Ah! This Darkness Within and Without

Darkness in the abysmal depths of our hearts
Darkness hovering like a bird of ill-omen
on the horizon of mind.
Darkness lingering like a sinister frown
on the brow of thought
Darkness smudging the face of reason
Darkness besmirching the mirror of existence
Darkness submerging the world of sensibility
Darkness smothering our youthful aspirations
Darkness casting monstrous shadows
across the sunny vistas of life.

No glimmer divine illumines the dark sanctums
of the custodians of public morals
The censor's hearts are cold, indifferent
apathetic to the wailing and weepings
and prayerful beseechings of the devout and the faithful
The shepherd and the sheep
The Guide and the gullible
are beyond Redemption.

Outside a furious storm is raging
Inside darkness reigns supreme -
The Abodes of God
Pagoda and Cathedral
Mosque and Temple
Are all dark within and without.
The night is pitch dark awe-inspiring
sending a shiver of cold, deep into the spine
and I
wrapped in the shroud of mysterious silence
Whither bound? In the gloom profound
All alone... companion less.
A few that are... are dozing and dreaming
rollicking in the arms of a complacent life.
But for how long shall i traverse
this dusty and dreary, dark and dreadful
path of existence?
I brood and ponder
whence? whither? and why?
I muse and wonder.
Where shall my quest lead me to?
I stand bewildered and dazed
In sheer consternation... utterly dismayed.
How long shall I grope and stumble in the dark
without a Guide?
Ah! no light beckons me from afar
and the night is too dark.
Yet, footsore and weary
I am trudging-alone-all all alone
What a lonely night!

A frantic finger moves reckless and wild
shattering the hushed peace of night
Breath-taking suspense... but hark!
the agonising groan of human heart
piercing the thickening pall of gloom.
Listen! the pathetic wail that comes again
sending ominous reverberations
across a world of sorrow rocked to and fro
by those fatal shots
and standing aghast at the dastardly deed
of gruesome murder or martyrdom
crime or crucifixion.
Another great soul departs
Another blazing star is lost
In this dark, dark void.

How can the spirit of compassionate love soar
higher and higher with bruised and broken wings.
One more plunge into the bottomless pit
Am i awake or dreaming?
Hissing and howling, moaning and shrieking
What evil winds are blowing
across a vast panorama of life
Poor world is this - impoverished decadent
precariously poised on the precipice of destruction.
Is life a dream or a vision?
A chimera or an illusion
A reality stern and stark
or a play of vain delusions
or an eternal mirage
luring the worldly and the unworldly.
The world's inexorable tide is bearing me along
willy-nilly onward to unchartered regions
of the mysterious unknown

This loneliness is too great for me,
Profound-unfathomable
When all is dark within and without.

Lonely mountains, lonely valleys
Lonely villas, lonely alleys
What a lonely night!

What an impenetrable darkness!
Doesn't its Ethiopian grandeur terrify?
Doesn't its Stygian darkness horrify?

Cease the song of victory
sing the songs of defeat
For culture has beaten a retreat,
to hide its painted face in the cavernous haunts
of deception, duplicity and deceit.

Unmask the varnished facade of civilisation
Tear off the holy cloak of religion
and reveal the mocking grin of demon
masquerading in the guise of man.

No more divine symphonies of love
soothing strains and balmy refrains
O; musicians, strike up some other tune
discordant, jarring
uproarious, tumultuous
befitting the devil-dance
for the sons of Belial.
A mad frenzy!
A bacchanal orgy!
A voluptuous revel!

malignant forces are rife and rampant
suffering is writ large on the brow of creation

Will this night of all nights
herald no Dawn of Resurrection?
Bring no balm for the broken heart of man
Show no light to the groping soul of man
And Again men have killed a Man.

Out of the Woods Into the Realm of Beauty

Sunk in the illusion of self-deception
Slimy creatures
unable to breathe
in the invigorating air
of open spaces
creeping and crawling
grub and grovel
shrink and shrivel
in slush and slime
Steeped in self-delusion
and fake pride
drivel and snivel
in nescience-abide.

But the men of moral integrity
unruffled without
and fortified within
stand calm and self-contained
serene and unsullied
lotus-like inebriated
with the immaculate beauty
of its own contemplation.

And they know not
and I forgive them for not knowing
that life is too short to waste
in tittle-tattle or silly prattle
Perhaps they know not
and i blame them not
for not knowing
that leaves wilt and wither
flowers droop and fade
and the wheel of life moves on
relentlessly at a stormy pace
and the man engrossed in
trivia of existence
trails behind the race
and that the curtain will fall
engulfing one and all
in its sweeping cold embrace.

And they know not alas!
and I have no quarrel with them
for not knowing -
that knowledge is freedom
knowledge is enlightenment
that this life is an adventure
an adventure into the cosmos
an adventure into the unseen
regions beyond
It's a sudden leap
into the unfathomable depths
of the dormant mind to know
that your own 'self' is the seeker
that your own 'self' is the knower
that your own 'self' is the see-er
that your own self possesses
the cosmic energy -
that hidden flash of intuitive insight
that auspicious moment of
inner illumination
to know the meaning of existence
to know the meaning of being 'awake'
the rapturous ecstasy of being aware
to listen to the still small voice within
to realise the invisible bond of unison
betwixt the finite and the Infinite.

And it has ever been
from the times immemorial
an eternal quest
of a restless inquisitive, anguished soul
pregnant with beauty of thought
to know the genesis of creator's myriad creation
to unravel the inscrutable mystery of the universe.
to penetrate the impenetrable
to tear off the mask of appearances
and lift the curtain of ignorance
to know the Reality behind the phenomena
and to have the radiant vision of the sublime
in the Realm of Beauty within
and a better, fairer and higher
panoramic glimpse of the world beyond
and thus attain a state of inner beatitude
the quintessence of harmoniously integral life
Where inner freedom of soul triumphs
Over the outer world of human bondage.

And when the mind outward bound
returns 'Home' into
the sanctum of its 'inner being'
to him is revealed
in full splendour
sparkling glitter of 'goodness'.
heavenly glow of 'truth'
luminous gleam of 'beauty' -
Satyam, Shivam, Sundram - the Trinity
enshrined in the golden temple
of our cultural heritage.

Vigil

She stood there
In the doorway
Wrapped in the solitude of her thoughts
All alone-
A picture of sadness, sorrow and sacrifice.
There she stood
In the doorway
Waiting for her Lord;
He was somewhere else
beyond the bourne of her dreams
Beyond the reach of her thoughts
For he had some promises to fulfil;
That night
He was virtually lost
Though much against his will.
And she? - devoted and steadfast
Hoping still
kept a weary vigil
Though night was dark and chill.
Midst the streaming peals of laughter
Frolic, fun and jollity of rioters
Throbs of her aching heart were drowned
While she stood there
Quite oblivious of the noisy world swirling around
One by one the lights in the streets went out
In the vast azure dome of night, one by one
The shimmering nodding stars went out;
And she stood there
On tiptoe
Peering into the dark fathomless night,
But alas! he was not to return home that night.
At last, tired and worn-out
By weary waiting and watching
She slumped there on the threshold
And the night passed by.

When the rift of dawn
Gently stroked her dream-dipped eyes
And she turned her face eastward
To do obeisance to the Lord of light
What did she behold?
First a dark speck
Then a blurred image of a man
Moving nearer and nearer
Where she stood, in a prayerful attitude
Twirling the wet pleat of her sari
Around her tremulous fingers.
Precariously perched on the verge of nervous commotion.
Lo! the advancing figure staggered
And fell at her tender feet
Dishevelled, broken and utterly shattered
A picture of remorse and reckless dissipation.
And She? - the blooming Bride, with feminine grace
Stooped in reverance
And stretched her arms to enfold
him in her forgiving embrace.

(my dad used to do that too, my mom wasn't so forgiving. i'm not so sure i'll be the one to break the cycle)

My Fair Lady's Rendezvous With Destiny (pt.1)

(Alright, well i'm just going to jump right into it, the genius and beauty of my grandfather. i can only hope to love someone as he loved my grandmother. my words will always be in brackets.)

Half a century ago
when she came into my life, she was a
lily of the fields, fresh and fragrant
a coy maiden, a blooming bride
a country belle, fair and lovely, innocence personified
haloed by pristine glory, immune from
arrogance and pride

- A divine Creator's Immaculate conception was she
a sculptor's beatific vision cast in alabaster was she
a poet's dream-incarnate in flesh and blood was she
a romanticist's miragic illusion, ravishingly beautiful
a passionate lover's dream-girl, fantastically ideal, was she.

A Grecian profile, porcelain smooth soft skin
gorgeous in colour, tone and texture
features chiseled to order in classic perfection
a wondrous harmonious combine of female anatomy
exquisitely consummate in every aspect.
giving a fleeting impression of celestial apparition
endowed with charismatic persona
a veritable paragon of singular charms
delicately glamorous - a radiant form.

A famous artist who did her portrait (it hangs on my dad's wall, it's MAGNIFICENT!)
four decades ago
confessed to me, under the rose
She is, indeed, a Venus vivid and intense
a woodland nymph or an ethereal being
glowing with inner illumination;
his observing eye and discerning gaze
brought out the quintessence
of the inner beauty of diaphanous soul
on canvas
called her epitome of classical Indian Beauty
maidenhood, elegance and feminine grace
She is, no doubt a painter's delight
his vision - his inspirational flight.
Now with the passage of time though
her beauty has mellowed and softened,
Chastened into gentle contours of sweetness
and other-worldly charm, her being still radiates
Warmth of love, magnetic spell, magical fascination.

A tender ingratiating smile
natural, artless, sans deception and guile
captivating without camouflage
impeccable to a fault.
With her pellucid, limpid eyes, intent gaze
even with suffering writ large on her elderly matron's face
a lunate aura circling her thoughtful brow
brightens up her countenance with soft touching glow.
In a spacious hearty and candid mood
the portraitist made bold to say: it's no exaggeration
to call her archetypical URVASI
a venerable, adorable household deity
creating an illusion of beatitude, of luminous mystery;
She has in her making
three elements of Trinity
Goodness, Truth and Beauty
that transfigure a woman into divinity.
With an arcadian life style
a face ever-wreathed in ubiquitous smile
though this poignant beauty's life-span
was steeped in pathos,
was a muffled dirge of worries and woes
yet, she didn't buckle under
adverse fate's buffetings and blows;
She never lost her joie de vivre
seldom staggered, quailed and wavered
though pain-smitten had a way of her own
steeled her heart, to live life at her own terms
Shrugging off fortune's fluctuating tides, twists and turns.
and gallantly preserved her crystalline conscience

The chalice of her heart was filled to the brim
with the nectar of grace
in which hubris and malice had no place
disdainful sneer, frown of scorn
never, clouded her ever-beaming face.
A moving spirit of graciousness
of winsome manners and genial temper
erect of bearing and nobility of character.
No, dilettante sophisticate was she
though ignorant of book-learning
self-taught, self-cultured, self-groomed
full of fun and jollity
always bubbling with spirit cordiality
blithe and lively, exuding bon-homie;
lacking academic plumes
she had uncanny knack, intuitive insight
to read human nature
hidden under superficial, cloak of honeyed words
under the garb of sugar-coated babble and chatter,
could easily follow the drift of high brow talk
of glossy femmes, blue stockings and snobs
of high-heeled lasides and pseudo mods,
behind the web of appearances, hypocritical facade.
By virtue of her suave, open-hearted demeanour
she became cynosure of her compeers
her talk was frank, informal, engaging in simplicity.
shorn of frills, flourishes and flounces
free from banal superfluities
unsoiled, undefiled, untouched
by mod life's trivial frivolities.

She cared not for flamboyance and colours
limelight, razzle dazzle, pseudo-veneer
tasteless ostentation of upper circles Vanity Fair:
always at her homely, realistic best.
that made herself eminently endearing
to men and women of diverse social standing.
Stoic patience, rock-like forbearance, gritty endurance
warm humaneness, infinite toleration
were her lustrous ornaments
to crown all - all she had superb in-built sophistication
a paragon of virtues she falsified the phrase:
Frailty thy name is woman
Frivolity thy name is woman
by her upright bearing justified the phrase:
Discreet modesty thy name is woman
Serenity thy name is woman
With anguish-freighted heart, tormented soul
bearing a heavy weight of anxieties and afflictions
with heroic determination she kept fighting
her lone battle, outwardly keeping her mind in fine fettle
heeding the least about the canker or grief gnawing
slowly and steadily inch by inch eroding her vitals.
but had the guts to break into high laughter
O' praised be that lady for her lofty character.

A lady of sterling calibre in thought and deed
even in the face of ominous clouds of approaching doom
looming large on the horizon of her ebbing life
with strong-willed tenacity
kept feeling her way through circumambient gloom.

The descended '89 with an acid test
of her unruffled patience, unswerving faith, courage and conviction
Phoenix - like her spirit rose
out of the ashes and debris
of her shattered dreams, ruined hopes
splintered expectations, unrealized aspirations
to face another challenge, more formidable.
with all the possibilities of critical situations,
but her mighty invincible spirit
triumphed over that catastrophe;
Should i sing a paen to that departed soul!

My Fair Lady's Rendezvous With Destiny (pt.2)

(so the blog won't let me carry on even though i, or rather my grandpa wasn't done yet. so i have to split it into parts. don't worry, they're not all this long)



Abiding trust in a benign Providence
was the sheet-anchor of her faith,
had been her polestar to guide and steer
her storm-tossed boat through turbulent sea of life:
a self-sacrificing, self effacing, all-forgiving Mother
a vivacious, vibrant lady, warm-hearted devoted wife
hitched the wagon of her family life
to that beacon of hope and promise
But the valiant lady was star-crossed
the hounds of Fate chased her to the last
as in the case of all noble, pious souls
emancipators-redeemers of mankind
who bear the cross for suffering human kind
A strange fatality kept dogging her foot-steps
and at long last
extinguished the spark
that had been burning by fits and starts
within the sanctum of her brave heart;
But who could read the scroll of Fate?
Who could decipher the writing on the wall?



I rue the day
When by quirk of fate
or intrigue of circumstances
She was uprooted, as if by a strong gale
from her native place
and transplanted at this critical stage
and thrown into that heartless asphalt city (my dad took her to chandigarh, the capital of punjab, during her last days. ironic because it's considered one of the cleanest, advanced and most beautiful cities in india. my grandpa, obviously grew a great distaste for it.)
Where she kept languishing and lingering
crying and shrieking, wailing and writhing
with most agonizing unbearable pain (i witnessed a couple of them as i've mentioned before, it was scary as hell and they lasted a lot longer during her last days. glad i wasn't there.)
on that blasphemous asphyxiating atmosphere
where the very air
was permeated with dark apprehensions
gripping fears
and life was out of joint-out of gear
and this fighting angel, so full of valour
had her rendezvous with Death.



The mourners could see
the flames of funeral pyre burning and blazing
cracking and hissing, spiralling and billowing
higher and higher into the azure deep void above
but they didn't have the insight.
to imagine and see malevolent flames
sparking off the diabolic fire
issuing out of simmering, seething
Volcano within that mortal frame
that had been singeing, scorching and consuming
her body and soul
moment by moment day by day
for the last two decades.



A day before her final departure
I heard death rattling in her lungs
knocking at her cancer-eaten ribs;
I prayed and prayed and prayed
earnestly, fervently, silently
in sheer desperation for her redemption
in the same way i had prayed
half a century ago
for the salvation of another pious lady
a frail, sensitive, noble soul
my prayers were heard
and her soul took flight
out of the skeletal
earthly tabernacle.
Thus my fair lady's tortured, tormented body
gave up the gruesome fight.
succumbed to final dissolution
to eternal silence - to oblivion
to the inexorable law of Nature
That we the humans, however, high and mighty
ultimately have to bow before the will of the Almighty.
How could she, poor wounded soul, escapes her date with Destiny.
She left at last
with a thousand yearnings unfulfilled
veiling beneath that fair form
lying tucked away in the depths of
her bruised, battered and broken heart
and death came as a release from that
state of long-drawn-out agony-called Death-in-life.
On her face no shroud of ghastly pallor
but there hung a faint flicker of a smile instead.
She opened her eyes, a while they say,
whose darling child she was.... that
her tear-bedimmed eyes glistened with liquid of sympathy breathed a hushed utterance
cast about her last lingering look
what message to convey? what secret to whisper?
Thus she bid adieu never to return
to this earthly home
hurling me deep down in the abyss of despair,
to suffer acute pangs of utter loneliness
aching void, a wilderness of stifling woe to stare
me in the face - sans hope - sans tender mercies
sans loving care.
In a bewildered, stunned and shell-shocked state
while contemplating on the tragic fate
that befell me, I heard soft whispers of a Celestial Voice



'Why faintest thou?
............. She cannot fade.
though thou hast not thy bliss
forever wilt thou love and she be fair.'

-these lines are from John Keats' Ode to a Grecian Urn



(A dedication to love through a poor man's pen as great as the taj mahal.)

My Teacher, My Grandfather

My grandfather was the smartest, most well read person I’ve ever known. I had the great privilege to live with him for a little over two years in my pre-teens in India. He died a few years ago but he is now more of an influence on me through death than ever before. I see him in myself now more than ever before. Actually I never really saw him in myself until I stopped neglecting my love for writing about 5 years ago.


He was a college professor, he taught English literature. He would eventually become principal of his college. Literature was his passion, my grandmother was his love. He would read every single day. I would play around him while he sat in the veranda reading and constantly underlining. Only his family and close students knew what a truly loving person he really was. To an outsider he might’ve seemed somewhat stern, rigid and maybe even cold. And truthfully he could be all three at times, actually, most of the time, but we all knew of his soft side that peeked out of its shell at the most unexpected moments. He had an air of importance about him. He would be in a tie and sweater vest by six a.m., even on Sundays when he wouldn’t even leave the house. He was a loner, a solitary man by choice. He preferred the company of books to men. There were very few people outside of family that he would happily sit with. Sometimes he would have visitors, like minded men. They would sit in his library, drink whiskey, laugh and talk. No one dared opened that door to hear what they were laughing and talking about, not that any of us would get it anyway. They would sit and drink and talk in there well past my bed time. He viewed most of mankind to be beneath him. Those around him felt that way too. He bored easy among company (aside from his friends mentioned above). But he always stuck around for the whiskey. He was very well respected by everyone. No one ever questioned him. No one ever raised their voice towards him, except my grandmother, the only one that wasn’t scared of him. The man was barely over five feet tall and still seemed larger than life. He wasn’t intimidating per se but he had an aura of authority. He only spoke if necessary and made sure his point was succinct and clear. He was a mystery to me. I would sneak into his library when he wasn’t home and snoop around every nook and cranny trying to solve this mystery. All I really found were words I was too young to understand. I wanted to be intelligent like him.


As you can imagine, school came first with my grandfather. I never had a problem with that, I was always somewhere in the top three of my class. This was not enough for him. He would make me read text books during the summer so I had a head start when the school year started. He wasn’t Christian but made me read the children’s version of the bible for the life lessons. He sneered at the idiotic Bollywood movies I loved so much and would show me old Charlie Chaplin movies and Laurel and Hardy and old Hindi movies. Even my illiterate grandmother would surprise me with the occasional English or her understanding something I said to my grandfather in English. She obviously learnt from my grandfather. All these things that I hated at that time I would come to appreciate later in life. Seems we all go through something like that with our parents or in this case my grandparents.


I went back to India about five years ago. It would be the last time I saw my grandfather. He was old and seemed a foot shorter. He didn’t talk much and didn’t care if I did but he wanted me in his immediate vicinity as much as possible. He showed me some of his sketches (I think my grandfather would’ve rather been a sketch artist like I a musician). They were good but there was a definite recurring theme, lone cabins in the woods, the solitary wolf, untouched forests… go figure. I now think this might have to do with the love of his life being fatally ill for over twenty years and being completely helpless to do anything about it but watch her wither away. But I didn’t know him before this so I can’t say for sure. When I left a month later I took a little piece of his library with me. I’ve been collecting from it ever since. Whenever a relative goes to India I look forward to the books from his personal library that they bring me back. He literally had thousands of books. (He donated 2000 to his college to give you an idea.) A couple of months before his passing I called him on a whim requesting to hand pick some books for me. I wouldn’t receive them until after his death. The first book I read was the biography of J. Krishnamurti. This book changed my life and much of what I write in my blog is influenced by him, Khalil Gibran and of course, my grandfather.


His library is slowly turning into mine. Fortunately he usually dated when he read them and some date as far back as the early 40s, underlined with his footnotes and all. So as you see, he is still the biggest influence on me even through death. Those books might not contain his personal words but they helped in shaping him and they are now shaping me.