Verse

Oh where oh were are you running?

In a wild goose chase

Securing the unknown tomorrow

Squandering away the today.

Oh where oh were are you heading?

What does your agenda contain?

The future out there, where dreams dwell

Into fine realities.

That utopia, it cannot be in reach

Right here.

It's got to be in the distant future

Like a horizon, a mirage, a phantom

How can it be in the now? 

The tangible moments

That spread their course

Look infinite in the optical illusion.

What apparition - this anticipation

Where oh where does this infatuation lead

Into the facades of a hallucination.

Stop and breath.

The hunt is a misconception

Cause the treasure lies 

Under the soil you stand upon

Over the sky shading your being.

Be here, it might disappear

Over there, where it is a deceit

In the now, is your treat!

View

Along the sunny path, the green expanse

Life unfolds in leisure.

Like ladybugs crawling on tender leaves

The world passes by

Now there's a couple in their twilight years

Holding hands and walking like they are fused

I wonder what that fusion had seen

Had undergone, living through in sickness and health.

I marvel at how love grows within

Amid struggles, let downs and let gos

Always sprouting again like blooms in spring

Resilient, all encompassing

Enduring life's brutal winter chills.

Kids swing in absolute glee

Raising their feet up, like they are grazing the sky

Mothers push them and join their laughter.

I catch the glimpse of a dad teaching a daughter to bike,

Holding her secure, while the tot cautiously pedals

These very lanes see a role reversal

As I watch another man holding his mother's hand 

While she walks with a stick in tow

Taking steps in slow motion.

The tenderness between the space they share

Vibrates like a shield of love

Sprinkling some on me, as I pass by

What a blessed sight to behold.

Along this path roses bloom in unison

The grass beams in a lush shade of green

Fitness freaks jog by like energizer bunnies

I trace their paths, looking to see when they'd stop to catch their breath.

A small group of kids run to the ice cream truck parked nearby

The highlight of their summers perhaps,

 To get a bite into those frozen delights

As their parents lounge in their picnic chairs

Talking of life, work or the book they are reading.

Retro music blasts in a nearby spot

I see aged uncles and aunties swinging their hips

What yearning to keep their spirits up

What grit to keep their energies high

Age is just a number - I remember

As they wave at me and wish flashing bright smiles.

On this trails I see splashes of laughter

Tender loving care in snapshots of little moments

That make up the collage of the lives meaningfully lived.

In these very moments, trivial and tiny

Is probably where true joy dwells. 

I walk back and forth inhaling the breeze

And the little details of fulfilling souvenirs

That we all would display on our hearts mantles

As days roll by and  decades become past tense.

Along this bright walk way

Life's meaning unfolds

And I stop and stare, a smile curving my lips

And marvel at the simplicity of the anatomy of bliss.

Exploring Taj

Years ago, I visited the Taj with the spouse and his cousins from Delhi - It was the first week of January and I experienced first hand, the romanticism and the ruthlessness of what Indians describe as "Delhi's winter" and amusingly enough, I found it more intense than the one we experience in Northern Ca. 'It could be due to lack of central heating system' - The husband and I concluded much later, upon looking back.

As we entered into the Taj - I felt dwarfed in the truest sense. The edifice was so surreal, that it indeed looked like something afloat in a dreamscape. When we started off from Delhi, the cousin's missus made sure I was wrapped head to toe in protective gear - Monkey cap, sweater, scarf, socks and shoes. I am somehow very intolerant to wearing socks as my warm blooded body refuses the added insulation on my feet with a vengeance. That day, as I peeled the socks off to feel the chill of the marble under my feet, the cousin cautioned me - "It is like walking on ice now" he warned "Don't take your socks off" - "This isn't any marble, this is the Taj and I want to feel her chill grazing against my skin" I told him and he nodded with a smile and followed suit :) Soon the four of us were walking around the Taj barefeet feeling the gentle sting of the cold on our skin. It was perhaps one of the most wonderful sensory experiences I had in my life. A tinge of the cold under feet, a larger than life monument looming infront of the gaze - This is something legends and wonders are made of and I figured what the hoopla was all about, first hand. Or I thought I did - until I read Timeri Murari's historical work - Taj - A story of Moghul India.

I am trying to read fiction lately - blame in on the steady overdose of everything non fiction I'd gotten used to reading , that holding my attention span onto a piece of fiction had become near impossible. I wanted to flex my fiction tolerance and at the same time look at it as a launch pad to my imagination and studying different voices and styles of authors from a technical perspective and picked up the Taj - a real piece of history narrated in a novel format. I'd read another of Murari's books a full on fiction and feel in love with how he deals with his narration and Taj isn't different or disappointing. Murari held my interest into the last word of the last page. It was Shahjahan and Arjumand that kind of irritated me in between, but the author did his job, anchoring me to the book with his brilliant narrative streaming across different perspectives of the main characters of the story.

There's one thing I'd observed about couples in love or in relationships - there's always an imbalance. And the imbalance could vary from very subtle to very intense - and the imbalance lies in how one part of the unit always loves more, gives more and adjusts more. Seldom, if that, have I seen couples who have a perfect, flawless balance in the way they love - with equal intensity, yearning and passion for the one another and I am talking about the most loving and successful of couplings that I'd seen over the years. But when I read the story of Shahjahan and Arjumand, I was in a way irritated at how the couple magically managed to balance the love and yearning to perfection. We see a twelve year old Arjumand banu selling her wares in the famous Meena Bazar of the Moughal empire and a fourteen year old Shahjahan falling head over heels - a love that is to inspire everlasting physical evidence that Indians would wear with pride on their diverse landscape - One of the seven wonders of the planet - now what lies behind the Taj that is there to see in the modern day one might wonder, and if one reads this book, one would know beyond doubt and go "aha, no wonder the wonder stands there today" :( cheesy much huh? Not if you read the legendary love story, I assure you you'd discount my cheesiness.

There were times when I got so irritated at Shahjahan's fuss over the monument that I'd put the book down and vow not to read any further. "Dude, we get you love her" I'd mutter under my breath "Now stop making so many lives miserable over creating the perfect tombstone" But in spite of knowing the history, I'd find myself unable to cut it off and dismiss Shahjahan and his shenanigans with a curiosity to know as much detail as I can of this monumental love.

The narrative shuttles between several perspectives in two time lines - One set as a prologue and another as an epilogue of sorts but both interwoven  and seamlessly connecting entirely unconnected stories. The saga skips from one era to another - lingering around love, passion, power, politics and raw emotions of mad love, lust, jealousy, resentment and vengeance. It's a whole buffet of emotions that is served so scrumptiously leaving the reader devouring a very layered experience of a legendary real life epic. 

So we see a heir apparent to one of the biggest monarchies of the universe and his love for an almost commoner Arjumand and how subtly his love trumps over the luxuries, privileges and prerogatives of an emperor. It sometimes gracefully and sometimes ruthlessly puts forth the brutal truth of love and sex - the former so pure and rare, the latter so easy and available - social status, and crown on the head are really optional if you ask me. The former fulfilling and the latter just satiating a primal hunger that doesn't penetrate beyond the flesh and blood. The former quenching the thirst of the soul and making one complete and the later being a momentary high that plummets the being into an non evolved animal. And in a very delightful irony, the story obliterates the fine line between both, often leaving the reader experiencing an evolved and broadened outlook on the matters of the heart.

We see Taj through the lens of an artisan Murthi and the eyes of a mad in love Shahjahan. We examine it through a two dimensional drawing translating into a multi dimensional monument, standing on the work and toil of thousands of skilled laborers spawning over several years. We let out sighs of awe and sighs of despair and disbelief flipping through the pages of the narrative. We see it as an epitome of love, as a paradigm of loathe once Aurangzeb takes hold of the reign. We see the unconscious biases we put ourselves through and realize how we fail ourselves and the people around us in the name of love or lack thereof.

I can go on and on. I have to say, reading this book was one of the highs I felt in the recent past.  I am busy contemplating another trip to the Taj. This time I know I'd see the Mausoleum in a new light  and I have a feeling I might see and sense beyond  what my five senses would render me.

Verse

Periwinkle perfect

Unleashed above

Having a play date

With the visible fluff of white

While the invisible accomplice 

Sways with the trees

Dancing to the unheard tunes of ecstasy.

The road leads to an array of green

Harbored over with the vastness of deep blue

Appearing like the irises of the eyes I fell in love with.

Senses swim in the color play

In the breezy sway

The heart skips a beat

May be several beats

Treating itself to the splendid view unfolding before

Like a bright future foretold by a smart psychic.

This is the road to rhapsodies

That sprinkles props of inspiration

Of reason and rhyme

Into a meager existence

Lending verse to the adverse

Granting a whiff of life

To the living.

A backlog, commitment and tribute to - H for Halcyon

I have a task, a life's purpose
I seek your grace, Kindly oblige
The force that you are, you can swallow me alive
But humble and meek, your assistance I seek.
A tiny fleck that I am, like a droplet in your volume
I laugh at my own audacity - look whom I am set to charm!

Borne out of hope, bearing progeny
I take up on the mission of building an abode
Look where I have come, into your fine and fierce presence
I seek to shelter under your waves of persistence.
Don't lap me in, let me stay afloat
Let me nurture my young, in this tempest - be my lifeboat.

Oh, where is the meek to go to seek
Other than to the brave and the bold
You house a universe of species I was told
In your belly and inside your depths
It seems there's a world that unfolds.
Who am I, what do I measure up to?
I only hope to tend to my little brood.

Give me some calm, give me some quiet
Give me a hand hold, so in your might I delight!
Make a little room for me, a teeny tiny spot
I shall stay in my place in the space you allot.
I'll float like a twig, glowing in the winter solstice
Once my fledglings emerge, I shall bow to my hostess
Your blessings I seek in my pursuit lofty but weak.
Be my patron - coexisting in this vastness.
As I fulfill my purpose, as I redeem my existence.

And long after this episode, you and I would linger
In forms and in abstract - inspiring legends
When they think of me, they think of grit
When they think of you, they think of grace.
In the embrace of this grit and grace
Dreams and hopes emerge, life missions merge.
For you'll be the mighty and I'll be the mild
You'll be the force, I'll be destiny's child.

Picture by Wendy Wei - Pexels

Spin

Day after day

Life flips by

Like one long weekend

Here now, much anticipated

Gone now, leaving you unsated.

What remains?

Experience, laughter

Sorrow - following after.

The wheel - In motion

Bringing in the yin and yang

You feel love now, abandonment now in a pang!
The wheel - In rotation

The spin of cycles

Uphills and downhills

Gains and Losses

There's another one of those wheels

Actually a half a dozen more

Here and there, along the spine

Leading to the road divine.

Right in the heart center

The love spot if you will

Lies the fountain of bliss it is said

It is also said, Spinning it is a skill.

The chakra - spun on full speed

Down the road of joy would lead.

Don't outsource the spinning 

Get it in rotation on your own

Give you some self love my love

Give you some self worth all above.

What's within is there for seeking

What's without is a mere mirage.

So day after day

When life spins by

Seek to love yourself

Cause there's no magic beyond self reliance.

Photo by Ovidio Rey 

Matt and Bessie time

 I'll drag you along

Wherever I go 

Better you comply

Resisting? Don't even try!

I'll need you to snuggle

To ponder over life's muddy lanes

Its twists and turns

Its unforeseen pains.

Not just a stuff toy

But you are a perennial joy

My coping mechanism

My silver lining

To the dark clouds.

Sulk not - 

Spring to life

Don't act like a thing

You are a whole entire being.

Follow me in stride

Be me light, be my guide.

I know I need to look inside

But may be just may be

You are a manifestation of my soul, amplified!

Have my back, with me abide.

Fierce feller, My story teller

Join me in the narration

Of many a emotion.

Stop being just a stuff toy

My darling Matt, my wonder boy

Spring to life, sway that mane

You are my shower, I am  your hurricane.

Bessie dearest sends you this urge

Come and color her life mundane.

Pictured - Life versions of Matt and Bessie, shot by someone who in in sync with my imagination. _/\_

Drips

Hooded in somber detachment

He purses his lips

Closes his senses.

Little flecks of color

Tiny drips of glitter

Stick to his skin

cling to his  sense.

Silence his defense

Reflection his armor

The stunningly stunned

The endearingly spun

Carrying those splashes

Of gashes

With stoic grounding.

These are what meets the eye

What lies inside, unseen

Are  may be

Those unfathomable depths

That play peek a boo

Showing only what can be seen

Urging me to feel the in-between.

I hope not

That my insight fails me

Lost in the mesmerizing Glimpse.

Photo by Ivan Siarbolin from Pexels

Smelly Balladry

Somewhere, in the middle of nowhere

A housewife sits by her nook table

Peeling Garlic.

The pods feel snug in her hand

Like a prank gift

Wrapped in layers of tissue.

She uses her paring knife

And remembers a tip from a chef's video

Trying to pry out the cloves 

Like a magician pulls out bunnies from his hat!

No such luck, no such magic

Happens at her humble nook table

In her clumsy butter fingers!

She leaves magic to magicians and tries to do some 'being present'

"Zen isn't peeling potatoes and thinking of God

Zen is peeling potatoes"

The tidbit reminds her to be in Zen

And just peel garlic, and not to think of God

Or the evening dinner that needs to be cooked

Or an insult she endured as a teen

And the comebacks she thinks of now

After all these years, 

To those bullies and ruffians.

She pulls her mind back to the present

As she pulls out the juicy cloves

That transfer their pungency to her fingertips

May be to her apron and dress as well, in the process!

She thinks yet again, of the laundry load

Of a shower to wash off the linger of smell.

"Phew" she exclaims

"Why do you fly off my hands like a helium balloon?"

As the pod keeps slipping off her dainty fingers.

"Are you speaking to a garlic?"

The toddler stops coloring and looks up in disbelief

Her mom doesn't cease to surprise her.

Just the other day, the mom spoke to the seedlings in her veggie patch.

Cuckoo lady.

Isn't it a blessing, almost a favor

That the members of the family are blissfully unaware

Of what the cuckoo lady writes?

An ode to peeling garlic!

Among other goofy topics.

May be the housewife

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere

Is better off speaking to herself

Or to a garlic pod.

It might seem odd,

But she doesn't seem to ask for anyone to applaud.

Photo credit - Skitterphoto

The Finale

The birds fly in huge numbers

Looking like flecks spun across the sky

Petals from new blooms cascade to the ground

Like snow fall being sifted through a filter

Sniffles emerge, the palette of nature in full swing

Smudging color on the sepia tones

Tulips peek their pretty faces up

The groundhog has a field day

This can't be the last season - but what if it is?

U stand alone, pondering in the scene

Bright rays breaking a sweat on the back

Kids putting up lemonade stands

Random stalls of fresh picked fruit offer the juicy solace

Either side of the muddy ruddy road to nowhere.

A stroll on the beach perhaps

Your sunscreen streaks white patches on the face

Making you look like a Viking in action

Days longer - Sun shining stronger 

This can't be the last season - But what if it is?

Are the branches on fire?

You wonder! But then - they sway like enticing dancers

Showing off warm colored tresses

Reds, yellows, oranges - in all variations possible

Occurring on trees, like they dyed their hair ombre

Making a fashion statements

The harvest season emerges in full bloom

Jack O lanterns on doorways

Grin at you, promising a fun time

This can't be the last season - but what if it is??

You walk in the stark chill

Bare branches skinny dipping

In spine twisting cold

Like they'd gone bonkers. Like dare devils

That throw caution to air 

And challenge the frost to obliterate them.

Icicle lights shine through their natural counterparts on the edges of the roof

You hear festive music, faintly lingering in the background

While bright faces gather around the dinner table 

Wafting with smells of cinnamon buns and hearty stews

This can't be the last season - but what if it is?

You sit through the flashing and flipping

Of days after days, 

Seasons after seasons - the 'to do lists' keep piling up

While a sense of eternity in this worldly garb

Makes you sit snug and sing like a grasshopper

That lives in the day, having a gala time, doing nothing.

Nothing isn't a bad thing - it is the thing if you will!

This nothing sounds like everything in another paradigm

But you'll save that tale for another ponder

You germinate seeds of everness in your egoness

This can't be the last season - But, just for argument's sake - 

What if it is?

Pic credit - Liam Ortiz 

Verse

Lost in the woods

Of volumes of books

I seek myself

Lingering in many lives, many emotions

In knowing and learning.

Lost in the pages 

Of  numerous binders

I relish the unknown

Like a first hand experience

Etched on the heart, sketched on the soul.

I transition in a life cycle

From larva to a Monarch.

I swim across oceans, I dive into craters

Lost in the stacks, in the tightly packed racks

I flip through pages like days of a many lifetimes.

All lived, zipped into paperbacks

Tucked into hardcovers.

I see illustrations pulling me in 

Opening doors to human imaginations

Unleashing awe of many creations.

Through dogeared piles

Through browned calico bound stacks

I transform and tread

From a mendicant to a monk

From a pauper to a princess.

From gullible to guarded.

Lost I say, but what a trope that!

Found perhaps is a better fit.

Pictured - Municipal Law library - Munich.