I had written this love-poem some time back, thought of publishing it in the month of February for its popular association with “Love”, but somehow failed to do so. Anyway, better late than never:
I don’t
know whether you would agree with me that love like youth like life perishes
to dust and withers with time. We pass a certain span of time on earth doing
some activities and trying to give it some meaning by naming it: purpose. When
someone says: “I love you” ;
there is so much purpose and passion in it, as that person’s admiration, devotion and dedication is directed towards one particular “you”. And in the process of loving someone, that person is creating memory and unconsciously trying to surpass death.
there is so much purpose and passion in it, as that person’s admiration, devotion and dedication is directed towards one particular “you”. And in the process of loving someone, that person is creating memory and unconsciously trying to surpass death.
But, are
we able to reside in the memory that we thus create in peoples’ minds? After
all, only an impression of personal perspective of the person who is beholding
the memory, stays. Still our journey of life finds meaning only when we are
able to find purpose, find lover and beloved in order to manifest our passion
(the life force).
So, I
believe we all are born rebels. Futilely fighting against death or aping to
rise above it behind the ruse of purpose, thus overlooking the inevitable fact
that nothing, other than documented memory lasts forever. Alas! Even that
impressionistic perception called memory is susceptible to mutability.
I wonder! What are we perusing? What do we desire?What are we looking at?
I wonder! What are we perusing? What do we desire?What are we looking at?
With
that thought, let me present my poem to you:
Pankaja
Celebrating
the inevitability of mutability… A realization beyond love and life.
My love is like that fresh produce
in the
market place
at the
time of noon.
Failed
at the day’s fondles
anxious
and dwindled
tired
and swooned.
Am I a freak pluck?
Can't I
adorn a porcelain bowl?
Be the
spice of korma,
jalfrezi
or ethereal jhol.
Its past
noon!
I assume
I can't even decorate
A poor
man’s plate: Panta- Bhat:
Thought
my woe betide soul.
I wish I
could speak to my Master!
Convince
Him, or His wife
to take
me Home.
They
could have
shredded
me off,
severed
my rot
and
added me to their broth.
But they did not do so.
They
dumped me beside
the
sewage gutter.
in
filthy stenchy
murky
litter.
I wailed
at my predicament!
Wallowing
in my woe.
Past the
noon
and the
afternoon.
My
putrefying ridges saw
A limp
goat wobbling forth.
Thus
finding some purpose
in being
its nourishment.
It
gobbled me whole.
Om Mani Padme Hum!
Om Mani
Padme Hum!
My love is like that ridged gourd
at the
marketplace
ravished
by the goon noon.
Romancing
with my
Limp
Goat
until he
becomes
Rogan
josh.
*Panta bhat: rice soaked in water overnight;
to be consumed with chilli, onion, fries, poppy dumplings; popularly eaten
during summer months.
_________________________________________________________________________
photo courtesy : Google Image
photo courtesy : Google Image
