Escape

(This is the most touching poem I've come across for a good while, so i decided to post it here.)

i was coming to find you
to tell you i was wrong
that you were the one for me

you were drunk and depressed
but it would all be ok
once i found you

the last thing i saw was your car
the blinding headlights
as you came driving
i thought you'd stop
i waited smiling

you didn't stop, you didn't see
as you crashed into me

the last thing i knew
was you stood over my body
not having a clue
hating me forever
not knowing how much i loved u

- S Snigdha

Tell me, Dark Angel

Life's like life,
We'll live it.

Years, perhaps,
We'll give it.

And then,
When we can't anymore,
Then,
When we can once more,
We will.

Only,
Many more than the years
Will be the haunting tears,
And much sweeter than this life
Will be our memories.

So tell me,
Dark angel of my life,
What do we choose?
Memories to live with,
Or a life to die for?

If I Could Fly

If I could fly,
If, like a sparrow,
I could roam the sky,
Where shall I go?

To the house of old:
Snowed down, still,
A goddess on the windowsill,
And a parent oak without
To perch on with brothers,
Forever.

If I could fly,
If, as an arrow,
I could whisper “die”,
Who shall I kill?

The tyrant of this age:
The devil of delusion,
Of wastelands of confusion,
The scorpion of waters false,
And his barren, stinted heart-
My mark.

If I could fly,
If I could borrow
The tempest’s sigh
What shall I sing?

The lyric of a lyre:
Every string ablaze,
And a thunder tune that says,
"Time, o dreaming sparrow,
Go fly and be an arrow
And ignite the dawn to come!"

An Infinity of Lies

Every right is left behind;
All solos flipped in front.
Round and round I turn;
“Oh, forsooth!” I grunt.

Is this a joke, or a dream?
Do the demons play me
For a fool?

What else, possibly,
For was it not this morning
That, broken, beat,
I had asked them to retreat?

Yes, oh yes, and then I’d slept
With hope that by nightfall
The sun would have swept
Every coin of ill around.

Yes, I’d hoped
That the brilliant, blinding arc
Would have cut, from east
To west, each ripened wrong
From branches old and weary
And healed them, from rise
To rest, to forgotten glory...

And I ask why
They take me for a fool.

For how could it,
Even the mighty sun,
Just how could it
Turn this earth that spins
Forever on titled wings,
Forever balanced
On the side of the ugly,
To good, and to beauty,
To relief from the rotten,
All at my bidding,
All in a day?

Lesson learnt:
It was a folly.
The world slapped me hard
And woke me for an answer.
Yes.

But even so,
Even if I am right,
What strangeness is this?
Where in the world am I?
This topsy-turvy tapestry
Of rights becoming lefts
And solos flipping all around,
What is it?

I think I know.

To my right there is me,
To my left, me once more;
In front and behind I stare
At me as before.

Ah, I get it!
Just as I discern millions
In company, all alike,
All the same, all me,
I get it.

It is, after all,
What I had wished for;
My world has woken me
To itself, inverted.

The demons became no angels.
Instead they stare me down
In millions, now exposed.

The root to my wicked willow,
The source of my lament,
It is this room of mirrors—
An infinity of lies.

The Sidewalk Dweller

Asleep against a wall,
His life a grateful stall,
The beggar dreams of love.

His cheeks like dirt-vales cry
Of thirst for streams
And a lullaby,
But blessed instead
With sweat-beads running dry,
They sigh and dream of love.

Painful memories of a life
That death has long denied
Flame-like lick
And finger his mind,
But slumber-killed subside
Beneath his dreams of love.

A passion seems to grip the man,
As if he wouldn't let go:
His fists below stick-thin hands
Are curled as eagle-claws
To hold it looks like precious prey,
His elusive dreams of love.

Then of a sudden he is hit
By a gust of stifling dust,
And waking, watches,
With wetness in his eyes,
The road beside him split
With heat and horror screams.

Waken, shaken, his dreams
From him thus taken,
He makes a plea to a passerby
For a morsel, with paper palms,
Which refused, he staggers up
And calls above to the burning sky

For a cloud, and a drop of rain,
To love him some, and cleanse his pain.

Alive in Hell

What strength of swing, what depth of cut—
So deep, not a hundred years shall heal;
What skill, old foe, what dearth of ruth—
So rare, not a nerve you lay revealed.

No song in your praise the minstrels sung—
No warning to prepare for your blade;
Ere I turned and saw the silver glint
As sword slit flesh, and blood hit glade.

But yet I could well have persisted
Had you not dealt me the cruelest blow;
Had but just wounds of body inflicted
And watched the warm blood froth and flow.

Instead you chose not to slay but stay,
Let recover and rip apart evermore;
Enough to hurt, but too little to die,
Till my soul the risk of perdition bore.

Achilles couldn’t match your matchless flair,
Odysseus not the cunning of your ways;
Elves were wise, but you, my lord,
Are beyond the reckoning of my days.

And thus in hell I live on earth.

Fake Fairy

Last morning in a hazy fit
Mosquitoes biting, turtle lit
I met with the fairy of good wishes
Who came in a flurry of white swishes.

Through the window she flew
And to my shoulder she drew,
Stood, and then demanded, soft and slow
If I had a want, or a vision to let her know.

In truth I was sleeping, mildly bugged
And my mind like ever slogged and slugged;
But at last, after waking a couple of times
And killing mosquitoes, I hit rewind.

What I wanted and wished, was for me
My people, and a certain frog-eyed she;
What I wanted and wished, was for me
And them to forever in wellness be.

I said as much, and the angel departed
Quickly, frowning, as if a dog had farted;
And then as I slipped into a dreamless sleep,
I knew she was fake, and I had promises to keep.

Pet Peeves

Long tunnels
of hope

like magnets
strong

promise, pull
bring me close

every night

to a morning
very bright

beyond the black.

and when

but

when

there is light
near the end

it begins
like a seed

to grow in my head

and charm

like sugar
and honey

pulling
promising

like drops of dew
frozen in memory

and i
a practiced fool

move on
on
on
and closer on

and finally
when the end is in sight
the light

very bright

stings my eyes
hurts my heart

and i
a practiced fool

am blind
and cold again.

Hit-the-Shitpot

In the dusty, litter-strewn corridors of Nilgiri House, IIT Delhi, there is in practice a game so ancient, so unique and so arcane that scarcely anyone on the outside is even aware of it. This game has a history and yet no name, an audience and yet no applause, and it is, by and large, the only game on the planet that is played everyday. I wish I could name it and make it my own, but the task is too momentous; so I shall, for the sake of this one take, call it Hit-the-Shitpot.

Hit-the-Shitpot is a bastard. The mother is Nilgiri, of course, and she never takes lovers. A million guys have laid claim to both her and the child, and they’ve all bitten dust. The conception thus remains in doubt, but the rules go somewhat like this:

Every morning a resident of Nilgiri wakes up, shakes the bunnies off and leaves his room to answer nature’s call. When the call is minor, the game is called off. If, however, it turns out that the player must not just pee, it is, by decree, called Game On.

First, the player must reach the nearest Khula Hugga. This is defined, in rough parlance, as the first open shithouse you can find.

Now the player must try to enter, or peek in. Very often the smell itself is enough, and it is advisable to follow your nose. Once the peeking or the sniffing is done, one of the following two cases may arise.

The pot (assuredly Indian for all the Westerns are smashed to smithereens as part of the game’s patriotic flavor) might be occupied. The occupant might be human, either asleep or addled, or it might be a mound of crap (same difference). In this case, the player must run with shock, disgust or twisted bliss. All three are allowed

Then the last step must be repeated for the next-nearest Khula Hugga.

In the second case, the pot is free. The player must then enter, disrobe in the way his daddy taught him, sit on his haunches, open the morning paper if he may so desire, and shit.

That’s all about the rules. Now comes the important part: the part that decides whether the player is just a common victor (for a chance to crap is victory in itself) or a gifted champion. Here is how it goes.

The player, on instinct, at some point during the shitting process, turns on the tap. Now, if Mother Nilgiri is in a happy mood, there shall be water, water and water everywhere. Then the player must curse his luck, wash and leave. It was not his day. On the other hand, if Mata is pissed off, the tap shall spill a few drops, and then no more.

It is now that the line is drawn.

The commoner will go out, get water somehow, wash up, clean up the cubicle and leave. Good for him.

The true Nilbull, on the other hand, shall never stoop so low. He is not one to waste his time on trifles. He shall not fetch water, he shall not wash. Never. Not even if he has just splattered loosies all around. He shall simply pull up his pants and leave. He is the ideal winner, the Pete Sampras of tennis, the Don Bradman of cricket. The Sabse Aage Ladka.

But the reason that this game is such a delight is that is doesn’t end here. Every once in a while there comes a man so special that words stutter in his wake, descriptions fall way short, and Father Fate bows in awe before his might. This man shall turn on the tap, find his mom happy and giving, and then, with a sagacious smile, turn it the other way. With a flourish he shall rise, with another he shall yank his pants. And then, with the confidence of the eternal conqueror, he shall unlock the door and depart, leaving in his wake a territory full of his own crap till the next brave man makes his move.

This champion is the Roger Federer of tennis, the Sachin Tendulkar of cricket. He is the Alexandar of war: the quintessential Veer Launda.

There are a few men who are ineligible for this great game. They are those who sing while shitting (that’s against the rules for its unfair to the game’s spirit of anticipation), those who don’t lock their doors just for the fun of keeping others from victory, and those who simply don’t take a shit in their own hostel. These last are considered the worst breed of betrayers, and they are looked down upon by every exponent of Hit-the-Shitpot.

At the end I must say that if you ever spot the true dude I mentioned a while back, make sure you give him a hug. I am a traitor myself (yes, I admit, the worst kind), but earlier today I met with a change of heart. While shaving I found this person who went in, crapped and came out in under two minutes. The pungent smell was unmistakable, there was certainly water to be had, and as the person passed me on his way out (he wouldn’t wash his hands, the master) evening sunlight from one of the windows caught his face in the soft light of dying embers. In that light I saw the smile, the one of utter relief, satisfaction, disdain and unending glory.

I was so smitten by that moment that I forgot I had lather all over my face, I forgot there is something called civil decency, I forgot even that I don’t kiss guys on principle, and I ran over and smacked the Launda’s cheek loud and clean. I stamped my feet a hundred times, and I cried at the top of my voice:

“SABSE AAGE LADKE KAUN!!! NILBULLS!!! NILBULLS!!! VEER BAHADUR LADKE KAUN!!! NILBULLS!!! NILBULLS!!!”

Long live Hit-the-Shitpot, and long live its champs.

Blue

To each his own
due bite

Of meat
and rugged sinew

To sink his teeth
in white

And curse
the red he cannot chew

And then to hate
too late
his fate

And pray
to no respite

From red
or from white

And to know
all hue
at last

Is blue.

A world of hope, and a pinch of faith

The smile that woke my heart
To passions I had never known
That smile, and those wordless eyes
Are all but lost, all but grown.

The child there lived within
The woman who laughed and cared
That child, and her open arms
Have all but been ensnared.

The reason, despite it all
Is a mystery I fail to reveal;
And I think the reason for that
Is a fact I’ve come to feel –

It is but simple,
But a way to give up and leave,
For the smile that once woke my heart
Is the smile that then broke it too.

Why then do I care?
How then is it fair?

Answer me, if you can,
Oh you who are no more.
Wake up, wake me, and take me
And sing like you did before.