Anaahat

The day was like any other day, I was working typing at my computer cursing its stupidity Thinking of you. Wind gushes, the white sheets flutter a moment in time something within myself is alive through you I feel dissolved the constant motion of cars buildings douse in the summer afternoon sleep I watch your un-even breathing I smell your skin your touch magnifying somewhere deep within and the screams of the cars evaporate. After centuries, and eons, births of suns and deaths of stars, I re-think of you, the loss of you something missing, something missed. Past that corner, I see her with you I see you smile with her and I am still stuck with you, just stuck with you, Simply stuck with you.

Here, now I am going to post a poem which is very special to me. It has a great impression on the poems-side of my brain. There is some history to my posting it here. This poem was shared with me by a very dear friend years ago. Then, one day, I really wanted to read it. (I am sure you know the hungry feeling of revisiting a poem.) And it was lying there hidden in the list of emails in my inbox. I couldn't find it. After a long-drawn out process of trying search words, and then finally opening each mail, I uncovered it. Now, I thought, I will put it up here, where I can read it whenever I want. Also, it is here for the rare reader who chances upon this log. I had seen Linton Kwesi Johnson recite this (Dis) poem, if you can call it recitation. It was more like a music-less-rap-song. And each time I re-read this poem, I can almost hear him, his strong baritone. I can picture him swaying left and right, left and right, wearing a golfer's cap slanting over an eye, bringing a...

I finished reading Arundhati Roy’s essay on the Naxalites published in the last issue of the Outlook last night. And my day began with one sentence echoing in my mind from the piece she wrote: The Hindu state. The Hindu state acting against all the rest. I couldn’t digest this. And I am trying since, to do so. Finding Freedom in India Perhaps the reason that I cannot digest is the fact that I am a Hindu. That I was born in the upper Hindu caste and I have also lived most of my life sheltered in a fairly well-to-do state: Maharashtra. The sheltered life is not even counting the days spent sheltered under the darkness of the abaya in Saudi Arabia. With my childhood spent in the Muslim-dominated country, my father has an exceptional view of an Hindu extremist. And I grew up with these "Hindus are soft-targets" woes. I still have fights with him though - on the extremism. My reason is that, you cannot generalize one bunch of peoples wrongdoing as the whole religion's fa...

The floodgates have opened. rushing through the hairline fracture at the first crack, first sense of freedom at the sight of an inspiration desired. The floodgates have opened, ofsentences, ofwords, ofimages, of scenes transformed, from my mind to yours The floodgates have opened, with the critic dead on my shoulder, leaving me running through grasslands, a blithe spirit, an expanse of my arms, gathering the widespread, my feet a foot above the ground, and the wind kissing my ears. The floodgates have opened, transforming, the mysterious into the bonafide, a dream to a legitimate touch, realizing those glances of undetected emotions, those hidden words behind eye-lids, a feeling accomplished, an entirety, of your world and mine, of your future and mine, weaving all that’s gone by, to lay it all out for the yet to come. Oh yes, the floodgates have opened, rushing myself out of me, with closed eyes, I am ready to see.