Passerby

I was but a passerby

I saw you but from a frosted window pane,

A city came alive

You never let me in,

Into your many lives

I stood looking at all the things you were,

Your beauty mesmerized,

And just when I felt I knew you,

You left me again surprised.

 

I was but a passerby,

When you pushed past me to get to work,

And when you sat staring at the distant tide,

When you aimlessly walked home

 

I was but a passerby,

When you cruelly crushed dreams everyday

Of a million hopeful eyes,

And weaved new ones every night

 

I was but a passerby,

When you stayed awake all night,

In the alleys that breathed a different life,

Of the underbelly of dark, dark lies

 

In a million ways, in all these days,

I hated you with all my heart

Till now no more hate remains

And I leave now simply because,

I’m no longer just a passerby.

Khyal…

जब अधूरे चाँद पर ले जाओ,

कस के मेरा हाथ थम लेना ज़रूर,

किनारों पर से गिर न जाऊ कही…

जभी मेरे लिए coffee बनाओ,

तोह फून्ख मारना ज़रूर,

होंठ न जल जाये कही…

किसी शाम मेरी अगर याद आ जाये,

तोह आँखे बंद  कर लेना ज़रूर,

लम्हा न खो जाये कही…

यु ही कही बैठे हुए आँखे नम हो जाये,

तोह मेरा नाम ले लेना ज़रूर,

तन्हाई न छु जाये कही…

Rocky Mountain High

A song by John Denver and for my new found love of the mountains….

He was born in the summer of his 27th year
Comin’ home to a place he’d never been before
He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again
You might say he found a key for every door

When he first came to the mountains his life was far away
On the road and hangin’ by a song
But the string’s already broken and he doesn’t really care
It keeps changin’ fast and it don’t last for long

But the Colorado rocky mountain high
I’ve seen it rainin’ fire in the sky
The shadow from the starlight is softer than a lullabye
Rocky mountain high

He climbed cathedral mountains, he saw silver clouds below
He saw everything as far as you can see
And they say that he got crazy once and he tried to touch the sun
And he lost a friend but kept his memory

Now he walks in quiet solitude the forest and the streams
Seeking grace in every step he takes
His sight has turned inside himself to try and understand
The serenity of a clear blue mountain lake

And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I’ve seen it rainin’ fire in the sky
You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply
Rocky mountain high

Now his life is full of wonder but his heart still knows some fear
Of a simple thing he cannot comprehend
Why they try to tear the mountains down to bring in a couple more
More people, more scars upon the land

And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I’ve seen it rainin’ fire in the sky
I know he’d be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly
Rocky mountain high

It’s Colorado rocky mountain high
I’ve seen it rainin’ fire in the sky
Friends around the campfire and everybody’s high
Rocky mountain high

A little bit of you

A night so silent, not a wind in sight,
A darkness so plain, falling over the night,
In the stillness, something was amiss I knew,
All I wanted was, a little bit of you

The mountains called and the chill descended,
A bat flew by, the quietness offended,
A soft sorrow crept as the star remained unmoved,
If only I had a little bit of you

Somewhere far away, wind gasped,
And just for a moment, a leaf dances,
Once again, I could hear the owl hoot,
It was all here, except, a little bit of you

The Last Song of Dusk…

It was only several years after it was written that I came across a work of prose which was in fact poetry. Not more, not less, but poetry. ‘The Last Song of Dust’ is not just any poem. It is a sad one. A melancholy ballad that fills you up with itself till in a gesture of respect or out of desperation, tears begin to shed. I read this book one day, from dawn till dusk and cried my heart out. It must not be mistaken that the story is one filled with tragedy which warrants this catharsis. It is undoubtedly tragic, but it is not the death and separation that makes you cry. It is the style.

The book flows out in volumes of sorrow. Like a child lost. Like the night. Like Dariya Mahal. Engulfing. This doesn’t necessarily go to say that it is a spectacular book, or even an excellent one. It is just a little piece of dark magic, above mere literary accolades. To measure its contents and grade and judge it, would be sinful. It is not even something that will be remembered and included in academic texts to be learnt by rote by bored students in faraway inconsequential universities. It almost an insult.

What strikes me about this book is its ability to stare at me. Not just the panther, but every character stares at me. I stare at a little bit of each character in me. The wildness of Nandini, the calm of Anuraddha, the silence of Vardhaman or the wordless innocence of Shloka. Or was it the other way around?

I will never know. What I do know is that it was written by a 26-year-old, which only reminds me, that it’s always possible.

Poems that Rhyme

The shadow of a pen on paper in the candle light

A lock of hair that just won’t stay right

Old greeting cards that say ‘I love you’

And pretty pictures that say ‘Seasons Greetings’ too

Paper napkins in coffee shops with tea

With a little piece of cake for you and me

Children who scribble with crayons on the wall

And a little lamp burning in a lonely hall

Memories of warmth and a nice evening walk

Meaningless conversations and a meaningful talk

Lying down on the cold floor in summers

Of rock bands I don’t get- Guitarists and drummers

Waiting for it to rain by the window sill

Waiting for the clouds to loom over the hill

A song from about ten years ago

A wildflower voice and away I go

Of missing someone in the dead of the night

The shadow of a pen on paper in the candle light