch (who stole Christmas) - Thank you, Dr. Seuss. Thank you, Chuck Jones. Well, I happen to think he wasn't that bad after all!

The boys and girls of the world
Have all heard about the Grinch
Through the lies, which have been told;
Tales of evil which made them cringe.

“He is Green! And he is mean!”
In his town, they cried, aghast
They ran away when he was seen
And they ran really, really fast!

But this li’l boy called Grinch
Had problems, few too many
His heart was small, by thrice an inch
He was green; he looked real funny.

He was shunned, by one and all
The brats hated him real bad
Finally, he ran away one fall
His eyes were moist; he was sad.

Running up the hill, to his lonely dwelling;
(A shack, high up amidst the mist)
With his books, he sat there thinking
For few knew he was a secret Environmentalist.

‘Tis where the terrible lie starts
The tallest stories ever told.
They called him a loner! Unbelievable twats!
They said his heart was small and cold!

Today, I'd have them put behind bars:
(1) For ridiculing physical handicaps
(2) For perpetrating such abominable farce
(3) For introducing into the society- Gaps.

Poor Grinch didn’t like trees being chopped
Nor did he permit animals slain
He cried out loud when plants were topped
To eat only vegetables, he did train.

He was Green, as the World’s never seen
He’d have made Copenhagen* proud
But they said that Green was Mean;
And a Villain, they proclaimed him loud!

Then came the cold; December and fests!
(There were no Room-Heaters back then)
What the brats did next, you never will guess
For these boys were savage, wicked men.

‘Global warming’ was a concept, new
But alas, these kids had learnt of it!
To use it, they proceeded – these few
And with axes – the trees, they hit.

“They’re for Christmas,” they said, at ease.
(Only you and I know what they’d planned)
Robed like Claus, they chopped off trees
Causing in Winter, warmer land!

What’s worse? To celebrate this feat,
The scoundrels demanded gargantuan meals
Featuring dressed-Turkeys, head to feet
And Chicken, Caviar, Crabs and Eels.

Our Green hero, no doubt, alarmed
Set out for Town, down the hill.
He didn’t want his Nature harmed;
He would save them from the kill!

Dressed as Claus, he rode at night;
As his companion, was his dog
He then slid, into their chimneys, light
And climbed out with their Christmas log.

One by one, he did each house
And calmly, meticulously cured the town.
Then – silently, like a mouse
He ran the hill, up from down.

Morning came and obviously, tempers flared
They spoke about “The Grinch who stole Christmas!”
Charging up the hill, they said, “Do you want your life still spared?!”
“Return our trees, then… without a fuss!”

“But… Christmas is about the spirit,” said Green,
“It’s about sharing, caring, joy and all!”
“Oh! Cut the crap! You’re just jealous and mean
You green creature!” retorted all.

“We all know it’s about trees!
It’s about cakes and pastries and wine!
And the turkeys – minus their fleas…
Just return the trees. And we’ll do dandy fine!”

This is when the story hits a rather abrupt end
An enigma – so unfortunate, is it not?
We’ll never ever know what really happened!
Was our Green hero ever caught?!

But let him not be known from here
As a criminal, but a martyr great!
A Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year,
Together, let us all celebrate!

Blunt

A lonely drop did fall through space

Carrying all colours the sky held ere

The hues blotted and condensed

And stripped the Earth of its face.

Into a chasm, the oceans drained

As every door swung firmly shut

Mountains succumbed in a blurry haze

And colours vanished, as it rained.

The world lived, but shut me away.

Flavours and scents and music, all

Fled me, as I stared benumbed

As it was neither night nor day.

“Help me! Save me!” I should have called.

Instead I hung in a languid state

Like a puppet, in entangled strings

Better would have felt had I been mauled.

A dreary state of animated death

I didn’t know the difference now

The sun didn’t rise, the moon had set

I was dead of all, but breath.

I stared back at the childhood dream

At the hopes and plans and merry things

The tears and laughter of that Heart

This Heart tearing at the seam.

There is no suffering and no pain.

Only, the million hues were gone

To yield a life in gray and black

I am oblivious to the drops of rain.

And forth I go on that quest

To breathe in life; resuscitate

Those lost emotions in this void;

Until then, I shall not rest.

Rhyme or Reason

A class-time poem: The Shepherd (name being a shameless copy)

On the eastern slopes, as the sun did fade

Stood my dozen sheep and I

They grazed- content, in the hillock's shade

None of them escaped my eye.

They were mine- in their golden fleece

I watched them meander with smiles - benign

My only friends among the trees

When for company, I would pine.

I loved the beasts with all my heart

And will continue to love them still

But oft I wonder - "If we were apart -

Would my sheep be happy still?"

The very thought fills me with dread

Love yearns to be reciprocated, yet -

As they walk happy, and far-away tread

They will, for love, remain ever in debt.

Love - I know, is to give and give

And expect nothing back.

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It All Began Here...

Another week has passed, although with a better conclusion this time - as the recruitments, being as interesting as they always are, didn't fail to satisfy. Half a score girls walk through the same tunnel we traversed two summers ago. The repeated sensations of dejavu were only justified then, even though it was my first time as an interviewer inside KB. Having missed out on the major chunk of the recruitment procedure last time around, I can unequivocally state that this is the first time I formally sat at the other end of a Watch Out interview.

7th August 2009: What one looks for in an interview cannot clearly be put into words. An abstract quantity albeit intangible, can be felt, though not explained. That being stated, its funny then to see a pattern in the way people retort. You place the same question to a number of persons separated spatially or by time, you will inevitably elicit the same responses! One such question turned the hour glass back two complete circles to my very own final interview in the RJB TV room.

Mid August 2007: I entered the room amidst a grim atmosphere, trying hard not to flash all thirty-two. I didn't want to portray myself as a very serious person also. All the same, I can openly admit today that calling the ambience a little unnerving would be a gross understatement. Some fifteen pairs of eyes stared at me intently as I composed myself. I identified but a few then, mainly from the intro-talk, among the many people I would come to know in the years to come. I remember vividly Lefty with a diary in hand (I'm pretty sure) and Khandu, who sported the kind of a look I would have called 'dashing' back then. Banga looked as innocent as he would ever. SriPri, Middah, Sarthak, GoGo, Bonda, Young-Sahith - everyone was there.

I believe it was Khandu who remarked about the disapparition of my spectacles. The questions which followed where not exactly what I'd have called banal; nevertheless I would be lying if I said that they were unexpected altogether! But then came a final question, after which I was asked to leave the room... It was a question which took me back three years, to the days when the mind cared not about anything significant and a time when thoughts meandered so randomly.

Sometime in 2004-05: Standard 9: The day was bright; the guys in their usual boisterous mood and the girls huddled away in their private discussions filled with frequent giggles. The spatial confines of a room which restricted their activities would never be able to incarcerate the human mind. As things stood, on many desks were already carved ambigrams of our names - such was the creativity and joblessness of those days of yore.

It was a free period, and afraid of letting any time go waste devoid of creativity, our minds drifted onto poesy. That was the day, in that very classroom, a friend - my namesake and I sat down to pen a poem; definitely not my first and perhaps not my best, but one which would inspire me to write more. Many more.

The brightness dissolved into the shadows... and there I was, again in KB, asking the same question I had been asked in in 2007. The answer - one which ought to have been my first blog post. One which I had started typing out way back in December 2007, only to give up time and again in favour of a more pressing topic. However, this interview interrogative, one of the less expected ones, finally brings forth the long overdue and heretofore unrecognized. "What is the most creative thing you have penned?"

At that time only one rhyme brimmed my head.

He will come to every being,
Yet he instils fear
With eyes glazed, unseeing;
An expression calm and clear.

He will come when the time is right
Like the grey clouds bringing rain;
Like the darkness swallowing light
The essence of being, he will drain.

When he’s here, we’ll know for sure
By his chilly, rattling breath;
He is Fear, yet so pure

He is here, here is Death…

The interview was then declared complete.

A Greater Force

I had chats with my predecessor, a man who claims awesomeness, a certain ex-9.583333 as well as the Moustached Marvel regarding this. Well, I put forth my views again, this time through verse.

The woods were green, tulips red

Cobbled stones covered the way

Yellow scattered ray by ray

The silhouette stared up ahead

Half thinking, half with dread.

Since a fork lay to the fore

One path preferred, another not

How to choose, why, when, what?

Gold at the end of one, said lore

The other brought scourges, nothing more.

Start similar seeming, so diverse they close

Two doors shown, the lone man’s choice

Would he cry? Or would he rejoice?

Once a road taken; the verdict froze

No comebacks, no changing course.

The incessant probe of questions beat

Which to choose? And which to leave?

The answer was there – a wondrous weave

For dwelt he in a painting, ein lied

Being but a pawn in the artist’s feat.

An expression – vexed, on his face

This was the game the painter played

As questions drummed, his dilemma stayed

His form was white, on dark canvas base

The painter’s art – to him was maze.

He couldn’t view, of the road, its end.

Yet answers simple, were painted ‘fore him

By Pastel and Oil – rich here, thither dim

Illustrating a way to follow, to tend.

And yet silent of the trail’s end.

Little he knew that the maestro, his lord

Held his life by reins in art

In series of prints, hung little apart.

His story was written, he could but nod

He solemnly wished his tale not flawed.

But within, he discerned, he knew

Whatever road he should soon take

Whichever choice he would soon make

Had already been made as the artist drew

Leading him from painting one to two.

A future he could ne’er foresee

Was but part of a greater plan

Deeply entwined with many a man.

What was, what is and what could be

Was told by strokes; the brush’s decree.

Helpless he was as his painting hung

The next one nigh; with solutions to doubt

The next episode of his tale vividly painted out

The adjacent canvas was the ladder’s next rung

The ladder was life; his story they sung.

He took joy in a fact so mere –

That whatever be his final pick

The clock of life would continue to tick

So as to take him there from here.

Everything had been written ere.

He realized the force too great

One could nought but comply with

Nothing was difficult, life was lithe

Each sketch was Life at different date

The silhouette I and the master – Fate.

Deja Vu - Nevermore?

Yellow and Purple all around

Colours - Plentiful and abound

Last time green, this time red

Colours splashed o'er my head.

Faces smiled, but numbered few

And I remembered, nothing new

The same visage, year on year

No one to see, nothing to hear.

A festival of colours made merry

By nought but a few, few very

Not that people lacked spirit and joy

They'd sailed away - 'Home ahoy!' 

A year had passed with nothing changed

Deserted wings, I felt estranged

RJB before and Cautley now

I ne'er realized, I do now.

This desolation set me thinking- 

With the greater desertion, I was linking...

The inevitable exodus, soon will come

Taking all, leaving not even some.

'Two years passed into my stay in R

I already feel I've travelled too far

Only two more springs will I see

From R-Land; then I'll be free.'

These were the thoughts I pondered upon

As I left for the Bus with a frown.

Exactly then, as had happenned prior

HHH consorted me to SpiceJet's Flyer.

All along the way, scenes we'd seen

Dialogues different, but we'd already been

This exact same way, heretofore.

Two more years, then no more.

My mind walked... back to R

People are leaving, voyaging afar

People known, younger back then

We'll see them, we know not when.

One journey ended, the other's felt close

Alighting the bus, we took the roads

Now, even my words did echo

What I quoth a year ago.

A Deja Vu; strong, profound

Unleashing those feelings bound

To R-land and associated places

To their people; well known faces.

The journey ended, dismounted we

People noticed some colors on me

Last time green, this time red

Colours splashed o'er my head.

I'd finally decided to enjoy the time I had

Colours were here - nothing to be sad

Last time green, this time red

Colours splashed o'er my head.

Happy Holi Everyone

              A key for non-'R'ians:

      RJB: A first yearite hostel where we spend one year (atleast).

      Cautley: My abode now

      HHH - A person

      SpiceJet (for clarity's sake) - A low-cost New Delhi based                        airline service.