To dear Sudhanshu...

The whistle is blown.
kerchiefs fly on the sombre air ;
And smiles struggle to clothe,
the dewy eyes, now laid bare.
An adieu that befits all the love and care
alike from the known and the unknown.
Yet how could thou so happy be ?

Art thou happy for the greener pastures
that await thee homeward as thy go ?
The grass is green, you surely know.
Yet, without the sweet smelling camaraderie,
wouldst thine eyes alone embrace the grass ,
when thy nose says no ?
Thine green shrubbery, would but fail to amass
the hay-strewn days of mirthful rapture.

A great friend as I am ;
Yet, why this discordant chord ?
Has my friendship been so poor
to restrict an amiable nod
to the wanting that my friend' heart craves ?
Oh! such such selfishness I bear,
that Bach and Mozart would turn in their graves.
For friendship is but a single soul symphony
amidst the shrill bugles of corruption's cacophony.

Wayward! Wayward! thee go my worthy friend.
If be thee gone and never again ;
Then thy memories as gold I retain ;
Enough for this birth to sustain.
But if be my destiny, my host one day,
I would wish to be thy counsel and thy say
for all births and every day!

                                     ---- Sauru

Lines written on the sands of Jaisalmer

Ice cold winds and fickle sands ;
Death, its worth, demands.
Hope, my feet, my way, the north star,
as the moon shines on this desert of Thar.
How I feel no cold ?
By a lone traveler, so I am told :
This body lodges no soul ;
Of shadow, I am but a ghoul.

Sorrow, but an oxymoron implants ;
Of warmer tears and colder hearts.
How my heart feels so cold and numb . . .
T' is but a graveyard of passions that succumb
to my fate, when it calls in its wake,
when mere existence is at stake,
to just keep walking with questions that mar
my very purpose on this desert of Thar.

Yet, I keep walking . . .
And yet, I keep trying . . .

To imprint my feet on the sands of time ;
only to be erased off by the whirls malign.
How I seek to stop and to die ;
On this very spot, my grave shall lie.
With an epitaph that shall read :
"Of the lone and the morrow, preferred Death instead. "
Ah ! but for that mirage seen during the day ,
that makes it easy to die but tempting to stay .

It's the mirage of an oasis . . .
Full of warmth and shade, the oasis . . .

A little warmth might, my nerves, sustain ;
Might this poor heart start thudding again ;
Might I discover my answers in its shade ;
Then, for this chance, Death, I will trade .
Now, its really left for my fate to decide
between life far away and death beside.
So, my fate, do answer me :
Will that mirage an oasis be ?
Oh ! will that mirage an oasis be ?

                                                    --Sauru

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