Trail of a Waning Ballad

It was a long walk, I remember,
that evening was hard on me.
That air reeking of memory,
smelled of someone familiar to me.
There was no sound around, just
the two of us and our beats.
A twig cracked, a leaf fell, and 
slyly enough, time overtook me.

"Searching for a breath, are you?",
there was nobody around, just
the two of us and our voices.
With knees bent, gasping in pain, and
oddly enough, it stood before me.

"You can never finish; journey or a song,
leaving the rhythm to wander.
My rhyme was broken and scattered,
while you walked away into yonder."

It's resentment, eked in the verses,
it's melody detesting, and 
that refrain was strangling. 

"I knew not what were you,
your lyrics; likeable and unfamiliar.
I had you delivered to oblivion,
and yet you sounded very similar."

"Do you remember that time?", it asked
"that resonating friendly voice?"
"That voice has stayed", I mumbled
"and returning to it is not a choice."

"Neither do I", it retorted.
"You had some promises to keep,
and there are still some miles left,
but this is where you sleep."

In your shadow

These roads have changed. There used to be dust on the pavement and every morning while walking towards college, the dust would hide behind fog when swept into air by the municipality worker. Dinshaw Wachha Road had nothing spectacular for any passer by. Behind the college there used to be a tea-stall where many lectures were spent before you came along. Now, these roads are just dusty.

-"Would you like to place your order Ma'am?"
-"Oh, yes. One black coffee and a chocolate muffin. Thanks."

She reached for her spec's, woke up the bookmark from its resting position and brought the book to life, for a while. As she tamed those greying hair which were gleefully disturbing her sight of the words, the evening sun slowly crawled indoors towards her feet.

-"Could I rest at your footstep for a while? I'll be gone by dusk."

-"So long as your warmth doesn't disturb me," and she adjusted herself to a reading position.

-"Say lady, are you waiting for someone? Usually people come here to wait. Coffee, tea, less sugar, all the snacks; nothing fills them to their heart's content more than the sight of the awaited."

She adjusted her glasses and without deviating from the book, said, "You seem to know a lot about the people visiting here. Good job." Her disinterest was evident.

Like a young naive lover not knowing when to stop, he continued. "I'm up pretty early before anybody else. Throughout the day, I see y'all running to work and back home, lunching in haste, relieving in hurry and then there's this place where everyone waits. This beautiful paradox filled routine amazes me."

She continued her read, traveling from one page to another. Whether she heard him, he wasn't sure. A brief silence ensued only to be broken again by him.

-"Are you also waiting for someone?", he asked again.

She paused her reading and looked down with those eyes in surprise on his audacity and at the same time, acknowledging this honesty.

-"So we're having a conversation. Are you naturally this annoying or this is a social occasion?"

-"I've been around this place for a really long time. Everyday, I'm at my job, for fixed hours and pretty good at it. But sometimes, I'm in foul mood, at times in a soothing state and then there are times when melancholy sets in. And today, as I'm up there doing my work, I see you, and I see that melancholy on your face. So, I thought it might do some good to annoy you."

-"I do not have to wait anymore. There used to be a ramshackle in the back alley. It had all the time we needed for endless cups of tea. Sulaimani was his favorite. They don't make it with such care in these cafes anymore. The only reason I'm here is the solitude which I get with this black coffee. You might have noticed that one doesn't get solitude easily these days. It does wonders to you."

-"Oh yes, solitude. Yeah, I know well about it since I'm always with myself. I create questions and the answers come along. I also think about how the moon should be more grateful to me but then she's nice in her own ways. I like to be in her shadow, it feels secure."

Only coffee stains remained at the end and if one could look carefully, the evening was being reflected in those eyes, welled up as she watched time recede.

-"Say lady, do you miss him?"

Those lips didn't quiver, neither her voice broke in between, when she said,
"I don't miss him.
It is his shadow which I long for.
I don't miss his breath,
or his hands on my face.
It is the shadow which
sheltered silently, I long for.
I don't miss his eyes
smiling at my sight.
It is the shadow which
comforted solemnly, I long for."

The waiter picked the tip and had the table cleared. Night had befallen long ago.

Whispers Of A Song

The way I've journeyed so far;
distant enough from the rhetoric lights,
distant enough from the shapeless sounds,
and where I left the key's inside the car,
a song is approaching that way

All the neon signs faded away,
a defunct store which shines downtown,
the uptown stacked at "Uncle Sam's" den;
All that jazz died an obscure death
a song is coming through that town

 

















That song; I hadn't heard before
whose recital was it anyway?
Looking and searching a voice around,
twas just the road, me, and extra baggage.
 Dropped all of it at the turning,
and took off for the highway

I've lost count of the miles covered,
neither of the stones marking those miles.
But it's far enough from those glossed evenings,
the pancaked faces and unfinished endings;
there's a whisper coming this way
a song travels along my way.

On the Cusp of Revolution (Really ??)

There have been many incidents in the recent history of the Indian subcontinent which have influenced the thinking an entire generation and led to near revolution in this region. Revolution, as a word, as a process, is very dear to me. It is my sincere belief that history would have been incomplete without revolutions. And the time we reside demands a revolution. 

The difference between 'haves' and 'have-nots' has never been more profound and distinct that it is now. The era of development programs world over produced significant changes. The general level of living improved, economically speaking, we became better off than our previous generation. An entire section of population, specifically speaking those born after the millennial, starts off from a higher wealth level. However, at the same time, a new section has also emerged who are more disadvantaged than before. For them, it is the need for the hour to have a revolution.

The Naxalbari movement of the 1967, which started off as a peasant uprising, involved active participation, to the point of living the lives of the farmer, from the intelligentsia. The bloodshed that followed in the wake of armed struggle by the farmers was one of the forms of protest. It could be argued that Charu Mazumdar and Kanu Sanyal, the two pioneers of this movement, could have adopted the path of peaceful protest. But then again, there has been no revolution without any bloodshed. The movement was a spark which nearly became a revolution. If it failed to bring about a nationwide uprising, then it was the consequence of ideological clashes among the leftists. What it gave rise to, was Naxalites, an outfit of misguided and misinformed, who in turn, sway the deprived masses in their fervor.

This deprived section, today, faces triple deprivation- social, economic and environmental. The needs have multiplied manifold and a simple linear approach to problem solving has turned out to be inefficient. The problems as we see today, is not merely economical. It has spilled over to the realm of social thought. Social thought, we define here, as a structure which has been created to define our actions. It is a framework which allows legitimacy to our behavior. Actions here pertain to those which which involve bargain of power. The power of the 'haves' is a matter of pride. It is the power to do better, for greater good. However, there is a social cost associated with that which has to be borne by the 'have-nots'. The behavior is shaped according to that pride. It is marked by 'business as usual' approach towards doing greater good. This approach equates altruistic attitude with price. Higher the price better is my altruism.
 

Given this system, the question that consequentially arises-"Is this the right thinking?" In order to answer this question, a critical analysis of the status quo is required. In order to do that, we need to seek out contradictions, if any, among people, which can lead to potential change in status quo. I believe contradictions exist and in a substantial manner. These contradictions are not restricted to the means of development alone, as elucidated by Dr. Amartya Sen in his capabilities approach towards development. According to him, the contradictions in approach towards development as a mean and means towards development. I believe these contradictions are more philosophical in nature. In order to justify this statement, let me cite an example.

Urban train transit system in the city of Mumbai, needless to say, is overburdened. Given the twin cities of Thane and Navi Mumbai in its vicinity, the train network carries 7.5 million commuters daily. Each train has a demarcated ladies compartment, a first class compartment and the remaining is general compartment. The first class compartment is occupied by those who would like to and can pay more for the journey and thus travel in relative comfort compared to other commuters. Very often, it so happens that a daily commuter boards the first class compartment without paying for a first class ticket. Whether it is by mistake or by choice, that will require an entire different discussion. What follows next is the agitated out pour of the people in the first class compartment to get that erroneous commuter out of "their" compartment. The reaction reflects, the philosophical divide that is derived from power. Commuters in the first class compartment believe they hold the right and hence power over this compartment. They are different from people in the general coach not only in economic terms, but also in terms of thinking (social construct) and attitude. They are better in life, are better persons and can do better. They have the power to drive out that one commuter and hence the power to allow him to ride in first class compartment. The powerless (one without the ticket) either follows the diktat or disobeys it. Usually, it so happens that, the ticket less commuter disobeys and sticks to his position. From the point of the regular commuters, they are rightfully justified in their action. They are paying a price for this space and hence any intruder who wants to free-ride on them is not invited. From the point of the ticket less traveler, it is in his interest to disobey the rules as even if he's caught without ticket, he won't be able to pay the fine, and hence be let off after a while. This leads to contradiction. There are million such miniature contradictions occurring daily across cities.
 

Mao Ts e-tung wrote elaborately on contradictions-"between the working class and the national bourgeoisie". What had started as a socialist revolution has metamorphosed into thought conflict. In the backdrop of such ongoing conflict, it provides fodder enough to investigate the character of our society and critically analyze class behavior. Both the end points are equally justified in their behavior, given the command (or the lack of it) over resources and income share in society. Both the end points would not budge from their positions to reach the "common ground" (if any). Both the sections have reasons to despise each other. And yet, with sufficient beauty, they coexist, like tectonic plates which try to keep the friction to a minimum. But then, does it rule out the event of an earthquake?

My Fair Lady

The door slammed shut, 
and so did she.
Thunder shook the window,
yet steady stood she.
It had rained all of 'noon,
had taken half my evening,
when she refused my coffee,
gentlemen; that's the beginning.

'What's the matter with you?
Is it the rain, or its noise?"
"It's the clouds; it's their voice."
The outdoor had turned monochromatic,
with constant chorus of patter,
The indoors were turned to yellow,
adding enough gloom to our chatter.
"I hear their rumbling,
they've been crying all day."
"That's sad to hear,
what else do they say?"
Her gaze held to the floor,
those little fists clenched tight,
her lips remained firm,
she's ready for a fight.
"I hear a different rythm,
they tell of the lands past,
they sing praises of the wind,
the sailor with broken mast."

There's curiosity in those eyes,
she eases to the beats,
the thrumming, the pelting, the dibble,
I see those swaying pleats.
We waltz in the hall,
there's dinner on the table,
Gentlemen; I'll take your leave,
have to sing her a fable.

Memories of a Song

"Shall we have another?" he looked at me,
waiting for a yes for this evening.

"Only for this song," I agreed to him,
as the music comes to my greeting.

The enclosure was fine for a dine,
with the usual menu; you know,
mostly breads and salads, a roast at the most.
It's was a corner plot to talk,
with the usual faces; you know,
mostly blokes and hippies, a rational at the most.

"I remember this song," his eyes gleaming
as the glasses were poured again.
"I remember a memory," I recalled
as the lyrics were heard again.

'Raindrops keep fallin' on my head,
And just like the guy whose feet
are too big for his bed..,'

"Used to laugh at his singing,",I talked
of my dad; cheering me up when twas' raining.
and another sip of memory.

'So I just did me some talking to the sun,
And I said I didn't like the way
he got things done..,'

"Used to be amazed at her singing," he spoke
of a voice; of an incomplete ending.
and another sip of memory.

'It won't be long till happiness
step up to greet me,
Because I'm free,
nothing's worryin' me.'

"Would you like a walk?' he asked
for some more hours with me.
And for the want of a new memory,
we went strolling by the sea.

Marie Biskoot

I was stepping out of the hotel, when she approached me. The hotel was a frequent visit for men like us who toiled on the harbor. The sound of the ships docking by day would dissolve into the jazz being played every evening at the bar. Men like us would proudly narrate our sea fares, each one of us trying to better the other. On one of those evenings, she approached me with her arms outstretched, trying to beg.

 Her palms were folded in the typical manner of begging, but they were not the hands of a beggar. As it is the tradition of our society, I dismissed her. However, her presence could not be dismissed. Like with me, she approached others around the hotel, who were reveling in the evening. Equally dismissed and dejected, this beggar walks away from the neon lights. There were the other beggars, nagging till I would part away with a coin. But I didn't budge. She, however, stood solemnly in distance, not pursuing enough for a beggar, not disturbing the rich enough for a beggar. 

The dock has been quaint, unlike the rest of the city. 
I've often heard of the razzmatazz of the city and how it makes a beggar out of everyone. How you end up begging more for the glimmer and shimmer. The eyes are enslaved, caught in desire for a bigger slice of life that the city offers. Those are the 'eyes of the beggar' they say. Her eyes, though were different. They didn't crave for life neither were they desperate for death.

I was headed to the dockyard, when a sudden commotion is heard. A mob had gathered in front of the hotel, and I followed the crowd to the spot. It is a strange fun to watch someone being humiliated by a large group of people. And it was her, the beggar, being thrashed by the mob.

She held on to what she had stolen from the shop, for what she was being humiliated. After a while, the mob dispersed, having delivered justice. She held on to what she had stolen and dragged herself to a corner. This time, I approached the beggar.
-"Why did you steal", I asked.
-"I didn't see any other way", she replied stoically.
-"You don't look like a beggar. Why don't you work for money, rather than being in this situation", I was trying to understand this beggar.
She continued in her impassive manner, "I'm not a beggar. I don't know how to beg. But, for my child," clenching to what she had stolen, she said, "he loves to have it in the morning. And next morning is far off."
-"Where is his dad?"
-"I didn't want to be tamed by him any longer. So I poisoned him. His body will be washed up ashore next morning," and she looked up.
Before I could react, she showed her steal, "he loves marie biskoot. Nothing makes him more happy than marie biskoot and milk. And I love my child and want to see him happy," her eyes were still.
As I stood there, she walked away from the neon lights, into her darkness. 

The Door to the ashes

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Standing still, they are still hinged,

to the past, when I had left;

neighboring walls do not know,

"What happened after I left?"

Outside the hallway, to the street,
the door opened to innocence;
those yellow evenings faded away,
the door opened to carousel;
that fair turned to debris in a day.

Inside the hallway, to the rooms,
the door opened to slumber,
those starry nights washed away
the door opened to veranda,
a mother turned to dust on a day.

On that day, it opened to grieving,

when mob entered, and I had left
neighboring windows remain silent,
"What happened after I left?"