In a fuzzy crowd!

So long since I have been able to keep my head strong
In the fuzzy crowd, I see a stranger, Asking for alms.
I buy him a ticket and hand him some money,
I hope he makes it home.
Inexplicably, comes a gust of feelings so hard,
Rejoicing I cannot contain myself,
Lucky I consider those who have the shelter,
With a protection to keep them forever.

Naught is what I have, looking for principles, I came to a climax
The world called them elders,
Some called them family,
Some called them fathers.

A patriarchal society one would call.
I feel an anchor,
That needs a reckon.
A guide, a rudder, a pilot.

Influences or inspirations,
I derive, in the way to give it back to them.
No hurt, no pain, no shame.
Happiness in their name.
An environment for them to breathe,
A park for them to stroll,
A garden to feel,
A memory to cherish,
A montage of life that they passed on.

I have seen shame in love,
No shame in violence though.
I have seen anger in hurt,
No hurt in pain though.
I have seen some of what they showed me.
I have seen the best person given by God,
I call her Mommy!

My mommy, your mommy, his mommy, her mommy.
Daddy here, daddy there, daddy somewhere.
Some spread love while some give hate.Hate produces hurt, hurt makes hate.
The world is wounded and band aids don’t help!
I long to give them love, so that they don’t make a child, a mother, a woman abused.
A son, a father, a husband bruised.

Its an elders world and what we give is what we reciprocate.
An image to carry, an idea to utilize, a world to bereave is that all that we are?
A child is the father of the man.
Soon, the father loses itself,
The child finds himself.

Time is ticking and all that we are left with will be ruins.
The oil, the gold, the money,
None of that matter, no honey
None of that matters, to save our souls.
None of that matters to save our souls!!

Raising Ganga – A Middle Chapter

You have to read this.

Shishur Sevay

“Raising Ganga” should be a book one day.  This is just a middle chapter.

Today we were driving to Apollo Hospital for Ganga’s check-up, I kept thinking of the harrowing and frightening drive there just eight days earlier, late in the night, as Ganga had thrashed, cried, kicked, yelled, and could not be soothed.  Whatever lingering doubts I still had about having wanted her in the hospital have now disappeared.  Ganga was clearly back with us, with her naughtiness intact.  We had some answers, but even more important, she was better.

I’d intended to post a blog when we brought her home.  I wanted to thank all the people who had written and messaged us on FB, and who sent their wishes, prayers, and told us of crossed fingers and toes.  Ganga loved hearing about their messages.  And I was immensely strengthened by the support.  Well, WordPress disappeared the post…

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Amidst the horizon of the dead..

And then there was this night, when the clock struck twelve for the first time.
There beat the hollow of the day, what the sunshine could not fade.

Skies violet and the twilight, red.
No there is no place for faith.

The bats are off to dens, there will be another moment again.
Incubus of the dark,
appear also when the mind is lurking in the past.

Can I hear a Hallelujah ?
Can I hear an Amen?

Can I know how many have been tormented by evil?
Can I see the marks you have put on your spirit?

As the filth rises, they come in with their foul stench.
From the alleys of the conduit,
That were shut and sealed.

Do you feel what I am saying?
Do you know who haunt,
Its not the dead but the ones who rise with dawn,
and we call it human.

If there is care, its for the flesh,
If there is love,
There is absence of love.
And that is why the bells toll…far amidst the horizon of the dead…

If you ever read this…

When love was the only thing that grew,
Distance always seemed cruel.
How can you be gone,
To a world anew?

Because I went astray,
You turned unfeasible.
Those days now turned to memories,
Memories so livid.

I want you to know,
if you ever read this,
that I think about you.
More often than you care,
More often than I should haste.

There is no burial of this truth,
Menacingly,I try to tell you,
More so to destroy,
what you built, after you went away from me.

Can you hear the noise of my anklets?
Do you feel your heart skip a beat?
Do you think of the one you love the most before you go to sleep?
Have I ever kept you awake all night?

Do you hide a tear that you shed in my name?
Will you embrace me again?
It’s time to let it go…let it go… let it go along with you..
I’m tying a balloon, marking it and seeing you off,
silent prayer, a warm kiss and a gentle hug of hope and thought that if you were to come,
you will find me.. Find me again…

A box.

There is a box.
It feels, what it says.
Thinks, and acts,
Perceives, what it adapts.

This box is here.
But there isn’t a time, or a duration.
It has sensors,
It hears what is said,
Imbibes what is seen,
Accumulates what it notices.

A gift was once passed down to what couldn’t be contained in one,
One box.
The box couldn’t be rigid,
Neither too flexible.
It was made to stand.
Stand on itself,
On the wind and rain,
Or the hail and sunshine.

The box, traveled far off places,
To distant lands,
It heard, saw, spoke, it acquired.

Then the box was changed but set forth for the same journey.
The box continued but never came back to the start.
The box never even hit a finish line.
It reverted in a new cover, all the time.
And each time, no one knew what it was,
How it was.
No one was there.
Every one was new too.