THE DOLLS

Like a child fondling her/his dolls

it is my pastime fondling

my memories whenever I feel

lonely and bored to death.

During such moments

to wriggle out of the

clutches of boredom

I turn the keys of the

dolls of my memories

with which I often

identify myself with.

Laughing dolls, weeping dolls

singing dolls, dancing dolls

the list is endless.

In the spacious hall of my mind

memories get piled up keeping no order.

‘Remembrance of things past’

is like an elixir in my moments of monotony.

Memories often play hide and seek game

throwing me a challenge of

“catch me if you can”.

My dolls of memories

are a treasure trove to me,

the more they pile up

the more delighted I am

even though a big chunk of them

makes me feel like

crying or agonizing.

AS YOU LIKE IT

It is in you

it is in me 

it is in everyone

it could be colourless,

or it could be of any colour simultaneously

blue, green, red, yellow, rose,

black or white, or black and white or

full of colours like in a rainbow,

for that matter any colour you or I like to choose

it could be tasteful,

sweet, bitter, sour,

and for that matter any taste you or I like to choose

it could be of any odour or odourless

like that of the

rose, hibiscus, chrysanthemum, jasmine, lilac,

and for that matter anything you or I like to choose

it could transcend boundaries

it could jump hurdles with or without wings

it could swim across

rivers, lakes, seas or oceans

it could reach continents, stars

and moon within no time .

and for that matter you or I like to choose

to be more apt.

It is in you

it is in me

it is in everyone.

Here I mean, we the human-beings.

  

LIKE GRAND ITEM NUMBERS

With the moon and stars

playing the roles of voyeurists 

besides occasional passers-by

with the hooting and tooting city

basking in the froth of milky light

the ‘children’ of the streets of Mumbai

for whom privacy is a luxury

which they can’t afford

for whom roofs over their heads have no place

even in their dreams

engage in shameless sex

playing ignorance and innocence

the moon, the stars playing voyeurists

the shows performed along the

street sides and railway-platforms of Mumbai

everyday

like grand item numbers

performed in an open-air auditorium.

SARABJIT SINGH’S UNENDING WAIT ANSWERED FINALLY

Death, like the proverbial ‘Sword of Democles’ was hanging over him for a prolonged period of 22 years. In spite of the earnest appeals of both, Indian and Pakistan human rights activists to have mercy on a human being who was languishing in a condemned cell at Kot Lakh Pat prison in Pakistan unfortunately went in vain. Despite the daily prayers to God Almighty by, his beloved sister Dalbir Kaur, wife Sukhbir Kaur, daughters Poonam and Swapandeep whose hopeful and anxious wait, everything went infructuous. Their repeated appeals with folded palms to the Pakistani ruling ruling establishment had no takers. That Sarabjit’s tortuous and unending wait, be it for some mercy from the side of Pakistani rulers or an early ending to the trauma by blessing him with ‘salvation’, his agonizing wait was finally solved by two Pakistani prison inmates whose dastardly attacks on him with iron rods, bricks and sharpened weapons resulted in the rupture of his skull led to him getting admitted to the Jinnah Hospital at Lahore, Pakistan where he fell into a coma or even before being admitted to the hospital has resulted on an expected end.

Ever since Afzal Guru being led to the gallows, the fate of Sarabjit Singh was almost sealed. Even otherwise the sword of Democles was hanging over him. If the earnest appeals of Indian and Pakistani human rights activists who were hoping against hopes had no takers in the Pakistani ruling establishment. Justice Markandeya Katju, Press Council of India Chairman and V.R.Krishna Iyer the former Supreme Court advocate including others tried their level best by appealing to Asif Ali Sardari, Pakistan President repeatedly fell on deaf ears.

From a country like Pakistan which is in the throes of internal strife and conflicts, which is the hotbed of terrorism, it was our fault to have expected a generous gesture by the ruling establishment of Pakistan where the army, the ruling establishment and terrorist outfits are pulling in opposite directions.

If one is led to believe that the attack on Sarabjit Singh had the overt or covert support of Pakistan’s Intelligence and others’ connivance, he/she need not be blamed.

A few months ago another Indian death row convict Chamel Singh was fatally attacked inside the jail premises, by a few Pakistani death-row convicts which is a true pointer to the sense of insecurity being undergone by other Indian convicts. Without the jail authorities not being aware of the planned attacks on Indian prisoners, how come the Pakistani convicts inflict brutal attacks on Chamel Singh and Sarabjit Singh which was pre-planned and pre-meditated by the Pakistani death-row convicts who nurse blind anti-India sentimentl, on going thru the arrangements and precautions they had taken. Sarabjit’s tragic end underlines the sad fact that Indians in Pakistan are a helpless lot, be they Indian High Commission officials, journalists or for that matter anyone who nurtures a pro-India sentiment.

RIVER OF MUSIC

Keeping the doors and 

windows of her flat shut

falling flat on her bed

with her eyes and ears  shut

under the speeding fan running at its peak,

she made a futile attempt

to escape from the

ear-splitting wild music rocking the

metro 24X7.

She lamented to herself:

“Tormenting and agonizing

this city life

 – could I ever get

accustomed with this city life

“full of sound and fury

signifying anything”?

-          she inquired her husband

with fright in her eyes one day.

“You will have to learn to live with it”- he responded with a smile

“How come the citizens

enjoy this wild music

rocking and shaking the city each day?

who needs the  smoothly flowing river of  music 

of a new comer like her coming from

from s faraway village...................?

with butterflies in her stomach

she was asking herself……………………         

THE CEMETERY

With the veil of,

darkness enveloping the,

village,

with the village,

falling into deep slumber,

with the ambience,

plunging into deadly silence,

with the owls hooting, bats flapping  wings,

with eerie music of,

crickets engulfing the entire village,

it is the place where ghosts of,

departed souls,

irrespective of age and gender,

start roaming, dancing ,

and burst out into roars of laughter,

frightening the passers-by.

   

THE GERMAN COUPLE

It was a pleasure

enjoying the visual feast

of the German couple

strolling along the beach,

hand in hand

getting drunk with

the joy of watching

the infinite beauty of the sea

occasionally splashing the

waves rising to the sandy beach

exchanging warm kisses, once in a while

lips locking lips

caring two hoots to the hungry eyes of the voyeurists.  

It was like a romantic thriller

beautifully weaved on the celluloid

like a rich tapestry

or like a couple celebrating their honeymoon

in the backdrop of the sea.

The gathering dark clouds in the sky

clashing against each other

sending thousands of long slender golden arms

descending on the earth

followed by thunder and drizzles

went unnoticed by the hilarious love birds

or both seemed unperturbed

over the clash of clouds

followed by

ear-splitting roars of thunder.

Instead

they seemed like enjoying

the long, slender golden arms of light

embracing them.

As they strolled briskly along the beach

hand in hands

in a split-second death in the guise

of golden arms of light

struck down her German lover

claiming him instantly

with her standing spell-bound

unable to scream

unable to raise an alarm

unable to even………….

She was seen falling on her lover

tears trickling down her cheeks

planting kisses unbound over her lifeless mate

drenched in the heavy downpour

coupled with lightning and thunders

staging a death dance……………………..