Lines written on the sands of Goa

Oh Arabian! by thy vastness thou betray
my sight;  Yet thou perfectly portray
on thy blue canvas, of fecundity the kind,
in emotions that wreck this helpless mind.

Though thy waters incessantly ebb and flow,
thou never crosseth the golden limits you know.
So are the surges of desire that wreck my tranquility;
Yet they abide by the cultured shores of maturity.

On the line that my eyes sketch, thy waters
run deep I know; So do my thoughts reach
the hell's door,where, to knock, my mind falters.

Oh ocean ! beneath thy blue facade, a world thrives
that the sun knows not; So behind my opaque mask,
do breathe my thoughts, the emotions, that mind derives.

                                                                                           ---Sauru

The Longing

What a singular creature that I have been ;

Born in this thriving house of bane ,

with ears the traitors, silence the sane.

I befriended misery to fathom the unseen.

Emotions though free men, tears but prisoners be ;

For untamed tongues spill out a deceitful cacophony.

With thoughts my food and solitude belonging ;

I scrape through the day for that very longing.

Longing to be with the one very dear ;

Though visage unknown and contours unclear.

Yet, beneath the heavens, my heart knoweth

of a soul, pure and mirthful, it often speaketh.

Longing to kick open the chambers of my heart

full with untrodden corridors dark.

And while thus she sees her lover unveiled ,

I would inturn perceive a new man revealed.

Longing to feel that very first touch ;

And devour it as if life wouldn't offer much.

To feel the chill go down the spine ;

Of souls the union, as bodies entwine.

Longing to hear my tongue obey

the surges of mirth or of utter dismay,

that ever riseth in this human heart.

Though madness I favour, with stolidness I part.

Longing to feel that very longing

when the dearest isn't nearby.

Cursing the void as if feeling

sans her, life's a big tearful sigh.

Longing to behold the destiny's allegiance ;

To my humble longings, the future's compliance.

And now, clinging firmly to faith's icicle,

I meet life headon; whether victory or debacle.

                                                                     ---Sauru

Where Art Thou ?

On this dark grey passage that I walk ;

My heart is filled with void to the brim.

And like the shoal trapped in the net unseen ,

fearing 'the onlyness' my senses run amok.

Contrast my mind, who holds on to a silvery hand.

At the passage end, it says, your prize does stand.

But the end seems like 'the darker' beginning anew ;

O for this mad mad hope, Where art thou ?


Dost thou tread through a similar passage ?

Getting baked and burnt on the furnace of misery ,

with thy only exhaust, this loquacious poetry ?

The veiled garb of responsibilities thy beauty camouflage ?

Do not tarry then, for your frail limbs consent ;

For my arms would suffice for every rise and descent .

This jigsaw would then complete with you as my frau ;

O for this foresaken life, tell me, Where art thou ?


In my dreams, the inner eye, my imagination swirls.

Would thou be this beautiful and fair ?

With eyes hazel and chestnut hair .

I do wish the nymph from all living girls .

O holy father, through all the distress that I have been ,

I have longed for the beauty than 'The most Beautiful' seen .

All fair ladies of this land, Beware !

For ye mirrors would soon wake ye out of the reverie ;

For the lines of envy would surely be seen on ye milky brow .

O for this challenge's sake, dear, reveal, Where art thou ?
    

The Bom Baim !!

She defines passion, she defines an Indian ;
The proud daughter of the stately Arabian .
Beauty in her heart and by nature tropical ,
My mother is, but Asia's financial oracle .
Unlike the bombastic Hong Kong or glamourous Shanghai ,
She is, but India's very own, Mumbai.

She is a city with just today and tomorrow .
For past has only a century to borrow .
Neither saddles, nor halters of history, she wears ;
Past hickups, if any, she hardly cares.
Perseverance her way, prosperity her goal ;
Poor labourer her hand, middle class her soul .

She is the city that runs by the clock.
For her, the old are those who can just walk .
For the one ,who perspires during the day,
Mumbai, at night with him , will stay ;
But the one, indolent enough to accomplish a chore
will find death cheaper than sleeping with this whore .

For the passionate young, she is the tinsel town .
One might find variety even in a night gown.
Its the city of businessmen, sportsmen, poets and fashionists ;
Of actors, singers, hoteliers and educationists.
Mumbai makes one reap as one did sow .
She has the guts to bring a wrinkle on Delhi's brow.

At her very mention, the eyelids enlarge
at the thought of Sachin Tendulkar or Thackeray raj .
With connoisseurs of music in all her strata ;
Every house listens to the nightingale named Lata .
To the sun and to the moon, she can never be the same ;
Mumbai still remains the sweet Indian 'bom baim'

One Summer Tempest

Towards the end of a hot sweaty May,

when the heavenly old pedant had his say;

I was wandering through the market place,

A dehydrated mind and a perspiring face.

And lo! Thrashing came the summer tempest;

A shade in the chaos now became 'The Quest'.



Once sheltered beneath a tea stall roof,

I let loose, my twin spies, though foolproof.

And there they caught her shying, under a young banyan;

A lassie with green eyes and skin so fair and young.



A wet pajama adhered on to her long youthful limbs;

And her drenched top gave my imagination, a glimpse.

A curvy waist befitting an abdomen concave;

Hidden behind hands, tightly clutched, was a treasure to crave.

A small battalion of her luxuriant black, did protect her rosy cheek;

Surely, now, mine eyes couldn't risk being meek.



Wine, such a beauty is, to the 'aesthetically engrossing'.

The twin drunkards were soon captives for trespassing.

"Tame your vagabonds", returned an irate glance;

Virtually slapped, I awoke from my trance.



Body is but the projection of thoughts within; mimed I ;

For a guileless conscience does spell 'beauty' to an aesthetic eye.

Virginity, for the sane, isn't a physical attribute.

T'is for those chaste thoughts, a bodily tribute.

With hands tightly clutched; Dress periodically adjusted;

Visage, in a confluence of chastely guilt and wrath, bathed.

Such a tribute you do offer now, O Virgin ;

For your guilt is only a mimicry of the guileless within.



As my hymns went on, the earth had ceased to bathe ;

And the old crook was out again with his May-day bane.

With a placid smile, she did vacate the banyan shade;

Thanking the tempest, to her, a goodbye I bade.
 
                                                                      ----Sauru

Boys Don't Cry....

Through a familiar doorway, wearily I enter.
An alert pair of searchful eyes, on my countenance, does centre.
"Here comes my boy!" croaks a feeble throat ;
A year-long illness but deceives a merrier note.
A quivering hand attempts to convey a soulful of rejoice;
I greet the messenger, half way, sans a single noise.
There, on that solitary bed, a desolate present is cast;
T'is but a mere ash of a strongly incandescent past.
Now, my creator remains, but of bones, an ensemble;
An army of tears, in two youthful eyes, does assemble.
"Make a truce with thine eyes" comes the reply;
For my dearest, listen, boys don't cry.

I take her palm in mine, and share a loaf of hope;
For t'is the best medicine, against such a malady to cope.
I tell her stories of optimism, perseverance and courage;
Some humourous ones to spread a smile on her visage.
For some of my own stupid indiscretions, she generously giggles and laughs;
For one another such a bout, for days on she starves.
For these moments together, reality she forgets and I deny;
For I surely know, that boys don't cry.

But, whenever she contemplates on her life's immobile stage,
She feels like a bird, trapped in a demonic cage.
She remembers her offsprings as yet men to become;
She has to stand up for young daughters to welcome.
"Why me?" she asks in the most sorrowful accent.
I make her see patience in the realm of her present.
To the immatured young wailings, sermons of hope, I supply;
For I surely know, that older boys don't cry.

After a day of cries and laughs, dressed in a void attire;
I take my leave for the night to retire.
Then, stressed and weary, I elope with anxiety;
And then fervently ask, "Is this really me?".
Upon this, the kind old night mother,
gives me a reason, not to bother.
For, in these life's many vicissitudes, she says,
It's not for a man to be a hermit always.
For when the day opens with a wail and closes with a sigh,
Boys do cry, my dear, boys do cry!!

                                                                                                ---Sauru