Vaachaathi

Vaachaathi

The solitude of the lonely one

was standing guard fasting

on ekadashi**** day

on the track to vaachaathi.

When the holy democracy is being

torn off in gifts and affluence,

the fire of death was burning

in the cemi-starving stomachs

of Vaachaathi.

After the rainstorm of gifts

when you were climbing to power

with filled balat boxes,

democracy was being

 raped here.

When the innocence of

the bloodless children,

 born in the brain which is

mad of power,

was being questioned,

you were unfastening

the wolves of bureaucracy

to erase the hopes of our children

 and the scent and colour of earth.

You and your judiciary

may set them free

who came searching

for our flesh.

And the rules

written for us

may become a worthless effigy

But keep it in your mind;

that dawn will emerge tomorrow too,

and a new generation will

rise up from the ocean of tears

which will flow out from

our blood soaked eyes

and in the wind roaring in them

our undergarments

which you stained with blood

will fly as red flags

and their sound and strength

will deliver the historic verdict

in you as

bleeding

punishment.

_________________________________

***An imaginary place.

**** The eleventh day of each lunar month

Vavata

    
    Vavata**

When the adage of Universe

was coming to its end

that mother served the last supper

upon the stone of sacrifice.  

The girl who did not desert

her devotion to chastity

is now at the end of fears

and is dipping and bathing

in river Bhavani with                   

all the five Pandavas.

The edict of Yayathi,

who reached in rhythm with  

song of the lone boatman,

in the night unknown to me

was for me alone;

and the vavata 

made by mother

for the new moon day

too was for me alone.

Among the Diverseness

of religions and castes

and along with those

who decreed as imprudent

the truth of my reflections,

were those immoral tricksters

posing as watchmen and guards.

On that solar eclipse day

where unisons did not merge ,

I was in the burial ground

criticizing dogmas and tenets.

And as examples

I cited stories of

pathless earth and

formless  death

And also that I was

the passenger who lost

the path original; and the sad,

victim of all grief and sorrows

And the truth that

 season is my heart 

and the course of hell

is my life indeed.

____________________________

**Rice cakes made on of new moon day

as a ritual.

If there is another birth

If there is another birth!!!

A lot of things to remember,

burning truths like the hot rays of midday

No flowers, No peaceful dawn of Vishu*,

no Onam* and no new clothes as Onam gifts

Jesus did not save for me

Easter* or Christmas* star.

Even while waiting for bakr-id*,

I did not remember how big a fool I am

None to see–off,

no one to wait for,

but the drum of cremation

on which destiny beats

is now echoing with

drumming, shouts of joy

and the pleasant rolling sound of women.

How far now? In how many dusks?

In how many burning days?

In how many forms and figures of termitariums?

Twist and curve as snakes?

In moonless nights henceforth

in the crematoriums, which are

reluctant to extinguish;

in the souls which disappear

leaving behind the bones as silent truths;

in the piteousnesses, which burns in pain

in the evenings of human life.

In ghost lands, in the extolments of

a bare span of life,

in the disappointments of my soul,

which you touch with your index finger,

I see you waiting

as a witness of my funeral

where no one else waits.

Your eyes, with the brightness of a star

getting wet on that day

and my coming as a fondling,

savouring your tears with my lips

and the ceased waves of ocean of love

flowing upon us and then

hitting and spraying

and our existing as two tiny bits

of stars unknown to Sun and Moon

could be seen away….

as two shining spots.

“In another birth I will, my Love,

if at all there is another birth,

guard your eyes from getting wet, ever,

without getting away from you.”

With the page of my holy book open

I will wait for you

I am waiting carrying your soul’s pain

as the truth, as the offering

in the violet flower

I am waiting while the violet flower

exists as the truth. 

Maybe, I am a lowly grass for funeral rites,

Maybe the offered witness

in the rice cooked in funerals,

Unknown to night, even unknown to day

In the  summer solstice of mad thoughts 

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

*various festivals.

The weeping wetness of love of heart

The weeping wetness of love of heart

Like a shadow,

like the treasure of heart,

I hold close to my heart

as my own

‘the pains of wetness of love.’

For the safety of that mother

who gave birth to children, but dead ones

I, the charioteer of bad times

wear  the clothes of adopted son

but without knowing how long

I will hold the weapons

and count and store the losses

In my aimless, guilty conscience.

The  horoscope of star of unknown times

turned into strings of swing in holy copse

the despairs of perpetual wait

became the bright blessing of dusk of life.

Even when you come and smile,

in front of my door of remembrance

the trains run fast, just for journeying,

without  track and without travelers.

In the heart

burns the smoldering coal, while 

the birds of grief play sitar

and sobs sit with

at the final nightfall of a wasted birth

The pain as offering of my departure,

and the distress of sharing my sorrows,

are the war-cries to realise

the meaning of life fed up with my loss.

Do you know how much relished my mind

 knowing that you won!

the passenger, who is afraid,

much more than the gods of this world,

of the children whom I gave birth

The river Nila

              

               River Nila

Nila,

are you weeping

keeping memories close to heart?

Why do you flow for centuries

in the past, in present and

in future,

without knowing the purpose

on the shores where

hot blood flows?

upon the sinfulnesses?

why do you suffer the pain?

The birds who eat carcass

eat up the smoulders now.

In the sound and rhythm of

the mad conch shell

flew away in panic and fear

the crows who eat the rice

cooked as ritual for the dead.

In whispering letters of

the borders of imagination

as the noise of conversation

in unfamiliar language

your never ending tears turn

into dreamless days and

the sinners, the fools

drain and drink the blood

and tears oozing upon

your hewed motherhood.

When the thoughts

of greed for wealth,

which know the falsehoods

which time accepts as truths,

tear of the curtain of end,

do you cry unwittingly

my dearest Nila, tell me

how many thoughts of chastity

still remains

 in you?

Vaaykkari

Vaaykkari****

When the expressions

of seasonal variances

pour down as rain and

when it end,

your footprints remain and

it become a hot sensation

in my mind!

The two wheeled vehicle

Is there

without a quadruped to pull

And below it in the lantern

where pains boil

and burn

and in that blaze

your face will be with me.

When the star-like eyes

which you need no longer

will look for the paths of darkness

the last offering of rice

to an incomplete sinful existence

will dry up!

________________________________________

****offering of rice in the mouth of dead body

before cremating it, as a ritual in India.       

The love of hearts

The love of hearts

It was a day of silence

to the Acacia tree

departure writes down

secret deed

in the lonely heart.

Memory became

the guard;

for the last hour of dusk.

And Love is in the refugee camp

under hunger’s surveillance

After death

now I am in the study room

of medical science.

Having failed in

scientific experiments

there was the court verdict

for keeping in the hall of eagerness.

And I saw in front of my eyes

the laughter of love of hearts

and my arms and feet flying away

and turning into birds.   

VARGHESE

VARGHESE

Varghese,

did you know?

Those who threw stones at you,

those who called you robber and traitor,

and the politicians, non-political intellectuals,

the media and the high living rich

speak to-day a different tongue

call your deeds as good for all.

For the last four decades

they were chopping

and examining  

your brain.

My dear communist,

For the tribal folk and for those

whose conscience had

gone stiff and benumbed

you breathed your last

upon the misty mountain ranges.

I know that on those bullets

which tore your heart apart

were the aims and dreams

of your blood as witness

And did you hear of

the court verdict

which saw your war

as just and fair?

Your name will be

eulogized tomorrow

you will be praised as

the communist of the poor.

And time will tell that

You… were….right.

I am the watchman of this crematorium

I am the watchman of this crematorium

“Your bright eyes

remind me the clouds of dawn and…”

Darling, do not try to avoid

in a hurry

the peacock's feather

and the soft, silky dawns.

Because,

on the trail of moonlight will be 

multitude of clouds

behind every day

will be arrival of nights too

I do not want to see

the shadows of worry in your eyes

where stars shine and wane.

I do not want fire of hatred

To burn in those eager eyes. 

Do not think that

I fear your eyes

which are soft and wet

with Love.

My love,

when the sound of clock of moments

tear off the silence,

days and weeks and months and years

perform here the last rites

for the defeated who is dead

with withered, lifeless flowers.

Know that what I like to-day

is the smell of burning flesh

and the water of the stream,

and I stand guard along with moonlight

over half-burnt hill of corpses.

I laugh at times

Looking at the souls

who run away seeing the fire. 

When their sympathy will be decreed as

the eternal world and freedom of tender birds

who desire to fly,

when you will be without body

and your body will be burnt,

I will be the guard

of this crematorium.

I will submit as an offering

in front of you,

whose heart is wet with love,

the red flag

which I kept in my heart

and the black flag

which is flying upon myself.

Because I am

the guard of this crematorium.

The rock quarry

The rock quarry

I had gone to the quarry

just to see

the twelve off springs

whom the parachi***

had given birth.

Not having my name in the partition deed,

and not having my descendant

among the twelve children,

are, as told by mother,

 for having broken

the canons of the age.

Mother did not fail to remind

that the life span of

the boiling brain

and burning body

is only that of  

an ejaculation

and what goes wrong

on dreary dusks

is the order of my

immoral licentiousness.

Still,

I went on learning

the holy books of intercourse

keeping the contraceptive sheaths

as sentries and guards.

In the moonlight, pale in rain,

touching fingers on the blood stain

upon the skin of virginity

I sighed

upon their women hood

upon their soft, wet noises

I had gone to the quarry

Just to see

The twelve off springs

Whom the parachi

had given birth.

________________

*** A legendary female character in Indian Mythology.