Size of a man’s imagination

Freshly ejected from a sea of body fluid,
Becoming undetached umbilically,
When it’s the size of a button mushroom,
He’ll look at all of you as his mother.
Give him some time to learn.
Learn language from sounds,
Feelings from touch.

In his third multiple of five,
When puberty begins to confront,
From places hitherto Sun hidden,
He would’nt look at all of you as his mother.
When it’s about the size of a puppy’s tail.
Give him some time to learn.
Learn expletives from language,
Female from male.

In his fourth multiple of five,
When it’s about the length of his palm,
Disobedient like a boisterous labrador,
He would look at all of you as his lovers.
The Sun rises from his navel,
And sets between his legs.
Give him some time to learn,
Learn to lech from look,
Stimulate from touch.

Between the fifth and eighth mutliple of five,
When it’s become a domestic appliance,
From the cool gadget it once you used to be,
Fatigued from myriad experiences,
He would look at only one of you as his wife.

Batting is still fun, but the strike rate isn’t there.
He now knows love from lust,
Insecurities from trust.

After his thirteenth multiple of five,
That is if he’s still around.
When it’s hung, shrunk and vestigial almost,
He would look at all of you as his daughter.
The game has become passe,
His upkeep has watered his impulses.
He’s collecting epiphanies from experiences,
Nostalgia from memories.

From a button mushroom,
To a puppy’s tail,
To palm length,
To a docile appliance
And being hung and shrunk,
It’s after all, not that hard to size up-
A man’s imagination.




Crazy stupid thing called love

To some the destination, 
To some the vehicle.
To some the reason to live,
To some the reason to quit.
To some an obsession,
To some absolution.

To some a blind religion,
To some a ponzi scheme.
Where some broken hearts get fixed,
While some good ones get broken.

To some an autumnal zephyr,
To some a ruthless storm.
To some, a blissful blindness,
To some, an impending eye opener.

The thing that renders tectonic plates maternal,
Making countries out of land masses,
Idols out of stones,
And memories out of wrappers.



Lost in a sea of thoughts

There’s a boy on the tip of the shore,
Perched on a rock, wave kissed.
Like the rock, he’s there by chance.
The raucous waves wouldn’t give him a moment,
To drench in the gorgeous sight before,
Of a saffron sun bathed in seascape.
But the waves wouldn’t let him be.
They would bring ruckus, conchs and rubbish to him,
Like an anxious dog to its master.

A day passed. Actually a few did.

There’s the boy, same one as last time.
The rock’s way behind,
The water’s tepid and at knee length, from there. 
Adulthood’s embraced him,
Going by the hair on his sinewy wet legs.
Couldn’t really tell if it was the boisterous waves,
That had become well behaved
Or was it him who had begun to endear them?
He was musing on the same sight,
The sea was between.
Of a sun bathed seascape,
Adorning sepia strokes like a new tiara. 
He seemed calm in the chaos.

Like bread from a toaster,
Sun and moon kept popping out,
as days effluxed into weeks.

There’s the boy, wait, he’s a man.
The shore is a speck from where he is.
His face is a sore thumb sticking out from water,
He a flotsam in the heart of the sea.
Inundated by solitude and sea from all sides,
He for once misses the waves, that had kept him company.
He’s closer than ever before to the sight of his life,
But as far as he’s ever been from it.
The view from the shore was an artifice after all.
The sky and sea never got along.
The innocence that came with childhood,
covered the fault lines in everything beautiful.
The urge that came with age,
just activated them.











Letter to a toddler

Your first words will be welcomed,
Like first streaks of light into a dark tunnel.
And your last words will be remembered,
Like last streaks of light from a dark tunnel.
What you manage to do between these words,
In short will go on to define your lifetime.

What will be celebrated as your innocence,
Will go on to become your ignorance.
What was loved as your energy,
Will be met with the crack of a whip called discipline.
Yeah, it is a funny place, this world;
Where every meaning will be in flux.
Sometimes the world would change and you wouldn’t,
And other times you would and the world wouldn’t.
As your reverence changes with relevance,
You’ll begin to learn that change in fact is constant.
And this, you’ll constantly try to come to terms with.
By the time you do; you would either be wise or old.

They will tame your free spirit,
In the name of concern.
They will bend your instincts,
In the altar of acceptance.
They will begin to ration your laughter,
For you to be taken seriously.
Only to nitpick on your lack of humour.
Their chisel wouldn’t let your rough edges be,
For your individuality isn’t the sculpture the herd would fancy.

Learn to see beyond expressions made,
Learn to hear beyond words spoken,
For impressions and intentions are a world apart.
When you fall, they’ll feel bad for you.
When you rise, they’ll feel badder.

They’ll come across as civilised creatures,
Till their primal instinct accosts them,
To contest as rats in a race for survival.

Never prostrate before a blind faith,
As credible as the endorsement seems.
Every time you question a faith,
They’ll call it a blasphemy, but do it.
Question. Question till your intellect nods,
As nothings weighs an ideology better.
And finally, preserve the child in you, my little one;
As hard as nature tries to age him into oblivion.
For only he will bring the difference to life,
Between existence and living.

To her, with love

I’ve heard her speak a million times;
Have I heard her, when she didn’t?

I’ve seen her flawless face a million times;
Have I seen her, with my eyes closed?

I’ve known her for more than a two hundred days;
How many in them did I know her value?

I’ve skipped a heartbeat over her;
Have I realised, she constitutes a piece of the heart itself?

I’ve dreamt of her while asleep;
Have I realised, life with her was the very dream?

I’ve hurt her in the name of honesty many a times;
How often has my honesty been bereft of ego?

I’ve always been forgiven, bigger person she is;
How many times have I overdrawn, in the name of love?

I’ve come away from her in search of my soul;
Have I realised,  she in fact was my soulmate?







Things like Green Peace

For me to practice vegetarianism,
You’re the collateral meat.
If I were to display literacy,
You’re my sheet.

The scaffolding to my shelter,
I fashion my homes out of you,

On the places you had yours.
For I never really took you seriously.

Maybe you could’ve been mobile,
With pangs or claws,
Too bad you’re turned up a standing duck,
Green and tall.

But then if you were,
You’d be tamed, petted or poached.
Just your consumption would’ve lost its holy sheen,
With your carcass oozing red and not green.

Like in the world of Tolkien, 
Maybe you must’ve learned to speak.
To intimidate and hit back,
Debate and converse.

Then I would’ve warred,
When words lost sanctity, peace lost patience.
For nothing covers the paucity of dignity,
Like destruction does, you see.
I do it all the time,
The right becoming the whim of the last man standing.

But then what else would I consume,
The condescended plant eater; 
The lesser evil of the two,
I know it is not fair,
But nothing ever that bent before Darwin’s delusion is.




Million faces of headless men

To dress a sheep a wolf, to find pack acceptance;
To be an outsider and remain unnoticed.
To be the tantalizing flower on a bee pursuit.
Sometimes the yin to the yang within;
The truth in a realm of bluff;
The mirage on the mirror.

Masks of a myriad stakes he adorns-   

Mask of indifference when intimidated;
Mask of patience to eke tolerance;
Mask of anger to earmark attention;
Mask of valor on a timid day;
Mask of resilience on the periphery of breakdown;
Mask of character on the query of strength.
Mask of love to flatter a beloved;
Mask of faith to sanctify disbelief;
Mask of concern to euphemize hurt;
Mask of diplomacy to find approval;
Mask of contentment when red with envy.

Is he its generic alter ego
Or it, his versatile one?
It is the oldest rhetoric there is,
Whether he wears the mask
Or it wears him?