Where's the Dream?
Dawn On Arunachala
A Pocketful of Borrowed Beads
Late Night Garage Duty
You Lie In A Hammock
A Swallow that makes Spring
Like a priestess of yore, a spellbound poet worships at the feet of a creative deity and weaves together her words with indelible charcoal that captures the essence of her soul and being.
The poet abhors the pandemonium created by hate speeches reminiscent of Satan’s address of the fallen angels in Milton’s Paradise Lost. He wants to be one among the holy swarm of swallows whose arrival makes Spring.
Swinging a metaphorical hammock, the shadows of leaves weave magic spells on the poet’s face as he waits for the tread of a magical and mystical love. Weary and tired of waiting, the poet likens his wait to a time bomb ticking a stealthy tattoo.
The greasy radio plays golden oldies, as the poet peers into the corpse-like innards of a lawnmower and tries to bring it back to its former working glory. The poet sketches an image of a ‘man on a mission’ doing late night garage duty, in a few deft strokes.
A biblical name, despite its connotations of grace, alienates the poet from the Indianness of her origin.The urge for homecoming, the desire to melt into Sudharma (good morals) becomes a desperate longing.
Fragments of edgy energies, brass singing bowls, chakras, shamans, nests of secrecy are strung together to form a rosary of beads. Will the brutal winter transcend into a regenerating spring? Will the mourners achieve collective healing?
In order to settle a dispute between Brahma, the creator and Vishnu, the preserver, Lord Shiva is said to have manifested as the sacred Arunachala hill. A temple dedicated to lord Shiva stands atop the hill and both look down with supreme indifference at the shenanigans of an ephemeral world.
Our dour-faced scepticism does not acknowledge the magic of gingerbread houses, pumpkin carriages and talking mirrors. In the rat race of adulthood, we have left behind childhood, a precious but abandoned treasure.