Sounds of Silence

When the sounds of
the night
die out.

It is then that your
heart begins to speak,
the bitter sweet truth
of your reality

November 2007

Sounds of Silence

When the sounds of
the night
die out.

It is then that your
heart begins to speak,
the bitter sweet truth
of your reality

November 2007

Che

Che stares back at me,
Through the reflection of the mirror.
The face strong,
The soulful eyes, intent,
Upon the future.
Che, just where are you?
In Bolivia?
In Mexico?
In Cuba?
In Nepal?
In India?
On your chest,
In your heart,
In your spirit,
In your dreams.
He answers back

-written on-
6/10/04
7.20 p.m

Water and a Tsunami

Like a giant falling,
The earth lost its step.
Ten meters down the ocean floor fell.
For thousands of kilometers a brutal jagged incision.
The earth revolted as if hit in the solar plexus,
Its three stories high waves, worse than killer whales.
From our shanties Oh Sea Goddess,
We worshipped you,
The matriarch you presided over our lives,
Like children we lived of your bounties.
Why then did you avenge against your own.
Those who pollute your womb with oil and tar,
You have not harmed.
Who, in distant lands, insatiably feast on your jeweled fish,
pearls and coral,
You have made wealthy.
Who channel their toxic effluents and plastic into your home,
You have shielded, by distance.
For, those who produce carbon dioxide and raise your temperature,
You have forgiven,
For those who plan development projects (of oil prospecting and ports)
Along your shore,
Their sins you have ignored,
For those who test their nuclear weapons in your atolls,
You have made powerful.
It was my low roof home you swept way.
My little wooden boat, bought on a loan.
My seven months old baby girl, whom I hoped would be a doctor.
It was my community of humble poor your smothered.
I see you colluded with the Elite Gods of the Earth,
Who have pushed us to the fringes of their existence,
To live on shifting sands,
So they may easily erase the dispensable me.
Oh Mother Sea,
Your even hand of justice I do not see.
-written on-

28th December '04

7.00 a.m

In a cast

I was tightly trapped in a gilded cast.
Suffocating, within its confines.
Submerged, deep in the dark sea.
Now the cast has cracked.
And I shake vigorously.
Knowing, it will come loose.
And I shall go
Up,
Kicking my feet gently,
Back and forth.
Up
Up
Up
Till I finally break the surface.
Looking into the blue of the unreachable sky,
I shall take in a
Long,
Deep,
Sweet
Breath of life.

-written on-
2.30 p.m
15/11/04

BLOOD STAINED CLAWS

My mind is like a huge canvas,
Ripped
And fluttering in the breeze.
How, can I mother a child.
And not pass on my inherent suspicion,
towards men.
How, can I trust the child I have mothered,
With her uncle, cousin or my friend.
I cower in the face of lust,
Streaked with strains of disrespect and hatred.
Strains that like dormant rabies,
To surface,
As irreversible action.
How, can I mother a child,
And she not feel this deep distrust.
This unease,
Towards a probable perverted mind,
Lurking in a smile,
In an ugly touch,
In an ugly thought.
How can I mother a child
And not want to protect her,
To shield her,
From a scheming distorted mind.
How can I mother a child,
With my overbearing fears, creeping into actions.
And still assure her a free, innocent life.
Seeing the silent anguish in my eyes,
How can she laugh with abandon,
How can she frolic with fun,
How can she grow and be a gift to heal.
I do not know.
And should a smelly, contorted face,
Say unheard words to her.
rough calloused fingers,
Mar her innocence,
With an ugly probe.
How then shall I respond.
Should I want to
Swipe him into oblivion,
I shall be stigmatized a murderer.
but that will hardly
return the cheerful giggle to my girls face.
It will hardly dim the memory
Of a betrayed trust.
How then should I respond.
I do not know.

-written on-
26th February '03
10.10. a.m

IFFI

Walking along newly cobbled,
Luxuriously broad sidewalks,
Lined with gardens and fairy lights,
The gentle lap of the Mandovi (river),
Interrupted, only by a tiny gush of sewage through a storm drain.
Three girls on a parapet,
Admiring the moon.
“Move off” this is a ‘no smoking’ zone, commanded the security,
threateningly waving his long wooden batten.
The streets, filled with the sounds of people,
Strolling by in masses.
Stopping to hear the Gazals and Hindi film music,
Admiring the props and the artificial Tulas,
Gazing at paintings in makeshift art galleries,
Buying Bacardi Breeze and
Hankering over the price of handicrafts.
Old arches, solid lime walls and worn out steps,
All painted and new. Yellow on yellow.
Orchids and glass fronts,
Film posters and neon lights,
The false voice of a singer and the fake twang of the MC.
A flashy red lancer displayed as a prize,
Chief Minister Parrikar discussing unimportant issues
And Francis D’Souza, unrecognized, unaccompanied,
Self consciously walks by.
On smooth floors, thro’ dark corridors
And chilly theaters,
After a hard days work,
I’m staring at the giant screen in front,
trying to make sense of ‘the missing’.
Acquaintances greet each other warmly,
Smart executives, traditional house wife’s, smart ass youth,
College kids, children on a leash, unknown directors and producers,
Rub shoulders.
“I wish I could be one of them, even for a day” says Shreta.
“you are one of them. Faceless in a crowd” I say.
Saris strung high,
Fly hither titter in the tangy breeze,
Thousands of people stomping on the beach,
A giant screen shows “Mission Impossible”
And no one cares to understand a word.
Vehicles zooming by,
unfamiliar faces poke out of car windows,
Kala Academy?
Miramar?
The place swarming with cops
And the CRPF with sten guns.
Chokker Bali, Vanity Fair and The Motorcycle Diaries,
All under one roof.
Lad-ies and gentle-men,
Put you-r hand-s to-gether and wel-c-o-m-e
The 35th International Film Festival Of India Goa 2-0-0-4
Being held from the 20th of November to 9th December.
Let your body swing to the vibrations of con-sume-rism,
Let your feet tap to the jingle of cap-ital-ism,
Fine tune your tastes to cultural imperialism,
And finally a big welcome to all of you, to the land of
Lulled social consciousness.

-written on-
3/12/04
6.55 a.m