Brother.

Your moist eyes simply blink
at the emerald stretch,
as my culpable ones
diffidently shift.

Your chiseled smile exudes
shrouded consternation.
My face – tinted crimson – 
is buried in my palms.

Your hand – black, blue and red – 
holds my unblemished one.
The other ready to
catch my secret tears.

Your nobility seems to
scoff at my cowardice.
Your frayed clothes ridicule
my ragged being.

Piercing my ears
is the booming silence,
which blares out chapters of
your courteousness.

A thousand times over,
I wished to be your vestige.
And a thousand times more,
I wished you were dead.
----------------------------------------

Leaving School

Embossed in its very air,
the (now) precious tomfooleries,
the endless repartee on trivialities,
and the freedom
to craft newer ways to err.

I put down a loaded bag,
leaving the old books,
to lift another equally hefty.
One that carries
the fruit of duties, deeds and discipline.

My feet, alongside the entrance
which once stood so tall,
timidly stride on a new course.
And perhaps,
would create a few of their own.

Hauled by nostalgia, I stop
and give a last parting glance
to my fourteen-year-old dwelling,
only to realize
that it had taken me in for-ever.

India.
August 15, 1947.

A thorny circlet on its plucky temple,
makes the sweat go astray.
Yet it bows, gives a humble show.
Its greater dogma, at display.

Nonchalant, as it lets the thicker drip,
salutes to the esteemed one.
Bends to touch the fertility in itself,
submits to the higher canon.

A red-eye’s cries had been wasted,
deaf ears silenced the woe.
A vein was cut. Another, to resonate.
And the red did flow.

‘Twas when its heart and brain bickered,
that Trouble announced its decree.
It split. But congregated, as the ants were
marching towards the same tree.

And as the fire caught on afar,
Browns were draped in white.
One after another, nails hit the coffin,
all to its Master’s plight.

Its kite flew on a slender thread,
the wheel continued to spin.
It weaved itself into a handsome three,
and simply affirmed its win.

Burnt in the heat of a triumphant flame,
It bears a blackened hand.
Moist soil festooned by the revered ash,
Free, but fragile, it stands.

-------------------------------------------------

Obtuse

The quill occupies
a quivering hand,
animates my thoughts.
Justice not done.

A distended heart cries,
to you it sounds
like another sound,.
The melancholy, unheard.

Each time you slip,
off your contour,
I blush.
A weakness disclosed.

Memories, soured
by stipulations,
You struggle to forget,
Wounds re-exposed.

For the unattainable,
I try,
And never tire,
Perseverance assessed.

My pain, never shared,
scrutinized by
your reproachful eyes,
Condolence missed!

Day by day,
I age.
The dead parts wither.
I wait.

Wait for the tears to taste sweet.
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