Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Poems from Nepal

These were some poems I wrote on my trip to Nepal last year.
About nature, ghats of benaras and the kumari of Nepal.


Tap the ash, tap your soul;

Host the sun in between, a poor soul standing on his feet,
Smokes his cigarette and puffs in his sleep,
Wasn’t the river a silent gush of wind?
Watering the parched with the water so deep
Waiting for a boat to float in the morning daze,
It shines and gleams and reflects a person in haze
And questions your purity and mocks your forward-thinking
That you dip your hand and shake the water daily
Hoping it bounces your image for your inkling

The shore is white and the pearls absorb its light
You pick up what’s different
Forgetting that nature needs its elements
 The stars don’t always look bright
It’s because you steal nature in its might

The clarity of the waves, swift threads of algae
Isn’t this what we meditate for;
Isn’t this a fight for our valley?
Remind me if I forget
It was this that made us,
Forests and rivers
Now they seem like purple haze
When we touch them with knives and choppers
Don’t await an intervention
God doesn’t do that chore
Think about what you would mention
When your children won’t find clean rivers anymore.




A ghat affair

Uneven stairs, shining in the night
Dark clouds of moisture
Waiting for a life of delight
But then death peeks from beneath
Scaring the boat to topple a little
Theres screaming and shouting
And a lady faints in disbelief
The boat moves on and so does life
At a distance
You smell the flesh, burnt and dead;
Didn’t you come for here salvation?
Oh wait, sadness will fix your head
The river still flows calmly,
Afterall we pray for its existence,
And its understanding of human waste
Its purity will never be questioned,
 Even when it flows alongside the ghats
With flowers and oil diyas in tow
Our dead welcome them in a row

They mesmerize you at dusk
With seven pujaris and their devotion
Thousands of devotees gathered in musk
Forget what the river was asking for,
The beauty of the lights and the diyas
Trick them into believing a life of before

But the ganga is still calling
She has stopped singing though
There was a time her worship was for her purity
She says,
Now she doesn’t remember how many bodies she lay.





Naked eyes


She stares into your eyes,
For the four seconds she looks at you
You wonder how she feels
With no sadness, no speck of blue

Her life is chained in those doors,
Because some hundred thousand years ago,
They played with the emotions of women
Calling them impure, stealing even their children’s shadow

She doesn’t know how to cook,
How to look, because she was defined with sacrifices
Many many years back,
She is the living goddess,
Chained in her puberty
To later solicit her masses

We look at her with awe, anger,
Disgust, contempt, sadness
But all she returns is a hollow stare
That crushes your hopes
For a dream of her freedom.
I cannot click a picture of the goddess,
They say it isn’t allowed
They sell her postcard to me later,
Selling her soul to the other thousands in the crowd.
  
I feel very lonely when I look outside
There is no equal, no woman in sight.
Yesterday the radio said
‘come one and all, we have a prime minister of might’
But is this our victory?
When he fears his own life in the dead of the night?

A gentle knock on the door,
Is alarming sometimes,
A fear of life, a fear of this nations plight.