Sitting by the window I stared into the river
Wondrous and amazed by nature's bravado
Spanning insurmountable and ferocious terrains
that lead to serene and felicitous plains
Suddenly I saw myself sitting by the window
It wasn't a reflection or a picture
I was looking at the scene from behind my back
As if that girl were someone I knew from before
I looked at myself intently,
As if this were my own creation
I understood that person wholly yet
I chided and rebuked to her running to perdition
I commended her on her altruism
And pointed out where she could improve
I crushed her shoulder warmly
Hugged her from the back and cruised
A shiver ran down my spine
Did I just travel between surreal and reality
Is this body mine leased to another's soul
Who am I really, i trotted on introspection
Should I be fearful of myself
Should I take a walk down introspection
Was this an over analysis, a hallucination
Maybe I just lull myself into the realms of sleep.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The touch
He didn't move a muscle when the door slammed open. His eyes were locked in an empty gaze at the floor. The pregnant silence deafened him to the voices muttering in the background. His olfactory senses were numbed by the stench of blood and rotting flesh. He wouldn't respond to his name, her name or the baby's name. His tongue slipped out between the tenderness of his lips, twitching at times as if giving us a sign of life. His back slumped against the wall, The terror hiding in his crouched limbs was blatantly evident even to the most hardened of officers, yet his bravery in the face of ghastly violation did not fail to evoke admiration. The crow’s lines around the old Inspector’s eyes melted into compassion as he eyed the boy, the inspector opened his mouth but couldn’t speak a word.
The room was at the end of the dark long corridor, beyond the communal bathrooms and communal tap, beyond three rundown unoccupied homes. The stench didn’t hit us until we crossed the first house. We didn’t need sleuths to suggest that here was ensconced the perfect setting for an unobtrusive act of brutal disaffection. As we neared the flat, guarded by masked policemen, I felt the need to run back urgently and vomit out the lack of guts. Even seasoned officers betrayed their confident demeanor and enquired after the severity of the scene. I gathered my wits and hid behind the inspector’s shoulder as he slammed the door ajar. I wasn't prepared for this face-off. Something told me that today was different. That scared the hell out of me.
Treading the room with caution and fear, I skewed my eyes hoping to notice pieces of evidence possibly missed by cursory glances. Kali, the goddess, looked down with rage - her hair flaring with anger, her tongue spewing fire at the enemies of her devotees and scorn at friends who couldn't help them, her eyes protruding with disgust, her hands shaking with the raw instinct to avenge the losses. Suddenly, my field of vision was invaded by an image that will remain etched in my memory, even if I get struck down by Alzheimer’s disease. The little boy. I remember the boy sitting shocked in a fetal position with his head between his knees, still in disbelief. He found solace in the corner of the cold 10 by 12 feet room. The one-room house exuded the aura of raw instinct, of exceeding human passion, of the horror of neglect. The blue distemper was peeling off in large parts and the mosaic tiles uneven in their lay. The walls were now newly painted. Large bold streaks and splashes of dried dark red blood besmirched the old walls. Pieces of torn clothes were strewn on the floor, the minimal furniture in utter disarray. The foam of the torn cushions mirrored the frothing at the mouths, the blotches of spilt ink resonated with the sight of large bruises.
What had he seen? What did he know? Would he recognize the barbarians? There was no flicker of emotion on his face, just an empty stare. He didn’t blink for many minutes at a stretch, as if forcing himself to retain the memory of the incident. I wanted to touch the little boy, pat his head, hold his hand; yet I knew that nothing I said or did would reverse the chain of actions that left him orphaned and abandoned. Cherubic, button like black eyes, a soft plump nose, thin pursed lips, with thin plucky hair, in khaki shorts offset by a blue polo necked t-shirt, barefoot. Unharmed. Untouched. Untarnished. Yet the scars couldn't be missed. I could have made a nursery rhyme describing his appearance had it not been the brevity of the circumstance. Just about 3 feet tall, he couldn’t have probably seen more than five years in what was now a dastardly cruel world. Did he want to hug his mother and hide in the pleats of her sari? Did he want to tug at his sister’s hair and run all over the place? Did he want to sit by his father as he narrated stories of how the pen was mightier than the sword? What was he thinking? Was he thinking anything at all? What was to be done of him? Did he understand the gravity of the situation? Fear painted his tanned face a pale white, mortification made him a rigid frozen statue. I had been down this path before, yet I had never met someone so young and innocent there. I wanted to scream, but my throat was hurting with dryness, my voice lost to the the helplessness of deep sorrow.
This wasn’t my first assignment and won’t be my last either. Yet, there was something lecherous about it, something extraordinary. Perhaps, it was because the man lying with over twenty stab wounds was a close friend, a fearless journalist, a true patriot. Or was it because the woman, happy in her ignominy, played a silent hapless victim to the ruthlessness of her husband’s murderers? The woman who sent her husband on his mission, praying silently for his safe return, while cradling her unborn child in her womb. The elder daughter whose laugh filled the ears and hearts of all who knew her, opened the door of her life to the ones who'd close life on her forever. But weren’t similar stories played out to us before? What was it about this incident that affected us so much? I knew the answer and I think I was scared to admit it because of the futility of our endeavor to bring justice. Wasn’t he the man braved his life and went undercover to reveal the modus operandi in the slum rehabilitation scheme? Yes, he was the man, who socialized with crass and class that looted the city under the garb of rehabilitating slum dwellers. He was the one who traced the path of corruption from the lowly servant to the highest echelons of power. He knew the path ahead was full of thorns, he knew he held more than his life at stake. He’d gathered a dedicated coterie around him, but sadly, he failed to recognize the Judas. So much so for his bravery, he lost all evidence, his family and finally his life. The threats had been coming for a while. But he wasn’t among those to be daunted easily. He mentioned it casually to the Commissioner once. The next day, police in plain clothes hovered around him unobtrusively. Nothing happened for a few weeks. Then suddenly, in the Nov 26th terror attacks, the demoralized police force recalled their men from these extended services. And here we were, the morning of Nov 28th, in this room, amidst strains of news reporters belching ‘live’ coverage of the military retaliation.
… I remembered why I was here. I was here to do a job, and not allow my train of thoughts to take me away. I felt my hands shivering and feet glued to the floor. I shuddered to fetch the lenses from the case and capture the scene for posthumous justice - and posterity. As I started the mundane routine of clicking away strategic pictures, I felt vindictive adrenaline coursing through my veins. I felt the need to attack every nook and corner into the aperture of my weapon. As a crime photographer, I was supposed to observe and gather evidence bravely, dispassionately and impartially. Yet, within the walls was encapsulated a gush of violence that was breaking the walls of my emotional dam at its seams.
I had finished my job and packed my bag. Investigations had picked up a frenzied pace. Tempers were soaring, papers flying around. Phone calls were attended to in voice modules of servility. But something tickled my conscience and I decided to stay. I usually manage to maintain my equanimity. What was it then today? I stared into a distance as if looking for an answer, but I found my neck turning to the little boy. How was he forgotten in the melee? Why wasn’t he taken away? I remembered a poem from school that described how a warrior’s widow remained still in shock and cried only when an old lady place her newborn baby in her lap. What psychotherapy could I offer? I was a cynic, who always wondered how we could have the audacity to predict human behavior. Living in the world of crime only strengthened my belief and denigrated any iota of respect I’d had for humanity. Yet, I knew, I had to something.
I trudged toward the boy wondering what to say. Should I be solemn? Should I smile reassuringly? Should I just sit by him? I held out my trembling hand and touched his shoulder. I don’t know what pulse of electricity jolted him. He turned to me with piercing eyes, and a moment later, he was in my arms wailing for his mother and father. Like a dark cloud slapping another heavy dark fluff of moisture. Like a flood arising from the juxtaposition of a storm with the high tide. Like a dam broken.
Everything came to a standstill. He clutched me tightly and refused to let me go. I stroked his hair, he cried out for his father. I kissed his cheek, he yelled out for his mother. I felt helpless in my ignorance and ashamed of my hesitancy to help. Yet, I felt responsible for him. What was it that just connected us momentarily? Was it humane touch? Was it destiny or a past debt? Was it a relation that trespassed the boundaries of blood? Then I remembered something I'd heard a long time ago. "Some things in life do not follow the rules of logic. Some things in life are not meant to be within the realm of conscious understanding. Some things in life are inexplicable and are best left so". Where did those words come from, I don't know. They weren't mine, they belonged to someone I'd discredited a long time ago. Now, my karma had just boomeranged and was standing in front of me. A doubt erupted. Should I be brave enough to think aloud? Yes. Should I take him and leave him with authorities. Yes, maybe. Should I? Can I? Maybe I can. Could I be the plastic surgeon who wouldn't be able to erase the scars entirely, but could at least graft them with new memories? Will my hands have the power to soothe away the pain and gore? Will I be able to live up to the responsibility? Am I suffused with immature enthusiasm? Am I running away? Oh my God or whatever supernatural energy you are, where the hell are you now when I need you to give me the answer?
I closed my eyes for a minute. I envisaged. A vision of my future appeared, surrounded by an illuminating halo. The halo encircled me with the boy in my arms, his head resting on my shoulders. My heart was racing. The boy experienced trust and peace. I was filled with warmth and happiness. We were happy. He and I. My heart was beating to a slow peaceful rhythm. I opened my eyes and found myself standing with my head firmly on my shoulders, head held high, bursting with a sense of purpose. I looked at the little boy. Curiously, warmly. Suddenly, he meant more to me than just a colleague’s son. Suddenly he was more than just another child. Suddenly I felt wanted. I felt the presence of another in my lonely life. He lulled himself to sleep in a few minutes. The feeling was comforting. The embrace was humbling. I looked around to have a last glance at the past and to prepare myself for what lay ahead – the task of erasing painful memories and building a new life. For him, and for me. I felt a surge of blood in my heart, a sense of belonging. I took a deep breath, picked up my bag and walked out into a new world.
The room was at the end of the dark long corridor, beyond the communal bathrooms and communal tap, beyond three rundown unoccupied homes. The stench didn’t hit us until we crossed the first house. We didn’t need sleuths to suggest that here was ensconced the perfect setting for an unobtrusive act of brutal disaffection. As we neared the flat, guarded by masked policemen, I felt the need to run back urgently and vomit out the lack of guts. Even seasoned officers betrayed their confident demeanor and enquired after the severity of the scene. I gathered my wits and hid behind the inspector’s shoulder as he slammed the door ajar. I wasn't prepared for this face-off. Something told me that today was different. That scared the hell out of me.
Treading the room with caution and fear, I skewed my eyes hoping to notice pieces of evidence possibly missed by cursory glances. Kali, the goddess, looked down with rage - her hair flaring with anger, her tongue spewing fire at the enemies of her devotees and scorn at friends who couldn't help them, her eyes protruding with disgust, her hands shaking with the raw instinct to avenge the losses. Suddenly, my field of vision was invaded by an image that will remain etched in my memory, even if I get struck down by Alzheimer’s disease. The little boy. I remember the boy sitting shocked in a fetal position with his head between his knees, still in disbelief. He found solace in the corner of the cold 10 by 12 feet room. The one-room house exuded the aura of raw instinct, of exceeding human passion, of the horror of neglect. The blue distemper was peeling off in large parts and the mosaic tiles uneven in their lay. The walls were now newly painted. Large bold streaks and splashes of dried dark red blood besmirched the old walls. Pieces of torn clothes were strewn on the floor, the minimal furniture in utter disarray. The foam of the torn cushions mirrored the frothing at the mouths, the blotches of spilt ink resonated with the sight of large bruises.
What had he seen? What did he know? Would he recognize the barbarians? There was no flicker of emotion on his face, just an empty stare. He didn’t blink for many minutes at a stretch, as if forcing himself to retain the memory of the incident. I wanted to touch the little boy, pat his head, hold his hand; yet I knew that nothing I said or did would reverse the chain of actions that left him orphaned and abandoned. Cherubic, button like black eyes, a soft plump nose, thin pursed lips, with thin plucky hair, in khaki shorts offset by a blue polo necked t-shirt, barefoot. Unharmed. Untouched. Untarnished. Yet the scars couldn't be missed. I could have made a nursery rhyme describing his appearance had it not been the brevity of the circumstance. Just about 3 feet tall, he couldn’t have probably seen more than five years in what was now a dastardly cruel world. Did he want to hug his mother and hide in the pleats of her sari? Did he want to tug at his sister’s hair and run all over the place? Did he want to sit by his father as he narrated stories of how the pen was mightier than the sword? What was he thinking? Was he thinking anything at all? What was to be done of him? Did he understand the gravity of the situation? Fear painted his tanned face a pale white, mortification made him a rigid frozen statue. I had been down this path before, yet I had never met someone so young and innocent there. I wanted to scream, but my throat was hurting with dryness, my voice lost to the the helplessness of deep sorrow.
This wasn’t my first assignment and won’t be my last either. Yet, there was something lecherous about it, something extraordinary. Perhaps, it was because the man lying with over twenty stab wounds was a close friend, a fearless journalist, a true patriot. Or was it because the woman, happy in her ignominy, played a silent hapless victim to the ruthlessness of her husband’s murderers? The woman who sent her husband on his mission, praying silently for his safe return, while cradling her unborn child in her womb. The elder daughter whose laugh filled the ears and hearts of all who knew her, opened the door of her life to the ones who'd close life on her forever. But weren’t similar stories played out to us before? What was it about this incident that affected us so much? I knew the answer and I think I was scared to admit it because of the futility of our endeavor to bring justice. Wasn’t he the man braved his life and went undercover to reveal the modus operandi in the slum rehabilitation scheme? Yes, he was the man, who socialized with crass and class that looted the city under the garb of rehabilitating slum dwellers. He was the one who traced the path of corruption from the lowly servant to the highest echelons of power. He knew the path ahead was full of thorns, he knew he held more than his life at stake. He’d gathered a dedicated coterie around him, but sadly, he failed to recognize the Judas. So much so for his bravery, he lost all evidence, his family and finally his life. The threats had been coming for a while. But he wasn’t among those to be daunted easily. He mentioned it casually to the Commissioner once. The next day, police in plain clothes hovered around him unobtrusively. Nothing happened for a few weeks. Then suddenly, in the Nov 26th terror attacks, the demoralized police force recalled their men from these extended services. And here we were, the morning of Nov 28th, in this room, amidst strains of news reporters belching ‘live’ coverage of the military retaliation.
… I remembered why I was here. I was here to do a job, and not allow my train of thoughts to take me away. I felt my hands shivering and feet glued to the floor. I shuddered to fetch the lenses from the case and capture the scene for posthumous justice - and posterity. As I started the mundane routine of clicking away strategic pictures, I felt vindictive adrenaline coursing through my veins. I felt the need to attack every nook and corner into the aperture of my weapon. As a crime photographer, I was supposed to observe and gather evidence bravely, dispassionately and impartially. Yet, within the walls was encapsulated a gush of violence that was breaking the walls of my emotional dam at its seams.
I had finished my job and packed my bag. Investigations had picked up a frenzied pace. Tempers were soaring, papers flying around. Phone calls were attended to in voice modules of servility. But something tickled my conscience and I decided to stay. I usually manage to maintain my equanimity. What was it then today? I stared into a distance as if looking for an answer, but I found my neck turning to the little boy. How was he forgotten in the melee? Why wasn’t he taken away? I remembered a poem from school that described how a warrior’s widow remained still in shock and cried only when an old lady place her newborn baby in her lap. What psychotherapy could I offer? I was a cynic, who always wondered how we could have the audacity to predict human behavior. Living in the world of crime only strengthened my belief and denigrated any iota of respect I’d had for humanity. Yet, I knew, I had to something.
I trudged toward the boy wondering what to say. Should I be solemn? Should I smile reassuringly? Should I just sit by him? I held out my trembling hand and touched his shoulder. I don’t know what pulse of electricity jolted him. He turned to me with piercing eyes, and a moment later, he was in my arms wailing for his mother and father. Like a dark cloud slapping another heavy dark fluff of moisture. Like a flood arising from the juxtaposition of a storm with the high tide. Like a dam broken.
Everything came to a standstill. He clutched me tightly and refused to let me go. I stroked his hair, he cried out for his father. I kissed his cheek, he yelled out for his mother. I felt helpless in my ignorance and ashamed of my hesitancy to help. Yet, I felt responsible for him. What was it that just connected us momentarily? Was it humane touch? Was it destiny or a past debt? Was it a relation that trespassed the boundaries of blood? Then I remembered something I'd heard a long time ago. "Some things in life do not follow the rules of logic. Some things in life are not meant to be within the realm of conscious understanding. Some things in life are inexplicable and are best left so". Where did those words come from, I don't know. They weren't mine, they belonged to someone I'd discredited a long time ago. Now, my karma had just boomeranged and was standing in front of me. A doubt erupted. Should I be brave enough to think aloud? Yes. Should I take him and leave him with authorities. Yes, maybe. Should I? Can I? Maybe I can. Could I be the plastic surgeon who wouldn't be able to erase the scars entirely, but could at least graft them with new memories? Will my hands have the power to soothe away the pain and gore? Will I be able to live up to the responsibility? Am I suffused with immature enthusiasm? Am I running away? Oh my God or whatever supernatural energy you are, where the hell are you now when I need you to give me the answer?
I closed my eyes for a minute. I envisaged. A vision of my future appeared, surrounded by an illuminating halo. The halo encircled me with the boy in my arms, his head resting on my shoulders. My heart was racing. The boy experienced trust and peace. I was filled with warmth and happiness. We were happy. He and I. My heart was beating to a slow peaceful rhythm. I opened my eyes and found myself standing with my head firmly on my shoulders, head held high, bursting with a sense of purpose. I looked at the little boy. Curiously, warmly. Suddenly, he meant more to me than just a colleague’s son. Suddenly he was more than just another child. Suddenly I felt wanted. I felt the presence of another in my lonely life. He lulled himself to sleep in a few minutes. The feeling was comforting. The embrace was humbling. I looked around to have a last glance at the past and to prepare myself for what lay ahead – the task of erasing painful memories and building a new life. For him, and for me. I felt a surge of blood in my heart, a sense of belonging. I took a deep breath, picked up my bag and walked out into a new world.
Friday, July 17, 2009
miss you, my dear friend.
hey dear friend, wassup with you
we're sitting together, yet it all seems anew
seems like moments ago i walked into your life
even a week ago we laughed with delirious pride
feel taken for granted, it really sucks
to think of what came between us
suddenly i find myself waiting in the line
twiddling my fingers hoping you'll find the time
you would walk into my door, held ajar for you
i gave you the liberty, yet i find myself eschewed
was i just a replacement for a love gone by
not even that, maybe just a substandard alibi
i've noticed you talk to me, but your eyes digress
im not edgy, yet the surrender is amiss
i can't deny, i've feared this time
thought i was prepared, but the insecurity can't be denied
suddenly it seems im out of your league
i throw pebbles in water, won't the anxiety recede?
since when did you forget our code decodes
your signals are more noise, expressions a cloak
come back to me, i can't even say
cos you're still with me everyday
but i am not the person you'd rather inform
and though it hurts, i understand it's your call
we're sitting together, yet it all seems anew
seems like moments ago i walked into your life
even a week ago we laughed with delirious pride
feel taken for granted, it really sucks
to think of what came between us
suddenly i find myself waiting in the line
twiddling my fingers hoping you'll find the time
you would walk into my door, held ajar for you
i gave you the liberty, yet i find myself eschewed
was i just a replacement for a love gone by
not even that, maybe just a substandard alibi
i've noticed you talk to me, but your eyes digress
im not edgy, yet the surrender is amiss
i can't deny, i've feared this time
thought i was prepared, but the insecurity can't be denied
suddenly it seems im out of your league
i throw pebbles in water, won't the anxiety recede?
since when did you forget our code decodes
your signals are more noise, expressions a cloak
come back to me, i can't even say
cos you're still with me everyday
but i am not the person you'd rather inform
and though it hurts, i understand it's your call
Thursday, July 9, 2009
a plea to the angry river
you glitter as if adorned by million crystals abound
never did the moon seem brighter than its reflection in you
sitting by you, i experience a calm, yet
i walk on thorns for fear of uttering a perturbing sound
your graceful sway, a temptress, a delight
you purse your lips and whisper a cool breeze in a teasing display of might
but when did this breeze become an angry wind?
and when did you trample homes with your angry gait?
you're so simple, yet frittered with complexities
unpredictable and quivering in your stance
one moment you laugh like an innocent child full of wonder
the next you rage with ferocity and drive yourself to the abyss
your path transpired peaks, you conquered valleys
yet you remain edgy among plains and landscapes that are friendly
why do you tread with precarious balance
why can't you accept the offer of unwavering trust
equanimity and balance are not easily conquerable traits
yet once acquired, you'll walk head held high with a peaceful steady gait
the angst will go, fear will disappear
take my word, it's not a spiteful bait
never did the moon seem brighter than its reflection in you
sitting by you, i experience a calm, yet
i walk on thorns for fear of uttering a perturbing sound
your graceful sway, a temptress, a delight
you purse your lips and whisper a cool breeze in a teasing display of might
but when did this breeze become an angry wind?
and when did you trample homes with your angry gait?
you're so simple, yet frittered with complexities
unpredictable and quivering in your stance
one moment you laugh like an innocent child full of wonder
the next you rage with ferocity and drive yourself to the abyss
your path transpired peaks, you conquered valleys
yet you remain edgy among plains and landscapes that are friendly
why do you tread with precarious balance
why can't you accept the offer of unwavering trust
equanimity and balance are not easily conquerable traits
yet once acquired, you'll walk head held high with a peaceful steady gait
the angst will go, fear will disappear
take my word, it's not a spiteful bait
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