Tuesday, July 26, 2016

empty rhythm

I threw a stone to water "gluum"
Joyed. Another one .. glum.. yet another....
Aww. No water.
Crow just flew away. No stone either....
Let us find the joy of Empty Rhythm. Can we?

Monday, July 25, 2016

Pt.Rajiv Taranath : Sarod Recital 25 July 2016

I enjoy sound. But know no music
But this evening was terrific.
Pandit Rajiv Tharanath rocked.
At the senet hall Mysore University.
I experienced the solidity and fluidity
Of Hindustani music in Sarod
Meandering throgh the sonic space of strings
Rolling of pebbles in water
over tabla of Pandit Yogesh Shamsi.
Mind was exhilarated as Rhythm dripped through my ears flowing down to hands and Fingers down to gently shaking feet.
An experience to remember.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

I was not unhappy despite
what you thought.
I am still not.
Your smile will not fit to my face.
To show that I am happy.

Saturday, July 23, 2016


Tease / tickle / punch / pierce
Gore / kill
Volley of words. even not  aimed.
Like pellet shots. Maim and bleed.
Words like swords; More potent.
It tickles. Below the belt .
And chops off head.
In one single stroke.
Words are like Nice trucks.
And suicide bombs / sugar coated poison too.

random posts

It has become dark with clouds
Looks like rain is about to come down
Why do we say it is going to rain?  :-)


You need l
To fight, to compete, to compare,
To try to be complete each of us
To be We.
Then We need They. Why?

child play

Nice pebbles you pick up to throw.
For others to pick up. You revel. My child.
I too enjoy.
Watching you enjoy.
But you are also throwing some of
your marbles and some gems too.  You know it.
But don't stop. Keep throwing all.

Tuesday, July 12, 2016


We howl to stop your dream at night
And we drop shit at your gate.
We will do that every night.
It is our right. You don't like it.
Don't you think,
You are like us too.
Wagging  tails
For crumbs that fall.

Dropping  your shit all over
Spitting on wall, wailing to it as well.
Fighting for posts
Bending your knees
to Queen bees.

You post and complain
For freedom of expression
And that and this,
Also to eliminate  us.

You are polished
We are crude and rude.

Your write and shout,
Similar. But bullshit.
You think yours is trenchant,

Ours is more punchent. 
It is Dogshit. 

Sunday, July 10, 2016

the terrorist

After a beautiful rainy night
Peaceful cloudy day. Nice
Walking along the usual trail
Good mornings and how are you? s.

The fierce sun is shooting
Sharp lobs of fire
Through holes in lively dark clouds
Like a terrorist behind a religious curtain.

Friday, July 8, 2016

popular means of power

Power is to control others.
Many desire that.
Popularity is others liking what one does.
To be popular is a democratic curse.
As a means to be in power.
When these two combine
One goes any extend.
Money, corruption, lies, false projections,
Threats, buying media. Dress, loose talks.


Zealous relationship
is Like a horse ride
Egos take turns
to be a horse or a rider.
It is here and now.
Nothing ever after. Except hope.
We make our lives a cart ride
Two yoked together
For some else to ride.
Life goes stale.
We all can trot together,
Galloping needs pairs.

Saturday, July 2, 2016

Nostalgia : My home

I left my native home and village in 1963. I was 17.
It was my parents’ home. 
A middle-class-farmer’s house, in  Southern Kerala.
Never again I stayed there for more than a month at a stretch.

Yet the image of this home 
with leaky tile roof, wooden creaky attic,  
a cattle shed and hay stacks,
remained as that of my home.
The place that I grew up and had siblings,
grandparents and parents 
played with early friends around the yards,
With all the uncomfortably hot and dark interiors,
rice and grains in all nooks, the dust, high ceilings, 
the cattle ‘moos’ and goaty 'bahs'
the sweaty nights of summer,
the grandma-instilled fear 
to open windows at night 
and love of darkness.
All etched a foggy fond memory to call it  my home

until the last of my parents , my father, died in 2008.

Until then I used to return to my home regularly;
I do go there often now, but I do not ‘return’ home.

The image of my home.     It evaporated slowly.
My children grew up in the residence I built,
Where I stay now, in Mysore
They come once a while for a few days; new nomads.

Yet I know,  this is their home.  

And me, am I homeless?