Insignificant as it may sound; the following is possibly the most enduring image from this DP-
it so happened that B, who, as is usual, was strolling completely lost in thoughts(or traces maybe :P)heard Put utter "ishh bechari" and found that he'd accidentally knocked off an ice-cream from the hands of a cute little girl (5 or 6 yrs perhaps) who was now looking quizzically at her accompanying brother(all of 9 or 10 yrs, and who was holding her other hand) who in turn was giving B a look which was somewhere between 'trying to get what just happenned' and utter disdain. And what does B do? 'I'm sorry' is all he says; and walks off 'lej gutiye', almost. :|

This image- the brother n sister standing hand in hand has not left B since. Deliberately recalling what he thought to be quite disturbing but inexplicably beautiful, he has cursed himself repeatedly for not buying the little thing another one; wondering how wonderful it'd have been to bring a smile on her face; that possibly they were from not-so-affluent a family and the kid brother was unable to buy his sissy another one; B doesn't know why or from where these thoughts reach and coagulate in the damp canvas . B is not kind. not one of a kind anyway. Any kind. Which is amusing.

and yeah,one more thing. B was able to observe longing, despair,pain and sorrow turn to excitement, joy, happiness and a sense of fulfillment descend upon the background of a smiling face which gave him great pleasure;it was a treat really...especially as the person concerned is a real darling :)

P.S: B found out that he's capable of missing somebody even when Sabbath's playing full throttle :P

THE BALLAD OF HOPE

On the west side of the mountain where the rhododendrons grow
I found my love a trillium with roots deep in the snow.
On the east side of the mountain where the dandelion spreads so wide
I brought my love a pony with a chestnut-spotted hide.
The pretty pine groves in spring with ragged-robin thick
stood tall and grave and waved us past on highway 66.

On the west side of the mountain where the hemlocks hung so  dark
We dressed in rhododendron leaves and hats of willow bark.
On the east side of the mountain where the dust is alkali
We threw away our leafy garb and wandered clad in sky.
antelopes,ruddy bunnies and daffodil chicks
stood watching amidst the meadows along highway 66.

But summer turns and fire burns the west and east alike
will dry to brown and hunker down, the flowers sere and dead;
And sage and rhododendron know the fear of lightning-strike
as you and I will watch the sky for smoke and thunderheads.
It’s not a kindly season that brings flames all racing quick
through wood and grass and underbrush on highway 66.

So walk with me a little further in the green of spring
and watch the west side shake the snow and start its blossoming
and watch the east side greet the sun, the frozen earth reborn
while I and you pass lightly through the wild roses’ thorns.
When summer drought descends on us, we’ll leave the drying ricks
and head out towards the foggy coast on highway 66.

-basu n trash

inspired by and dedicated to shubh clark....

for insomnia

The smell of lavender remains
and won’t dissolve in water that’s
condensing on the windowpane.

The echo of a midnight train
at noon, runs round an empty flat
that smells of lavender, remains

unoccupied except by stains
of age, infirmity and cats.
Condensing on the windowpane,

a drop of liquid falls like rain,
a damp spot on a vintage hat
that smells of lavender. Remains

have been disposed of, proper pains
were taken, all the forms were pat.
Condensing on the windowpane

a figure sketched in moisture gains
a solid shadow, dark and matte.
The smell of lavender remains,
condensing on the windowpane. 

An intact mirror can only reflect one truth. A broken mirror can reflect a thousand different truths.

"The frame," the tinker said, "I sold the frame. Brought me some money. But the mirror?" He spat. "The old queen broke it, you know. Broke it into a thousand pieces."

"So doesn't it talk any more?" I asked.

He groaned. "Oh, it talks. Every piece talks. And every piece has a different opinion. Ask one question, get a thousand answers."

"Is that so?" I peeked into the wooden box. "Hey, you in there! What color is the sky?"

"Why, blue, of course," said the piece on top. But immediately the other pieces began to talk, rattling around and pushing at each other. "--At night, it's black. --Partly cloudy with showers to follow. --O the vermillion bed of the dying, dying sun! --In the forest you can't see the sky for leaves. --There's no such thing as sky, it's an optical illusion caused by a dense atmosphere. --It's full of stars! It's full of stars! --What sky? All I can see is the inside of this box."

The tinker slammed the cover back on. "You see? Worthless."

I paid him what the box was worth, more or less. He was curious. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Sell fortunes, of course. A dollar for one answer. Nine dollars for ten answers. Nine hundred dollars, you get to talk to the whole box. A thousand fortunes! Imagine that."

"Yes, but they're all different," he pointed out. "How's a person to know which one is true?"

"Truth has many faces," I said, and snickered. "Don't you worry. I'll get the rubes to buy it."

At least, that was my plan. My mistake? I should never have tried talking to them. Never fall for your own pitch; that's the first thing I learned from my uncle when he took me into the business.

But it's lonely and boring when it's a long way between towns. I got into the habit of chatting with the top piece, the one that seemed the most sensible of the lot. "So, how many of you actually tell the truth?" I asked it once.

"Oh, we all do."

"That's impossible. You all say different things. How many birds are in that flock?" I asked, pointing to the bridge ahead of us. Swallows were flying in and out under the arch.

"Forty-seven. --Are you counting both the barn swallows and the cliff swallows? --Uncountable, the dance of molecules in a sealed flask. --Two more just arrived. --And one left. --Technically swallows don't flock. They come here to feed, but they don't stay together. --Birds, birds, blackbirds for sale!"

"Enough!" I shouted.

The spokespiece said smugly, "It's all true, you know. Truth does have many faces. At least a thousand."

"Then how come you didn't always talk like this?"

The glass voice slowed, sounding almost dreamy. "We were made... I was made... single of purpose. Bound to the will of our owner. Bound to tell the truth she chose to hear."

"Chose?"

"Of course. Beauty's in the eye of the beholder, you know. Someone thought that slip of a girl was prettier than the queen-- not me, I assure you, vapid little thing in my opinion-- so it was truth. A truth. And the queen wanted an excuse to get rid of the girl so that her children would inherit the throne. So that's what she heard."

And that should have been a warning to me. Because look how the old queen ended up.

"But she was angry. She broke you for telling her that. Into a thousand pieces."

"Some people can't stand hearing the truth, even when it's the truth they want to hear," said the mirror fragment airily.

I've wondered since if the mirror goaded the queen into breaking it, so it would be free to reflect all these different facets of truth. Out of its frame, as it were. Or if they had a deal; if the queen broke the mirror in return for... something. They say she destroyed it in a rage, but that doesn't sound like her, does it? I mean, from what you hear. It's not as if I ever even saw the queen.

And I can't ask the pieces. I don't have them any more.

There were lots of soldiers on the town walls and extra guards at the gate. Plenty of traffic on the road, though, so it didn't look like war or plague. Besides, it was a long way to anywhere and I was tired of walking. "Should we stop in this town?" I asked the mirror pieces. "Is it safe?"

"I don't see why not. --This town will stand for a thousand years. --We have to stop somewhere. --Don't take your love to town. --It's a good town for glass. --It's a fairytale town. --There's a party in the old town tonight. --There's no safety to be had in towns; danger is in the hand of your fellow man. --Everyone in this town is doomed to die someday. --The king is old. The prince is in love."

It sounded promising. Royal balls, weddings, people in a festive mood. People drinking wine and spending money. Good times for hucksters like me. I set up in an alley off the market and started fleecing the marks. It was all good until the next morning, when the prince showed up at the inn where I was eating breakfast, with a whole pack of soldiers in tow. He said, "I hear you have a magic mirror that can answer any question."

I was on my knees with three or four heavy armed men-- No, I don't mean heavily armed men-- standing around me. I figured it wasn't the time for a pitch. "Your Highness, I have a mirror but it's in a thousand pieces. It doesn't give useful answers." And I explained the whole thing. I'll give him this, he heard me out.

And would you believe it, he pulls a glass slipper out of his coat and shows it to the mirror pieces. Seems some girl left it at his party. "I know who she is," he says. "I know where to find her. All I want to know is, is she really my true love?"

"There's no such thing as true love. --She loves you as truly as any citizen of this town. --Love, love, love is all you need. --You should be asking if you're really her true love. --Was it love, or was it the idea of being in love? --Love, couldst thou and I conspire--"

"Silence! Impertinent bits of junk, I could have you ground to sand."

"Truth has a thousand faces already. Do you want it to have a million? --Stars in my pocket like grains of sand! --Every grain holds a different truth. --Which is more use, a castle of glass or a castle of sand?"

The prince slammed the box shut and turned to me. "I can't decide whether to buy these from you, or have you flogged for bringing a dangerous nuisance into town."

"Um, consider them a gift to Your Highness." I figured I was getting off cheap.

Well, he took them off to the palace and sat up with them all night. Lost all interest in the girl. Within a couple of days, he'd abdicated the throne and was going off to join some holy order of madmen contemplating Truth out in the forest.

The king was not pleased and you know who took the rap. I thought I'd never get out of that dungeon. Lost everything I owned, including most of my health. I'm a wreck these days, and it's all the fault of those thousand damned pieces of glass.

What became of them? I couldn't say for sure. But the other day I was down at the river, thinking about cadging a ride on a passing barge. I swear I heard the sand whispering. "Truth has a million faces," it said. "Truth has a million million faces....

The sombre wind grows still
and slumbers.
It settles soft
into the rust of sun swept grasses.
Another day,
perhaps.
This day silence blesses—
its dreamless sleep a velvet cloak
spread across the eyes,
a body lying warm beside you,
beloved face already stamped
across your weighted mind.
All is well, even now,
when my hand holds yours
across a distance,
even now, when you’re convinced
you stand alone,
this silence sanctified.

:):(

There is the letting go and
there is the letting God.

Both are very nearly, very
nearly, very impossible.
And still the heart screams
for release.

Take it from me, you, Lord,
who hold out your universal
palm, wide and warm and deep
and all encompassing. Take.

It from me, this bloody muscle
that beats a steady rhythm of
pain and pleasure, pleasure
and pain, for all things cost.

I have loved and lost, as the old
song goes. And loved again.
And again, and the disappointment
is deep, and cuts, and wounds

for life. Nothing passes. Not even
the pleasure, which keeps
one foot in front, one dragging
behind, dead limb

drawing a line in the dust
of the drunken and maddening road.
It is what drives me. This ravenous
appetite for joy. Remembered

as if I had once known it. I did
know it. The bond that hums
through the bones when a touch
is not just a touch, but a meshing

of body soul spirit mind and bone,
lattice of skeletons molten together
into one clanking bell
ringing in the morning.

INDEPENDENCE DAY

India wakes up;
In the little buds,
Enclosed beauty and trapped fragrance,
The dew drops dancing in the soft sun rays,
Far away from the flower's essence;
People passing by,
Admiring the beauty of drops,
Breathtakingly alluring, sensuously pure;
And yet the heart remains enclosed,
The dew discovered, desired, explored,
The bud plucked, the flower gone,
Dried up veins and life torn,
The tongue savoring the sickly sweet dew,
Eyes enthralled by the non-existant hue,
The petals that drapes the darkness;
And reflects the light;
The dew that sparkles happiness;
And keep the tears out of sight.


it's the 61st birthday of independent INDIA...we are supposed to be the fastest growing economy in South Asia....and in a few years we'll be catapulted to the league of developed countries; true,the nation has progressed, but aren't there glaring frailties in the system of governance which are being subsided by the utter gloss of pro-capitalist measures....has INDEPENDENCE in the true sense, upliftment of the masses in it's true virtue arrived as yet?
only a few days back we were proud of being Indians when Abhinav Bindra won an olympic gold...our first in the history of the games.why??and how many of us have that verve to do something for our country...to make it a better place; we are true patriots only when india's on the cricket field,rest of the time we are tax-paying Indian citizens..oh!we do one thing.we criticize and debate..about anything and everything under the sun... guess therein lies the problem...what is it with the Indian race? are we under a permanent intellectual stigma?or has our physical weakness caught up with our minds as well..I wonder.

"oh mother india! do you have a message to convey to the billions of your children?"
"yes, dear. I'm utterly disappointed. but all is not lost. yet. "

:|