Reflections

On a crystal lake-
I saw ripples of a fragile face,
and ruins of fragmented Sun.
on a night train window-
I saw shadows of a million fleeting stories,
only memories remain in fast moving darkness.
on a bathroom mirror-
I saw evolving lines and grey of time,
an unfinished specter by a cruel artist.
on a clear sky-
I saw clouds at the mercy of whimsical wind,
breaking a desire I wished to obsess.

In Memory of A Revolutionary

I

I saw Him first when I was five.
I remember a calm, bearded face.
He often visited with my uncle,
and told me stories-
wearied peasants and their feudal lord,
American 'agent orange' in Vietnam,
Russian 'proletariat utopia' propaganda.
Marx, Lenin and Trotsky;
freedom is the prerogative of plutocrats etc.

II

I cried when cops kicked open the front door.
He escaped through the back;
hastily left food on the dinning table.
They asked my mom about Him and others,
and about the left-over food.
Frustrated, they took my dad to the prison.
I heard he never opened his mouth
though there was sign of torture all over him.
Such was the passion.

III

I missed His beautiful stories.
Everything was story for me then;
reality was an absurd abstract.
My uncle told me that He left for the jungle.
Armed revolt was the last refuge.

Growing up, I saw new people,
they were from the jungle but never told stories.
They brought us a manifesto and demanded money.
I asked them about Him.
They said that He was their comrade.

IV

He came back once on a Christmas night.
My mom woke me up.
He hugged me strong.
He was fighting for the freedom-
revolting against the authority.
Last thing I learnt was my parents' tears
over His bullet ridden body.

V

I cried then and I do cry now.
I never knew
if He was a hero, a saint or an evil.
But I know I sat on His lap
and listened to the stories of
humans, cruelty and humanity. 

To An Unknown Girl

I

Clouds were melting fast
and then dropped lazily
on a thirsty morning earth.
Delicate sound of the first rain
was harbinger of her arrival.

II

She had bright and wide mouth,
pink and full lips.
She smiled with her eyes,
as if happiness was that easy-
smoking weed on a chilly night.
Perhaps it was,
because I am still in a trance.

III

Every beat of music-

high note of joy and low melancholy!

I climbed a mountain and 

ran to see her festive valley.

Her home was my impatient desire.

Time disappeared, 

melody of memories lingered.