wanting to do
this
      that
this thing that
thing
hither then thither
then
i
a ping pong ball
on bounce

*****

elephant ride

the elephant lurches, sways and heaves,
its great mass rolling
in sudden surprises,
the chains on its hind legs like cymbals clanging!

heart in mouth,
i cling for my life
to the rope round its neck!

"Velayudha," i cry out.
"how do i bail out?"

P.S.
mahout Velayudhan,
i have seen,
sometimes even dozing,
over Manikantan,
lurching,
swaying,
rolling
along this very lane.
and i had thought it comfy ride!

*****

though not what it used to be

bare chested under the sun--
on my rooftop--
i felt like a mirror
receiving and reflecting the morning rays.

my neighbour, blinded by the lights,
put down his spade.
"phileman anallo!" he said in disbelief.

i flexed my biceps
and struck an elegant pose,
for his better appreciation of the facts of the case.

"though not what it used to be," i said,
rather modestly.

"pande pole phalikkunnilla."

*****

the night was quiet

blackout time...

in the candle light i saw the gestures of my hands bring alive
demons in the shadows on the wall.

the night was quiet.

*****

Children

Just the other day, a dear friend was sharing with me his pain over separation from his teenaged son, "perhaps never to see each other again."
My friend is separated from his son's mother and I was one among many friends who had unsuccessfully tried to prevent the separation from happening.
The lady is now remarried and along with her son she is going far away to build a new life.

"You know how I love my son, Venu," my friend said, over phone from a bar around 10 in the morning. "You can't blame me for feeling down."

I didn't blame him. The next morning, after he had drunk and slept over his grief, I called him and recited to him the following lines by Kahlil Gibran in his book 'The Prophet':    

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said,
"Speak to us of Children." 
And he said: 
Your children are not your children. 
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. 
They come through you but not from you, 
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. 
You may give them your love but not your thoughts. 
For they have their own thoughts. 
You may house their bodies but not their souls, 
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. 
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. 
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. 
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. 
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. 
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness; 
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
***** 

the word the way

yesterday, i walked along a lane
where there were no memories.

it was like the thing they call amnesia,
a queer name, reminding me of a samoosa,
hot, puffing steam in the mouth.

all shops in this lane in this town
where they sell only antique vessels,
stolen idols and mementos that had changed many hands,
were shut,
ancient padlock on each door.

and there was no signpost,
nobody to ask which way to go.
and the wind, a silent tomb.

i remembered
not even the word the signpost, the way...

***** 

sharp shooter

and then a very old man,
gun slung over his left shoulder, stooping,
stepped forward from the crowd and said,
tell me about sharp shooting.

Almustafa,
the chosen and the beloved,
for whom the ship waits at the harbour,
said:

he is a sharp shooter who is above all desire to shoot.
when he shoots, he shoots.
he wastes no bullet.

(to my friend Vijayan)

*****