in dreams seen over many years

i call your office.  you are in a meeting.  i call back again and again and again.  in dreams seen over several years.  you are still in a meeting.  the walls are of steel.  as if you work in the vault of a bank.  

i have just missed you.  i was at the same place through which you passed a few minutes after.  i keep missing you.  in dreams seen over several years.  i smell the rajanigandha they put in the very big vase just next to the elevator you took to go up to your room.

you are sleeping.  turned away into the heart of the bed.  i can’t see your face.  in dreams seen over several years.  you pull the “chador” closer to you.  you are cold and the window next to the bed is open.  i cannot close the window.

i call your name but you cannot hear me.  you are walking into a clock that strikes 9 am.  in dreams seen over several years.  the lapel of your jacket is flapped wrong and you reach out to put it in place.  i call your office.  you are in a meeting.  the dream starts again.

you hand me jui flowers.  i take them in my hands and wear them in my hair. contentment in Lal Paar.  i turn around and you have gone.  in dreams seen over several years.  you come just as often as you leave and i am not certain if you are here or if you are not.

The Discovery

you were within me,

and i spent so much time

looking so far.

the rain had told me, as did

the stream gushing down

the hillsides.

i've spent a lifetime 

disbelieving, and i wasn't 

going to start having faith.

it wasn't a matter of faith,

the kind that takes you

to mosques and temples.

it was simply a turn into

a lit corner of my mind,

you were there, still there.

you were always within,

never far, never outside,

that is how i have lived.

The return of the Muse

i see mistletoes, i see brown leaves,

i see you

you are a cobweb over my eyes

i see through you.

you are the pinwheel that fans my mind.

i write sonnets.

you are the first breath of my morning.

last of my night.

you are where time lives, next to the moon. 

you are my neighbour.

i wait for you.  i die a bit before

The return of the Muse.

_________________________

This Time in Paris -- Ebaar Paris

Paris has seen blood before.

Lost her innocence way back when.

The French Revolution.  Napoleon.

The empires.  Two world wars. And,

then some.  a lot of blood has 

flowed with the Seine before 2015.

the pendulum of the French clock

cracked back to normal even after

Lady Diana died in their tunnel.

This jihadist attack however has

smattered our faces with blood.

The whole world is bleeding today.

Kokhono Sydney, Kokhono Peshawar,

Ebaar Paris, Next Somewhere, 

next to innocents and bystanders.

People die when they are meant to,

not a day too soon, not a day too late.

Our solidarity marches are not going

to stop death which marches to its

own relentless rhythm using cancer,

using jihadists, using points of view.

All that the solidarity marches can do

is to comfort those who haven't yet died,

make us a little less afraid of dying, 

make us forget that the end game is death

and in between is life in which we all play.

For each ounce of optimism lost with

each ounce of blood that was spilled,

the solidarity march filters pessimism

and makes us think we are safe, there

are no monsters under our bed, there 

are only angels in the wings, only

well fed children all over the world,

clean water and vaccines that can 

stamp out evil as soon as its detected.

the point of the solidarity march could be,

we did not die, we are still alive, so

we have to work to make someone's

next day a little bit better if possible.

So that we leave behind more than blood.

Namaskar

Namaskar, i see God in You,

just like i see him in jasmines,

defines the core of my being,

i'm happy being just me.

Namaskar, to the rising sun,

beams of light run through my limbs,

warm red bricks use their energies,

build the contours of a new mind

Namaskar, to the mountain stream,

it talks profoundly, i listen,

they take my silence, make it wet,

i'm happy being just me.

Namaskar, to the pink jasmines,

they write to the core of beauty,

in the language of the subtle,

we are refreshed to a new script

Namaskar, I see God in you,

the Head, who gave your body light,

water to your mythical soul,

And, the pink jasmines of my mind.

_________________________

Deepak Chopra (the Vedanta) says that

life is transforming when 1. you don't

worry about anything, you feel great joy,

 and 2. synchronicities keep happening

and accelerate to the point where you

can experience the miraculous.

Wildflower Hall: On the Nature of Things

a bunch of pink flowers making merry,

many stones around looking in askance,

we have lasted hundreds of years, they think,

the pinks laugh and say, yes! but as a stone.

a stone has veins and carry jasper blues,

contemplative "malas" in their belly.

the pinks fall into line in a chapel, 

soon! they can't stop themselves from giggling.

Grand Butterflies

a monarch sits on the earth,

amazing orange,

a Sabyasachi saree