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

शब्दांजली

होडीत मी एकटाच आहे.....


अन शांत ही आहे....


आजुबाजूचा तमाशा डोळे भरून पहातोय


अन त्या अथांग समुद्रात लाटांसवे नाचतोय.






कानांशी किंचाळतोय तो मस्तवाल समीर


अन डोळे पहात आहेत लाटांचे लाटांशीच समर.


विचार आला....मज काय उपयोग या इंद्रियांचा ?


जसा जलास हवेचा अथवा वृद्धांस स्वप्नांचा.






ज्या कानांस लाविला शब्दांचा लळा


त्याच कानांत बैसलाय आवाजाचा दडा.


ओठ ज्याचा जन्म अन कर्ण ज्याचे थडगं


त्या आवाजाच्या दुनियेत काय विशेष अन काय वाउगं .






हो ! आवाजच तो नव्हे तो शब्द .


जया पायी हात जोडून द्वैत अद्वैत स्तब्ध .


शब्द हाच परिचय हृदयास हृदयाचा


जसा नवजात अर्भक स्त्री च्या मातृत्वाचा .






विहीरीत फेकलेला दगड कधीच तरंगत नसतो


अन हृदयी जन्मला शब्द कधीच विरघळत नसतो.


शब्द म्हणजे ओठांवर जिभेचा आघात


जणु स्वैर कुंजरावर माहुताची मात.






सागरात ’श’कार अन नभात ॐकार


अवनी वरती शब्द रुपी भगवंत साकार.


वायूत ’उ’कार अन अग्नीत ’चित’कार


जन्मणार्या प्रति क्षणाचा शब्द हाच शिल्पकार .






अंतरीचा शब्द शोधीता मिटले ते लोचन


अन मग शब्दास पुरविले भाषेचे व्यंजन.


संसाराच्या अवघड गुंत्यास अखेर देऊनी तिलांजली


आज विचारांनी भाषेस वाहिली खास शब्दांचीही शब्दांजली.

My Salvation ....

Inspired from a poem by my friend Sajan ....

Once, I had taken up a fight .
There was the "me" against the rest of world.
Injured and weary, I plod my way
on the chariot of unabated will power.
But, my will never ruled my fate;
And neither my destiny to me succumb;
For the very wheels were chopped off
by the vicious arrows of power.


And there I lay in complete disgust
allowing my temper the proverb to devour.
For where lay my will there wasn't a way ;
And about this world I had nothing to say.


As I lay there facing the starry sky.
Thought I......
What would I see the day I sleep.
Would it be a white blank page?
On which is carved the signature of my Fate
with an ink as white and ghastly
as would be the decoction of sorrow.
T'is the only one......
which maketh man leave his own shadow.
Or would the Almighty care write a word or two?


Me thinkst it not right.....
To desire this from the only one.
T'was he who helped me
empty my cup of sorrow.
He himself had half of it ;
And the other half was left for the morrow.


And then it struck me like a lightning ;
The knowledge of the very path
I was to tread.......
Where only Almighty would dare
become my very own shadow.
The path where love carried the sceptre
and death, the bowl of copper.
For I was the chosen one
to drink the poison and reject the elixir.
To take on the arrows of Fate
with a warm and placid smile,
would be my life's salvation.

                                       ----- Saurabh

Lines wriiten on my 24th Birthday!!

I have written a poem on my birthday  November the 7th, 2009....See if you like it :)




Today, as I sit sipping a cup of tea,

thinking about my past, present and future to be;

Better, I think, is the day today

to set my heart loose and mind astray.



I was born this day in the month of November;

And I have years gross twenty plus four, to remember.

Born with a tongue so sweet and noble a heart;

And a scorpion sting ofcourse, for my foes to thwart.



T'was today that the journey began;

The metamorphosis of an inchoate lump to a complete man.

I have observed the virtue and studied the vice;

With the Almighty as the sorcerer and I his apprentice.



A strong believer in action, dreaming was my profession.

To harmonize the two could only mean a fight against procrastination.

For whatever I've got, I have always fought.

even against destiny for the dearest to be sought.



And now, reclining on this cosy chair,

with a sense of hardearned lassitude, I dare

the lions: destiny and future to tame;

And I will be the shikari and my foes, my game.



For t'is only friendship that I abide with and serve.

And if anybody stupid enough has got that nerve,

to befriend enemity and become a perfidious foe,

he would be selling his joys for a disastrous woe.



For, if ever, one ties me into a knot of love and friendship,

this scorpio promises infinite care and companionship.

But if ever against me is taken, the path of animosity;

I would just say "Dude, May God bless thee!!"

------Saurabh

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम.......

काळ्या निशेच्या उदरातून जन्मली एक सोनेरी पहाट

अन् मज कर्णान्शि हितगुज कराया कोठोनि आला एक स्वर

"अंतर्मुख होऊनि ओळख मजला मीच तो श्रीधर"

ते निद्रिस्त कर्ण जाहाले जागे ऐकोनि प्रभू चे नाम

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम !!



मी अन् माझ करण्यात अखंड जातो तुजला दिस

अन् संकट काळी कशास रे मग बोलतोस मजला नवस

ह्याच मी पणास्तव फुट्ती तव मनी द्वेषाचे अंकुर

ह्या मिपणास समुळ मारी नामी भस्मासुर

नामाच्या नौकेत बैसोनी येई इश्वरी धाम

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम!!



देवळात येओनि प्रार्थितोस चरणी ठेवोनि तव मस्तक

बाहेर पड्ताच शड्रीपुन्शी होतोस रे नतमस्तक

चालता बोलता उठ्ता तुजला विषयाची रे संगत

विषयान्ती विकार तुजला आहेत रे अवगत

नांम रथ ई आरूढ हो मज सोप्वोनी रिपुन्चे लगाम

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम!!



लक्ष्मी सरस्वती येतील द्वारी, कर गीतेचे पारायण

गीतेत असे सामर्थ्य वसे, करी नरास नारायण

भक्ति अथवा न्यानमार्गे अंती प्राप्त तो मोक्ष

पामरास न्यानि म्हणाया अनेक जन्माची साक्ष

हे अध्यात्मिक गुहय सांगोनी प्रभू पाविले अन्तर्धान

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम!!



                                                                               ---सौरभ

My plea Mr. Chairman...........

        Whenever I think of entities like ‘greatness’ , ‘virtue’ and ‘principle’, I imagine them as sturdy rocks, nay, boulders, keeping their stand rock solid amidst the flowing waters of the rivulets of fame and honour. I think they have to be so; for when these entities lose their stand and become one with the flowing water, they cease to be themselves in the same way that a river loses its identity when it meets the sea.

        The purpose of giving a long introduction was that, in my mind, there was seated a person, whom I did regard as ‘a great one’ until the time when he was made the chief chairman of Konkan Sahitya Parishad; a designation much eyed by many of the doyens in Marathi literature. “The conservation and upliftment of the Marathi language and of Marathi Manoos” was a tongue rolling topic in those days. The dias of the Sahitya Parishad was honoured with the presence of Mr. Chairman, the paragon of Marathi literature. Lending their eager eyes and alert ears to the dias were the who’s who in Marathi literature. At that moment of time ,what I felt was that, there rested a great responsibility with the dias, and perhaps greater one with Mr. Chairman to design and suggest some pragmatic theories and ideas for the conservation of the Marathi language and culture, which was, as they said, becoming extinct, as the giant mammoth some millions ago.

        Now, Mr. Chairman did rise to the occasion of saving his “mayy Marathi” by suggesting to banish “Madam English” out of Maharashtra. “For the upliftment of mayy Marathi, all the English schools be closed down” was his mantra. On hearing this , I pitied Mr. Chairman. It was really sad, that a well wisher of a language and his people should think of such a solution. When you say you love a language, you actually love the people who have gifted that language with necklaces of their thoughts. Otherwise, any language just consists of some words and some mundane rules regarding the same. When you water these words by strong thoughts, the words blossom out into beautiful flowers, each conveying the fragrance of the thoughts beneath.

        I am a Marathi speaking person who did 12 years of his schooling in an English medium school. For me, Marathi is my mother tongue. My mother has loved me in this language, scolded me in this language and sung lullabies for me in the same one. My culture is Marathi, habits are Marathi and even my thinking is Marathi. When I was a school-going teenager, like any other guy, even I had my first crush. Her name was “English”. I have loved that language Mr. Chairman. If Marathi is my mother, then English is my fiancée. And as you will agree, every guy doesn’t start hating his mom when he marries; not in the matured folks at least.

       As a child, I have enjoyed the nursery rhymes; I have hummed the poems of Wordsworth; I have seen “the Daffodils” from Tennyson’s eyes; I have felt innocence after reading Blake; And am totally ready to say “Death! Thou be not proud” after reading John Donne’s poetic harangue. These are my deities Mr. Chairman; as are you for many a folk in my mother tongue. If we implement the solution that you proposed some years back, many guys and gals like me, would be devoid of the love which English has given us.

       And nevertheless, I get angry when a guy or a gal (especially!!) directs his or her tongue to speak in English with the objective of aping the west. It isn’t their fault; nor the fault of the English schools which taught them. If anybody is to be blamed, they are their parents! Today, the most dominant threat posed to Indian languages, is by the IT culture, which is already rooted firmly in the country. The IT culture (why call it culture!) is more towards aggravating the youth to break the bonds of culture, tradition, language and religion under the false pretext of Globalisation. If parents dump their mother tongue for a language which makes them look bombastic in front of their faddist cronies, then what can you expect from their children?

       Nevertheless, bringing the English schools in front of goddess Marathi’s sacrificial altar is not a path to be treaded; not for Maharashtra at least, which is counted as one of the progressed states post independence. Why become unnecessarily chauvinistic when the root of the problem is not in the language but in people’s mindset. It is the responsibility of every Maharashtrian to guard his mother tongue and enrich it if he can. By murdering English in Maharashtra under the guillotine of chauvinism, we ourselves would be blocking the path of our children to progress, which leads directly to the external world. Now, the ball is in your court Mr. Chairman and the accused “Madam English” in front of you. It’s your decision now as to let her go or to pull the switch.

                                                                                                                           ----Saurabh