Mysore skies

The sky in my home town
Wears an amber gown
With streaks of orange
In a border golden-brown

The Sun casts one last glance
Making an inventory
The Hill, the River, the Palace
Everything's intact

Stars in the clear sky
Hang like silver charms
The Moon's an amulet
Guarding the city at night

Hey, why's the town glum?
It has a brooding frown
Pining for its children
Away from home

Consoling, singing lullabies
Tucking it to bed
The sky embraces my town
In a warm, tight hug.

Meghdooth

A distant cloud catches my sight

As if Australia were afloat

Nearly so, Adelaide's a greyish blur

I've seen this before, I kid you not

One evening fifteen years ago

Unburdening, my lungs dried out

For a young heart prematuredly battered

The endless sky held escape routes

Gliding clouds guarded bitter secrets

Untethered by imposed reality

Integrating, disintegrating, a bead

In a string of eternal reincarnation

Undying, free-floating spirit

It stood above me

Waiting for updates

And I compared notes

Farewell my friend, I wish you well

Some day when I look up

Will you still be there?

I'll bring new tales with a fresh start

Each time, let's erase the past.

Racing with Time

Remember that day?

We met in an open field, years ago

Walked hand in hand

Promised to never let go

Strumming under sunlight tender

Was dawn's freshest air

Caressing abundant green, Our hearts

Struck by boundless joy

Who were we? Where from? Our roots?

The past was a blur, really.

The present golden; Our dreams

Took flight into a future unknown

We walked, We sprinted

Panting for breathe,We ran...

Now! This moment, when our bodies are warm

Let's embrace in each others arm.

And I ran my fingers

Through the contours of your face

It felt like cold metal

How come I was numb?

The air was heavy

My chest hollow

My face chipped away

The limbs pulled down

Our wings clipped, roots strewn

The future was present;You, inanimate,

As I crumbled to dust,

The storm was gone.

An Open Letter to Lord Ganesha

Dear Lord Ganesha,

IISiddhi VinayakaII IIVighnavinashakaII ...Lord... Lord... I am very scared. I have a feeling that something terrible will befall us. That is why I have decided to write this Open Letter to you. Since you are a celestial being and might not be familiar with terrestrial modes of communication, let me explain to you what an Open letter is. Unlike earlier, where letters used to be folded and sealed and opened only on delivery, open letters remain open...well, all the time. It is usually read by everyone else before the person who it is actually addressed to. My guess is that before it reaches you, Naarada Muni would have already gotten the wind of the contents here and would have given you a hint about the whole thing.

Lord, do you know that I find Narada Muni’s job very fascinating? Collecting intelligence and passing it on to people for the ‘greater good’. My job is similar... in a very different way. Anyway, where was I? Yes... Ekadanta, Vakratunda... Lord... I am very scared. Aren’t you the Lord of Lords, the only God who can remove all obstacles from our path?

Now, haven’t we been told to invoke your name before we begin any task? Yes or no? Yes. And yet... and yet... what did we do? We started a task last week, without as much remembering you. We started Cow protection. Yes Lord, we did. How irreverent of us not to have remembered you; Blasphemous!

Ever since then, there is some anxiety nagging me. I think it is just safe to confess it all before you. 

See God, it is like this: You know Church Street right? Of course you would know. It is the place where some unholy elements placed a bomb recently. After that unfortunate blast we discovered that the several piles of garbage on the road, in front of the restaurants and the Pollution Control Board, was an ideal place for these miscreants to drop off packages containing preposterous plots. So it was all cleaned up. Since then, I have not spotted any rodents here. Suddenly, the day before yesterday, when I was having my favourite Samosa Chaat at a shop here, I saw a bandicoot looking up at me from the railings of the drain in front of the shop. Everyone around me saw it too, and was horrified. That is when it occurred to me Lord, that we had breached protocol. We began the series of protection, with the Cow (after protecting the Cow, we protected Women by banning a film, protected Indian culture by banning the word ‘Lesbian’ from a film)... Thoo, look at the kind of words I am using in a letter to you. Buddhi Pradayaka, forgive me. Now, where was I? Ah, yes... As Holy as the Cow might be, how could we overlook you, Vighna Vinashaka- the destroyer of all obstacles?

Mooshika Vaahana, you ride on a mouse. We all know what happened to Chandra, the Moon, when he made fun of you riding your Vaahana. He was cursed. The curse was partially revoked by you later (It was so powerful that even you could not take it back completely) that even today, whoever looks at his face on Bhaadrapada Shukla Chathurthi, will have to bear with false allegations levelled against them. There are different versions of how exactly this incident took place, Lord. But what we have understood in essence, is to not look at Chandra on your birthday. Raama Raama... Who would want a curse like that?! That Chandra should have known better and curtailed his ego. This is the problem with those who are too much into their looks. Chee! But good that he was made to learn his lesson. Now, you’d think we would have learnt our lesson too. The mere mortals that we are, sometimes reason eludes us.

God, by sending that bandicoot in front of me, you reminded us that we should have started our protection drive with the mouse and extended it to the whole rodent family. Before it is too late, we should rectify this. We should immediately seek a ban on rat poison, that rodent-torture inducing man-made spiteful vicious venom. Plague be upon those who dissent this!

All rodents must be allowed to roam around freely. It is our duty to feed them and keep them healthy. Is ours a Western culture to chase away mice by calling the Pied Piper? Chee, No!

Once that is done, Oh Elephant-faced God, we must ensure that all elephants are allowed to walk free anywhere they please. (I hope you forgive us for the past, where our obese king used to ride on the elephant during Dasara festivities.)

That said, how can we forget your family? Lord Shiva, your father, sports a snake around his neck. Bhaarat has been called a land of snake charmers. We must not merely charm them but protect them too. Of course, we would also have to ensure that nowhere in our land should your father, the Lord Shiva’s neck accessory, mistake your official vehicle, Mooshika, for food. Well, that would just be horrible...One religious sentiment of ours wrongfully hurting the other.

Next we have your brother, Karthikeya, Lord Muruga who sits on a peacock. We must stop enclosing them in Zoos and start adopting Peacock/peahens, at least one per home. We, in Bengaluru, most often don’t have space to keep our two wheelers inside our compounds. Be that as it may, if we cannot even do this small task in your name, of what use are we? That covers your family, I hope. 

Moving on, Lord Vishnu, the Shesha Shayana’s interest is partially taken care of by protecting your father’s neck piece. But the God of Gods that he is, he has ten avatars. We have to begin at the beginning: Matsyaavatara (how dare mere mortals cast fishing net to capture the Lord?), Kurmaavatara (If a hare ever races a tortoise, the tortoise must be declared the winner), Narasimhaavatara (buildings must be mowed down, jungles be restored, lion has to be declared as the King of the jungle again). But the king of the jungle, we must ensure, keeps away from the Holy cow and Lord Krishna, Govardhana’s flock (sheep and goat). We also have Varaahaavatara; the downright derogatory Swine flu should be named after some other animal.

There is no women’s representation, God. Kaali matha, Chamundeshwari, the Goddess of courage, has the tiger as her accomplice (Misuse of the name, for instance, as in Tiger Woods, must be banned). Here is a list of protections to begin with, Lord.

But I must bring something to your notice Lord. Those smug looking Cows are under the assumption that they are protected and are busy feeding on polythene covers from the garbage mounds on street corners. It’s all an unholy affair, no? What to do?

Please revert back ASAP.

IIEkadantaII IIVakratundaII Namo, Namo.

Black and White

His chequered shirt
Black and White
Lines of Black
Defining blocks of White

No crease in sight
It was all sorted right
In Black and White;
It was Black or White.

She was his thought astray
An aberration he'd say,
No place for that streak of grey
Could fastidious men ever sway?

He looked at her yet again;
"May be yes, may be not,"
It was neither Black nor White;
She just didn't fit this block or that.

This streak of grey would reiterate
To visit often as a stray thought.

Anna's Sorting Cap? No Thankyou.

Between the ruling class and the cattle class is now emerging another class, the candle class. This is what I christen the new class of people who are out on streets with candles at the drop of a cap (hats are out, caps are in vogue as you know). As a reporter in a newspaper, my job demands that I make my presence felt in places where I am assigned to be present despite my ideological contradictions with the issue... no complaints. Anyway, one such recent series of events was the Anna Hazare/ Lokpal protests in Hyderabad. I spent a considerable amount of time at various protest places recording the events at the venue. I was, least to say, overwhelmed to see a thousand people gathered for a protest near the Husain Sagar late in the evening one day.
Chants of Vande Mataram and Bharat Mata Ki Jai reverberated across the lake. While students, young professionals, senior citizens stood there with candles shouting slogans hailing the country, the patriotism generated gave me goose bumps. My cynicism for the protest aside, it was amazing to see so many people gather for a cause. The lake looked magnificent with the warmth of a thousand candles lit by its side. As I looked around trying to sink in the enthusiasm of the protestors, I spotted Nagaraju.
Nagaraju-- I place his age around 8 years-- had sunk in the fervour of the place and was running all along the protest venue with a candle stuck to a cardboard in his hand. The ensuing conversation between me and the little boy outweighed the overwhelming patriotism built by slogan-shouters around me. After the boy tired himself out running with the candle, I approached him. The dialogue (in Telugu) went like this—
Me: Why are you here?
Him: My house is in the opposite lane. I saw people here, so I came.
Me: Why are you carrying the candle in your hand?
Him: I like candles. It’s nice to light them.
Me: Mmm.. that’s nice. Why do you think all these people here are holding candles?
Him: Who knows? (thinks for a moment)... it seems somebody got beaten up somewhere. So these people are supporting him.
Me: Who got beaten up, where?
Him: Didn’t you watch TV? They are showing the man’s picture on TV. (thinks again and adds).. he wasn’t beaten up, he was arrested.. I don’t know why.
He then shows me the banners around, points out to Anna Hazare’s picture and tells me that he is the man arrested.
Me: (totally impressed) Do you know his name?
Him: Mm... no. It is written here on my badge.
Points out to his badge which says “Support Lokpal”
Him: His name is...mm... Lokpal. See the badge?
Me: Lokpal sure sounds like a nice name...but that’s not his name. His name is Anna Hazare.
He doesn’t like my intervention with the name as Anna Hazare seemed a complicated name for him to repeat .He just nods.
Me: What’s your name? Which school do you go to?
Him: Nagaraju. My school is nearby.
Me: Did you come here with your parents?
Him: I came alone... (with pride) I take care of vehicles in the parking lot here in the evenings.
Me: (stumped) Ok...what does your father do?
Him: He passed away.
Me: Mom?
Him: She works as a labourer

I point to two college students standing nearby holding placard and candles and tell him that they would be able to explain to him why they are holding candles and that he should know why they are here. I and Nagaraju approach the guys with candles. I tell them that the boy wants to know why everyone here is holding candles. So could they please tell him?

As the two guys stand there without a reply, I have now churned Nagaraju’s impatience. He tells me that he wants to teach me how to pass my finger through the flame without getting it burnt... and oh...there is print on his T-shirt... would it get burnt if he held the candle near the print?
I tell him that if anybody sees me let him take up either of these activities, I will be thrashed. So Nagaraju could you please throw the candle and run back home? Meanwhile, the candle blows off due to breeze. He is now so-not-pleased with me. “It’s nice to pass your finger through the flame. You distracted me and now the candle has blown off,”

Before I could reply, he runs from the place and disappears into the crowd of slogans. I hope nobody gives him another candle.

Day 2, Venue 2:

Slogan-shouting protestors have formed a circle and somewhere from inside the crowd I hear the organisers prompting slogans over the mic. Since the protest was open to everyone, it was hard to find out who organised it and brought the crowd together. I try to jostle my way in and reach the interior ring of the crowd. It appeared to me like the Chakravyuha, a war tactic adopted by our kings in the bygone era. Suddenly somebody pushes me out, “Get out, you cannot come so close to the organisers. Move back,” OK chivalrous young man, that was rude.
“Who are you?” another guy asks.
I show my “PRESS” ID card.

“Oh... sorry madam.. don’t mind him. He doesn’t know anything,”
“I want to meet one of your organisers please,”
“He...He...Woh kya hai na madam...there is hierarchy.. .first the volunteers, then members, then organisers and the organisation president. I am a volunteer. You can ask me what you want,”
(very well...this sure looks like a democratic protest...f***k you)
“I want to meet the organisers” (persistence is the mantra)

The guy who asked me to get out was still shouting at me from behind. “Didn’t I tell you earlier? Move out and come back after 9 30 pm,” Could I punch him in his face? A glare was all I could afford. Getting to the organisers was my focus.
The other guy responds. Hee hee.. .ignore him madam. He is not even one of the volunteers. He is here from sometime shouting slogans and trying to show-off.
“Can I meet your organisers please?”
“Let’s get out of here and talk madam, I will ask one of the organisers to come out,” Phew! Thank you!!

While I waited for the organisers, someone was saying on the mic that the government had made a mockery of democracy. Vande Mataram chorus followed...

Day 2, Venue 3:

A group of retired senior citizens are on hunger strike in support of Anna and Lokpal. When I reached the place, it was swarming with television crews and newspaper reporters. All eyes were on one of the ministers of the opposition party who dropped into the protest venue unexpectedly. He spoke for nearly 20 minutes and threatened the government of “serious” consequences if any harm was done to Anna. Applause followed. He called the present government useless and with another round of threat and another round of applause, he was gone. TV crews, reporters followed suit.

The minister, it seems, struck the wrong chord with few of the elderly gentlemen who had sacrificed their breakfast and lunch for the protest. While I hung around jotting down names of people, a visibly annoyed protestor walked up to the dais and picked up a quarrel with the organisers for allowing the minister to step into the place. On finding me there with a notepad and pen in hand, he figured that I was one of the mediapersons and explained to me the reason for his anger. “We are sitting here from morning without food. This minister walks in and all the cameras are on him. Everything we did from morning is now a waste. They will put his photo in the paper, not ours. Tell me, isn’t it true? Whose photo will you print?”

Oh-ho...umm. “I don’t know whose photo will appear, Sir...” Ok, I partially understand his predicament. The minister was there for publicity. But if you, gentlemen are fighting for Lokpal, why are you worried about your photos in newspaper?

The protestors insist that I take along with me photos of their protests. Now, I couldn’t be unkind to senior men.
As I drive away from the place, I find it hard not to be cynical about the way we are expressing our protest against corruption. How can thousands of people mindlessly get swayed by this? By doing this, are we telling our already corrupt officials that we will sway to anybody’s tunes if it is packaged in the form of ideals? I personally am all for ideals and against corruption. But, mustn’t we be careful not to get misled by an issue in the name of ideals?

The cause Anna Hazare started out with might have been one of concern. But what followed it is politics, propaganda, publicity stunts.

Mute speech

The ink is dry,
My pen is parched;
A stream of thoughts
Words refuse to flow.

A poet, author, am I,
They call me so- whatever!
I am the poet, author
What would they know?

I pant as I trek this hill
With my bag of paper, pens
I want to trek up and ink it down
I huff and pant to reach the top...

...Here I am, atop the hill
On a sunny day, a summer noon
Miles of landscape stretched around me
Patches of green, grey, reddish-brown

Green, grey, reddish-brown
Will sing in chorus,
To the tune of my words...
I wait for the music to play.

I look around, all objects of beauty
Stand in silence.
The hills are mute, there’s no chorus
The landscape is mute, there’s silence

I am the poet, author
Why, oh, why
Don’t the objects of beauty
Sing with my words

But wait...
The ink is dry, yes it is.
My pen is parched; Waits for the ink.
Words won’t flow; they won’t.

The ink is dry, why?
My pen is parched, why?
I yell to the miles of silence
Around me.

Won’t flow, flow...
It’s parched...parched
The hills speak.
When did I lose my words?
Lost words... lost words...
The hills repeat

You ran... you ran...
And words slipped away
Until one day, words wouldn’t sing
The ink was dry and the pen parched.

Until one day,
You stood atop the hill
Waiting for the chorus
While the hills stood mute

Until one day,
You reached atop the hill; and there
You shrunk smaller and smaller
Into miles of silence.