Rims and Tires

The rim of the turning bike,
Lets my heart stop.
Grime sticks and tempers the tire and my mind is tired,
But the days still go on as the sparkling rim.

Blaring horns come as they come and forewarn dangers,
The steamy rides of happiness and the crushing crash into crowds,
The changing landscape and the wavering traffic,
But the days still go on as the sparkling rim.

Tire did my mind,
My habits still tough to shake off as tars stuck on the tire,
My hurts still fresh as the thorn that poked fun on the tire,
The journey is deflating the tires and the soul is escaping.

Rim comes to a stop.
The tire is now just dangling flesh.
Come my soul now you can travel, out the pores of the skin.
Happy and away from the concrete and grime.

Through the gates

Through the gates I could see a distant image,
Of intrepid fear and unknown familiarity,
Tugging at my heart and sending a rhyme that rings pain,
Holding my flesh and detonating my soul.
Through the gates I could see a distant image,
Of silken hope and treacherous intent,
Searing my eyes and chilling my spine,
Barricading my breath and slurring my mouth.

All I could is grip my heart and hold a march,
Unworried of the image lit in future and the snare it fields.
All I want is to sing a tune and troop my soul towards purpose,
And take no notice of tarred nights and garish decoys.

Through the gates when I walk and when my eyes close,
Let the light from my path blind the image,
Let the blood worn thorns shout a scent of truth,
Let my nerves be tired and my nostrils be dusted with sweat,
Let me try more now so that when I walk through the gates,
Let me turn back and smile at the covered mile.

Constant Man

It is easy how the day changes,

Shining day wanes as the night makes a comeback,

It is easy how the seasons in the year changes,

Winter recedes while summer hits back hard,

It is easy how the flesh changes,

Youthful shine drowns as gravity sags and pulls the body down,

It is easy how emotions change,

Painless romance and love between minds gives way to volcanic rancor,

It is easy how the memories change,

Merry-go-rounds and sweet nothings regress to lifeless board-room meetings,

It is easy how things change,

Warriors with daggers on horses now are funny with metallic mercenaries,

Yet, sad and deplorable : Man remains constant,

Reeking of hypocrisy and plagued by weaknesses,

The pungent smell of lies still linger and Man remains constant.

Unwilling to live and more unwilling to stand the happiness of others,

Willing to follow the most favored pilgrim for the day,

More willing to turn against foes and friends alike for no reason,

Busy judging the lives of others and savoring the failures of others,

Flailing and drowning in the depths of emotions as ever,

And as always warriors of light still remain as the tide engulfs the sails,

And it is easy how things do not change,

Man still remains constant.

 

The Moving Cart

The day has just begun and the lonely cart has to move again. Peeping through one of the many generous slits that house the shack, Arul sees his father leave the place, pushing the soon to be refilled cart up the mound. Arul feels a sudden tremble as he watches the blue tarpaulin on the moving cart flutter as the headwind grows stronger. The grimy tarpaulin assumes the personality of a transient canvas painted with a message, while his father turns back towards the house furtively as he lights up his beedi and assured that neither his son nor his daughter has caught him in the act descends the mound.

Arul checks on his little sister who seems to be lost in deep sleep. Picks a wooden block starved at the top and which bears an unhappy resemblance to a cricket bat and starts off on a lazy walk to the nearby ground where all his friends would have already gathered. The tremble stalks him again like a stranger and creases his face. As his frolicking friends welcome him the tremble gets drowned. With kids the lucky part is the nudity of conversations, they start and end with no formal introductions or denouement; and the next day or the next year you can start off from where you left.

Unwillingly, Arul tries to slip into the activity of the day by getting into the trained form of emotions within a familiar group. Against the run of play a chilly wind gushes past and as if not to cheat the pal fore-bearing the message, the rain starts as the clouds charge into a canopy. The tremble in his mind announces itself again but now the image of the descending Cart accompanies the flash.

Arul and his friends come into a huddle under a tree, which in that moment was more than a tree; in that it embodied a "powerful friend" in whom you had placed your trust and rest assured that the "powerful friend" will protect you from any trouble that you may face. Soon, in a matter of minutes the ground was flooded and the only sound, presenting itself beyond the vertical bumper to bumper rain traffic was the disappointed curses on the rain from his friends.

Suddenly, he seemed to remember something. The fact that his mother had died and there was none to comfort him when he goes back home seemed to be an archived video his mind was retrieving now and playing it back to him. He starts remembering some more; another thread tying his life back onto the pole of his defined existence: His feeling of what his mind feels; a feeling of numb pain the source of which no medical scan can locate.

The "remembering drill" stops as the rain starts practicing its climax and in a matter of minutes drizzles to a complete stop. Arul starts walking back home, not knowing what was carrying him back there other than the security of assured food, the need to see what his sister was up to and the prospective entry of his father.

Reaching home, Arul could only see that his sister was still huddled up. She thought she was doing it because it was pleasurable to stay asleep while Arul thought she was afraid; one step out of the cot and she would be on the uncertain "moving cart".