Paradise City

It is not too situational... the poem.... its about anything that you love... some thing you like to do and are not able to... or somebody you love, as in a relationship... its the personal love... i am not talking about job or physical land at all... bas yehi...

What land is this??
that I have trodded on ....
the sky ain't rosy,
even the grass here has thorns...
this feels like some other place...
nahhh, its not my home here....
yet......yet ...
Here, I do want to stay....

I will change the dark clouds...
my heart, is so pure....
I will water the grass,
now no thorns will grow...
it will shed the dry exterior....
it has shine, it will glow...
its hidden interior is brilliant,
thats all i need to know!

(huh)
Now that I have laboured,
its still.... its still the same....
the grass a little softer,
not as wild, a little tame....
the thorns are still there though...
there is still brilliance inside...
when will it come out,
n break the thorns that it bides..

Maybe the pricks are a part,
maybe the inner glow they hide....
so that, so that only those who bleed,
can feel and see the beauty inside...
Now, that you have seen the place,
I am sure closer home you will feel...
Not all is perfect here...
so many things to understand and still see.
And then, and then, there is......
the unknown reality.
But even when its dark there,
For the kid inside ,
its still the Paradise city.

The People On the Streets

Away from home,
I am on my way.....
Roam around I dont....
I have some place to reach safely.

On my travels though,
these specimens of humanity....
I see and feel everyday,
n they are a part of my journey.

It starts with the guy with the gun,
he protects the gate from where I run...
thousands of people come and go....
but how he is no one stops to know.
No one even knows his name,
where does he come from, where does he go.

People brush him off, somewhere they must reach,
but like a machine he continues to work,
so everyday the least I do....
is give him a smile and a warm hello.

Then I see swarms of people,
as i travel in the metro...
They have questions, they have gazes....
n they have worries on there eyebrow(s).

As I move with the masses,
I am a little lost too,
and except the pretty faces that I get too see,
the rest are just a part of the melee.

I must move from there, as I get down...
coz my friend I wouldnt wanna make wait,
so I make my way to the bus stop,
from where I reach the place where I await somebody.
I look around to see if she is there....
like the open eyed kid on the street.

She is the lady with a divas aura,
she ties her hair loose n neatly,
they fall in place with whatever she wears...
and carries it off with a certain dignity.
On her face have I never seen...
The morning blues or pain or misery,
neither some pride or ego....
of her, so obvious, beauty.

I must leave her now, my friend is here...
with whom for this short I like to journey....
songs play in the background...
that freshen me, take me away completely.

I reach the place where I work,
and guarding me again do I see,
A man in a uniform, clean and neat...
I wish him well, I wish him genuinely.

The office day is such a wave,
the crests and troughs completely shake me.....
How I came to be so moved with time I dont know....
though , its not such a mystery.

I start again, after work....
C people n feel their anonymity,
I dont like it when them I just pass by,
I want to acknowledge them, cold I dont want to seem....
There are, so many of them,
the guards, the people who office-clean....
the autowaala who I try to talk to everyday.....
n the guy in the bus with whom I share my seat.

The metro journey back raises more questions,
whenever, whenever I get a seat....
whom to let be and whom to offer....
at times I get up, at others I let human inertia overcome me.

Then there is the last leg of my journey....
where hoardes of cyclerickshawwaalas await me,
they take me home on dere rickety three legger's,
through lanes that feel like the backdoor of the city.

I offer them a glass of cool water everyday,
n, ask them to come up with me....
they thank me for the water, some are even slightly bemused...
n in me rises a deep inner calm....
as I see d invisible human distance, reduce.....

I salute these poor souls,
despite their problems they live with their dignity,
my mumma likes it too when they come up...
she says from their insides they bless me....

Through this day in the life, they have been with me....
sometimes with them I run, sometimes they run with me....
sometimes they make my day, they even make me cry sometimes....
t'is an ode to diversity,

to THE PEOPLE ON THE STREETS.

A Human Touch

Well, the incident which made me write this happened day before yesterday in the metro. It was travelling back home from work. I was standing in a corner when this lady, a young lady, got in and because there wasnt much space, she began to lean on me. She put all her weight on me, for support. She realised that after a couple of mins and consciously moved away a little. I was very exhausted that day and her leaning on me eased me up from the tension of being careful of how I moved, stood in the crowded train. So here goes:


O' stranger, O' stranger
In the train....
You can touch me if you like
on me you can lean....

I like it, believe me
this touch of life....
There is a certain warmth, in its feel,
its not out of place.

It wont burn you, believe me
with desire....
Neither will it fuel within me
some kind of fire....
What it did... though, is cleanse me
of all that I was tired.

For this touch.....
Oh so pure....
In this ugly human territory...
I owe you, a prayer of love....
for this serendipity...

N i hope that one day,
may such a time come....
That in this melee of people,
By a human touch.....
The pain shared.....
The misery overcome.