Golden Oaks
Rise
Against the Vast Grey Sky
Its time to go fishing for souls
With My Bloodshot Eyes.
Come, My Love,
time does not stand still
For your stare or sighs,
You and I must go
Fishing For Souls
With our bloodshot eyes
The World will run around
In A Wild goose Chase,
for Their share of
Truth and lies
You and I must go
Fishing for souls
With our bloodshot eyes.
Silent Churches will call for myths
And Merry drinkers
Will continue to make love
To their good Ol' Rye
You and I must go
Fishing For Souls
With Our Bloodshot eyes.
A journey has begun,
An eternal river crossed,
The waters therein,
Have run dry.
But still we must go
Fishing For Souls
With our bloodshot eyes.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
At Sea
The weekend had arrived. A group of friends were on heading to Pune. Another friend was already doing the preliminary round at the countries most sought tourist spot, his eyes gazing over the white sands, smooth skins and across the blue ocean. The cute friend was on the way to the capital of the city. Another punter some where, I guess, was riding his bike making arrangements to drench his throat in a dry state.
So by noon I was swifting through the streets of Bandra. Through the swarming people, under the billboards and on the road, cruising beside dreams homes of the celebrities, rich and the affluent and on the other side, the vast sea. Perhaps at that moment, it was the most perfect place I could reach too. And as I drove past the sea, billowing smoke, with gushing winds caressing the hairs and swiping the sweat from the face, I realized the sea was always there for me. I was at sea.
So by noon I was swifting through the streets of Bandra. Through the swarming people, under the billboards and on the road, cruising beside dreams homes of the celebrities, rich and the affluent and on the other side, the vast sea. Perhaps at that moment, it was the most perfect place I could reach too. And as I drove past the sea, billowing smoke, with gushing winds caressing the hairs and swiping the sweat from the face, I realized the sea was always there for me. I was at sea.
And while I was sitting at the sea side coffee shop, I saw a young girl pass-by with blue striped sleeve less tank top which hugged her seductively curvaceous body and frilled skirt over her toned legs. And the whiff of the perfume while she passed was enough for me to forget that it was AIDs awareness day. But I was at sea and I had music somewhere within me. So I smiled and she smiled in return. And for a while, the smile was so seductively inviting that would put the devils head to rest.
And when I gazed over the Arabian sea for a food for thought, I realized that for this while, I had no need for any nourishment. It’s a lonely planet and I was busy dreaming to sail at the sea.
And when I gazed over the Arabian sea for a food for thought, I realized that for this while, I had no need for any nourishment. It’s a lonely planet and I was busy dreaming to sail at the sea.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
THIS WAS BLISS
Remember when,
For the first time,
You felt like your
existence was merely an illusion.
That was bliss.
Remember when
for the first time,
A soul in you quivered,danced
Shivered,
when the music actually played.
That was bliss.
Remember when
for the first time,
things begal to Unravel
Again.
That was bliss.
Everything that has
To Be Seen,
Heard
Felt
Sensed
Lived
Is nothing but this.
So this surely must be BLISS.
For the first time,
You felt like your
existence was merely an illusion.
That was bliss.
Remember when
for the first time,
A soul in you quivered,danced
Shivered,
when the music actually played.
That was bliss.
Remember when
for the first time,
things begal to Unravel
Again.
That was bliss.
Everything that has
To Be Seen,
Heard
Felt
Sensed
Lived
Is nothing but this.
So this surely must be BLISS.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
WINGS OF A DREAM
By Harish Mohan
My earliest memories of Haji Ali are beautiful. The ones dipped in the nostalgia of an eternal dreamer.
My earliest memories of Haji Ali are beautiful. The ones dipped in the nostalgia of an eternal dreamer.
He happened to my local barber, who used to sit outside a string of shops most of the time, jobless, resigned to his own self and a cruel sense of fate. His face would light up at the prospect of a customer, and more importantly , a fellow friend who would accompany him in this silent but lonely journey with only the whirring sound of an old fan for company. The barber would rummage through my ragged hair in minutes, and then save most of the time for sharing his million such dreams.
One such story is that of his younger days, a time when he says he escaped to Mumbai, to live what was then the great Indian dream of struggling on the seashores of Mumbai for a glimpse of stardom and an eventual rejection. His tryst with glories remind me of a black blotch of ink in a vast canvas of colours splattered all over , the one that is the city of Mumbai. It is here, that he says, though, that he spent some of the most enjoyable moments of his life. Absolute poverty led him to work as a waiter in an Iranian Coffee restaurant right opposite Haji Ali. The owner used to make him work all day, with the expense of his daily meals thrown in and a roof to sleep over. Not exactly a roof, but something else that he calls 'Jannat'.
He tells me of a night spent on the irregulary shaped black rocks just behind Haji Ali. The nights where a bunch of men like him, all men with an undying lust for life and hopes in their hearts, used to sit around together after a hard day's night and for most of the time, sit silently. Sometimes the stillness of the moon sweeping over its silver grace over the waters accounted for this state, but on most days, it was just their own reflections in these dark but murky waters, that actually did it.
Unfortunatley for me, I haven't seen him in a long time, but with these impressions, I made one of my first trips to this place, ironically on a day, where I celebrated the spirit of my lust for life, sometimes called as a 'birth day'.
It was quite pleasant despite it being that time of the afternoon when parched throats are around in the form of beggars and ragged women with urchins who roam around aimlessly. Their desire, sadly is not quench their thirst, but a hunger to which they have pretty much become oblivious. I do not have to try much to be numbed with a sense of absolute chill, now that I have been living in the city for around 2 years. So I try to turn my back to them and look forward to see a minaret dressed in resplendent white, and a sea of people passing by.
IMMERSED, TOGETHER IN PRAYER, ALL IN DIFFERENT FORMS.
Some of them used to be absorbed in a reverie of their own with their eyes closed while some had nothing but open eyes, lost and amazed at the vast stretch of blue enveloping this tomb.
A little behind, a bunch of white Siberian Cranes are here for their retreat,
accompanied by a flock of pigeons. Over them hovers a royal eagle, hovering around for signs of life, ironically to end it all for his own survival.
But in the midst of this intense scramble to exist, today, all of them show a understanding of a deeper calm. Each one of them is effortlessly gliding around in the sky, whether that be the pigeons and the cranes in their rhythmic flight across the fresh air and back in their shaped V positions, or the eagle with its royal guile.
Meanwhile, back somewhere, just below where I am sitting, ladoos are strewn all over the place and a bunch of crows and dogs share their bits of morsel for the day. In the midst of absolute filth and garbage, a dark man, with hollow gaunt eyes, and ribs drawn in, carves a beautiful peace of marble. The beggars and rag pickers are now sharing their lunch with what I suppose is their own domestic dog.
The celebration of my birthdays these days has been restricted to talking a walk around such picturesque streets of Mumbai in the absolute light of the day, and sometimes, in the glimmer of the dark silent nights. And on a day where I was celebrating my rendezvous with life, somewhere, in the visions of each of these frames of being sewn together, a beautiful truth was understood and savored.
LIFE,
EXISTING IN PERFECT HARMONY,
DESPITE,
ITS GREATER ,
UNDERLYING SENSE OF IRONY.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Online Windows
For all the cherubic faces I see online ........:D
Into the window
I saw your picture
Dollops of honey
And a heart with rapture.
The eyes shone bright
And perked up smile
Sometimes a child
sometimes a lady with guile
The heart searched words
For beauty in light
And what can I say
About the dreams
In hindsight
Sigh! ...
Monday, December 31, 2007
The View from Top: Chennai Blues
"It isn't time that passes by, its you and I"
Ruskin Bond
The windows are much more open now. There is the moist smell of the cool fresh breeze, just beginning to get chilly. The rain gods are not pouring vengeance out like barbaric monsters, but dancing to a little tune with mother nature. The streetlights are brightly lit, and the flickering of the neon lights are more luminous. I can sense the maddening rush of the city, as the road is buzz with the droning sound of vehicles. The woman behind the bike seems reluctant, only by a hand of a social moral code more than everything else to cling on to her man dressed in the choicest of white shirts, smeared in sandalwood paste and delighted at the freedom of a 'mundu'.
Yes, this is not Mumbai, but a city known as 'Chennai' to some, 'Madh-Raas' to others. The 'outsider' comes in with a image of a city immersed in a sour tinge of 'Sambhar' with looks of disgust on his face. The weather presumably must always be hot, and people must be drenched in sweat. But these are some of the good times of my life. The Gods above have decided to be generous and bless all humankind with their existence. I carry images of a city which is bathed in brownish hue, where the roads are drenched with torrential rain which has been pouring for 3 days continuously now. When the silence around this city is not filled with the pitter patter of rain drops on the streets, a cold chilly wind blows all around, encompassing the city in its pleasant armour.
On a cold breezy evening such as this, with its unusual tinge of chill, I decided to take a walk with my friends along such streets and through my new found eyes of discovery, I realised that the memories of Chennai I am going to carry around with me are those of absolutely silent still nights and rooftop bars. Apparently, the city is full of them and occupies a lonely and isolated space in Chennai's night life. Its much like how the most subtle and beautiful of things get lost under the vision of the human eye due to consent or pure ignorance. The rooftop bars are eerily silent, and the movement of the winds adds to the silent charm. There is no music and a handful of waiters. The presence of a drink in such solitude is but an understood statement, but what is extremely gratifying in this company of solitude, is the panoramic view of this city , resting in its quiet beauty during the lull of the night. As the time passes by in such a moment, I realise that the wind, which has been with me for quite a comforting while now in this journey, is going to carry the stories of our pasts and small joys, which we discuss as the alcohol rhythmically begins to soothe our parched throats. That is pretty much how the lovely forces of nature have somehow symbiotically arranged themselves at peace with the urban chaos in the metro cities of INDIA. The oceans of Mumbai, the rare cool winds of Chennai carry with them an ever compassing motherly notion of carrying such stories all the while, of loss, happiness and the dreams of life.
The night is turning more quieter now and in the hush of the breeze, I soak in the final view of the city from the top and decide that the empty streets are one to be explored. Having got a car at our disposal, we switch on the radio and find ourselves starring to a mist of droplets on our screen. Much like our sense of perception, the glass shields reflect the haze outside and inside our lives. To my absolute thrill and shock, the radio plays some vintage classic tracks and the speeding traffic signals play an audience to 'LA Woman' sung by Jim Morrisson.
Sure, I may not have written about the beaches of Chennai, and how the ECR is the road to absolute heaven or on the flipside,the humid climate and the absence of a genuine warmth among people, but the ideal man is not a tourist, he is an explorer. And in those silent nights at the rooftop bars, and the crowds stuck in the traffic jam , all of this exploration gave rise to a chilling but comforting thought.
GETTING LOST IN A CROWD ISN'T ALL THAT BAD.
Harish Mohan
Ruskin Bond
The windows are much more open now. There is the moist smell of the cool fresh breeze, just beginning to get chilly. The rain gods are not pouring vengeance out like barbaric monsters, but dancing to a little tune with mother nature. The streetlights are brightly lit, and the flickering of the neon lights are more luminous. I can sense the maddening rush of the city, as the road is buzz with the droning sound of vehicles. The woman behind the bike seems reluctant, only by a hand of a social moral code more than everything else to cling on to her man dressed in the choicest of white shirts, smeared in sandalwood paste and delighted at the freedom of a 'mundu'.
Yes, this is not Mumbai, but a city known as 'Chennai' to some, 'Madh-Raas' to others. The 'outsider' comes in with a image of a city immersed in a sour tinge of 'Sambhar' with looks of disgust on his face. The weather presumably must always be hot, and people must be drenched in sweat. But these are some of the good times of my life. The Gods above have decided to be generous and bless all humankind with their existence. I carry images of a city which is bathed in brownish hue, where the roads are drenched with torrential rain which has been pouring for 3 days continuously now. When the silence around this city is not filled with the pitter patter of rain drops on the streets, a cold chilly wind blows all around, encompassing the city in its pleasant armour.
On a cold breezy evening such as this, with its unusual tinge of chill, I decided to take a walk with my friends along such streets and through my new found eyes of discovery, I realised that the memories of Chennai I am going to carry around with me are those of absolutely silent still nights and rooftop bars. Apparently, the city is full of them and occupies a lonely and isolated space in Chennai's night life. Its much like how the most subtle and beautiful of things get lost under the vision of the human eye due to consent or pure ignorance. The rooftop bars are eerily silent, and the movement of the winds adds to the silent charm. There is no music and a handful of waiters. The presence of a drink in such solitude is but an understood statement, but what is extremely gratifying in this company of solitude, is the panoramic view of this city , resting in its quiet beauty during the lull of the night. As the time passes by in such a moment, I realise that the wind, which has been with me for quite a comforting while now in this journey, is going to carry the stories of our pasts and small joys, which we discuss as the alcohol rhythmically begins to soothe our parched throats. That is pretty much how the lovely forces of nature have somehow symbiotically arranged themselves at peace with the urban chaos in the metro cities of INDIA. The oceans of Mumbai, the rare cool winds of Chennai carry with them an ever compassing motherly notion of carrying such stories all the while, of loss, happiness and the dreams of life.
The night is turning more quieter now and in the hush of the breeze, I soak in the final view of the city from the top and decide that the empty streets are one to be explored. Having got a car at our disposal, we switch on the radio and find ourselves starring to a mist of droplets on our screen. Much like our sense of perception, the glass shields reflect the haze outside and inside our lives. To my absolute thrill and shock, the radio plays some vintage classic tracks and the speeding traffic signals play an audience to 'LA Woman' sung by Jim Morrisson.
Sure, I may not have written about the beaches of Chennai, and how the ECR is the road to absolute heaven or on the flipside,the humid climate and the absence of a genuine warmth among people, but the ideal man is not a tourist, he is an explorer. And in those silent nights at the rooftop bars, and the crowds stuck in the traffic jam , all of this exploration gave rise to a chilling but comforting thought.
GETTING LOST IN A CROWD ISN'T ALL THAT BAD.
Harish Mohan
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