The Ride to School

A Gleaming Black Bicycle,
And its Beaming Boy Wearing White,
Made A Common Cheerful Sight.

He kept his bike spick and span,
Just Like his hair, trim and prim,
Though it waved unruly, in the wind.


On the tree-sheltered path to school,
The Sun knifing through the gaps,
He rode his bike, dreaming, meandering.

Then from one day she appeared,
A Charming Cherry of a Girl,
Dressed in Black, With a White Bike.

Riding under the trees, in opposite paths,
They crossed each other each morning,
Black Against White, White Against Black.

She Always wore a Twinkling Smile,
He Always Chose to Avoid its Glowing Glare,
Lest it blind him, and bring his heels over his head!

But He did always hope to Catch,
A glimpse Of Her each day, And
Wished that there were no Saturdays nor Sundays!

Then The inevitable Tragedy Struck,
No more Did He see her ride through,
No more black against white, white against black.

He Would Start out early, Only To
Slowly Snaily pedal under the trees,
No more Dreams, Just Seeking And Searching.

And One Bright Windy day, He heard A bell
Ringing, not from front, But from behind,
He caught What it Was from the corner of his eye.

Heart thumping Faster, now He could only smile,
She was no more in black on a white bike,
She Had Changed now into his very own White.

And So Each Day, Each morning they now rode Along,
Together, bells ringing, and Crackling Laughter Glee,
Like A white Cloud, Riding On bikes, Black and White.

based on a true story that didn't happen :D

In The Eyes Of An #@@#$%^&$%

He Wakes up at the sound of the alarm,
Observes the angle between the hands,
Nods confirmation of their position,And
Assures himself with the light of dawn.

Glances at the newspaper, scouting for photos-
That appeal, switches on the TV if there are,
Else dismisses it as an uneventful yesterday.

Arrives at the bus-stop, searches for a friendly face,
As any appears, he enquires whether it goes to where he wants.
Whilst Travelling, he observes the figures and designs,
Recognizing Recurring patterns, Speculating what they could mean.

Dialling a number, a test of matching similar symbols,
Not so facile if it was hand-written,
But nonetheless possible, albeit after a few approximations.

Paying bills, a test of matching colours,
Light brown notes give a pack of chips,
Light pink ones give double those.
Familiar purple-brown ones, equivalent to a litre of petrol,
The light bright bluish paper sufficing for most of his petty needs,
Those Dark Green ones for a lavish meal for 2,
And the Seldom Bright Sparkling Pink note, a Small Fortune!

And So He Walks and Gazes,
Lost in this maze of shapes,
Unaware of the truths they share,
Unaware of the power they bear,
He wanders where we pause, but also,
Ponders alone at those, for which we do not care.

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In The Eyes Of An #.@@.#$.%.^&.$.%
In The Eyes Of An I.L.L.I.T.E.R.A.T.E

The Devotee

This is an event of a particular devotee,
Of none other than the 'Greatest',
'Richest' Lord, Venkatesha,
The Lord of the Seven Hills, etc, etc,
The owner of a countless other names.

Walking the arduous path, over the hills,
he used to chant incessantly,
govinda govinda govinda.......
watching people of all ages, shapes and sizes,
envying the kids, pitying the aged,
he used to step higher and higher.

Once he reached the top, every time,
he diligently went for the ritual,
to shave his head, dip in the sacred pond,
and then emerge with the conviction,
that all his sins have been cleansed.

Then began the stint at the long queues,
A sea of humanity, a hundred different tongues,
Walking on sticky floors, made so by,
The millions of sweaty trodding feet,
Being packed tightly, but cushioned comfortably,
By the Common Indian Abdominal and gluteal Fat.

Nearing the sanctum, with its golden roof,
Coins pasted all over, on the walls,
In the crevasses too, No one knowing why,
Finally standing beside the dwarapalakas,
Who guard the Lord who guards us all.

Entering the Womb, and glimpsing Him,
with the trademark vertical White patch,
covering most of the face,
the devotee thought, what to do?
Should I Chant more? or Should I only see?
Shouldn't I ask for something,
Sigh, I shall just chant and View.

Once Outside, Nothing, no sensation of Divinity as usual,
Just a feeling of emptiness, which eclipses our thought,
When we feel all the hard work, has gone in vain.
'NO! NO! This is blasphemy! This shouldn't linger!'
The poor devotee quickly reverted to his chants.

And then a final Queue.
He received it in both his Hands,
Closing his eyes, another ritual, another chant,
He ate the Ladoo, its sweetness melting,
Relishing it, bit by bit, almost in a meditative state,
He realized, ambiguously, not knowing whether to be happy or sad,
'This seems to be the only tryst of mine with anything divine'.

The 2 Dancers

Sona had a passion,
to dance, was all that she craved,
was all that she needed.
Nothing else could entice more,
Nothing would rapture her more.

Waking with dreary eyes,
Squinting and focusing at the clock,
Attempting to rise bit by bit,
Succeeding Finally, and donning the attire,
She would set off, cursing the long walk,
to where she went to dance.

But she very well knew that once there,
It was wholly an another world.
Paradise right here on earth u may call,
Where emotions transformed into motions,
Where rhythm reverberated in each step.

Haughty that she was, and for reasonable reason,
for none could match the madness,
Only she possessed the streaks of wildness,
She believed, the ability to stop time,
To live in trance, and dwell in dance.

But there was one more person,
Who could dance along with her,
Whose long wisps flew loose just as hers.
As She thought, I am still better than her,
The other person too thought the same.