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Time Whispers in my Ear

Selected Poems of
Aju Mukhopadhyay

Published by: OnlineGatha The Endless Tale

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All the poems in this book are the creations of Aju Mukhopadhyay who claims the
sole intellectual property rights for all these poems. No one is permitted to reproduce,
publish or transmute by any means; electronic, mechanical, photocopying or
otherwise from this book without the consent from the author except for the purpose
or review and such purposes.


All the selected poems published here have been published in different books of poems
except ten fresh poems which have not been published in any other book. I gratefully
acknowledged the publication of my poems to various journals, e-zines and websites and
their editors through the respective books except to Impressions of Eternity from
Asansol which I herewith acknowledge with equal gratefulness. I acknowledge the
publication of the poems in journals, print and electronic, not submitted or known to me.
Out of the ten poems introduced here for the first time four poems have been published
in Kohinoor, New Man International Journal of Multidisciplinary Studies, Sons of
Camus Writers International Journal, Poetcrit, www.indianperiodical.com, Bizz Buzz,
Contemporary Vibes and www.allpoetry.com. I gratefully acknowledge the publications
to these journals and their editors. Of the six other poems some have been selected and
awaiting publication and the rest have not yet been submitted anywhere.
Author - ajum24@gmail.com

Other books in English published by the same Author (Besides 12 books in Bengali)
Biography, Philosophy, Literature: Sri Aurobindo: The Yogi of Divine Life, Mother of
all Beings, The Mother of All Beings, Sri Aurobindos Ideal of Freedom and Human
Unity, The World of Sri Aurobindos Creative Literature
Poetry: The Witness Tree, In Celebration of Nature, The Paper Boat, Insects Nest and
Other Poems, Aju Mukhopadhyays Poems on Sri Aurobindo and the Mother, Short
Verse Vast Universe, Short Verse Delight, Manhood, Grasshood and Birdhood
Fictions: White Bird and its Black Shadow, The Moments of Life and In Train
On Nature and Environment: Water and Pondicherry Environment
Essays: Lord Ganesha and The Story of Indias Progress


Pages No-

The Burning Lamp


Time Whispers in my ear

11 - 12

A Woman Saviour of Mankind


Nelson Mandela: An Epitome of Struggle and

14 15

Buddha Purnima


A Presence


The Being

18 - 19

A Dream like State

20 21

Rowing Still




Invisible yet Perceptible

24- 25

Invisibly with me


Do I walk or I walk me?


Il Pleut

28- 29

The Inner World


Lifes Curves


The Channels of Life

33- 34

Act like a Sage


Lifes Curves


The Channels of Life

33- 34

Act like a Sage


Worship the


Pray that you Play your Part best

37- 38

United in Camp fire

39- 40

Cultivating the Human Being


The days Pass by

42- 43

The Days have Passed by

44- 45

A Fragrance of dried Rose Petals

46- 47

Sri Aurobindo


A Poet Violated


A Complete Human Being


February Twenty-first


Mother the Divine Spark



54- 55



The Day is Lost in the Shimmering Twilight


In the Last Phase of the Night


Silent Witness of the Bygone Ages

60- 62

In Reasonable support of the Hazara people

63- 64

Kolkata: A Still Image

65- 66

Structural Violence

67- 68

The Uncivilised

69- 70

The adivasi


What an Age we are Passing through

77- 79

What a great Republican Shore are we Basking in

82- 83

Politicians of the World Unite!



85- 86




88- 89

What Peace is like

90- 91

India the Mother

92- 93

Our National Anthem

94- 95

Sea of Humanity


Nuclear the Evil Force




Either a Saint or a Ganja khor

99- 100

Deaths before Death


An Attitude to Life

102- 103

The fallen House

104- 105

The Past


The Events

107- 108

Remembering my Mother






At the river bank

112 - 113

The Grasshood


The Profiles of Birds


The Lovers of the Dark


Insects Nest


Ants Hut

118 - 119

A Creative Artiste

120 - 121

Bumblebee Bamboozles


Fall of a Habitat


The Dust

126 - 127

Death of Roses


Life and Dream


Fluttering before Settling at the Right Place


The Paper Boat


Flower of the Future


What is Impending?



The Burning Lamp

The lamp was burning golden-brown
In my dark room steadily, alone
No one was there around
Flowers bloomed of a mystic hue
Radiating my obscure chamber;
When you came to light the lamp
No one knew
No tread, no flash, no sound.


Time Whispers in my Ear

susurrus over the vast undulating grass
tumbling of water in the forest river at night
cackling of hilly meandering streams
flowing of molten lava down the ravine
spewing of ash;
volcanic eruption at unknown site
spread of forest fire with a strange beam
spreading rapidly with the wind,
desert storm changing the face of the sand dune
without notice;
rains and rains in the rain forest again
in the country sides and cities, rolling of water bodies;
seeds sprouting, trees growing and dying
again and again;
sibilation of natures shifting phase;
nature is at work without rest in every nook and corner
in every pore and cell, near and far;
time whispers in my ear
that with nature it flows with all its belonging
to the events forthcoming
while consciousness keeps its progress in everything
constantly rolling towards the future;
time whispers in my ear


that past never sits in its forlorn chair

but leaves its essence for assimilation;
time whispers in my ear
that the ethos of the bygone ages, their zeitgeist
can never be recovered by any strategist;
the world may be seen in the grain of sand
but the flow of sand is constant;
infinity may be guessed in the palm of hand
but it cannot be gripped by any standard;
time whispers in my ear
that everything passes on for ever.


A Woman Saviour of Mankind

When on 16 April 2014 Sewol, the South Korean boat,
Was sinking with 476 passengers on board
Frigid water filling up its hold
And the crew with its captain fled
Betraying all the hopes of the passengers
There appeared a courageous woman head
Rising to the occasion, raring to go ahead;
22 year old young Park Ji-young, a cafe worker
Took the lead in helping children and half-dead sea farers
Supplying them with life jackets, courage and burning hope
Keeping not a single jacket for her to elope
Promising not to leave till a single of them remained.
Many were saved but she was drowned.
Among the dead by the divers her body was found,
Buried in chill watery ground.
A savior of mankind, entirely humane
Igniter of the sacrificial fire
With the fire glowing within her;
Inspired by the Divine will and bliss
She lives in mans heart for her selfless sacrifice.


Nelson Mandela: An Epitome of Struggle and Victory

Graduate he became after protracted efforts
and law-graduate at the age of 71
then the President of African National Congress at 73.
He married thrice divorced twice
married for the last time at 80.
Jail was nothing to him who surpassed
most records of active suffering in jail
at a stretch for more than 27 years.
Leaving perhaps few areas of life untouched
leading the people from behind and front
achieving the ideas of French Revolution anew
after 200 years
he surpassed them in breaking the chain apartheid
honouring Junior Martin Luther King, esteemed.
Life crowned him consecutively
at the age of about 76:
voting for the first time
he was elected democratically
the first President of the country
winning the Peace Nobel Prize jointly.
At the very ripe age
he gathered the fruits of his labour


in his humble hermitage.

Patience and perseverance with persistent resolution
were the basis of his lifelong struggle;
without an iota of frustration

he was unconquerable;
without giving up an idea once conceived
he would struggle with all his might
eventually to succeed.

O Time, you honoured the son of the earth

for all his worth.
Nelson Mandela can be compared

to Nelson Mandela only,

that in a nutshell is his life story.


Buddha Purnima
Some are famous for serving the sick and the destitute
by their own hand with sympathy and rectitude
but many an unknown person also serves them
with the same or more sympathetic attitude
some are prone to do it by their nature;
philanthropy is not the only thing to consider.

But the karuna and benevolence emanating

from a being like Buddha in peace
spread throughout the globe
touching all living beings
like the light blue rays of the full moon
carrying love and peace; desireless boon,
embrace all hearts like true arhat.

More the time pass by more his influence

reach the tumultuous humanitys confluence.
Buddhas benevolent debonair face
shines in deep blue sky
as on Buddha Purnima;
above all religions how he touches our soul
is not an enigma.


A Presence
An ever-awake presence in every heart
including that of the demon and the desert
in humans and animals in a state rudiment
in the bosom of the hazy and dark inconscient
in the dark cave, a spark of the supreme presence
carries in every matter a spiritual sense;
It is the cause why severe passion and violence
of the vital world, wave of advance of the forces adverse
cannot bring a catastrophe total
a total annihilation with a blow fatal
creating a control somewhere in the deep
causing the face of the harmony to peep
and save the earth from threats diurnal
leading Nature to a state sempiternal.


The Being
Without a shape, formless
without fragrance, odourless
without a colour, not even whiteness
beyond all sound
pure and profound
light or darkness, nothing abound
whatever and whomever most I adore
is that absolute, the essence of all
beyond any question of rise or fall.

Vast and limitless without a shore

with all sense It I adore
up to the last drop of my blood
overlapping all sense of regard
up to the last puff of breath
beyond all human strength;

with the last raft of mind to sail

I try to reach It and hail
though I know not
if to my call It will respond.
Such a Being


beyond all cognition

will fulfil me beyond all definition
if by chance I reach it
completing a full circuit.


A Dream like State

The more he lives near you
More by you hes possessed
More his living in the world
Becomes a dream like state

Toward a being transformed

Shunning the old concept
From an unknown world
He drifts in dream like state

Paraphernalia of life
bonds with him thickset
Fall like leaves from tree
Leaving in dream like state

Natant faces of bygone days

In memorys water set
Attempts to hold them fail
Floating in dream like state
Before he sleeps he has
To go alone miles ahead
Over the nights and days
All in a dream like state
Silent hostile path


There is no goal exact

None can uplift give shelter
In his dream like state

Even if misunderstood
His love for all spread
He cannot be dishonoured
In his dream like state


Rowing Still
rowing towards the ochre gloaming
or in the night with full moon floating
are events of the dreamy past
which do not remain, do not last
but that rowing in a dinghy
in limpid water blue
reflecting the azure
with bright white clouds floating in it
into the depths of its watery heart
where my energetic face shines
continues endlessly
amid unknown islands
sometimes in the vast
sometimes near the shores
peopled by strange faces
sometimes forlorn


Living in society helping the needy
Busy with friends and relatives, wild and greedy
Arguing in every issue, debating in groups
Gleeful, bavard or shy, living in a family
Popular or unpopular, criminal or honestWe live outside at our best.
Vibrant even when retired or ostracized
We still live in market place in our memories
In the company of onlookers
With our colleagues, friends or rivals
Of the time past in bitter-sweet taste
In erotic sense, with pain or pleasure
Fear of the unknown, hope for the future;
Alone yet in company, we live outside.
With a faint intuitive glimpse we may live
When all cherished guests of life would drop off
Wing past our life all dreams and reverie,
Not in haste or turmoil but calmly;
A voiceless, guiltless hush settles
Neither pleasing nor bitter; no stir.
In impeccable atmosphere serene
Under the graceful sereinMay be time for going inside.


Invisible yet Perceptible

Age is pushing them below with feet
as they try to rise from the subconscious deep
the relationship; physical vital mental
heterosexual or asexual or obscure camaraderie
passionate quagmire from the oblivious memory.
On one hand something invisible
yet protective and perceptible
is trying to pull you out of the rusty rustic past
purging you out of the iron base
from moment to moment
for life is meant for correction at each step;
on the other hand something shining
is trying to emerge out of the mud,
the past holding the key is pulling
the legs towards the sludge;
a claim of birth to hold life in its sphere till death.
All the strife and struggle are ephemeral
against a flight eternal;
a reward for one who believes and relies on grace
of the invisible yet perceptible existence.
There may be changes in the world contemporary
resulting in a situation topsyturvy
but to hold on to that something;


a spark in the being

is the game of all games
a play between the light and the darkness.


Invisibly with me
With a soft touch caressing
whispering blushing
sometimes with a rude shock
a foreboding experience
other times like a friendly fondle
a remembrance of the idle days
over a cup of tea;
it meets me in various ways
flowing over me, through me
coming out of the doors of the body.
It behaves differently at different times
as its nature changes seasonally;
endearingly, roughly, lovingly
telling me of its presence constantly.
Its presence at different parts of the body
is conspicuous at different stages of life.
Flowing in and out of my nostrils
the air as breath
supports me essentially
to live.


Do I Walk or I Walk Me?

Suddenly I stopped
inspired by a questioning thought;
am I walking or Im walking me?
Am I a becoming or a being?
The whole system called I or he or she
is a cosmic reality
yet a thirst aided by insight
welled up from inside;
can this really walk or stalk
unless propelled and guided
by the inner reality?
Is walking an act of mine
or of the self indwelling?
Stunned by the divide of I and me
I was inclined to embrace the reality
when someone accosted me
asking for something otiose
which compelled me to come back
to the diurnal fact


Il Pleut
It rains torrentially
after long drought and disorder;
it rains drenching the empathetic
scraggy soil of the heart
it rains moistening the rocks of anger
crags of revenge and cracks of depravity
it rains covering the jealous holes with purity
healing the undesirable crevices of the being
it pours incessantly to fill up
the gaps of deceptive caves of life
it rains inside me constantly
stretching the cramped limbs
softening the being;
it skits with a susurrus
leading me to the lee
when all on a sudden
something goes wrong
influenced by someones lewd smile
or a sereins half-hearted dampening.

Rain of grace falls and falls

to soothe my ruffled feelings;
it corrects, it helps, it leads me


always to the right way.

When it rains in the forest of my being
where the tallest trees touch the sky
and the moon shines bright on the leaves
through the gnarled branches
lighting the dark parts of existence,
life becomes wholesome
peaceful and serene.
Removing the dryness and darkness of life
rain of grace falls and falls
perpetually to revive.


The Inner World

The wide of the sea
Dwells in me
At night.

The calm of the forest

Deep in my heart

The height of the sky

Lifts me up
Eagle flight.

The chaos of the city

Fumes inside
Then hides.

The bright of the star

Calls me ever
To it.
The love of the earth and hearth
Keeps me to them


Lifes Curves
Each time of the day and night
is coloured by different issue
at the same site
each time a new problem ensue
mostly out of the old
kept in diurnal fold;
even this routine
through childhood and teen
youth and mature age
has undergone many a change
in ever new towns and cities
even in different countries;
in spite of all changes
someone inside is a diehard
in spite of giving in to new forces
it holds on to the old crust;
life to some is boredom
for the punch they receive from it
for the mood they are in as yet;
life is mediocre to some
but lifes seasons are seldom the same


to different players life is a different game;

by will and effort it may be diversified;
recreate recreate
each curve is different.


The Channels of Life

When this flow of life,

considered so long
as the attribute of youth,
the force that was thought
to be vitally vigorous
the mind and life
make the body despondent
by the push to revive
but time changes the flow of life
to new channels;
it is perhaps wise
to ride the horse
trotting towards the source
where the water of life flows naturallythe vast sea

There is regret, there is remorse

pull and push
but if you agree
in sweet harmony
to initiate the drive


towards the height, the infinity

life becomes secured
utilizing its resource.


Act like a Sage

After retirement at the ripe age
even when a nonagenarian
and out of usual vocation,
seek the real and act like a sage
beyond what you have so long doneseek the one you have not sought so far;
either the absolute or the details of the matter.
Better wear out than rust outmonk Vivekananda said aloud.
If you have a disease do not lull or tend
rather help the body to flush it out or amend.
You were not born as you had wished
so there is nothing to lament about it,
duration of life no mortal can fix.
Now is the chance in life to flourish
none can outlive life
as none can unripe the ripe.


Worship the Body

Body is the receptacle, ever strong base
On which the sky scrapper is built
A kingdom for mental and vital progress
Homely, secure and reliable indeed.
An epitome of beauty and harmony
Touchy and sensuous, usually erect
Body recalls lifes smallest ditty
Joys and sorrows, lifes secret.
Serving is always its primary duty
Barring sickness, accident and injury
It is amiss to ignore it, suppress its growth
For intellectual and spiritual budding forth.
Pay respect, worship, care the body
Its image is a remembrance to all posterity.
After all efforts, reaching his pinnacle
One ought to salute it, his beings tabernacle.


Pray that you Play your Part best

From the king to the beggar
from the deadliest dictator to the lowliest invertebrate
everybody has to take the exit path
from the world stage, today or tomorrow
with or without sorrow.
Even those who might have remained in the other sphere
never before the mortals appear.
Death is the greatest equalizer
which birth growth or existence cannot forbear.
In spite of all hotchpotch, topsyturvyfication
hallucination evaporation decay and death
Nature with all the living beings
move on through progressive evolution.
And you, with or without your knowledge,
participate as an actor in the world stage
moved by forces invisible without poise:
You, the powerful man, a body-life-mind, everything conceive
in successive stages; even when you do not believe
know that no scientist, materialist of the West or East
has ever been able to hold on to the stage beyond limit;
else the most undesirable would have ruled the earth
dwindling all possibilities of progress and firth.


Blinded by pride if you do not see the beyond

must you admit that the world would not have progressed
without death which calmly waits as we eat and sleep and rest.
If you cannot admit God, do not explain it away as Natures way;
humbly sit before the ever present unknown like a child
pray that you can play the part best as you are assigned.


United in Camp-fire
How have we progressed in time
when we are still not in rhyme
with the primitive and the ancient,
with Nature, our everlasting friend?
In shame only we cover our face;
how can we ask them to efface ,
our mother and sister, their god-gifted appearance?
How can we still wag our tail
in the prospect of a king, queen or their entourage frail?
Hate and envy, our greatest enemies
if still dominate us
how can we progress as humans?

Buddha was awakened after great ascesis

to call for benevolence of all conscient beings,
Christ came down to serve the suffering humanity
with utmost empathy and humility,
ancient seer-poets of the Upanishad
realized everyone as Brahman, spark of God;
they blessed all on earth to be sukhin, happy
from the tiniest grass to the tallest canopy.
A soft touch in the heart, a pious feeling, desire
a glowing warmth of the psyche


may impel us to say

that we live in camps, united in camp-fire
for the world is a field of our sojourn divided in camps;
what after all, life of 60, 80 or 100 years is
compared to unending infinities?
Instead of pride domination or diplomacy
let us embrace all with pure love
for that is the only sovereign entity.


Cultivating the Human Being

O mind, you dont know agriculture:
Such a fertile field
as human being
remains fallow.
Gold it would yield
after cultivating
as a human motto
sang Ramprasad
the Kali worshipper.
Leave aside the mind and heart,
ultra moderns have far surpassed
the saint
in cultivating the human body and body-part;
women sell their bodies through media recent
children are bought and sold
as are the body parts of the living dead and old.
Flesh trade was there before Ramprasad,
the story continues in ways hilarious and sad.
Beyond all ceremonies,
cultivating the inner being
shedding all disharmonies,
we could become the lifes king.


The days pass by

The days pass by
With the quivering Sun on the leaves
And the tinkling of the spoon in the cups
With many a domestic tale
Like the last farewell of the spring
The days pass by with soft footfall.

Accepting the warm love heartily

From the one who came offering it silently,
With a huff of the lover who was
Refused many a time earlier
The days pass by like the far-going birds
Leaving me all alone.

Ever moving from moment to moment

From every point, time remains indivisible
Like the unending waves of the sea
With the quivering Sun on the leaves.
With many a domestic tale
The days pass by to come back again
With soft footfall.


The golden dust of the time remains

With the air, in the sky, with the breath,
Whether its me or whoever else that is,
It comes back among the golden ripe paddies
And the undulating grass.


The Days have passed by

At the fringe of the forest facing the hills in the west
we sat usually together on the trunk of a giant tree for hours
to behold the brick-red gold spreading Sun
dipping down into the fathomless ocean
taking us with it in darkness entire.
Wind started blowing, playing with the dry leaves,
evening smell filling the space all around.
The solid silence mixed with our deepest feelings broke
as the jackals started wailing about in unison.
We moved, words spared,
taking the village path, hand in hand.
Cottages lit by star-moon-light
cool lamps burning below Tulsi plants
would welcome us to a joyous reverie.

The days have passed by

hills are dwarfed
stone chips made out of them
solidify the plinth, roof and floor.
The wood is dwindled, highway runs through it;
trucks run roaring, gigantic.
Villages are metamorphosed to hybrid creatures.
Living in separate corners of the globe


never can we recreate the things we beheld

or the time we lived then;
Beholden as we are, carry them in our heart.
But the images are getting thin, associations rare
modern hydras are growing up
out of the pristine nature.


A Fragrance of dried Rose Petals

You used to come often in the pretext
of doing something or the other
I always greeted you silently
without any formality.
Your usual acquiescence to whatever I might have said
or desired as if that was the reason of your visit
reason enough beside me to sit
lengthening the thread of relationship
without a cue to it, without ever being a chit,
telling me nothing about you nor asking anything about me
as you were quite insignificant in our surrounding
regardless as a human entity in the family
as the one related to a menial;
and I sitting or going round
in some petty errand quite forgetting you
not remembering when you left without a sound.
Me in the prime of my youth, you in your teens;
our actions or inactions were so insignificant
devoid of any reference
that they obfuscated any relationship.
When we left the place of our temporary sojourn,
each of us is always a tenant, was not to any one known.
With the passage of time your presence,


out of sight out of mind,

vanished into the vast world of business!
The days passed by quietly and quickly.

After long many years suddenly I find you

coming out of the heaps of oblivion, quite vivid.
I wonder without my knowledge how you hid
into a hitherto darkened niche
telling me loudly enough
that you have a permanent place
in my hearts recess;
so close yet so far for a meeting
nor any happening between us
brooking no cause for it anywhere
no cry no urge.
A fragrance of dried rose petals wafts in the air
making me aware
of the past making an upsurge.


Sri Aurobindo
God shall grow up while the wise men talk and sleep
For man shall not know the coming till its hour
And belief shall be not till the work is donesaid Sri Aurobindo in his epic poem Savitri

The voice of truth in the seer poet Sri Aurobindo was heard
As he was a lotus born in mud, away from the mundane scene,
The cascading Supramental light like the golden swan
Touching the sky kept its foot on earth fixed.

Like a tree he was peaceful, unhurried and calm with perseverance

Among the thousand resounding words his existence was silence
In his body sat the God, his face revealed the eternity
Out of intense love for men he sat away from humanity.

Small fries in shallow water and surface-gazers

were lost in the depth of his fathomless water.


A Poet Violated

Many great geniuses thinkers and philosophers

As they were heretics, brave but non-believers
Feeling not as they felt,
The barbarians and fanatics tried them to cast;
They were persecuted and killed at last.

No wonder then that he was challenged and censured

In his own house he was beleaguered;
There was lust to emend his creations
Craze for correction haunted the grammarians.
No great poet, no guru of his height
Answered them night after night
What mystic poem and spiritual truth is.
Many hued were his creations, many were their wings:
But after he ventured to take their help things started to sink
With many a lost, many a missing link.
She denied their plea to correct him while in her body.
But after their passing away they lost their purity.
They tampered with his works justifying with many a reason
To present him before the commoners, perfect and clean.
Though he never encouraged, he was offered some hagiographies
As they say, some genuine life sketch and some twisted biographies
And from ambitious highbrow harmful intellectuals some pathographies.


A flowing language changes its course- tone usage punctuationBut people adore the original form of a great creation;
A poet belongs to his own country, nay, to all humanity
None has the right to violet him nor to commit perjury.
To go beyond the poets chosen manuscripts or design
Were all unauthorized as none did he such power assign.
Who said that they could judge and understand him best?
If fared so well, they could be at their own creations crest.
A Cultural blasphemy, it will only show a path to others
To violate at their turn the poets and writers


A Complete Human Being

He was not poet-turned-politician-turned-yogi
Such an idea is the flip side of the story
Abracadabra of the common man;
When a poet, rising up in him was the revolutionary,
While preparing for the secret revolution, yoga touched him secretly;
One prepared the other in him as he was a manifold man
The inner being pushed him from one to the other theme.
He was poet revolutionary yogi journalist writer and thinker
One rolled into the other inseparably forever
He was not one but many at a time;
This truth about Sri Aurobindo is verifiable in varying degrees
In other greats life-histories.


February Twenty-first
Under the hush of the early devout hours
An immaculate calm and a mystic silence prevailed:
Silent soft pearl-drop dews
Of grace and love of myriad hues
Were constantly falling from the divine bowers.
Then came the moment when all got drenched
By the heart-blossoming and joy-flowering showers
Of the Divines transcendent powers.
The throat and the lips and the tongue
Remained unstirred; not even a whisper was heard.
Yet an unnamed name, a wordless cry
Kept repeating and throbbing in the occult depths of the heartMother Mother
It was to commemorate a divine birth;
A fathomless emotion was blissfully conscious
That it was February twenty-first.


Mother the Divine Spark

You know, we live in eternity,
Said you in hushed silence
with little interest in your material existence
for you acted and became as the Lord wanted.
Your body bore the sufferings of humanity,
pangs and worries of the devotees.
Cells of your embodied self
were being transformed and illumined for earth and men
until you gave up your physical sheath.
Your body spread itself into innumerable beings
like lightning during ecstasied dreams;
the Divine Spark lives in us and vibrates
as each of us lives and sleeps and eats and ruminates.
The Mother is indeed always present in us.


Its nice to observe the abundance of material wealth
but its mal-distribution causes plenty of illth
nevertheless, something like pittance
has reached the poor
and all have eaten some sorts of
fruits of technology
an air of abundance prevails;
dictators dominate in all sorts of governments
but a feeling is there that their days are almost over
though the fire of battles is raging sporadically
most of the perpetrators are in hiding
atavistic, fundamental funk and fury still disturb
though they are on the wane;
bold simple and straightforward men and women
are rising up again
uttering Sanskrit, the beauteous wealth giving tongue
and, or a song in a language accepted by all and sung
all sorts of divisions created by the cunning and foxing lot
are gradually giving way to unity and prosperity
artificial dams over the rivers of logic
are gradually breaking down
men have realized the fault of creating
ecological imbalance


adjustment at every step is perceptible;

even amid terrorism and destruction
a hope is growing within
that catastrophe will not happen;
tiny buds are maturing day by day in every tree
to bloom at once
and flood the earth with celestial fragrance.


Nothing is as fresh as the morning
And so hopeful of its journey in the offing
Sweeter than honey
It cannot be compared to any
With its colour and smell and haze
Morning is lifes new phase
Nothing can be compared to its purity
Vibrating with serendipity
Nothing is ever so simple as morning
Resonant, loving, forever beginning.


The Day is Lost in the Shimmering Twilight

This opaque and dark evening sky
without a particular hue, defy
the reign of the Sun as it goes to set
and pulls the erstwhile bright warm day straight
into its mysterious unfathomable womb.
Those who rise up with renewed oomph
at the prospect of devouring the evening young
like a familiar song many times sung
sink eventually into its hazy darkness
reeling at night
and those who never look at the hieroglyphs
of the evening sky in obscure light
pulling the day into its hold aright
and the majority of those sheep
who never realise that the day
with all accompaniments is kept at bay
to be lost forever into the unknown fold
of the mysterious sky in spite of its efforts
to survive clinging on to the fragile human memory,
live the useless life of ignoramus
without verve and sense
condemned like a Sisyphus.


The day is lost in the shimmering twilight

in its ever hopeful flight
into the mysterious womb of time
never to be reborn after melting of the rime.
It is a holocaust of time
adorned with rhythm;
night and day
are born for a while to pass away.


In the Last Phase of the Night

All are wide-awake
In the first phase of the night
Hedonists are awake in the second
Then the thieves appear at the site
Yogis get up fresh
In the fourth phase of it;
It is the hour when diamond pendants are set
From the overhead canopy
When gossamer clouds rest
In the space azury
Everything remains inert and sleepy
Silence engulfs the earth from end to end
Many happy dreams are conceived
Many new hopes tend
Hours are pregnant
With ideas attendant
Glowing love fluttering wings beautiful songs
All are in a flux
May or may not come true;
The grayish-orange dawn waiting to bloom
Has something in its womb
Neither can we comprehend nor can we groom.


Silent Witnesses of the Bygone Ages

Lotus petal shaped Lotus Mahal, abode of feminine beauties
Lotus shaped fountains sprouted perfumes over many such bodies.
Queens Bath was kept apart like a stone Chariot majestic
Alone on the courtyard, wheels of which are not really static,
Once it was a vehicle of the royal passengers. The whispering air
Still flows in the palaces, through the abandoned corridors of power.
The musical chime fills the air when struck, each of the
56 pillars of the Vijaya Vithala temple become blithe.
Made of a huge monolith, Kadela Kalu Ganapathy,
Most simple yet full of artistic profundity.
Seated on a 7 hooded snake is huge Lakshminarasimha.
The walls of the Hazara Rama announce the story of Ramayana.
A landscape strewn with boulders, dry with dust,
Alongside flows the river Tungabhadra, steady and fast.
Stoned memorials, though not stone-cold, of the bygone days
Tell the tales of kings queens merchants and wardens
Of festivals diamonds courtesans war and victory;
Take us back to the 14th century
When Hukka and Bukka founded the Vijayanagara dynasty;
From 1336 to 1565 C.E. through many ups and downs it existed,
Alas, at last by the Deccan Sultanate to be completely routed.
We are shocked to read what historian Sewell wroteNever perhaps in the history of the world has such havoc been wrought,


and wrought so suddenly, on so splendid a city. . . .

in the full plenitude of prosperity
one day, and on the next seized, pillaged and reduced to ruins
amid scenes of savage massacre and horrors beggaring description.
It was done by one of the barbaric groups who brought to ruins
India for more than 1000 years, with a sense of exultation.

Lord Virupaksha in his temple, among the silent witnesses of time,

Is still worshipped, had been there before the Vijayanagar regime
In his seat. The ruins at Hampi, 500 years old,
Remind us of colosseum and other Roman ruins, 2000 years old.
But physical ruins are not the only basis of history
Images of truth of other bygone days are shrouded by mystery;
Life styles of different ages through symbolic story
Come to us supported by epics and mythology.
Anagundi before Hampi was the capital of the other kingdom
Of ancient kiskindha, Sugrivas platform.
The beauty of the nearby Pampa Sarovara
Made Rama passionate, enamoured of abducted Sita.
It is believed that in the neighbourhood, in Anjanadri hill
Hanuman was born and near to it is the Durga Devi temple.
Beneath the Matanga hill is the temple of Kodanda Rama,
Where after killing Vali, he crowned Sugriva.
Relics of nothing made by men, of the mythical age, remains
But the same flowing river, same hills and dales and lakes


Carry the memory of the dramatic personae, their presences.

The dry and rocky region, with ancient memories is replete
Makes us pine for what is not, makes us nostalgic.


In Reasonable support of the Hazara people

Though born differently in shape size and quality
all living beings are born with equal birth rights
to be taken care of by the Mother Earth;
none has the right to dwarf or cull others
unless it is Natures spontaneous action
in helping species and individuals
to maintain harmony in death and survival.
Humans too are born with their unequal inherent capacities
But with equal rights to share
earth water fire space and air.
Tribal life is one of the beginnings of human social life;
some people love to remain in their pristine past
some go ahead to make the most of natural resources
in their makeshift civilization
but humans have no right over the others
to extinguish them for self-interest or self-assertion.
All religions are self-divisive, self-assertive;
curbing womens rights and sectarian deadly fights
destroying revered monuments of the other religions with hate
are the works of the philistines who live in every age
the offspring of the sterile religious rocky crust;
with that none has the right to compel others
to comply with their faiths; it is their ill-begotten ideas


to bring others to their fold religious.

Hazaras are a distinct ethnic group, may be with their
Mongolian-Buddhist past, linguistic touch
with the Turk, Persians or the other Islamic sects;
they cherish a forgotten idea, keep a bygone thought
some forgotten mantras vibrate in their hearts
but true it is in the recorded history of hundreds of years
that their birth place is Central Asian Afghanistan;
theyre now relocated in other countries due to persecution and fear
though theyve every right to live in their land as live the others.
It is the voice of the Poets voice of Peace voice of Love
for the Hazara people, appealing to all who have been
so far persecuting them, appealing to all humans throughout
the globe to put a stop to it mainly because were humans;
not dogs who chase and kill the other dogs that enter their territory.
In wonderment we observe that the persecutors are
from their own land, sufferers suffer within their own boundary;
after aeons of development of civilizations
how men can be inferior to dogs?
Rise up brothers to forget and embrace the brothers
be humane, not just logs.


Kolkata: A Still-Image
Passing by the hillock of garbage
he lifts the handkerchief mechanically
to his noseuneven broken footpath
sharp stonechips hit the ankles
coming out of the newly repaired disheveled road
resulting from yesterdays two showers.
The contractor sniggers standing somewhere nearOut of a contract valued two paise
if one third of it is shared
how much is left out of it for the work?
What better way is there to use the stonechips?
Broken roads overcrowded bus footpaths encroached
Hoodlums and youngsters raising donationspassing all these by he enters the womb of
the stumbling city to easily cover a long distance
by Metro-Railway: A remarkable system
to be preserved with pride.
Reaching Park Street, the only road
to show the discipline by the men and police,
he finds a VIP car with red-alert on its head
followed by vehicles galore on its front and aft
speeds with the gun aimed at men


protruding from a corner;

if someone notices, most do not look at.
Courageous leaders- are the people their representatives
or they are of the people?
All around he finds them moving on the roads
with white hairs on their bodies,
he lifts the handkerchief again to his nose.
Walking mechanically through all these passing scenes
with lamenting thoughts and knitted brows
suddenly he haltslight fragrance of the flowers!
This blooming tree over the head, they too are there
favourites of the city, they too love it
like the conscience of men
with infinite patience
like many statues, reminiscent of the past, standing.


Structural Violence
Ten proud faces beamed
in the slave media:
Worlds richest chairmen of companiesall worth several billion $
arranged in descending order.
The same media on the same day
while the Sun shines to make hay,
published stories
of the bizarre mud cookies
doing the rounds among the poor kiddies
and others, desperate to stave off hunger in Haiti:
When my mother does not cook anything,
says a poor sibling,
I eat them 3 times a day.
Rickety, they die in hundreds
as in Africa, exploited for years, degraded.

In a computerized world
with a technological hype and commercial fair
with explicit understanding among the players
to exclusively exploit the market share,
to speculate in the share market;
degrading the earth, water and sky


enjoying the resources everywhere

the successful ones are always victorious.

Is it not a structural violence

against the nave, innocent children of the earth?
Shall we offer hurrah to the rich for their mirth?
Beg on behalf of the poor for their munificence?
Does the whole structure not require
overhauling or demolition with fire
to rebuild a new structure for all?


The Uncivilised
Uighur, a nomadic pastoral tribe
of Turkish origin in Xinjiang,
find it difficult to survive
squeezed out by the Han Chinese
introduced just for this
as was shifted the Ethnic Chinese
to kill the culture, depopulate, destabilise
the peaceful Tibetan Buddhist race;
this was the technique of red-rebellion
of killing and degrading men by brewing poison
of jealousy, hatred and strife among them.

Creating tourism and villa in the land of Jarawas

leads to the extinction of the aboriginals
for they cannot survive the touch of the civilians.

Wherever minerals, oil or woodland treasures are found

men run to acquire the wealth profound
extinguishing the pristine flora and fauna
and the indigenous people, Nature-bound,
in Amazonian, Peruvian forests, hilly belts in India
in Indonesia, Philippines, Canada and Africa.
Moving into galaxies, to the north and south poles


plundering the reserves of the earth and heaven

men feel victorious but the soil they stand on shifts
for their pollutive role in human lives;
that men become pollutants, we are not surprised
that civilized people are the most uncivilised.


The Adivasi
The adventurers from Europe, with greed
For gold flashing in their eyes, swooped with guns
And swords like human hawks on unknown lands.
Columbus, ignorant of the earths size
Named them Indians, the Caribbeans, so they
Became, North and South Americans.
Columbus with Bahama Arawaks
And other tribes of Caribbean islands,
Cortes in Peru with the Incus,
The English settlers in America
With many tribes including the Pequots
And with many others in Australia
Following James Cooks visit in the year
1770, so savagely
Behaved with all the unarmed innocent
Adivasis of the foreign lands who welcomed them,
That made them ride the rough roller coasters
To embrace sudden death and devastation.
Original Americans were pushed
From eastern Atlantic to the western
Pacific for burial in the ocean.
A Creek man of more than 100 years old
With deep sigh about colonizers told


In about 1829When he first came over the wide waters

he was but a little man . . . . His legs were cramped
by sitting long in his big boat and he
begged for a little land to light his fire on . . . .
But when the white man had (so) warmed himself
before the Indians fire and filled himself
with their hominy, (he) became very large.
A chief of Black Hawk tribe delivered speech
In 1832 while surrenderingThey poisoned us by their touch . . . . we lived in
danger. We were becoming like them, liars
and hypocrites, adulterous, lazy
drones, all takers and no workers.

Not only all wealth of the land besides gold

They besieged, African humans they sold
Who survived after the immense torture
As slave, to be branded with on breast bare
Red-hot iron, imprinting the owners sign.
Before colonizers sucked Indian wealth
Barbarous invaders massacred it.
All such indigenous human beings
Who were so devastated, sold and killed
Were cultured and civilized, lived fulfilled.


It was time for aggression and settlement,

For crude and scientific development.
All such broils overlooked, turmoil forgotten,
In air-conditioned room with push-button
Comfort, secured by atomic weapons
Surrounded by all high walled constructions
A soft-spoken sophisticated man sits;
He is the epitome of high culture.
In an age of tense globalization
All are concerned about prosperity
Forgetting all past political feud
How over the corpses of tribes wealth made
In socialist, capitalist countriesBut still some misguided terrorists shine
To be handled properly and quelled in time.

Nothing has stopped, nothing goes unhindered

Old world of exploitation marches onExtracting wealth from the bowl of earth, sea
And sky for prosperity, industry;
The old incorrigible, superstitious
Adivasis are still reluctant to
Be evicted. They remain misguided.
They do not yield even after threatening,
Conversion and brainwashing: The Rotters.


But they had their civilization, they

Have culture and tradition, they defy
Globalization: their war rages throughout
The globe; Oil-Timber-War around Peru,
Amazonian Rainforest, Niger-Delta;
Mine-War spreads in Papua-Indonesia,
Phillipines, Niyamagiri hills, IndiaIn Chhatisgarh, Jungle Mahal, Anantapur
There, in Yanomami land, Brazil and
Manywhere. It seems a desperate strike
By organized forces is imminent
The sons of the soils to eliminateFrom the face of the earth, water and sky.

They are really helpless, misguided, they

Hold on to any discredited lot
Take to arms to survive in their plight.

A recent photograph in a newspaperBody of a young girl, died in combat

Carried in a bamboo pole by killers-

Inspired a similar scene to get flashed

In memory- it was the corpse of a
Wild boar hunted for community feast.


It is ugly to ogle at jarawas,

Oldest Andamanese , like beast in cage.
To declare International Day of
Worlds Indigenous people by the highest
World-body is nothing but puffed up farce.

It is a clash between civilisations:

Industrial-technological, man-made
Against agricultural, forest-bred.
Globalization cannot destroy all;
Environment, ecology, human.
None can evict them, throw them into sea
What has happened is a stain on human glory.
People regret now as the last speaker of
Bo language dies or rejoice when a
New-born is added to Onge tribe.
Advasis were the first born on earth
They have the first claim on it before us,
Modern civilized. They live in NatureForest and hills, rivers and animals.

Everything cannot be exploited, used.

If they must be removed for any project
They must agree, must be compensated.
Be aware man, awake; Honour Nature
To be honoured by it, to live better.

What an Age we are Passing through!

What an age we are passing through!
What a hodgepodge what limosis what craze!
Best of all the cracies, they say, is democracy
after all; rule of and by the people, for the people
but alas, its only once that they get the chance,
easily duped by the demagogic, prolixious speech
and the crocodile tears . . .
everything they lose to the politicians
who possess kaleidoscopic characters
verily, the chhaya of the ancient maya;
they change the statute once in the chairs
defying the wisdom of the Nation to suit their purpose
judges cannot undo.
They give anything to anyone, of any denomination
deny our heritage, destroy the land we stand on
to secure their position of power, right to misrule;
no party no group no policy or ideology has any value
if that does not serve them, does not satisfy
their hunger and greed;
rage for industries grow, farmers commit suicide
private contractors for every work throng
merits and wisdom are sacrificed
at the altar of caste and community vote;


newspapers serve many tainted and wrong news

with partisan attitude, features and letters
they publish have to conform to their views;
climate change and global warming
are the offshoots of mechanical, luxurious living
of the rich and the powerful.
Because of all these the youths of the country
Flee to foreign land for money and comfort;
the primitive trade is upbeat
women stand naked before the public
of their own accord,
human trafficking is a part of it.
What an age we are passing through!
Ecology destroyed, disharmony brought to Nature
Man-Animal relation worsened
by killing daily thousands of dumb creatures;
meat and leather industry
are the diabolic face of the humanity.
Gandhiji, a bad politician but great humanitarian,
wished cottage industry, real Panchayet and simplicity
lived on earth with earth on his head and body.
What an age we are passing through!
smile and guffaw, snigger and bravado, choking of voice
lead toward kakistocracy on piscine principle;
clutching each others throat with claws and talons


when men will fight to reach the nadir

a gigantic unknown vulture in its turn
will be ready to descend on him;
only then a chance may arise for us to see
a divine ray to rise to save us, free
from the heaps of a doomed democracy
through the real forerunners,
messengers of the God.


What a Great Republican Shore are we Basking in!

Caught in a vortex we are under siege
of those whom did we select
as our representative friends;
now nothing is in our hands
though we are the true republicans.
No neutral body to apprehend and punish
the real culprits they would establish
for those who govern the house
by mutual consent do not find the proposal sound.
They keep an appropriate bureau of their own make
which is at their beck and call, for their own sake
to engage the bureau their adversaries to hound.
Gradually we are pushed to the corners of our rooms
with something to live on a good
according to our respective petty capacity;
may be hybrid or genetically modified food
trifles like free-rice, free-TV, free-cycle or some doles pretty.
That at the pinnacle of our countrys pride
is a player or a female model, we are not surprised.
Our agricultural model is fixed in such a countrys agro-operation
where dependence on agriculture is less than one per cent of its population
the rest feeding on meat in their cozy corners reside,
their discarded products are thrust on our shoulders;
There during 1995 to 2010 167. 3 billion dollars they paid as agro-subsidy


whereas out of 550 million of our population depending on agriculture

debt-burdened 256913 farmers committed suicide.
With the age old farming experience of a country of our size
we go for foreign seed, discarded pesticide
and entirely unsuitable foreign expertise.
Aping is for causes serious; the republicans
fail to comprehend that everything including petty vegetables
will come to their hands well packed, marked by multinationals.
Muddy hands and legs, poor farmers or tilled lands and bullocks,
nothing will remain except foreign bred goods, profit and stocks.
Our forests already denuded, their bowels getting quickly emptied
to feed the foreign business interest, our industrys greed;
it must have already satisfied our national need
for they are partners of our business tycoons; our guardians indeed.
On our pristine sea shore or some peace-abode
is made nuclear factory or missile testing site
defying the peoples legitimate right;
for we have taken the development road.
Development surely for statistics show that we have developed
but who are the we?
We who have captured the house and our supporters
in art and culture, in literature, in media and in various fields
to whom we give prize every year on merits
this day, as our friends and ambassadors.


Politicians of the World Unite

At the dawn of independence
patriots were substituted by professionals;
shedding idealism and humanism gradually
came into existence the selfish politicians.
Diehard political activists
have spread their wings far and wide
cutting up didoes, corrupting
the countrys social fabrics;
by brute force they work with their class in cahoots
while missing the balance losing the political clout;
they touch the pithy heart of truth
with hard core supercilious falsehood;
this is a class irrespective of parties
who loot the countrys wealth
shedding all dignities;
there are exceptions as in every other field
but in the long run most entrants join their guild.

When he was digging violently

a soft target, the law-breaker himself
could not properly guess
that he was producing a lawyer;
when he lost his political clout


after 32 years
the lawyer, the son from his own seed,
could the law-breaker supersede.

It is a dangerous signal in all countries

when people arent awake, forget to perform their duties
remain an onlooker simply witnessing all happenings
swimming in the intoxicating rigol
avoiding to face the problem heart and soul.


War revolt uprising invasion and dictatorship
Ways of killing by torture of humans by the humans
No beast can think of perpetrating but only titans
Animals live by nature in nature without authorship.
Even when such things for grater cause are supported
Terrorism is never rationally fed.
It gets its sustenance in converted idealism
In murderous passion of a few
Abetted by sadism and masochism
Thirst for blood and revenge anew.
If any religion has any association with terror
It must be in its lowest strata wrought with fear
It has no relation to the quest of God
It misguides man away from the path of God.
None recognizes a terrors face
Terrorism has no face.
Such death is never hailed as of martyr
Such death is never remembered as sacrifice
But a terrorist may turn into human flower
If properly utilized his valour and spirit of service.
Talk of terrorism never dies
Unless it dies at its birth it ever spins.


Windows are wide open
doors are kept ajar
none is in there
nothing except waste matter and dust
air passes through them
none sits in the balcony
none in the terrace walks apace;
very few knew when they left the place
flow of cars and two wheelers below
as usual.

Very few knew them in the neighbourhood

none knew wherefrom they came
none knows where have they gone
or why they should;
who bothers?

Only sparrows, crows and mynas

the housewife and her daughter
who used to spread
on the balustrade


curried rice and crumbs of bread

or leftover anything
each morning.
Birds come and go
perch for some time
then fly away with least sound
wonderingare they gone, are they around?
Aint all of us tenant
living in whatever tenement
changing it like our raiment
Aint everything on earth
based on temporary arrangement?


In a global village beheading in video show
Bomb blast and wreckage in T.V.s glare
Media reports of rape, carnage, arson and massacre
In my neighbourhood rivers of blood flow;
All these with earthquake, flood and accidents galore
Banish Peace from earths shore;
A cycle or run race, a poem or claim for Peace
Are farcical shows, wraith like enterprise.

Without bypassing social problems hiding in your hole

Always awake fighting for truth heart and soul
Responsible for all your sincere efforts
Without bothering about successes of all sorts;
If not chased until satiety by all crude desires
Undisturbed by worry and fear
Free from wrath, envy and hatred, without self conceit
You are at Peace.

Peace is a state of mind, state of being sound

When in such a state you exude Peace
In spite of all external contraries
Peace oozes out of you to soothe all wounds.


What Peace is Like

Peace is like the early rays of the Sun,
slightly auburn, spreading on the eastern sky.
Peace is like the mild setting Sun, sure of its return,
splashing colours on the western sky.
Peace is like the rising full moon, bright in its orb,
from above the rows of giant palm trees.
Peace is like the resting of the elephants
in a sward before the promised sunrise.
Peace is like the birth of an arc-rainbow
after the gale and copious rain.
Peace is like a sleeping pregnant cat
on top of the hay stacked in a burn.
Peace is like the childs sucking sound
from the round breast of its mother.
Peace is like the deep silence of the wood
pregnant with promises near.
Peace is like the concurrent rain
spreading across the vale and dale.
Peace is like the trustful pacing of the child
holding his fathers finger top with nail.
Peace is love, Peace is smile
Peace is fragrance of the flower.
Peace is faithful surrender to the Divine


Peace is enchanting shower.

Peace has its last resort away from the earthly bower
in the Nirvanic void;
beyond the domain of science, history or logic
even as it baffles the ideas of Freud.
Peace is love, Peace is smile
Let the true Peace spread
Let this not be fragile.


India the Mother

Mother India has snow capped Himalayan crown
She sits with her feet on sea washed by the three;
Bay of Bengal, Indian Ocean and Arabian Sea
The ancient peninsula is Bharat Mata renowned.
On her left hand is Bay of Bengal and Sundarbans
Full of history, biodiversity and maritime commerce.
Farther to the north-east the land is rich
In biodiversity, wildlife and Natures bounty.
On her right hand is the turbulent Arabian Sea with maritime history;
Foreign merchants and missionaries from an early age
Reached attracted by the spicy smell, carrying Christs message.
The rest of India, secured by coasts and mountains,
Is equally rich in natural wealth, holy breath and sweetness.

Humans of different faith colour and race

With quest for adventure and zest for life
Charmed by her noble face
Mingled with her pristine body of humanity.
Some outsiders ravished her time and time again
Some pseudo-civilised people tried to establish their reign;
None is here now; it is India with her people sovereign.
The perpetrators of crime were from the other age;
None presently is responsible but none can the past crime assuage.


Religions, racial bigotry and weak democratic structure

Divided the holy country; those are at work wreaking damage further.
The real enemies are insiders holding powers
Who stealthily rob her wealth and beauty; the cheaters.
But Mother the mighty will ruin the rogues, stop the trend
To give birth to unity
In accord with her inner harmony
And wholesome spirituality.
With all admixtures India is a cauldron of culture;
Present looks back to greet the past
Past comes back to harmonise the present;
With all imports and revivals, looking to the future
India is unique in her original essence.
Let all those who left come back to make a single race.
Let all try to fulfil themselves in her fulfilment
With a heart vibrant and roseate.
In peace let India shine among the nations
To fulfil her mission of creating a world Union.


Our National Anthem

Rabindranath Tagore directly addressed
The presiding deity of Indias fate:
Bharata Bhagya Bidhata
Thou Dispenser of Indias destiny
The leader of her peoples mind for eternity.
The deity is both:
A father who looks after his childrens progress
A mother who rejuvenates her children from sickness;
The dispenser of Indias destiny
Is the Eternal Charioteer, thou drivest mans history
And Thy voice goes out from land to land
Calling Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs and Jains round thy throne
and Parsees, Mussalmans and Christians.
Indias eternal deity is lover of all humanity
She leads them from ages immemorial.
Its earnest call is responded by all Indians
The others from distant lands join the nation.
Universal in its appeal, all embracing in its approach
The poem was written neither for the colonial King
Nor for the Congress party though sung in its session
But in response to a poets heart beatings;
So wholesome, so pure, so endearing to all
The National Anthem deserves national adoration.
Let us with the poet hail her wishing her victory.

Sea of Humanity
At the crest of the huge water body burned
a thousand lamp at its Himalayan height
as it moved like a gargantuan with tumult
creating an unforeseen sight at the dead of the night
when in the cloudy sky stars shied;
it was an imponderably giant evil spirit.
Apprehending its power to engulf the ship
men inside it surrendered to the inevitable doom
like timid sheep but rose from their imagined death
as the ship managed to come out of the marauding waves
moving up and down over its body like a straw
dancing to the tune of the fate
without a hint that the turbulent sea would thaw;
the ship lacked mans timid heart and frail body to anticipate
the inevitable doom which did not take place.

The vast water is the helper, the base for the ship to sail
but water is the bar if it enters into its hold causing it to fail.
Ripples and small waves make the sea of humanity
dancing around the ship, a few inside its hold
but when the evil waters of tornado, tsunami or cyclone
coming out of such vast body of humanity enters into the ship
threatening its movement, making its life precarious,


though the ship does not easily succumb to the evil political force
that rule the state ship emanating from a total criminal source,
it may not be victorious if the timid waves and ripples of humanity
are aware of the danger of voting to power such enemies
coming with the mask of leaders and friends, all goody-goody
ravishing democracy, ruining democrats lives with impunity.

If the waves are courageous, do not volunteer to give bribes

creating demands for it, do not live for petty selfish benefits
and personal security over the others knowing that such petty gains
do not give them ultimate relief
that all petty gains would be lost to the evil force
losing all lifes promise,
if they agree to stand on their own robust feet with confidence
to rebuff such hegemony of the brutal force
the ship would crown them at the crest of Himalayan height
harbouring them into the realm of peace, tranquility and progress
for after all the State is the peoples face
the well being of the sea is seen in its waves.


Nuclear the Evil Force

Those who were wiped out from the earth scene instantly
Due to the dropping of atom bombs wantonly
Had their sufferings mitigated by Gods bounty
Even before they guessed it at Hiroshima and Nagasaki
Trailed by Nibakusha who carried their maimed existence
Or carry still the poison of human weakness.
The evil of nuclear fission continued
To predate its victims in Chernobyl and Fukushima;

The nuclear plant for any sane use like power generation
Innocently proliferates as a prelude
To further destruction of our age old civilization;
It is the irony of our fate, the result of our megalomaniac Karma.
But Karma may be uplifted by human wisdom
To defeat the evils of life like nuclear fission
To keep high the flag of freedom.


A Zamindar lashed out his subject alive
Blood of the fellow humans live
Is the fundamentalists holy rubric
Throat cutting is the ritual of men ethnocentric
A Sultan burnt down his recalcitrant horse as his right
It is the gamut of activities imbalanced and eccentric.
Anger fuelled by hatred is the prime source
Of such vile activities; a formidable force.

Once the fire of anger is roused

It cannot be easily doused
It afflicts the punished once he is around
But consumes the angry one if the victim is not found.
Wrath is an elementary weakness of man; a RipuBetter try to overcome its onslaught on you.


Either a Saint or a Ganja Khor

Leaving everything
if you live in Himalayan cave
or in a hole in Arunachalam hills,
live on begging like a mendicant
in Varanasi or Vrindavan
or live like a practicing sadhu
or wandering monk
concerned about nothing
but the inner call,
its a way of life you have chosen;
best if it is honest
according to your real nature and taste
but if it is not the real inner call
from the lifes secluded shore
it is often the life of
an afeem or ganja khor
or a culprit or an escapist.


Deaths before Death

A modern man lives tactfully
avoiding the undesirable
keeping aloof from things
he is not concerned with
embracing those which help him progress;
but how many times he is caught unaware
reaping corn from others land
perpetrating some crime!
How many petty compromises
how many looking aside
avoiding to be involved
in others crime beset you!
How many speaking aside
and underhand deals
arent we involved in!
How many times our self respect
is rolled in the dust!
The blunt headed brute among us
or those with a criminal mind set
may escape detection
even at the last stage
but usually a man of conscience
is arrested at the cemetery or crematorium


as he is carried there;
for he died many times before his death
his cupboard is full of his own skeletons.
Tactfulness is selfishness, sincerity only gives asylum.


An Attitude to Life
If you close your eyes ear and mouth
remaining aloof from everything
thats an attitude you have taken
for the reasons best known to you.
But the world goes on roaring
with life weaved in family
clan community and society.
Whatever the inn of life you reside
life vibrates in ebb and tide.
Mans life is not
like the birds or animals;
it has extra sense and conscience
pride and prejudice
surpassing everything in subtle sense;
a prudence, a providence.
What type of man are you
depends on your attitude to life
and your view.


The Fallen House

I was in my prime youth when I left the house
flooded by different hues in different roomssatin blue of the sky and pinkish love-rose blooms
bright yellow of the sun in the stairs
youth-wild green in the balcony;
twas a grandiose affair
when every wall, each nook and corner smiled
each space exuded a sense of revelry.

After long long years, moving round the reverse gear,

as I returned
few gray haired guys here and there appeared
out of the window holes
the doors opened on their own;
some creatures hurried past over my feet
flew out of the walls flocks of titmice
thick cobwebs held my progress;
there was hush, there were whispers
rising up from the fallen bricks
and dismal walls gray and dull:
1Unwanted guests, undesirable activities kept them busy.
The house was not maintained colourful and clean.
They could not welcome the king.


There was a pause as the past I remembered.

None lives here now- the wind answered
blowing helter-skelter with smell of dust.


The Past
History is jotting down of events and phenomena
a part of the past gone by but not the whole of it.
Past is vibrantly living in us
as every moment of our life goes into the past
but we live; an indivisible, undeniable entity.
All our thoughts and ideas in ether
all belongings
including cassettes, videos, C.D.s and memories
to be played and replayed,
are obtained from the repository of the past.
It is puzzling to say that something
or some entity has passed away
for nothing really passes away
but changes form and quality.
Past is like dust which has
a lugubrious tenacity of coming back
even when flown with water,
as if from eternity.
No dust that gathers in your surrounding
did adorn your grandmothers belongings
but strange that no dust can be identified
belonging to you or to your grandmother;
dust flows and gathers like time
coming in or passing out;


time is a dusty affair.

Past is like voiceless echo of the sound
present in our mind and sense
perceptible in its essence.
Present is a ghost of the past
for ever with us, guiding.
Mr. Harris and Srimati Nandarani
at the old age become conservatives
like their fathers or forefathers
which they were not at their early age.
Many Indians live their lives
exactly as their fathers
in business or in a grocers shop
or simply as a talkative good-for-nothing;
a lady dies copying her mother
throughout her life.
Past is inseparable from the present
as present lives forever in the past.


The Events
Last of them, a couple, left an hour before noon
it started from the second midday
in a two-day literary festival;
taking leave one by one.
The third is a no-programme Sunday
many left in the morning flight
alone I stay put
in the vacant guest house;
a hiatus after tremendous hullabaloo
as if nothing happened in the past two days;
a gulf of silence
island of non-existence
nothing prevails:
No talks no grudge no banter or smile
no hearty laughter or impatience senile.
All impressions and remembrances
as if in a faded film
dumped in the waste-bin of time.
Life after life
events after events
it has been happening;
everything is in a flux
everything flows into the void
yet they take place
the evanescent events.


Remembering my Mother

She was my earthly mother

I lost her before my teens
It is the story of one of the millions
Of such mothers and their progeny;
It is not important as news or fact
Nothing matters in any way
Other than remaining as a human story
Of birth and death and decay
But my mothers touch and care
On birth, in cradle and childhood fair
Her pleasure and pain, wrath and fear
Affairs with me intimate
Are still carried in my veins, skin and memory
In my heart and brain, all the parts of my being.
Of whatever type the child is
Mother always remembers it
So long as she lives;
Mothers child remembers the mother,
alive or not, so long as he or she lives;
This is the human mothers story
Differing from the animal mothers
Which takes all care of her offspring, a colt or a chick
But once its wings are grown she forgets her sibling


As the young ones forget their mother when adult;

The story is of purely biological order.
But the human mother always remembers her children
She lives in their heart, let the children
Take all care of her wherever she is;
This is a pure human story
Different from the zoological history.


School bag tied to her back
looking in front she walks;
no more whimpering
to get into her mothers lap
no more carried in a push cart
no more sucking her thumb, she walks alert
leaving all who reared
freeing herself from those
who so long for her cared
forgetting her lollipop days
she walks apace
with her bright eyed juvenile friends;
she walks, dreamy eyes, towards the future
like all her known and unknown predecessors.


If the door of an old iron chest
By a mismatch door replaced
With latches fitted opposite each others place
And two knobbed handles in very insufficient spaceIt is doubtful if the chest be ever faithful
In responding to the masters pull.
Anything genuine has its intrinsic value,
Of whatever the quality, it is true.
All items misfit, countermatch, hybrid or just for show
Would give you trouble, today or tomorrowIt is applicable to humans and things alike
Now or in future the idea must strike.


At the river bank

And quiet flows the river
without a ripple or shiver
trees stand windless
not even a whiff in space
no leaf shakes, no sound;
fishes are sleeping
sweating fishermen around
have lost all zeal
in the act of rowing
their boats stand still
the water shines like a mirror
naked boy looks at his figure;
the world without a name
halts at the bank of the river
no one knows when it came
none, if it was already there.


The Grasshood
just few leaves
few stems and seeds
with light body
humble under feet
mowed by machine
neglected like street urchin
but head always high
grass lives and dies and lives
feeds innumerable herbivores
who are food to carnivores;
grass like paddy undulating in moonlight
feeds millions of men and mice
grass like wheat feeds the hungry human tide
grass like bamboo covers large chunks of wood
raising its head high, characteristic of grasshood,
helping elephants rats and men to lead healthy life;
grass grows covering miles and miles
but man reduces its size
killing it with might
telling the earth with perfect satire
that he never wishes
such trifle thing and slight
as grass to interfere


in his high-handedness,
that man can prepare
uprooters, satellites and cutters
poisonous nuclear arsenals
et al to put grass to death;
happy grass never dies
living humbly with the head high
man lives and lives
dying to himself many times
until one day to realize
that grass like earth
and wind and space
and water and fire
and breath
is superior
to man


The Profiles of Birds

High growth and thick foliage
in an enclosure opposite our garden
invited the golden orioles to stay on;
often they perch on a bo tree or an old banyan
sometimes chasing the irritant house crows
sometimes coming close to us for a short stay
soon to fly away.

As the summer through rains was evaporating

I found them often absenting;
the idea that they might have migrated
gave birth to a feeling of remorse
for not snapping them during their course.

Bright golden-yellow with sharp black patches

preening and pruning with beak
gnawed at my heart, incited me to seek
and catch them to keep in memory digital.

And then suddenly- peu peu peuthe call reverberated in the air;
if not all, it must have reached a few.
Ready with camera held in two hands


unafraid and free;

seeing me close by, posing the instrument to catch
as I stood below the drum-stick tree
they were spreading wings, preening and pruning

they began love making, two of them dancing

jovially, jumping from branch to branch;
it seemed entirely unusual and rare
for them to so behave with me so near.

I began clicking to catch and imprison the beauties

forgetting that the Sun was at its youthstanding before me; a morning sooth
like a real cul-de-sac.
I caught, alas, the shadows of the birds,
profiles surrounded by twisting branches and dark leaves,
colourless facades.

Though in my heart I have kept their images and song

the idea to imprison them was perhaps wrong.
I strongly feel that all this has been
with the intervention of a presence unseen
for things evanescent in any sense
are to be realized only in essence.


The Lovers of the Dark

Darkness keeps them stark
Bright light kills
They live in the caves dark
Spider like tiny blind things;
The aboriginal heritage of the earth
Man has abandoned project mining
Left the rocky caves wishing
To protect the lovers of the dark,
Near Pannawonica in Australia,
One of the earthly sites.


Insects Nest
When it came and built the frame
on the wall,
briskly I bruised it
by a finger.
Twice it came again
I ignored it then.
Now on the wall it has a shelter
at the back of my computer;
a frail one inch hollow tube
upside open downside closed
clipped to the wall.
Its a tiny wasp
may be with family it lives;
they come and go.
Aint all the great constructions
like insects nest
brittle and fragile
sure to go
today or tomorrow
measured by time?
Why bother about any mark made of lime?


Ants Hut
The mother weaver ant
stands silently
in its hutthe queen is rubbing its chin
with its antennae;
thoughtless for the moment.
Two of its scions are resting
folding their hind legs
stretching their fore legs
drawing their heads inside.
Leafy walls on all sides
leafy roof, leafy floor
look like mud-floored hut,
a lull in the noon, peaceful.
Daughters seek direction, even in rest;
forever workers.
The queen ant sniffs, releases pheromonefor the move next
they wait


2A Creative Artiste

The whole day it worked

to build the single nest
with immense care and patience
bringing the mud balls to the tree trunk
innumerable times in a day
using mud and saliva kneading a dough
all for a single larva to grow;
artisan wasp is a potter superb
an artiste
without the least idea to show.
Bringing an wounded insect
for larvas food it put it in the nest
before sealing it with mud ball and saliva
using its leg, body and antennae.
Nature with its creative agents
creates everywhere artistic things
which the men imitate.
Nothing can be created, not even dreamt about
scientific artistic romantic
realistic surrealistic or bombastic
unless in the material or the subtle plane it exists.


Bumblebee Bamboozles
Flashing like a busy black diamond
Appearing from an unknown beyond
Settling almost at your nose tip
Whirling still with a whiff
Giving a momentary shock it flits easily
As youre nonplussed, in flurry
And settles on a flower, knotty bumblebee;
Whimsical and dangerous it seems.
At a great speed fluttering its wings
Humming restlessly here and there
Black strong and stout, whiz past you
Bamboozling like a tormentor,
A perfect gift from God; true.
Scientists bewilder how in the air does it run
With its heavy body weight, disproportionate
To its swiftly moving light wingspan;
Its a violation of aerodynamic laws, they bet.
But there are laws beyond assumption
More wonderment at every step beyond our horizon;
Nature has more in store
To shock the recalcitrant therefore.

Fall of a Habitat
They have been facing dangers for centuries
since mans appearance on earth, like their colleagues.
Friends like Lord Rama after their age vanished
like many birds and animals who are now extinct.
The Lion-tailed Macaque of the Nelliampathy valley
is seriously thoughtful sitting on a high bough,
part of a big canopy: its shining black body
with white hair covering the face and neck like mane
looks like man with some difference of complexion;
The primate is mans very old mate.

Suddenly they flash upon his inward eye:

high trees and arboreal pathways are all in the vicinity
countless monkeys eating, sitting, running and mating;
trees give them all to sleep and play
as to the other animals in land, cave and waterway.

But the sweet dream suddenly past away

ending the realm of the forest
with throbbing life, liberty and plenty of rest.
Many fruit giving trees and arboreal pathways are gone
heart of the forest is lost to the age of plantation
as it is elsewhere lost to the mining spree.


Giant Malabar Squirrels seldom fly and jump

Nilgiri Langurs move in fear, rarely romp;
coffee, tea, rubber and minerals have stolen mens hearts,
the peculiar animals are never happy to live without rewards;
adventurous, profit monger and corrupt,
raping and ravishing Nature they live
inching to their ruins refusing to share a natural habitat
with Nature or live naturally; a mantra to survive.


The Dust
Made of many heterogeneous elements
fissiparous by nature,
dust assumes its own character
with a smell of its own, scentless.
It has a lugubrious tenacity
to spread and settle in everything;
after dusting, brushing and cleaning
as if from eternity
it comes back eventually
even when flown with water.
Yet no dust that did gather
in the surroundings of our
great old grandmother
are seen anywhere
in our ambience.
No dust can be identified
yet the dust has a dignified role
to play in our life as a whole
with its own character, feeling and sense.
No dust can be held in place
as it evades, evaporates or changes face.
Like corporal life dust
cannot hold very fast.


Death of Roses
When the rose was there
Fragrance wafted in the air
Bees were busy at sucking
Traders were going for plucking
Struck by wanton beauty
Rose-lovers stopped the robbery.
But it faded away soon
As if from morning to noon.
As it kissed the ground
Petal by petal, red-pinkish
Without a murmur or sound
Sweet-sodden, lovelorn, nostalgic
The wind became rusty and heavy
They thronged around the body
To silently mourn the crumbling
To wail from suppressed suffering.

Some humans spread more fragrance

After they cross the mortal space.


Life and Dream

Whether life is an amalgam of dreams
or dreams are created out of the life-streams
is an enigma supreme.
Swimming in the vital quagmire
consisting of sada ripus
life of fear, frustration and desire
creates incoherent and melancholic dreams
or palatable or hallucinatory stories
out of the subconscious mud.
Our dreams are mostly autophagous
feeding on our lifes past; subconscious rut.
Rarely are they prognostic or prophetic
seldom are they ominous or portentous
psychic or futuristic.
Living on different levels of consciousness
ambitious people travel through day-dreams
which often get fulfilled by strong will
but fate sometimes throws a spanner in the field.
While some bavard live on the surface
creating fuss
some are reticent
living in the unfathomable depth
of lifes ocean;


they skip most of the lifes celebrations.

Life and dreams
cannot be interpreted in few lines;
there are exceptions, there are aberrations
depending on pre natal inheritance
or other unknown developments.
Only Yogis may come out of this mud
immersed in Yoga-nidra, self controlled,
moving in wakefulness and sleep as well;
everything may be possible for them.
Whether life is an amalgam of dreams
or dreams are created out of the life-streams
is an enigma supreme.


Fluttering before Settling at the Right Place

Fact is that we cant live in the depth
Of our being with deep faith
Covering always our face
With one or the other kind of veil
Always away from the real
Drifting from surface to surface
Either in a state of surfeit or emptiness
We go on acting
Other than our own role
Indulging in rigmarole
Like a butterfly
Trying to settle at the right place
Fluttering constantly like a sly
Away from the truth of the thing;
To find the truth of our being
Let us dip our antennae
Into the nectar of the flower
With the OM falling like a shower;
The butterfly is self-absorbed
Beyond any dilemma.


The Paper Boat

The paper boat
I set adrift
In my childhood
On the flooded road
Of a metropolis
Has just arrived
This rainy evening
At my doorstep
Under full sail
Inviting me
To set out on it
For a nouvelle


Flower of the Future

Unknown and uncertain
Are the results
Of the mystic bud
Blooming unseen
While shimmering hope
Is rising up
From the luminous vast
That the flower of the future
In harmony with Nature
For a Divine purpose
Has been opening its petals
From ages far behind
Towards a time
Peaceful and glorious.


What is Impending?

Is it the shadow of a growing dark cloud

over the pond in a moonless night?
Is it the voiceless echo of a sound
flashed in the dark announcing the flight.