Ways

It is the usual way of life

Like a patch of grass survives

With inperceptable changes

Even for pang of birth and death.

They are not many

To trade life with beauty ;

They are the flowers

To bloom and wither.

Some are seekers of truth

Think prize and

Price too crude,

Work like evening breeze

That goes often unnoticed.

Few are marked for welfare

Only of others,

They suffer cross

Hidden arrow or death ajar

To keep the fire

Burning

In the days to come.

I am on the way !

Why should I worry

When I loss a hand

And bleed profusely.

                     -------

                           Duliajan - 24.03.1991

My dream

The dream

Is my wakeful company

Of days and nights

Unlike

The seasonal ones -

Blooming in spring

And fallen leaves

In winter.

The dream

Is like a Sun-flower

One love one life

For an unnamed Sun

That never sets

Requiring

Limitless patience

Unshaken faith :

Even when petal falls

Flower get wilted.

The dreams

Is sharp like a knife

It hurts sweet

Unlike

The stabbing pain of

The hidden thorns

Of ways and means.

My dream

Is unyielding

Like the twinkling stars

Of stormy nights

And

Longer than life

Tougher than thought !

                     ------

                    Guwahati -- 05.07. 2010

Dreams

I dream the dreams

In wakeful hours

For away

From the festivities

Of colours :

Spring and winter.

The dreams are stormy

Blowing through

Rocks and rivers

In search of

Living joy

That shines

And sets never.

While walking the

Thorny roads

I rewind

The pleasant pain

Inflicted by dreams

In the forest :

Hide and seek.

Dreaming

Is an inheritance

A relentless heritage

And a cause

To spend a life.

                    ------

                    Guwahati -- 31.08. 2010

News

              One

Conflict has ended

The opposites are ruined

The Master is pleased !

But His bleeding heart

Whispers

Painful wound

Inflicted by Hisself

While killing

His own conscience.

            Two

Bargaining continues

Non-stop.

Auditors check books.

However,

Fate of missing hostages

Taken by

Treacherous cash-balances

Are not even 'counted.

              Three

Paradise is unique,

No death no old age.

But happiness, doubtful !

No news circulates

About its nasty hells

Where little unwises

Endlessly suffer

For death

Not being near !

               Four

Their life is like

Running river

One can navigate

With love and trust.

But, They are lured

To the slaughter-house !

The news is not published

For shortage of space !

                      ------

                    Guwahati -- 06.09. 2010

Oh Poetry !

Heart speaks of poetry

At its every beat,

Noises and black-out,

Sad !

Head can not hear it.

Strange !

In the sea of hunger,

Deadly

Fights are golden bar !

Although

Poetry flickers

Twinkling light

Even

In the horror of

Darkest nights,

It gets forgotten

In the hub-nub

Of heat,

But, What is in-built

Within us

Can we deny it ?

                   ------

                  Duliajan -- April, 1991

It is not .......

A weakling bored in his hide

Find a sea in tide inside.

First, ripples who tell him in Whisper

"It is not ........, it is not my dear".

Then, waves in blood speak in Voice of thunder

"Change, change your destiny

Hereafter".

Hells and heavens are made and

Unmade

For it is not the ultimate,

He gets himself haunted

While hunting for changes

In the hidden trap of tragedy

The conflict of one and so many.

The target is hazy, defies definition

Yet he makes portraits

With all imaginations

Only to find as always

It is not .............. .

Changes are required

Here and there a lot.

On the wheel of changes

He moves from dot to dot

The moving spirit is pulling

But, it is not ............ .

                       ------

                          Duliajan --  16.04.1991

A Roamer's diary

A baby girl draws

A star and flower

On the charred sand of Iraq.

O' I know

Battles make only deserts;

But,

Search of beauty is 'ever

Like the river Euphrates.

Face rinsed with tear,

Laments a maiden dear

At the death of the boy

Though a goon, yet her joy

For love nestles at every heart

A bliss kindled to all alike.

There goes a story

Of demon again

Whose eating delight

Is human brain

Mothers give him in shift

A boy a day

Till a son is born to slice

The demon away.

In this way, goes on a war

To make man free from fear.

In a damp lock-up,

Stinking with amonia of urine,

Among the singing mosquitoes

A folk-lore permeates

From the darkness inside

About a green meadow!

O rejoice, there is sight

Of a Sun, kind and bright.

                         -------

                           Duliajan - April, 1991

Neighbour

At our boundary

There was a bamboo fencing,

Blushing over it

Way a creeper of harmony.

One day,

You removed the fencing

Non-chalantly

And started

A wall of massive masonary.

The wall is tall

Guarded like the

Wardens do at jails.

Now, I am worried

If the guns of your castle

Open fire

To pulverise

Our sweet home

Like the kings did

To their neighbours

Once !

I am scared two

If our little lily

Failing to get response

From your kid Johnie

After calling him

Again and again

At the top of her voice

Across the wall,

Ask me

"Are they dead !"

                          ------

                    Guwahati -- 06.07. 2010

In the quiet hours of night

I roam about

In the quiet hours of night

When

The wild flowers blossom

Over the hills,

A crescent moon swims

In a river

Beside which

A barking deer grazes,

And the love-torn

Tall grasses

Dance in unison

With a distant song.

Suddenly,

A silvery fish

Jumps in panic

And the floating moon

Is in pieces.

I am not aghast.

Flowers still bloom

In all colours.

Long lowing of cows

Never differ

Boys or girls

And the glimmering lamp

Denotes home

For Tom and Ram alike.

So much in abundance

To live for !!

                      ------

                    Guwahati -- 03.09. 2010

Earner

After the dust

I empty a bottle of comfort

And get drunk.

Sleep like a rock

No entry for dreams !

Sometimes,

Drunkard becomes angry

When sluggard and thieves

Act as drunken dogs

In the dark  night.

I chase them

Like angry wild dog

Till they run

With tails between legs .

And, if you return

Empty handed

At the end of work

Do not be shy, my friend,

Come to my hut,

We shall consume

A jug of pure sweat

To get drunk

For singing

The night away.

                    ------

                    Guwahati -- 07.09. 2010

Succession

On a lonely forest road,

A burly man stops me

For a small talk

About tree.

A traveller,

A globe-trotter,

Tree is

Live life again and again

Thro' roots, leaves, flowers and

fruits.

Saviour of birds and animals.

Man is an animal.

He is not. A tree !

Another stop.

Not very different

Only he roars weakly

To prove the point :

Not tree, but tiger !

In the town,

A smelling drain demands

My scrutiny

"See, What is floating

Harappa or Nalanda ?"

Suddenly, I scratch

The itching of my head

Several times

And a question arises

Again and again :

How to save

The thinning line

That I am.

                        ------

                    Guwahati -- 07.09. 2010

Some men

Even at the dead of night,

Village - theatre is alive.

The man makes tea

At the stages' back

For king and chaprasi,

All for the dramas

Last twenty years

He could not see.

Another man lords

A lonely ghat

While his boat wanders

The rivers' might.

In the services of public

He manfully somehow tricks

The whirl-pool of river

At any darkened hour ;

And he never expects

From you

Even a thank

As you climb the other bank.

Even their families forget,

Doctors visit once a week.

Lunatics cannot complain

Of food, drink and drain.

Still there is one --- him !

To make them cool and clean

To hear their endless stories

Of love, revenge and piety.

They understand the man

Not as their Jail-warden

But, as a kindred hope

The first ray

That breaks the night

Into day.

Away from hope and comfort

He walks a tight-rope

And death looms large below

No cheers from rear also.

Still, a spy sends tips

Thro' the thin link

Across the line,

So that his country

Can slice the enemy

Very fine.

Living deads

They consider themselves

For the revolution

That is on.

Amidst fire

Dream that they flower

Blazes at every heart

That spills blood.

And many more ..........

They are not termed greats

A forgotten lot

No medals at their breasts.

But, like hidden springs

They nurse to life

The crop of love

On which we all survive.

It is the time to be grateful

An epic is long overdue.

                               -----

                          Duliajan --  15.08.1991