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

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