Sputtering Truths

In the web of human desire

Came a voice.

It held me tight

Saying more with the touch

Than words could signify

In the web of human desire

Were thoughts manifold

Asking you and me, and us

Where to now?

And you wanted to answer

Dreamland, twirling love, HER

In the web of human desire

I faithfully remain

Waiting for the sputtering truth

As the voice whispers

"I'm sorry, he doesn't understand"

The Court of the Kings

"He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude."

Come back Marquez.

The Court of the Kings

The court of the kings is now OPEN.

Amidst the light and shade,

Amidst the heat and cold,

Scrunching drying leaves underfoot,

I make my way to the court of the kings.

Momo, the wise one and I walk steadily on.

The trees couldn’t care less, standing tall—

Frontiers to the doors of the court of the kings.

Momo, stops, smells, forages.

She has a keener sense of this land, this world.

Where time freezes. Where you are not atop the food chain.

Where leopards make you look down or else be eaten.

Where a pack of wild boars is ferocity sublime.

Harsher, more brutal than political thugs in this jungle of lights.

I tread the stone path, the goat trails.

Hoping for an audience at the court of the kings.

The watering hole is nearby. Still, murky waters—

Witness to hundreds of communal gatherings.

And here, I am the outcast.

The human is frail, the human THINKS.

And will alone demand an audience at the court of the kings.

The climb is steep and the clouds, oh the clouds!

They remind me of you—

Whimsical, dreamy and dark

Whimsical, dreamy and dark.

But never without a silver lining.

No wonder then, that I cherish you.

And yet, when I hold you, touch you—

I feel nothing. A white incompleteness.

That mocks my smile. I nod to myself.

This is what the court of the kings must unveil to me.

The path now begins to widen and I pick up my pace.

I slacken when a glimpse of the king

Numbs me to slow down; a lump develops in my throat.

Just at the foot of her towering 27,000 feet height

You leave a little piece of you.

A cloud shadowing that village of stories.

Is it Macondo that I see? I awaken from this memory.

The court of the kings stands before me.

Snowpeaked, towering, silent. And still.

They are STILL.

Its springtime now and the frenzy

Of birds, bugs, pollen, flowers and trees

Murmurs around me. Like a house of wedding preparations.

The court of the kings I visit again.

It’s been a year now

Since we sat here, in wild boar trails.

You and I too conspicuous, too cautious

To stand at their doorway.

We spent an afternoon of sunshine

Making memories keep fears away.

Who knew that these memories would turn to fears

When you’re gone so far away.

I’m here now with a fur ball, that wags and licks.

And the queen of that court—Nanda Devi

Shows me—YOU. You, drenched in pure snow.

I can see now that I did not need an audience

At the court of the kings.

They decided to show me merely, the distance

The distance of life I have to conquer—

Of villages, soft brown hills, forests and a barren loneliness—

All, to reach you.

No matter then, that memories fade away.

After all, distances only become shorter,

Don’t they?

Whispers

He nods his head and folds his hands respectfully

“jai” says he, as you nod past him

He pines after his father leaves

For work, to cut firewood for the rich

The rich, pretending to absorb the forest in heated rooms and in luxury

“papa ji, papa ji” he yells and let’s tears take over.

For he knows that his daddy won’t turn.

He plays with the dogs and watches

Just watches his pregnant mother grunt under the load of grass on her head.

He likes the city girl in the pink hat

She brings candy and a camera

And he can smile for the lenses in oversized glasses

That make him look like a metamorphosed bee.

Camus would have been proud or sad.

He likes the city girl for the funny things she has

But he hates her for taking her dad away

He doesn’t know why she does it.

He doesn’t know what service or staff mean

But he does know “Aubert” his friend.

“Aubert, aubert” he cries

And Robert always comes. Panting and delighted

Always wagging his tail for the boy in the red jacket and a tiny ponytail.

He listens to the radio while his mummy and papa ji converse in low tones

They seem unhappy, upset. But he didn’t wet the bed.

It must be that voice on the radio.

Next morning, he flits happily across the fields

Skidding, stumbling but running toward papa ji

In his joy, he cries out the new word from the radio.

“Rape, rape, papa ji rape”

When your three year old knows without meaning a word

When your three year old is happy to sing it

You wonder, where did we go wrong?

You wonder, how the pure forests of cedar and silver oak

Now lie polluted with the echoes of city crime

Through the voice of a child.

And I, the city girl, I hang my head in shame.

In shame for the ruins, the smoke, the pollution, the brutality

That the city breezes onto a child

A mere child in the forest.

Scrabbling Peaks

We will hear words that never existed
If I was in a scrabble bag,
I wonder what alphabet I'd be.
What words I'd help make
At the behest of your fingers, your mind.

I'm sure I don't even remember
How sweet it used to be
When tea and a friend sat on a bench
Letting the clutter of words free them, free us.
From awkward conversations playing hide and seek.
Between reality, facts, love, concealment and
A bunch of other friends.

A mere child's play of hide and seek,

Your fingers slide across gently, making a word.
That rhymes with the smile whistling on your lips.
And I wonder what alphabet I'd be.
What words I'd help make
That add sense to your life and to you.

Snow melts away and I think of the sun.
Rainbows and resorts are good words.
But is it a free meal if you won?

Metal jarrs, like money.
And makes me wonder
What words I'd help make
When tea and a friend sit on a bench,
Making words come alive. In you and me.