Friday, 6 May 2016

An Old Father


A young one year old child, pointing to a crow that was sitting on the branch of a tree, enquired, “Father, what is this?”
The father, almost startled, replied,"It’s a crow, my child.” The child again repeated the same question, “What is this, father?”
The father replied the same with same enthusiasm. The child kept asking the same question for countless times till the crow flew away. They went home.

The child is grown up now. He is healthy and robust. He is busy now in his own trade. The father has wrinkles on his limbs and countenance. He sits almost frantically alone in that house.

One evening, bored out of his loneliness, on the sudden arrival of his son, something queer happened. “Where are you coming from, my child?” the father questioned. The son nonchalantly replied, “From nowhere.”
The father was taken aback but did not utter a word. After few minutes he was going out.

“Where are you going, my son?’ the father questioned to break his silence almost as hysteric as a paranoiac.

“Don’t you have any business to be engaged in, except poking noses into other’s business? Why do you always fall into my personal affairs unnecessarily and ask nonsense questions? Can’t you remain silent and mind your own business?” the son jeered and went out of the house chafing his nose.


The father did not emit any word but nostalgically reminisced those old days of his young son when he never got tired of repeating the same nonsense sentence “It’s a crow, my child”.

What shall it profit a man?

Bygone days had swifter wings
That flied over the assorted lands
And brought the harmonious peace
To tune the music and the gong.

But present borrowed mind is leaning
Forward and backward
Backward and forward
Out and in
In and out
Of the closed room.

No knock, no sound, no stem
Comes from the crowded corridor
After a wavering noise of unbreakable syllables
After the heterogeneous mouth’s utterance
After the pronounced morpheme
From the outside room.

The inside room quivers
In fear, in horror it shudders.
On the bed mind struggles
Struggles and cracks, aches and breaks
Breaks and shakes
For no hand comes to weave
The torn fabric in silent peace.

Winning, defeating, defeating and winning
It runs its own spinning
Of worn out fabric like man made machine
Of iron and steel, of hardest wheel.

I have no rest. We have no rest.
Where should I go now? Where shall I run?
Shall I go to a bookstall or to station?
Or shall I take an aspirin and rest in oscillation?
What shall I do?
What shall we ever do?
Get up at five and on the bed at ten.
And if hungry, a satisfying lunch
And if thirsty, few drops of filtered water
And if no work at seven in the evening
Either a boasting chat or fifty-two playing cards
And if free at nine in the night
 The cosmic news on the screen
And if no sleep at twelve in the midnight
A man of full ambivalence.

We do our formal routine
With respected mind and cunning brain
With cunning brain and respected mind
Like a tired desire of the oldest kind.

The world treads searching
The sense from nonsense
Like a poor young maid
Collecting wastes and fuel
Fuel and food
To us also feed just to the full.

This time offers no rest.
No rest to rest in peace
Except the duty and routine and daily an aspirin.

What shall it profit?
What shall it profit a man
If he wins the whole world
And loses his own soul

An Intelligent Child


To test the intelligence of his son, a father calls his son outside his house. No sooner had the son reached near his father than they heard a piercing  sound  faring out of the kitchen.
 
The father postulated his son, “Go to the kitchen and see who makes the utensils  fall down.”
 
The son instantly responded almost electrified without moving a step, “It is none else, father, but the mother.”
 
The father jeered at this and rebuked his son on being rude and disobedient. Angrily he inquired, “How come you know it is your mother only?”
 
“Had it been someone else, the mother could have shouted like a bull. Since there is no sound booming out of kitchen, it could be mother only and none else” the son countered.

The father outspreads his smile with a gratified expression.

For It was Just a Dream

I ever dwindle 
Between two worlds 
Of faith and disbelief 
That she has thwarted me into despair 
And made my senses 
And flamed frame numb.
  
I know not why I charge her 
For being unfaithful to me 
For it was not she but I 
Who thought to be one with her 
Virtuous blessed soul. 
And for a moment I forgot
The snarling world of living 
“That I am the part of this universe, 
A part of the inhuman humanity, 
Where Faith lies in the secrecy of relations 
Preserved within the treasure of heart.”
  
I was in time so overwhelmed 
That I divulged myself so soon 
To be inspired to transcend beyond 
The living abode of human life. 
But it was just a dream, and dream 
That came while sleeping and be bygone 
Ere I woke up from the deep slumber 
Of half lunacy. 
  
Alas! 
What was great before is now so mean! 
The sea of Faith was once full of tide, 
But now, no Intimacy, no Love, no Faith, no Relation 
Do live in the world of wolfish fair. 
Every living lives with a certain philosophy 
Of give and take, and be apart. 
For this is the man, and this is the life. 
This is the grace, and glory of Age. 
The journeys of men now pass like this 
Treading hopelessly, having no greater bliss.

Nor can Time Stale Thy Grace

O bare beauty’s bride of immortals
You enrapt silence of mystery,
who can't tell your flowery history
And Fair Youth? And unstinted admiration you bear,
All profuse versifiers to your truth begotten,
They lie; of your mystic gracious beauty, swear.
This your stately grace can never stale time
Nor can eternity touch the untouched hymn
Of passionate heart-breathing passions all.

Ah! happy begotten days cannot shed
Luster, on your unveiled truth, soft to the ear still,
Nor ever can bid the spring adieu, till
Your soft heard voices are forlorn on horizon
And ceased in high sounding pant;
Your beauty and chanted incantation
Shall pass through men to men
On beaded wreaths, and ways trodden
Will recall the numbers of holy verses read.

O Fair Youth! You do tease us
As does heaven laugh
On our mortality, weak and half !
When old ages pass on Achilles’s heel
And days are crossed in burden, we feel
What immortal souls were given
But this generation is over on linen,
And past the eyes remain days numbered
We sleep, thus, in deep slumber.

You, ours, a friend to all breathing human passions
Of unwearied men and women, to whom he does say:
Time surpasses the immortality taught
And days of ecstasy, too, shall be wrought
Generations swift come and go
As souls and tide that flow.
But your unuttered voices will be heard
Till the Day of Judgment in peace
And your unspoken tales will ever exist
For today, tomorrow and all the ages I drift.

Life halts on the pavement

A mad man kept lying on the pavement of Bhopal. He was unaware of the hustle and bustle of the busy city. Pedestrians passed by. But no movement in the body! His tangled  and matted hair told the unspoken tales of his life. The broad day light made no difference. Birds and roaming dogs did not touch his food. It remained scattered & uneaten, perhaps untouched. Untidy and blackened dresses covered his limbs. Blackened feet and face were motionless. Folded hands perhaps were muttering silent prayers in deep slumber. His sky bound lying body exerted the feeling that he was no more. The truth defied the feelings. Lo! he breathed ceaselessly.

He has nothing to recall, nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing to count, nothing to complain, only to cipher the numbered breaths that carry his flamed frame.

What a life of insanity! 

God, it is only You who know your creation! I dare not comment upon.

An insane is never demented with the mania of owning things! It is we who do. His occasional feeble giggles defied the worldly possessions of sane humanity. He spoke but unintelligible words in his serene silence.

Many such unspoken  tales are buried in the wombs of this Mother earth. A simple touch of sympathy may spark the rays of hope in many lives.

Our indifference to such bubbling issues has made us pygmy by the side of our needs. The life halts with a jolt on the pavement thus.

Who knows tomorrow? Who can predict the next dawn? Neither I nor you. Journey of life continues..............

Lines Written in Solitude

Sweet aching sounds come
From an unknown land,
Breaking the organised chords of life;
They enter into pure soul.

This sound that was once the melody,
The motion which afforded the paused breath 
A dancing life like a mermaid
And vision, chasing the phantom delight,
Are  now the tangled mists of burnt-out passion.

Ah, you sound, you motion, you life !
All are gone to strained land
Haply never to come back.
And moist ashes are scattered solely
Past me to sit gazing like flying fogs.

Hark ! this big bang honks
Of unfeigned relation
Where certitude of faith lives
And love gets its full fruition.