Her name is Happiness

You never know from where a breeze would waltz in 

And when.

In the sultry heat,

When trees bend their heads, looking so forlorn

And leaves curl

(There is such sorrow in watching them)

When street dogs scramble beneath shade

And lie panting

When clothes in the clothesline hang limp

Like mourners of the dead -

 I -

In the centre of the crossroads

That extends to barren emptiness all around…

I hear the flutter of fallen leaves at my feet

And turn to look –

The breeze comes up, smoking.

It is raining somewhere far away.

She comes, enwraps me in her shawl

Smothers me with passion.

She comes,

Bringing me memories of innocence and irrepressible joy. 

She wears the fragrance of my forgotten youth.

 

Flickering their tongues

Snakes sneak out from their holes, savouring the air.

 

The rain is coming nearer, nearer, it is almost here -

I wait –

With great love and tenderness in my heart

I wait to see the flowers bloom. 

********Balachandran, Trivandrum, 23.03.2009

 

 

 

Through the window

No longer have I settled down on my seat

The wailing would ensue.

Some would be urgent, short and rapid

Some long-drawn, slow, as if it knows

It wouldn’t make any difference anymore.

 

In the beginning, I used to get up

And look out through the window.

 The white vehicles with the mirror image

Of AMBULANCE would flash past

Offering me glimpses

Of faces dark with misery.

 

There were then other kinds;

Cars, with lights blazing, horn blaring

Squeezing out, weaving through the oncoming rush.

Three-wheeled autorickshaws offered the best view.

There would invariably be one, head leaning on

To another’s shoulder

Blood-spattered dress, blood-streaked face

Closed eyes – I was fascinated by the expression

Of the others – vacant, sometimes anxious,

Of flickering fear, of untold sorrow and submission to fate.

 

I have seen them too, the ambulances with a wreath or two

Stuck in the front, solemn, slow –

Everything has to come to a pass.

 

In the beginning, I used to sit back

With a heavy heart, and then 

Reminded of my own mortality

Would strain my ears

For that wailing at my doors.

*************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 21.03.2009

 

Cleansing

The forest stream grumbles as the big rock

Makes it swerve sharply to the right

But is relieved that around the bend

It can flow freely again.

It swirls; over the sand bed the stream made

Where I lie in total stupor

The stream gurgles happily over the little stones and rocks

That cradles me like a foetus in its womb.

I lie, floating, watching my toes peeking out of the water

And my nose, like a periscope

This bloated corpulence slapped

Gently by the ripples of the water.

 

The sun is clouded out for the moment

I close my eyes in bliss

All I hear are the chuckle of the stream

And the chirping of the Wagtail.

 

It was the time of goodbyes to the past

And all the pain is taken away by the stream.

I realize I will never again write poems

On love and the pain of losing it

Because the current has taken all that away

As little fish nibble at my heart

Cleansing it of pus and blood.

 

The sun turns up again

I turn over, and holding breath

Look at the pebbles beneath.

Though the water is clear

The river bed is blurred

I am unable to see

But I will, I will

I will see it sharply, clearly, one day.

*******************  Balachandran, Kallar, 10.03.2009

Points and Counterpoints

Sitting here, alone in the night in a lodge

At the foot of the hills

Drinking whisky and smoking,

Sitting like a fat Buddha with glasses

The liquor- flushed cheeks rubbing its frame

The bloated belly like an over-filled sack

Slumping over hiding my nudity

The fleshy thighs spreading over the chair

Like over-watered dough

And the smell of fried beef in my nose

Its spices still tingling my tongue

And its shreds snuggling

Between the yellowing teeth –

 

I am trying to take a fresh look at myself.

 

Overweight, smoking, sluggish

Muscles long forgotten to stretch

I fit the bill for a cardiac case.

All that remains to be known is when.

It jerks me out of my drunken reverie

That it could be in the next moment

Or the one after the next.

 

While my estranged wife would be

Busying herself with religious rituals

That will bring her blessings and good fortune

Benefactions of the Goddess

Like the thousands of her sex

Who pollute the city for a day

And while my son would be busying himself

With an enactment of preoccupation

With his studies

While actually listening to Rock

Or to the intermittent telephone calls

Of his friends

And while my dogs would be

Lying panting, exhausted with barking

At all those passing our gates

And I believe, wondering where I have gone-

 

I sit here, an escapee from that din outside

Though helpless, having to listen to that from inside

And as ever, pursing my lips and repeating

That I have to cut down my eating and drinking

And smoking and shouting and later wallowing

In self-pity

And walking every day morning

And working it out at the gym

Or swimming in the pool

And to be sharp and assertive

And write poems and write what all

And go for long rides on the bike –

 

And wondering, what the hell,

What is the point in postponing

The inevitable

But then wishing I would be free of this guilt

This guilt for living the way I want to

Wishing I could live the way I want to

Without wrestling with this guilt

But then again at the back of my mind

This constant ticking that

I am a potential candidate for myocardial infarction

And then thinking, Hell! Everyone is,

Everyone eventually will be, that or something else

But the question, I realize

Is not about the hundred ways of dying

And having no choice in that matter

But on living –

Which brings us to an examination

On the quality of life

If somebody would provide a standard

So much measure of happiness and sorrow

So much of richness and depravity

So much pleasure and so much pain –

And I am getting confused

But have to put an end to it

The best way, I know

Is to remind myself again

To reduce weight

To stop smoking

To stop drinking

To be happy

Be happy

Be happy

And never never to look deeper into oneself

Or ruminate over the past –

And –

Perhaps at the moment

Of the inevitable

Tell oneself – now I am puzzled-

What or wonder if there is

Any point at all in talking

To oneself as one lie dying.

***************** Balachandran, Kallar, 09.03.2009

 

 

 

Concave conversations

See, I am practicing a secret art

The guiles of which I am going to let you into.

Its like communicating with the dead,

The seemingly non-existent

The apparent void

Laughing, loving,

Crying and screaming

In total silence.

 

I do not use Tarot cards

Not for me the crystal globe

The stuttering stove

The fluttering candle

Or the elevating table.

 

My medium - please do not laugh

Or give me that piteous contempt –

You see, I write poems in the internet.

My blog, ghostly pale,

Floats in the ether like a jellyfish

Stinging those who are curious,

With gentle stabs of love.

 

In silence, stultifying my soul,

Words stumble onto the white screen

Rearrange themselves like soldiers shuffling,

Stiff, in a parade before the march to death.

Immutable, impassive, they stare at me –

They are staring at me –

Soon, they will be gone –

 

Like untraceable bubbles

Into that ocean of words,

Of thoughts…

Friend, I submit

My words, unread, into the void

Writing for you,

I stare into the blank white screen

Where your reply will never appear…

******** Balachandran, Trivandrum, 09.03.2009

Words

Like fireflies they come,
Out of  the darkness around me
And I realize I am not blind.

Like dewdrops they fall,
From the canopy above
And I realize I am thirsty.

Unchained melodies, they rise 
Like white clouds from the chasm,
And I realize I am on the edge.

They chatter like leaves of the Banyan,
Laughing children running home from school,
And I realize I am alive.

Like flamingoes they lift,
Sunrays tinting feathers gold
And I realize I have a soul.

They come scampering,
Like my dogs after a bath
Shaking, spraying droplets,
Big arcs of love,
Crying, ‘Wake up! Wakeup!
Play with us!’ –

Happily, I take up the pen.
*************
Balachandran, Trivandrum, 16.02.2009

Flowers, squashed

 

Please watch your step.

You may be stepping on lives.

That is, if you consider

An ant, a frog, a cockroach or me

Lives worth your consideration.

These flowers? Ah, never mind,

They were my offerings to you.

*********  Balachandran, Trivandrum, 11.02.2009

Blue Moon

                                                                                                                                                

Blue Moon!

How would thee be?

Blue, like the skies over the mountains

Or the sea a hundred fathoms deep?

Would thee be a lavender blue

Or a fragrance from Satchmo’s jazz?

 

Nights –

I do not remember days anymore –

Nights –

Rattle of toddy cats on the roof

Rustle of the mango tree in the breeze

The howl of my dogs

Pining for love.

Through the window

A moon, waxing and waning

Clouded out.

 

She said she would glance at my words

Once in a blue moon.

I seek thee, Blue Moon!

How would thee come?

On the fourteenth night

Thy anklets tittering,

Lifting thy veil

And -

Looking at me with love?

******  Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 06-02-2009

 

 

 

 

Chronographics

Behind the rectangular glass case

A bent head, lit sideways by a lamp

A lens, stuck into the socket of the right eye

A forceps in hand, drawing out

The innards of a dead watch.

 

Tickers tick loud

Tolling, the impending doom.

Watches lie about

In various states of disembowelment.

Old, huge clocks hang in the walls

Like Capuchin monks in the catacombs.

 

How precise! His fingers wield the tiny tool

And stab it into the underbelly of my watch.

I stand still -  

My time is at his mercy.

*************** 

 Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 06-02-2009

What we do not want

(for Sumi Mathai)

We keep our eyes shut
in fear
of what we might see
of ourselves...

we keep our ears closed
for fear
of what we might hear

our heart says...

when our hands shiver
when our mind hesitates -
we know
we know
what we do not want to know...

***************** Balachandran, Trivandrum 03-02-2009

Aquarium

( for Sumi Mathai) 

A fish's life isn't easy.
Look at me.
I cannot close my eyes
I cannot stop moving
I cannot help hearing
All that I never wanted to.

I do not sleep
I do not dream
All I know
That a few strokes ahead
I will kiss the cold reflection
of my own self. 

Thank you, Lord, for this glass cage...

*********************  Balachandran, Trivandrum, 03.02.2009

I do not look at me

I  do not look at me

In the mirror much these days.

This bald pate,

This fleshy, swarthy face

Except to brush teeth

And the vexing necessity to shave.

I do not see me in the mirror

Just the yellowing teeth

And the graying stubble.

 

I do not need a mirror anymore

Having seen me for

Half a century and more.

I know me well enough.

 

But the occasional glimpse -

When my eyes meet my eyes-

Tired, watery, dead -

He asks me silently, ‘Why?

Why did you let life

Slip away?’

*****************

Balachandran, Trivandrum, 23.01.2009

 

The Butcher

Sharpening my knife,

I plunge it

into the flesh of time

chopping

chopping

chopping

chopping

chopping

me, in thin, fine slices...

******************

Balachandran, Trivandrum, 13-01-2009

From nowhere to eternity

(for Venu)

Life is a continuum

Extending

from a nanosecond to trillions of millenniums

from a bacterium to bacteria

from a star to a black hole...

In between, you and me, my dear

we weave our lives from eon to eon

how naive

to think our love is eternal!

how ephemeral are our lives,

our loves

when just beyond our fingertips

the void waits to take us back-

you, cosmic dust!

*********** Balachandran,Trivandrum, 13-01-2009

The leftover

Do not look
to the future.
It needn't necessarily come.
The present is now,
whether you like it or not.
Disbelieve what smart people tell you
Past is the only truth.

The past is yours, yours alone,
Undeniably, unchangeably,
Indelible, burned onto your brain,
Scarring it forever.

On a summer morning
Shake it all down on a mat,
Lay it on the sun,
Warming,
Watch it turn brittle,
Shrink and twist,
Matted with dust.
Hunched, on your haunches,
Head propped up by hands,
Watch it curl and shrivel.

When night falls,
Gather them -
The leftovers of your life.
****** Balachandran, Trivandrum 09-01-2009

Life in a Fast Lane

To be honest, we looked so pathetic.
A raggedly line of people
Not more than fifteen
Standing, disheveled
By the side of the busy city street
Holding placards
Asking not to cut down trees
As around us dust swirled,
Remains of the huge trees lay
The uprooted roots like
Splayed innards of a roadkill.

We said, ‘look, the trees are our heritage’.
We asked, ‘how dare you cut what you did not plant?’
We cried, ‘how can this cool shade cast a shadow
On your way to progress?’

Cars and bikes honked us to the brim of the ditches
Where once the roots had embraced the earth.
From behind the tinted glass
They looked at us briefly, mocking
Forgetting us in the next instant.

They say the trees have to be cut
For single lanes to grow into four lanes.
Later it may grow into six or more.
Trees, then paddy fields
Hills, then mountainsides
Ponds, then streams -
Earth will be savaged
They will build more roads, faster lanes
Express highways, super highways
In the hope they can reach faster -
When, actually they are only
Distancing themselves
From the earth.
**************** Balachandran, Trivandrum 03-01-2009

A celebration of trees

Did you know?
They are cutting down the old trees
Up in the cantonment area
So that you can ride
In contentment
Cocooned in your air-conditioned car.

You wouldn’t know, sir
That I have walked under their shade
For the last forty years
On and off, not everyday
On and off, light to shade
From hot to cool
From peace to strife and back
Among the old trees
As they stretched out their branches
To protect me from the glare
In between.

You wouldn’t know, sir
There were poor folk
Selling their humble wares
Seeds, cigarettes and fruit juice
The old, tired of walking
Resting,
Wiping their faces with a fraying piece of towel
And looking up and sighing grateful
At the spreading shade of these trees.

You wouldn’t know, sir
That lives about which you never wanted to know
Lived in the shade of these trees.
Like the crows and sparrows
The squirrels, the kites
The tramps, the dogs
The beggars and
The likes of me -
Lives, sir, you really wouldn’t care about.

If you stepped on to the tarmac at noon
From shade to sun
You would feel the heat.
Do you feel the heat, sir?
One day, I am sure, you would
The day everything comes to a halt.
Where is your car going, sir?

************ Balachandran, Trivandrum, 31-12-2008

New Year Eve

Once again, at the gates of another year.
In this endless desert
The New Year sits like a façade,
A prop
On the other side of which
The endless desert continues.

We will go through the rituals
Of living, loving, playing and crying
Bringing and burying lives-
The perfunctory calls and messages
‘Happy New Year’-
We will go on with the play-acting,
Feigning interests new
Bidding farewells to old.

We conjure up illusions of oases
When all around the desert spreads.
Perhaps we have to,
Lest mirages turn into nightmares.
************ Balachandran, Trivandrum 31.12.2008

The Ballad of the Bulleteer

(This is for the fellow riders of Silver-Bullets, Trivandrum)

If you listen carefully,
You might hear Africa.
You would think
You are in the Congos
Or Bongos
And will go bonkers -
That’s how we thump our Bulls.

Wolfpack* roar like lions
Old Bulls honk like elephants
Electras spat like leopards

Thunderbirds soar like eagles-
In the roads of the jungle
The Bulls are the wildest of all.

The toys look better, they ride faster
They have the gizmos
They have the gloss
oozing
Like the floozies that flock the streets.

The Bull may look like hulks
‘coz Hogans rule the roads.
They may leak
They may cough
They may choke
But the Bull gets you where you want to be.

Respect, dignity, self-assurance
The Bull is the bike for men.
You have to have it
Between your legs
To know what makes you a man.
***************************
* 500 cc Royal Enfield Bullet M/cycle
Balan, Trivandrum 15-12-2008

I, the pawn

Like a sullen orb of mercury
He sprawls across the chessboard
Shapeless,
Surrendered, to be shaped
As destiny wills him to be.

Earth trembles,
The board shakes;
Sluggish, he slithers
From one square to another.

Wind blasts,
The board shivers;
He slides from PQ2 to PQ4.

Fire spreads,
The board burns;
He waits, untouched,
Watching the curling
Chessboard of life.
********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 23-12-2008

The Endgame

Pawns become queens;
Queens run all over the board
Bishops slash
Knights kick
Rooks ram …
What do I, the king do,
Helpless, bound,
At the mercy of the rest?

Alone in the crumbling castle,
I rue…
I never wanted to be the king…
*********** Balachandran, Trivandrum,23-12-2008

Regurgitation

All this talk of love, love lost
Joys and sorrows -
Of inexplicable thoughts
Of death; worse, fear of death –
Its fine for a solitary afternoon
Or a late night when you have
The freedom to brood…
All you have to do is to regurgitate
The stale memories.
Though the utter pointlessness of the exercise
Hits one like a blast of cold air
And one shudders as the blizzard
Of loneliness shrouds the self.
********** Balachandran, Trivandrum 19-12-2008

Cannot Delete: Access Denied

Once in a while you have to clean your system.
Empty the Recycle Bin,
Clean up and defrag the disks.
Files accumulated over the past
Move crumpled into the bin
And then to oblivion.

It would be nice
To have a hard disk instead of a brain
Where fungus-ridden memories grow maggots
Eating into my soul.
****************** Balachandran, Trivandrum 18.12.2008

Spaces that are empty of you

(For Mark Strand)

It is difficult to recollect
Scenes in sequence
As images blur, shiver, jerk
Jump or scatter into a thousand pixels
Like my old DVD player does.

If they have Panama 20s there
Light up one and listen to me, father.
I can see you, running your fingers
Over that bottlebrush moustache
And picking tobacco flakes
Off your lips.

I hold it against you,
The only thing against you
That you left me when I was just thirteen.
That you never gave me the watch
You promised, for passing high school.
There are the places where we would've gone
Like the forests and streams we once wallowed through.
Rollicking in your Jeep
World War II condemned
With the Sambar deers running ahead
In the flickering headlights
Or that tusker standing its ground
And we running for our lives
As the Jeep got stuck in the mud.

Nobody now, father, to buy me
An Enid Blyton
Or sneak in a Classics Illustrated
Or a Chase, while I should be
Chasing a ball or burying my head in studies.
Dammit, you left too soon!

You bought me my first bicycle, though.
And the Readers’ Digest Young People’s Annual!
Remember that stamp you bought for me
Man on the Moon, in ‘sixty-nine?

What comes most vivid
Are images of food we ate
Masal Dosas and Rose Milks
At the Indian Coffee House
Jelly Custard at Simla Parlour
Biriyani Tea at Liberty.

Images come, hesitant, hazy -
You on your back with froth on your lips
Of mother crying, sisters looking stunned
Of walking, cold, through empty streets
Carrying you on a Mumbai morning
The few passers-by bowing
And somebody muttering
Ram Nam Satya Hai.

It took me a long time
To accept you were dead.
I remember distinctly
That I couldn’t cry and panicked why.
It took me a long time
Because I didn’t want you to die.

We hadn’t had much time together, did we?
You had all my thirteen years
And I –
I had all these years
To think of you; I do, you know.
At fifty-one, I am near the age you died.
And all I have –
These spaces that are empty of you.

I just feel sad, not angry, that you left.
If you could, I know, you wouldn’t have.
I just want to tell you this-
You left me rudderless – ever since.
I wish you were here
With me on the road
Hills and valleys, ups and downs
As I plod through the paths of life.

Are you there?
Are you there, hiding behind my dogs
Are you sitting by my son?
Is it you there on the snow-clad top
Or lying
There on the grass by the side of the stream?

**************** Balachandran V, 21-11-2008, Trivandrum

As I cross the River of Life

The riverbank itself is portentous
Of the path ahead.
The squelchy, soggy soil
Sucks in my feet like a cavernous mouth
Of a carnivorous creature.
I am half – willing to be sucked in.

It can hardly be called a river.

Meandering listlessly through this barren land
It is more like a space between two high banks
Flat, with few mounds of debris and sand
Forlorn, looking woebegone
Like refugees weary, resting their limbs.

Ribbons of water run through this space
Shallow, scarcely to wet your toes.
I look around for signs of life –
At the farther side, I spot a bird.

Life! Life! Another one!
I find meaning for mine.

Gingerly, I test the water with my toes.
Lukewarm, indifferent,
It hardly cares who I am.
Beneath the fluid, I detect stones,
Slimy, slippery, smiling wryly.
I am careful.
Stepping on each, scrubbing the slime
Gripping, putting weight onto the foot,
I lift the other to step on the next.

The current is stronger now.
The potholes are deeper now.
I stumble, I sway, I stagger
Panicky, frantic, I look around wildly -
Whirlpools swirl,
Waters rise –
The vulture is nearer now-
He looks up at me with a benign smile
Feeding on the carcass of a man.

Beyond, the eyes of the riverbank glitter
In the cruel, shade-less sun.

***************** Balachandran, Trivandrum 16-11-2008

Meltdown

Is every grain of sand
Different from the other?
I do not know.
Is every drop of water
Different from the other?
I do not know.
But I do know
That every snowflake
Is different from the other
Just as every man differs from the other.

How like snowflakes are we!
Both appear from nowhere
But from somewhere the same
Falling, falling we come down
Lying on a rock or in a glacier
Or on the riverbank here
Clinging on to a blade of grass
Or like this one, on my beard.

Clinging on, clutching to
For a brief while
And then melting away into nothingness.
**************************
Balachandran, 13.11.2008, Trivandrum