A humming word

wrapped in soot, pulverized rays and a circuitous route, the itinerants zoom and zap their way.. they toil in air conditioned boxes and sweat and pant in their abode. it's only in the evening when the sweat evolves into a lullaby of the wind and the twinkling lights that adorn the various high rise complexes look like twinkling stars dotted on the naked sky... the meaningless infiltration of desires into dreams seems fruitive.

There's a monkey stitched to the fabric of our soul. It jumps from day to day, year to year, decade to decade. Its mouth shaped like an empty bowl and its vacuous eyes pouring hunger. It sprints from tree to tree for a fruit or with its primate mates. Sips water from the nearest lake and ambles under a tree for shade. It ain't sure if its manmade but it gropes the distasteful plastic leaves. The monkey finally seeks solace under the twilight on a terrace. Spreading its arms and legs on the mattress, it awaits for its eyes to close and its fantasy to begin. The monkey is now unstitched from the soul. The soul celebrates. It sits by the parapet wall and looks at the balmy evening--a lullaby.

Despite the rains over the last two days, we hoped that there would be no thunder or lightning last evening. And thankfully, there wasn't. A few of us met met at the luscious green KBR to read our poems. The idea was to stay away from coffee houses and chai ki dukaan to soak ourselves in the greenery. And, we found a sweet spot under a tree. After a couple of rounds of poetry a peacock walked graciously. The velvet colors it adorned were gorgeous. The peacock hopped on to the trees nearby and then onto a tower. We ended the session after three rounds. The poetry read by these closet poets about their deepest emotions of love, patriotism and hurt, will remain with me. Here's my verse (an ode to Centenary--Jallianwala Bagh Massacre) April 13, 2019 The banner of summer sun and call of cuckoos wrapped the little Sikh boy, let's call him Little S, and his sister who were playing chuppam chupai. Little S hid behind the turbaned man with broad, strong shoulders. Sister came...

The Kalyan Mandapam was decorated with racks of books and tables with boxes of picture books and coffee table books. The stage was set with boxes and card machines. People formed lines to buy the boxes of three various prices: Rs. 999/- ; Rs. 1499/- and Rs. 2499/-. Lock-the-box by bookchor.com was an event that book readers would hoard to. Books of various genres and categories all stacked neatly in racks and people were picking them out like mangoes from orchards and placing them in their boxes. The seems of the mandapam had people seated with books and boxes. Each of them had to ensure the the boxes were filled and the price of the box was justified. A few of the book lovers shared the box and a few bought the box-worthy books. A young woman acquainted me and we shared the box. I am glad she did.  The fact that the mandapam was filled with used books made it endearing. However, books like Diary of Anne Frank, Mein Kampf were brand new. What I liked particularly...

Poetry that urges you to write is qualified as good poetry. But poetry that compels you to write leaving your chores behind is great poetry. That’s what Gulzar Saab is all about. Selected poems by Gulzar (tr. by Pavan Verma) is an effective read. The variety in the subjects and the varied lengths leaves you gasping for more. It is like a beautiful love letter on a rainy day that you wish to read and re-read till the words soak inside of you. Sample this: Meaning From the square,  through the mandi,  past the market  Along the red street floats the paper boat  Helpless, bobbing about in the unclaimed,  orphaned waters of the rain  In the wanton streets of the town, frightened,  it asks: If every boat has a shore  Will I too have mine? Gulzar Saab dabbles in pain, humor, love, books as easily as he writes about his daughter, whom he fondly calls: Bosky, his friends and his mentors. The earnest lines in the poem:1857 will boil you...

Trevor Noah is one of us. He fumbles and makes mistakes. He is whiplashed. He is terrified of his father. He lived a life of penury.  Trevor Noah is one of us. He makes silly assumptions in romantic alliances. He thinks less of himself. He has lived a harsh life.  Trevor Noah is one of us. He feels terrified but feels happy too. He lived a life of pain and still does. Trevor Noah is not one of us. His father and mother have never lived together. He was born during apartheid when inter-racial sex was a crime. (Thus the title: Born a Crime) ** The best part of the book: 1. The many tales of Trevor Noah that are filled with humor and sarcasm.  The incidents are painful but Noah make sures you have a hearty laugh.  Eg: His failed romances, metric dance (prom), tales of car breakage, his cd business..etc  2. His mother, Patricia.  The way a son treats his mother speaks about his character and Patricia is no less than a hero in th...

Recently, I watched the film “Room” inspired by the novel of the same name by Emma Donoghue. It was based on several incidents of captivity and kidnapping from real life. Five-year-old Jack narrates the story from his own perspective.   He is introduced to the world outside through a television set, a skylight and his Ma. Jack doesn’t know anything else. He draws on the walls and is keenly interested in the outer space. Inside the room, Ma and Jack have spent years of their life, held captive by “Old Nick”. Old Nick had kidnapped Ma when she was 19 years old and he regularly sexually abuses her. Jack is the product of this abuse. Old Nick loses his job and worried that he might kill her and Jack, Ma trains Jack with an escape plan. She tells him that the world is much wider outside. Jack is unable to fathom that the television set people live beyond the television too. It takes him days of training to understand the plan. Finally, one fortunate day, Ma executes the...