TWILIGHT AT MOULA ALI

Buttery mellow evening

slathered across the city

enfolded in enigma

hundreds of feet below.

Tranquillity tossed with

windswept dreams

against a preening sky,

That slowly dabs her cheeks

with hues of pink and mauve,

Checking herself out in

smoky lakes underneath,

Like a coy girl setting out

on a first date.

The azaan glides out

from minarets far and near,

Rending the stillness,

Rippling in the soul;

Dollops of divinity

dripping through the dusk.

And now the city lights up,

Hopes flickering to life,

One after the other;

Thousands of concrete lives

sprawled out beneath us,

Like earthen lamps set

afloat on a swarthy river.

Streetlights and headlights,

Neon billboards and lamp posts,

Suspended afar in the velvety darkness–

Disembodied voices from the past

singing silences of yesteryear.

Pyaar, ishq, mohabbat…

Fireworks burst upon the firmament

in colourful melancholy,

Love works in ways you cannot fathom.

Rooh, ashq, maut…

How would it be

to float off this edge,

to the lights that beckon below,

Like a feather waltzing in the breeze,

A petal swirling down a stream….

Love is not for the weak-hearted.

Tender is the night,

She yields no answers.

AMBIVALENCE

Your black is my white,
Your blue is my red;
The cold knifes through me
And lays me dead,
In a grave where
Love blossoms
In bloody trails.
You killed me
The day you embraced me,
Even as an unknown part of me
Leapt to life in your arms.
In your life, I find death,
In your death, I find life;
And yet without you, my deadly beloved,
An I-less I am I.

HIS MUSIC AND MY POETRY

My words fell in love

With his music:

Head-over-heels in love.

Like the golden rain from above

That sprouts the seeds in my loamy lands,

To flourish in lush black

On stark white fields,

His music let my poetry

Out of the cage,

And together they flew,

Into the eternal blue;

Love knows no season, no age.

My words danced in joy

At the footfall of his voice,

They trembled at its silken touch;

My lines to life sprang

When he unknowing sang,

My poetry that much

Did his music love.

A beautiful rhapsody

With no beginning, no end-

With him around,

Life was ever a song;

A happy couple they were,

His music and my poetry;

And though I knew

It couldn’t last long,

While it did, they truly loved,

His music and my poetry.

A Woman's Love

A woman’s love runs deeper

Than the springs of sorrow

That crisscross life;

A woman’s love is purer

Than the first snow that swathes

The mountain tops.

A woman’s love flows free

As the doves that wing

The cerulean dome;

A woman’s love is gentle

As the happy breath

Of a sleeping babe.

Mysterious as the mist

That swirls in a vale astray;

A woman’s love is wild,

Like a forest fire

On a summer’s day.

A woman’s love, honestly returned,

Swells like the tide

On a full moon night,

And engulfs her lover

In perennial spate.

A woman’s love, if basely spurned,

Kindles fury- that shakes the hills,

Stills the roaring seas;

And spawns hurt that smoulders

In her grave.

FINE PRINT

This love has grown mouldy,
Left neglected in the monsoon,
Got rusty with disuse.
Words tender and true at the time,
With stony silence now turned stale-
Our perfect symphony
Long decayed into cacophony,
Memories of Heaven before Hell do pale...
Worm-eaten dreams and cankerous vows-
So much for our garden-fresh love!

Delivered in a bright blue carton,
Bought at an exorbitant price,
From that cheerful chubby lad
In the store down the street;
Sigh! Our hard-earned time
Gone down the drain!

"Sorry, madam, I’m afraid nothing
Can be done about it," said the lad
Politely, cheerful as ever,
When the unsatisfactory product
I thrust on the counter.
"The affection, I agree, has curdled,
The happiness has rotten, the memories mouldy;
But the pain, the hurt, the bleeding wound,
Are still so fresh, as we promised."

Cursing myself, I returned dejected-
I should have read the fine print
On that bright blue carton
Of garden-fresh love.

A WOMAN’S LOVE

A woman’s love runs deeper
Than the springs of sorrow
That crisscross life;
A woman’s love is purer
Than the first snow that swathes
The mountain tops.

A woman’s love flows free
As the doves that wing
The cerulean dome;
A woman’s love is gentle
As the happy breath
Of a sleeping babe.

Mysterious as the mist
That swirls in a vale astray;
A woman’s love is wild,
Like a forest fire
On a summer’s day.

A woman’s love, honestly returned,
Swells like the tide
On a full moon night,
And engulfs her lover
In perennial spate.

A woman’s love, if basely spurned,
Kindles fury- that shakes the hills,
Stills the roaring seas;
And spawns hurt that smoulders
In her grave.

MONEY

A charming pair of lovers they were-
The lad dreamy yet dashing,
The lass pretty and fair;
He was a poet, she was his Muse,
Five summers, entwined by the vines of love,
Their hearts beat as one.

But one day, he noticed
His beloved’s face was downcast,
A lily drooping in the hot sun,
He thought with a pang.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” he cried,
And lifted her chin with a tender hand.

Oh, what unfathomable mysteries
Rippled in the still, dark pools
Of her limpid eyes!
Much coaxing and pleading after,
She unburdened the load
Of her care-laden heart,
And his face turned wan.

Her parents had found for her a match,
A most suitable boy, she said,
A bloated money-bag he was,
Ah! There lay the catch-
For he, her lover, was but a poor poet.

“But sweetheart, you love me,
You couldn’t desert me!”
The anguished cry of the lad
Rent the air, silenced the birds.

“On love alone you can’t survive,”
Was her cool reply.
“Love can’t feed or clothe
Or give a good life-
A mansion with a garden,
Cars and servants besides,
Gowns of silk and diamond necklaces,
Say, can love provide these?”

“Poverty and love are strange bed-fellows,”
She reasoned further,
As the boy stood dumbstruck,
“Love wilts in the face of adversity,
Turns stale with prolonged penury;
You see, the stream of love runs dry
In the terrain of harsh reality.”

“Money isn’t everything either,”
He countered, his eyes flashing,
“It can build a palace but not a home;
And though in pursuit of joy,
Far and wide you may roam,
It can buy you only comforts, not happiness,
Platters of good food but not good health,
Gift you with flatterers but not true friends.
Tell me, can all the wealth on earth
Guarantee calm and peace of mind?”

But she only sighed and tossed her head,
“Spoken truly like the idle dreamer
That you are, and now I’m afraid,
It’s goodbye forever….”

A fortnight later, it was her wedding day,
Dancing and feasting, all looked gay;
Bedecked with jewels and flowers
And wearing a radiant smile,
Her beauty could put Venus herself to shame.
The groom arrived, he held her hand,
And soon they were man and wife.

That night, demure and coy,
And trembling like an aspen leaf
On a windy day,
She entered the bridal chamber
Where he sat waiting.

But his forehead was fraught with worry,
And before she could speak a word,
He said in a rush: “Darling, I’m sorry,
But I thought you should know,
Since this beauteous day we swore
To partake of mirth and sorrow-
The stocks have crashed, my accounts frozen,
And now I’ll have to start from scratch;
But don’t you worry dear,
They say love that starts with struggle
Endures till the last, have no fear.”

Whether love did indeed double
In hardship, he never came to know,
For she swooned, entangled in the rubble
Of a thousand shattered dreams.

But Fate had more in store for her,
For the next day, on opening the newspaper,
Her former lover’s face smirked at her,
Under a headline that screamed:
“YOUNG POET WINS MILLION-DOLLAR AWARD”

Old is Gold

Yesterday, while rummaging
Through Memory’s dark attic,
I came across an old love-
Dusty, sooty, grubby…and old.

But when with weary heart
And trembling hands,
I brushed the cobwebs away;
Wiped off the smudge
Of wasted years and tears,
I found it still shining,
Splendid as ever before-
Old indeed is gold.