Torch Bearer

have you ever wondered
how little children see the world?
how they see magic
in the shapes of cookies
they pop into their mouth,
in the scratches and stains
on a daily-washed floor,
in the way ants talk to each other
as they carry their treasure home,
in the workings of eyelashes
or taste buds
or a brain that never sleeps,
in the way things are born or die -
where do they come from?
and where do they go?
have you ever wondered
how little children walk this earth?
how they stop and marvel at things
even in their busyness,
little things that skip our eyes
that are too scared to close,
too scared to die into a world
that is but a journey of souls,
where the torch is passed on
to someone else,
whose turn it is now
to walk the next mile?

Loneliness

and when you called out to me
across the grey emptiness,
my heart lunged to meet you
and hold you as I would
a bird with a broken wing,
not knowing that your cry
was not of tears
wanting to be held,
but a call from the heavens,
revealing the face of God
on the other side
of the grey and the black.

The River of Longing

and all the things
I didn't do for you,
all the things
I couldn't do for you,
stay with me
like unsaid goodbyes
across the far banks
of a flowing river
that never rests,
but only grows
in its fervent longing
for everything that is you.

Tears of Grace

drink my tears
with your liquid eyes,
as I drink mine,
for they are yours
as much as they are mine;
let them fall
onto our parched
wrinkled skins,
waiting to be christened
with infinite love;
let's not wash them away,
let's not wish them away,
for they have come to us
from the heavens,
they are ours to keep
in the silent folds of our heart,
in the soft lashes of our eyes
that kiss them awake
with every blink,
in the cloth that soaks them
and patiently gathers
their fragrant longing
to meet ourselves
with a smile,
returning everything with love,
touching each others' hearts,
as we follow our destinies
untouched, untarnished,
to be the messy, glorious humans
that we each are.

A Little Bird Once Told Me

and the world looks at me
for inspiration -
how I trust myself
and my skillful wings,
never afraid of sitting
on the branch
that could break
my nest and bones;

I want to tell them
to look beyond
what they see
and think they know;
I want to tell them
how I trust
my friend, the tree,
when I rest my tired wings,
upon her uncertain branches;
and my muse, the sky,
who draws me into
her blue mysteries
at the stroke of every new dawn;
and the wind, my co-traveller,
who holds and lifts me
into nothingness and love,
with his undying arms;

I want you to tell them this -
how a little bird
once told you
her story of freedom,
of trusting
not only her wings,
but all the things
that make her want to fly.

Everything is Quiet Here

everything is quiet here,
the sun's gone somewhere
for a sleepover,
clouds linger for one last peek,
window-shopping at a world
too busy to be sold into,
the waters are restful,
singing their own lullaby
into the growing night,
the birds are back in their perches
communing over the mundanity
of yet another fulfilling day;

everything is quiet here,
the doorbell's fallen silent
straining its ears to listen
to the breath of all things
animate and inanimate,
the phone lies in a corner,
undisturbed by the desire
to belong somewhere
falling back into the emptiness,
tiny ants scurry along
the safe edges of a wall,
risking their busyness
to feel one another;

everything is quiet here,
where happening melts
into being,
where I am something
that simply lays still
with the hushed air,
not wanting to be anything more;
perhaps that's how we feel
when we die,
when we feel we're a part
of everything's that's here,
in the quiet greatness,
simplicity and totality
of this one precious moment.

Transparency

take my worldly form
if you will,
strip me of its many colours
and uncommon textures,
skin me and digest me,
feast on the flesh
that's given me this form,
so you can reach my bones
and the marrow
that's the fountain
of this earthly blood,
that has forgotten
how and where to flow;
and then, lay me down
upon your warm bosom,
empty and lucent,
hold me close,
like a chiffon shroud
moulding itself to every form,
with no form of its own,
lying bare and ready
to be draped,
folded and pressed,
to be washed over
with every hue and stroke
flowing from the brush
of a skilled painter
who has in his bones,
known and felt
devotion and love. 

Surfaces

the map of one's destiny
in the lines of the palm,
the clutch of a child's fingers
now lost in the calm,
the dance of happy sunbeams
on leaves, rocks and tin,
the melting of identities
as skin moves against skin,
the feel of music on hairs
dancing and standing on end,
the rub of sand against stone
to shape an old barren land,
the wings of a dragonfly
kissing the face of the wind,
the gently growing ripples
dying against the water's rim;
what else is there?
what more do we need?
for surfaces are portals
to meet ourselves
as gods and kings.

In the Dark of the Night

in the dark of the night,
some people get away -
pinched skins
and powdered masks,
resting in the ashes
of long-burnt out sins;

in the dark of the night,
some people are spent
in the raging fire of what is,
stripped of their
insipid flamboyance,
without a fire escape;

in the dark of the night,
some people find
the signposts lost
in the glare of city lights,
guiding and marking
their long way home.

in the dark of the night,
is where I find
what I need to leave behind.

Arrival

and you told me
what I longed to hear -
the song
that lay quiet
in the uneasy depths
of your solemn heart,
too scared to rise
from the darkness
and take that one breath
that you needed
to fill your lungs
and sing out to the world
that you have indeed arrived.

The Secrets of the Heart

some things
are best held
in the dark
unseen crevices
of a heart
that bleeds
with every tear
of joy or pain;

some things
are too precious
to be flaunted
in a world
enamored by surfaces
that serve to imitate
the depths
of wild things;

some things
are to be loved
in the moment,
like the heart
that overflows
when a little child
shows you his world
in a grain of sand;

some things
are best left hidden,
so they can be
discovered, and
therefore cherished,
like wild flowers
and four leaf clovers
on forgotten trails;

some things
are just too priceless
to be shared
with a greedy world
that feasts
on flamboyance
and the impatient longings
of hearts with no room for love;

some things
are meant to be kept
just to myself,
locked in the strongholds
of a heart
that's learned
how to open doors
where there were once walls;

some things
are meant to be loved
in the quiet aliveness
of a pulsing heart
that has
suddenly remembered
how to love
all over again.

God of Small Things

I belong
where the lone cloud
streaks through
a cleansed sky,
where everything
is held
welcomed
loved
and seen off,
in the quiet
of an ordinary day;

I belong
to this little slice
of heaven -
a wild forest,
a teeming desert,
an exploding ocean,
that I've grown to love
all the more,
through every turn
and tilt
of the shaft
of this home,

I belong
to this moment
of timeless silence,
a haunting mystery
luring me
into
the comforting darkness
of the unknown,
where anything
is possible
when seen
with eyes
that can simply love
without reason;

I belong
to this haven
that I've built
with the sweat
and the aching muscles
of my joyous heart,
where I invite
all my friends
to come and sit
around the warmth
of the fire
I've learned to stoke
and keep alive
with love -

the fire
that makes me sit
or walk around
the fringes
of belonging
to places,
times,
and people
I can never call my own,
but who walk with me
through the flames
of desire
of wanting to belong
somewhere,

a place
where I can be filled
with the breath
of my aloneness
and honour
the God of small things,
where I belong
to myself and my life,
in a world
that crams for otherness
and a home
away from home,
in big things.

The Temple

and people come
and they leave,
stepping inside
this world
within worlds;
bringing flowers,
many offerings,
soulful songs,
gratitude,
and prayers;
and while I watch
from the fringe,
hearts laid to rest
upon the stone,
they leave behind
and take with them
what they've been looking for -
the pulsing silence
that never left their folds.

Inside, Outside

sometimes,
you walk away,
to step aside
and see things
with new eyes;
sometimes,
you stay on,
to step inside
the eyes
you wanted to
walk away from;
sometimes,
it's your own eyes
that show you
the gifts of both -
walking away
and staying on.

दिल की लड़ाई

तलवार उठाओ!
न हाथों की ,
न आँखों की ,
पर सच्चे दिल की ,
जो धड़कती है
उस दुश्मन की खोज में,
जो छोड़ देती, उस दिल में,
अपने कुचले हुए दिल की खुश्बू ,
रोम रोम में

Abundance

some seeds
are born to die
in a world
born too soon
for their opening;
so they close
and crumble,
to feed other seeds
the breath of a world
they will never get to see.

Anti Climax!

yeah, I thought we were actors,
playing our parts so well,
living our roles,
with new stories to tell,
until the moment
you stepped off the stage,
to play the director,
and a role never staged,
and then I realised
I'd mistaken the plot for the story,
for beginnings, not endings
are what make history!

The Blind Painter

and I watched him closely
as he painted
not what he saw
with his shrouded eyes,
but what he felt
with his empty heart,
as the canvas came alive
with unnamed colours
to fill my senses,
and his broken art.

Where I Want To Be

and when I reached
the mountain top
to smell the air
so crisp, rare and free,
I stepped down
back to the middle
with that pure breath
in my heart,
to feel the hearts
of those who were
still on their way up,
with a song on my lips,
the soft touch of a gentle word,
and a heart set free;
for that's where I want to be.

Sky Whispers

and the Sky said to me:
"Go where you must;
do what you want to do;
wander, get lost,
disappear, then appear,
get battered and bruised,
change your ways
or your form,
like the wayward clouds
who never seem to rest
on their heels
or their hearts,
and yet they do;
and then,
come back to me
if you please -
empty-handed
or full
of yourself or me,
and know
that I will be there
waiting for you -
always, always there."

Remembering Me

and when I
broke into myself,
I suddenly remembered
the pounding waves
and that undeniable roar
of cosmic thunder,
asking to be let out
and crash into
the empty shores
of a numbed existence.

The Fear of Not Having Enough

I was at the organic store today...a place that I frequent now only when I can, with no compulsion to buy only organic, or only from that shop anymore. I feel free inside living this way. Free because I saw the wall that I had myself erected about living this way. When I bumped against that wall, I saw that what I had been following was out of a subtle fear of what would happen if I didn’t eat organic food. And when I saw that clearly, I saw that all food was a blessing....that I had more access to more food choices because of my lifestyle than most other people on this planet. It suddenly didn’t make any sense to me to be fanatic about my food choices. Some of them at least. For I cannot in my wildest of dreams imagine foregoing my need to be a vegetarian! So when I saw the number of choices I had with just food, I realised that I had way too more than just ‘enough’. And I was willing to let go of some choices because I was grateful for what I had access to.

So today, I had an interesting experience at the store. We were there pretty early for the first time, and I was hanging around talking to one of the staff and some others there. The veggie bazaar begins at 2pm, not before that. So people were gathering and looking around, keeping their hands off the veggies until 2 o’clock! :) Just before 2pm, when one of the staff brought out the bags that we need to use to pick the veggies, and I was still ambling along to the place, I saw most people taking their positions in front of the rows of veggies....much like soldiers on the battlefield....each one knew exactly what they had to do, exactly what they wanted to pick! I was amused. And it suddenly hit me that they were all perhaps reflecting our collective fear of not having enough. That was the fear which was driving them to stand near the veggies that they most wanted!....too scared that there might not be enough if they stood elsewhere! But I wonder if they realised that they couldn’t possibly stand everywhere and that they had already made a choice of what was it that they really wanted! 

And then a little later, we were standing in the line for the veggies to be weighed and billed. One lady left her bags in the line, told the woman standing behind her that she would be back in a few minutes and disappeared. The woman behind her waited for some minutes, looking out for the lady, and then decided to move ahead as she was nowhere around. Very soon, that lady arrived and was upset that the staff was billing another person, when she had left her bags in the queue.

“I had gone inside to get oil. I had told her and gone. How can you bill someone else?”, she argued.

“Because you had gone off somewhere inside and we didn’t know where you were...”, said the staff, gently.

“You can’t do this. I have been waiting so long. I don’t want to raise my voice,” she threatened.

“Ok, so what do you want me to do?”, the young man asked her, calm and composed.

“II want you to bill this first. I can’t wait. I am already late. I need to go to work”, she replied with a smile breaking into her face.

He obliged. And she walked away. I loved the manner in which he had dealt with the situation and diffused the anger. An irritation and anger that stemmed out of the same fear that ‘I don’t have enough’. A valuable little lesson for me.... A lesson that a pause and connecting with ourselves, brings us back to the state or feeling that we always have enough.

A little later, after I had finished billing the veggies I had picked and went inside the store to pay for it, I saw the same lady talking to another person there. She didn’t seem in a hurry then! She was looking at something and standing there asking a whole lot of questions...and she was still around after I had finished paying up and left! Suddenly, she seemed to have ‘enough’....all the time in the world! 

And I realised how I am that way too. I certainly have a long way to go too. This fear comes up in me so many times also. And all that I can do is to see it, watch it as many times that I can catch it. I still buy veggies for the week and hoard it in my fridge, because I am worried that I may not be able to step out of the house at will. 

What is it about ourselves that makes us feel that we are never enough; that we never have enough, I wonder? Will we ever get out of this survival mentality and learn how to thrive instead in life? I am learning by slowing down when I can. Perhaps that is a good place to start.

I'm not a Beggar for Love

I'm not a beggar for love,
but yes, perhaps I was,
looking for a fist of coins
in a purse drawn too taut;
no, I don't need Facebook likes
and smileys that stick out their tongues,
to tell me who I am
or what they thought they found,
I don't need wise owl comments
that drown the silence
behind the cloud,
I don't need favours, shares
or pats on my upright spine,
to make me stand up and count;
I only want to know
where you will be
when I am lost or scared,
and if you will perhaps shed a tear
at my funeral, not to be my au pair;
I don't need you to sell my heart,
or pronounce my gifts to the world,
for I sell my heart to you
each time I write or share,
because I am enough, I'm full.

The Dance of Death

Sometimes
all you can do
is to sit
and watch the moths
do their death dance
around the flame
they think is home;
perhaps that's how
they remember
they are moths,
seeking a light
that was never
their own.

Shadows in the Sun

I walked along the road one day,
eyes glinting in the sun,
wandering along a trail of thoughts
and dreams waiting to be found;
people passed me by,
some smiled, some turned away,
while some others hurried past me,
just another walk, another day;
up ahead in front of me,
a little child stooped over,
I stopped to see what she was doing,
and was completely bowled over!
she moved her hands,
her head, her feet,
and threw back her hair,
and with a smile
that streamed across my heart,
she danced with her shadows
in the blazing sun;
and I watched,
and I joined,
in that moment
of quiet serendipity,
to play with shadows,
hers and mine,
two hearts dancing to a ditty;
she made me stop
in my well-worn tracks,
she brought a song
to a sweltering day,
my heart grew and shrunk
with the changing shadows,
the long and short
of another restful day.

Heart-Opening

I looked into the delight
of a deep blue bay
rolling forever
on endless shores,
I looked into the silence
of a radiant sky
unfurling herself
to every passer by,
and I said to myself
that it wasn't time -
no, not as yet,
to be baptized
by the kiss of rain
and drops of dew
snuggling against
my tender skin,
it wasn't time -
not as yet,
to be coaxed into
the alluring dance
of a butterfly in rapture,
nor was it time
to be shattered open
by the wake up call
of a giving sun;
it was after all
a time to rest,
to feel the pain
of remaining a bud
and becoming a flower.

To a Rebel

and you destroy
and you create
and life and death
do their endless dance,
and I mourn,
and I extol,
and revere it all
without a sound;
I want you to know
that it doesn't matter
what you do
with this world,
but I want to
show you how I feel,
so I can feel
myself, in you.

Glory

glory be to the man
who sits under the shade
of an ancient tree,
who drinks in the freshness
of a sun-kissed breeze,
and the fullness
of sprightly flowers on leaves,
and who for a moment
looks to the primordial ground,
to hold a fistful of dark earth
in his heart,
with a silence profound.

The Umbrella

I stepped out into the world
with an umbrella tucked
firmly under my arm,
eyes squinting strangely
at the glaring sun,
and shying away from
the black clouds
now on the prowl -
a cadaver wading
through sticky roads
with other sardines
jostling in prying hordes;
until I happened
upon that little sparrow
who darted across to thaw
those long-frozen eyes,
and the yellow butterfly
with moist paper wings
who drew me into
her pretty dance;
and then, suddenly,
my skins, they crumbled,
strides moved to skips,
eyes became water,
hands paper ships,
roads turned to rivers,
and corpses to blips,
and well, the umbrella
was carried home that night,
with some flowers,
stones, fireflies and twigs.

They are Yours, not Mine

and all along
I thought
these eyes,
these ears,
these hands,
these feet,
and these breasts
so full of love,
were mine, and
belonged to me;
until I found
they cannot see,
or hear, or touch,
or feel themselves,
nor give to me
what they cannot
give to you;
and in that moment
I saw how they belonged
not to me, but to you -
an offering
of a life well-lived,
and how I used them
to see and feel you.

Being Child, Becoming Woman

and I slipped into her robes
for a while,
so I could feel
what she would feel,
and I saw Joy -
a little child
rediscovering
her eyes, her hands,
her voice, her feet,
and the tune
of her own heart
drumming with mine -
both growing,
being children,
becoming the women
they were always meant to be.

And I Set My Life on Fire

and while a thunderbolt
struck down the noise
carried over eons, in thoughts,
and the steady ground
turned the hourglass
of time, in moments caught,
and the heaving oceans
coursed through my veins
without a shore,
and the winds
from the heavens
fanned the fire in my core,
I walked each blind turn,
fell through every chasm,
seeking those who stoked
my flames, my passion;
glorious rites of passage,
birth canals re-birthed, 
only so I could be 
who I was meant to be
in each moment,
to set myself and my life
on fire, and roam free.

Balance

and my heart
tipped over
to one side
and the other,
juggling
squiggling
careening
plunging
soaring
to new heights,
new depths,
new lengths,
new breadths;
lines becoming curves,
circles becoming spheres,
images digested,
and dissolved
beyond definition;
balance emerging then
not from staying
rooted
in the centre,
but by burning bridges
that cradled a spent self,
moving out all the while
with quivering fingertips,
to touch the seamless sky
and her cerulean affinity
to seek her own
dark, uncertain depths.

How would you hold a flower?

how would you hold a flower?
would you hold her
with the heaviness of awe
lining your liquid eyes,
still searching to pour or fill
what can never be held?
or would you hold her
with the impersonal flourish
of a by-stander
unwilling to die
into her sensuous folds?
or would you hold her
with the strange perfume
of a mystery
that cannot be solved
but only lived
through the gentlest touch
of your crushed heart?
how would you hold a flower?
how would you hold her
with your heart?

A Turtle with Wings

and a turtle in her safe shell,
grew wings one summer's day,
to surf the ocean
and the vast sky,
and take in the whole world
in one deep, radiant breath;
she made a choice
to walk away that day,
from a place
she couldn't call her own,
to feel her wings,
to drop her shell,
and soar into the place
that's always home.

Stepping into the same river, twice.

every time I see a river
I catch it with my eyes,
I stop the flow,
or follow its course,
or dip my feet in
every once in a while;

and then I wonder
how it feels
to let the oft-held image go,
of not really stepping
into the same river
every time I watch it flow;

the meanders change
the reeds rise and fall,
ripples skid over smoothed stones;
and even as the water flows on
it has left itself behind
in the essence it shares and holds;

and then I see
what I could not see before
with my half-opened eyes,
for what I see with an open heart
is how I step into
the very same river, twice.