Rainmen.

in the pouring rain

I see umbrellas hurrying past

from a high-rise window .

Strange Consolations.

creaking sounds, eerie shadows

all alone at home -

monkeys in the bamboo grove.

The Inner Core.

autumn reveals

trees bereft of leaves

when will it come to me?

Wondering....

why people hurt

bystanders, fellow wayfarers

even beasts don't do that.

Gloomy mornings.

is there
even one bright spot in a man's morning

other than his shaving foam?

leaf-drop silence
for weary souls to rest



in the graveyard.

Bubbles.

framed emptiness
here now, gone another moment -

hollow reflections.

Unfinished business

hole in the wall
wall outside hole inside



peekaboo within

Zombie

wake up sleepy head
listen to the clarion call

lose your illusion.

Love.

A gentle warmth in the eyes
A tender touch of the hand
Sweet words unspoken – yet said
A strong shoulder to cry on…
A face bright upon one’s arrival
A deep anguish upon one’s absence
A smile, open and bright - on a calm, guileless face
Laughter – uninhibited and free, ringing in unison.
A pillar of strength when spirits are low
A silent understanding of each other’s woes
A divine forgiving of each other’s blunders
A strange peace in just being there for each other.

Love needs no cards, no flowers,
No gifts – not even words,
It just needs a heart – a heart that gives!
(1989.)

The BubbleMaker.

It was a dreary Monday evening and a sudden, heavy drizzle was threatening to turn into a heavy downpour. There I was, unarmed and outside my child’s music teacher’s apartment block, cold and sheltering under the porch, waiting for the class to end. Meanwhile, a boy aged about ten to eleven years darted out onto the porch in front of the block, stopping with a skip and a hop. As I watched, he brought out a bubble blower with a flourish and starting enjoying himself, blowing bubbles into the rain. If only I could paint, I would have probably frozen that vivid picture of the child against the rain, the light and colourful bubbles against the heavy raindrops and the absolutely unadulterated joy on the child’s face, all in the form of a watercolour. But alas, I had to make do with my mind’s eye.

My heart sank further as the pitter-patter of the rain and the bellowing of the wind progressed steadily onto the next level. Meanwhile, the performance of joy unfolding on the porch-stage also progressed onto its next act, sort of serendipitously. The child suddenly sensed the wind blowing into his face from a specific direction. He just followed the wind and thrust himself against it and before I could bat an eyelid, he stopped blowing bubbles and thrust the blower out in front of his face, in the direction of the wind. And it was the wind’s turn to blow bubbles now. The bubbles now formed at a furious pace and hit the child’s face equally furiously, smearing his face with the soap suds. The child immediately instinctively tried ducking the bubbles. Then, all of a sudden with a sweep of his arm, he dipped the blower into the bubble mix and with a flick of his hand, raised his hand high, in front of his face. The bubbles now came fast and furious right over his head. As if to maximize his joy or double his return on investment, he started picking up the bubbles again onto his blower and recycling the bubbles. Are we as adults, ever inclined to recycling, so intuitively and effortlessly? Do we ever consider multiplying our joys by recycling our own positive experiences? Are we as proactive as this child in conserving energy and latching on to viable alternatives, even when the going is good? Are we as nimble-footed in responding to change – in harnessing it to our advantage?

As the rain settled into a light drizzle, this boy was no longer content with this outsourced bubble-blowing. He then proceeded to more creative bubble-making. This time around he started throwing bubbles into the air, just like a long arm bowler bowls his balls. Even at this stage, he continued with his recycling. And when the soap solution was exhausted, the child returned home, happy, glowing, content and renewed but not exhausted.

As I stood there in the wings, I was no longer cold - this performance had more then warmed the cockles of my heart. But, I could not help but feel pity for ourselves, for our lack of creativity in our everyday lives. If as children we were blessed with it in abundance, I wonder where and how we lost it. Is our education at fault here or are we to blame ourselves for this?

Reverie.

I thought the storm was over.
Like the swarms that come out after the rains
my dreams spread their wings and soared towards the new light
- A strange sight of multiple hues, charting out their pre-destined paths.
The gentle breeze that swayed, only seemed to propel them higher.
But within a blink of my disbelieving eye -
my dreams lay shattered, broken wings scattered,
sprinkling drops of realisation on me
arousing me from my eternal reverie.
(1987)