Neti Neti

 No song 

No rhyme 

No melody 

Is mine 

No rainbow 

No light

Nor star studded 

Night

No friend

No Foe

No high

No low

No seeking 

Nor sought 

Devoid

Of thought 

No future

No past

Eternal moment 

Lasts

Silent 

& Still

Illumined

Within

Insignificant 

But integral

Completing 

Infinity.

Poem from Hanle

 Dust storms raging far, wide,

Obliterating landscapes out of sight 

Storms rage also in my heart 

Transforming life with a new start.

Deleting records of my past

Healing scars that painfully last.

My storms swirl in glowing light

Closed eyes, blue & violet bright.

Drive to Hanle

Burnished boulders in umber, gold 

Layer hills that incessantly unfold.

Indus curves gently to the right 

In colors of jade and frozen white.

Cobalt skies are clear now

Blinding Sun searing above.

Ochre grasses sway out of sight

Poplars rise in groves of naked white.

Willows sport a rusty crown

Wilderness spreading far and down.

Heart is silent in all this wonder

Emptiness sitting in wordless slumber.

A Little Diary

 Once I was told, with a smile, that I was a crow. I smiled back - broadly agreeing. Crows are one of nature's cleverest scavengers and I do have a strong partiality to scavenging.

It was thus that I spotted a little diary flung on the side of the road walking from Chuchot to Choglamsar in Ladakh. It seemed ragged and worn with its cover gone - small pages were fluttering in the cold, stiff autumn breeze. I picked it up and started reading this most remarkable discovery. In deliberately crafted writing of an artist, in faded letters on semi torn pages, began a love story, of a young girl for a boy, all in rhyming poetry, of the gazal form. I was enthralled , spell bound and immediately sat down under the next shade to quickly finish reading this exciting discovery. 

However, my story is not about her love story - let's call her Salma, of pure heart and luminous poetry, because even the dead deserve respect of anonymity.

As with most love stories in this world, Salma's love unfolded with a sweetest and gentlest start - and of greatest miracle - her love was even reciprocated- Allah is great! 

Days passed in subdued anticipation, and soon evening and nights in secret meetings, while poetry poured from her inspired young & tender heart. It was meant to be a present for her lover - she was planning to fill it up before gifting him her heart in words.

But, men will be men, and soon her handsome lover tired of her and her quiet ways. He was looking for more excitement and conquests and there were plenty that were ready.

Salma knew that he was more and more distracted in her presence, on his fancy phone and social media, often while she waited for one tender glance or a smile. He now made frequent excuses to not meet her - when earlier, he couldn't wait for the evenings nor bear to let her go when they were done. 

Permanent pain in her heart now became  her poetry and her everyday life. Her parents were at a loss as to what was happening to their Jaan. Her lover was no longer able to put up with her depression and gave up pretending that he had any interest in her. 

In months that followed her sorrow gave way to rising anger and then rage. She knew that now he was openly with another girl from a wealthy background and soon they were to be betrothed. 

She started planning her revenge in detail - she was beyond caring. She wanted to end her pain, but before she left this world she'd make sure that he too would not survive. 

Pages filled with ways to kill him in that same little diary that had once been scattered with her love lyrics of abandon and bliss. 

Finally she decided to give him one final chance and sent him her little dairy, including their fate if he did not return to her. 

Bragging came to young men as easily as fish in water. He couldn't wait to read Salma's poetry and threats to his betrothed. Finally, laughing, he tossed aside her diary off Chuchot road, saying what could a silly girl - a mere daughter of a poor car mechanic - really do to them.

That's how I came up Salma's diary almost a decade later. Still reeling from the intensity of Salma's young life and her poetry, I was also filled with a deep curiosity about the fates of this couple.

I kept asking people in Choglamsar, and around Chuchot area if they knew anything of this matter. Finally, I found the answers I was seeking - yes a well to do young man had died in a car accident about a decade back. There was suspicion of foul play that was never proved. Salma's death was explained in the letter she behind - she couldn't bear to live on after her lover had died.

I walked back home and tossed the little diary in cupboard - and it would not doubt be soon forgotten.

Metaphor

 Sometimes it feels as if my whole life has been strung out on discoveries of metaphors. I find them everywhere - just accidentally, or sometimes by design - on pondering on the nature of my situation. Sometimes, these metaphors even drop from trees - literally. I found one such, a leaf,  just a few days back on my evening walk around Chuchot Yokma. There it was lying there - awaiting me, to be picked up. And it was a perfect metaphor for my this stage in Life.

Withered and brown on the outside, pure radiating gold within and singing with surging life in its emerald green, pulsing, life-affirming veins.

Motorcycle Murders

I've always had a strange and morbid fascination for the dark, dreadful and death. Even as a kid I'd stop to investigate every carcass of animal, bird, bug, or even human with keen investigative interest in how and why.

It was natural that such curiosity and an active imagination lead me to become an investigative reporter covering the underbelly of life here in Bangalore, always on lookout for stories that were unusual, rare & often bizarre. I'd scan at breakfast the obituary section, news clippings of accidents, murder and death. I had good connections also with the homicide dept of the police and at the govt coroner's office at the local hospitals, to readily get a whiff of a really good, evil story. Most people were just amused that a young female like me was pursuing the trails of blood and gore... But what to do - to each one their own.

The first twin deaths in a motorcycle accident which caught my eye was readily dismissed. With the insane traffic, speedings and stress of Bangalore life, this seemed perfectly normal. It's only when a second similar incident was reported the same week that my interest was piqued. With my coffee in hand I immediately headed to my computer and started digging. My hunch was right - there had been more than a dozen such cases, all in the Frazer Town vicinity, always with two young riders on a motorcycle in a collision with a big vehicle - a bus or a truck that had lead to the death of both riders and in couple of cases, one rider survived a vegetative life, and would be better off dead!

How thrilling! There was surely a story here. Thus started my days and weeks haunting the sites of the accident, talking to witnesses, people who might have seen, heard or suspected something, but didn't care sufficiently to come forward to the police or reporters on site to involve themselves. Who has time these days for such things? Best to ignore and move away. 

However, it helped being a young woman of reasonable good looks, some charm and patient persuasion - slowly people started opening up with suspicious details that they'd previously ignored, and possibilities started to emerge into a story. All accidents happened on broad day light and involved youngsters that were driving rashly - so there was generally no need to look too deeply for any devious evil at work here. However, a couple of people mentioned that "boys will boys" and were chasing a young woman also on a bike. I decided to follow up by chatting with the drivers of larger vehicle involved in the last few accidents. Sure enough, all of them recalled clearly that the boys suddenly served into their path in a high speed chase behind a woman in a black leather jacket on some fancy motorcycle. 

Thus began my search for this mystery woman from around Frazer Town. I started with large supermarkets in the area, talking to the staff and managers, if they recalled having such a customer. I also made sure that I left my contact at each of the places, just in case they remembered something, or if she actually turned up.

It was not entirely surprising then that I received a phone call one evening from an unknown number- the woman herself that I'd spent last many weeks chasing. Let's call her Monica. She sounded warm, open and friendly and wondered why I was so keen on seeking her out. I explained that this would be best discussed face to face, to which she surprisingly invited me to meet her at her home next day. I couldn't believe my luck and hardly slept that night at all in great excitement. 

The person who greeted me at the door was an youngish, slender, lithe woman in her fifties with springy, short, curly grey hair, clear skin and wide open large eyes - that uncannily seemed to see through you. I could easily believe that in a leather jacket and a helmet she'd easily pass off as a young woman. I decided then and there to be completely honest with her.

As we sat in her home, sipping tea, I laid all my cards open and shared the story that lead me to her. Unsurprisingly, she was equally forthright and readily agreed that she was the person who was being chased in all those accidents. 

It was now her turn. First, that she used to race motorcycles in UK, where she'd been born and brought up. She'd enjoyed reasonable success and even made quite a name for herself by her mid twenties. Her life turned when she met and fell in love, at a concert with a sitar player from India, while visiting Argentina for some races. One thing led to another and she married and moved back to India where she had a daughter called Maya. 

Tragedy struck when Maya was barely 18 and was killed in a traffic accident returning from her coaching classes just prior to her 12th final exams.  She was on a two wheeler and trying to apparently escape eve teasing and harrasment by two guys chasing her on a motorcycle, when she lost control and was run over by a public bus. This had happened several years back. 

With a straight face and candid eyes, looking straight at me, she then said that she'd been able to only start recovering from this tragedy over the last few years when she came up with a plan to teach a lesson to young men who harassed women in this way. She again took to riding her old motorcycle - cruising the streets in her black leather jacket and her helmet with visors. Her husband was glad that she was finally riding her bike, and also finally, swiftly healing from their terrible tragedy, and was clueless how exactly she was achieving this. 

That was about 15 years back. Monica and I continue to be dear friends and still meet regularly - despite our age difference. I have changed, and turned my attention to life and the living, and now cover topics of ecological and cultural interests. 

Monica now says that she's too old to continue this sport and too tired to look for revenge. She's taken up yoga and meditation and is learning to find peace within herself. Sometimes I wonder if she's found her Maya in me and therefore no longer needs her bike or her black leather jacket. 

Srinagar notes

Apple baits,

And a fisherman 

Catches a loot

On Dal Lake.

Sliding their rifles around 

Soldiers shed tears

Gulping golgappas

Indolent with his hookah

A boatman relaxes on 

His shikara

Swatting mosquitoes.

Today

 My sky is blue

No rains, or clouds

Passing through 

No sunrise, no sunset

To mar my way

Azure eons fly

In stillness of today 

No darkness, no light 

Just illumined openness 

Of infinite sight.

-------

Choppy mountain waves, 

With edges of icy lace

Tumbling like my days

And a heart that never behaves.

------

Sweeping indigo shadow lines -

Unfolding wings in endless flight?

Or Sumi hills in dusky light?

Reflection in these silent times.

Jottings

 Only through words comes a silence

Only through pain, bliss

The way into unknown is through the known

Journey into spirit begins in the flesh

Through travels a realisation of stillness 

Be alive, dying every moment.

------

Break free & breathe

Night has birthed light

Rejoice-

Din is silenced into a song,

This moment is your eternity.

Killer Instinct

 I'm a killer - rather, I used to be one - professionally speaking. How I came to be one is another story. This is a story of how I stopped being one. I started my profession at an early age. I was quite successful and thus was able to be a family man and also a good provider. I married a beautiful girl from a wealthy family, we lived in an old bungalow in the hills of Vagamon, and the kids went to the best of schools. My son is now a doctor with a thriving practice and my daughter a successful lawyer in Thiruvananthapuram. My family accepted that I was a busy travelling salesman. Death is and has always been in demand - and I don't complain.

I am now retired with sufficient wealth that I don't need to work anymore. However, I found that retirement did not really suit me - I got quickly tired of watching TV all day or listening to my wife gossip with neighbours. I kept mostly to myself - a wise practice for one with my background. Being a person of limited other interests or skills, I decided to "remain in touch" with my craft -  I really didn't need to be paid for it. I was finally practicing it for its own sake and getting better at it than ever before. My speciality was staging  accidental deaths, suicides, medical emergencies with DOA, where no foul play was ever suspected. It was indeed a pleasant retirement once I'd decided to hone my skills and expand my creative licence.

Victims were often chosen on whim, when the urge set in. Some required meticulous planning and others were spontaneous masterpieces of utter simplicity and polished execution - I hope you caught the pun there :))

Now to the day it all came to an end. I was wandering near Varkala cliff one evening - having come here for a change of scene. Wife was looking at shops and I decided to take a brisk stroll along the cliff to the north. Odayam coastal road is dramatic with rugged cliffs of red laterite and the Arabian sea that's aquamarine to opalescent jade. It's then that I saw this young child, about 5-6 years old, running with a little kite near the cliff. My old heart lurched with a sorrow that's hard to explain. What kind of life could this beautiful child be expected to have - what a terrible world we live in, full of sorrows, injustices and misery at human level and ecological destruction with climate change as the fate of the natural world. I had found my next victim.

Two women were standing nearby in an intense and engrossed discussion. I casually approached the child, who was still running around with that silly kite - close enough to shove with all my might, while screaming loudly " Be Careful!!!!!" It was All over. Everyone believed that I had rushed there to stop an accident. However I am haunted to this day by the happy, innocent, and trusting  look with which the child had turned to me saying "thatha"(grandfather) with a smile. 

These days I have taken to painting. I often paint a child with a kite.

In Kerala Angels live on coconut trees

 In Kerala, Angels live on coconut trees...

I'm sure you must have noticed them...swaying the fronds on windless days,  their wings flying towards heavens or circling our homes, sound of their laughter at human follies or their whispers helping a particular card player cheat at his game of rummy.

I have recently started collecting their wings - golden, light, but strong enough for flight - I find them discarded here and there on walks and marvel that I get so lucky. You see, they do this when they find humans asleep in coconut groves - men do this a lot in Kerala. And they do this with laughter and chuckle - for mischief and play- mostly for sport.

That's why one frequently hears, here and there - I don't understand why so-and-so is behaving in such ridiculous, irrational or loony fashion. One hears this a lot about men in Kerala. It's just these rascal angels, tossing away their wings, to make mischief.