Looking at the Blue Sky sitting on a Terrace

Where you live, be it
By the side of the sea,
Or atop a mountain peak-
Both, though a fantasy
For most of us -

Where you live, be it
Cocooned in a cramped
Quarters or be it
a claustrophobic
One bhk -
Or like me
In an old crumbling
Dwelling about to fall apart-

Wherever be that you live
Or rot-
It would be good
To have a window
Or a space where you can
Look up
At the sky.

***** Balachandran V Trivandrum August 2016

Naught

Staring at the screen showing the folders,
Folders and folders and files and files
Piling up in the PC, in the laptop, in the netbook
And even in the external Hard Disks -
I am overwhelmed!

I grimace; how like my room, my house -
Why, even like my entire life -
Piling up junk, valuables irretrievably lost
in the mountains of files and drawers  and memories -

How frighteningly similar, for the hard disks to crash -
The house to crumble - and life to end -
And everything to come to naught!

*************   Balachandran V, 15.09.2016. Trivandrum

Homo sapiens hirsutus

Happening to glance at my left forearm the other day,
Dark brown skinned and hairy
I notice that more hair have turned white. 
Someday, if I live long enough,
My left forearm would turn all white
The darkness of my brown skin,
but not of my mind, hidden, hopefully.

Looking at the tuft, the bushy growth of hair
On my chest ( ah, not on my head!), again white ( why grey?)
I wistfully remember how, dark, how black it once were.

I hardly need a mirror these days, having not much
On the head to comb and pat them down.

I cling on (and at times nips at)
The vestige of my manhood, my moustache
Bristling, drooping bicycle handlebars,
The beard I dare not grow
For fear of incurring my partner’s wrath.

I remember -
Hair, growing, dark,
In dark and exciting places
Darkening shadows
Of the emerging adulthood.

Shadows lean, now.
They grow oblong, as the Sun approaches dusk.
One day, my precious hair,
Would be the first to catch fire…

************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 07-09-2016

Image: courtesy Internet. Sketch by Salvatore Bruno.

Fish out of Water

In this heat, I sweat profuse.

I splash water at my armpits

The nape of my neck

And shameless,  over my genitals.

On the bed, in the nude

I fart and sigh, happy.

The dogs lie legs up in the air,

Too tired to smell the wind.

I choke at the chilled lemonade

Gurgling down my throat.

Out in the portico, a crow

Dips its beak and then jumps

Into the clay pan, splashing in the water.

I wish I were a fish,

Swishing my tail, chilling

With the mermaids.

But then, the fish are dying

And the birds and bees too.

Soon, we too would, for sure.

****** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 29.04.2016

 image courtesy: tbl0gging.wordpress.com/2013/02/25/merman/

“I can feel it coming in the air…”

It is in the air, the smell
Of rotting garbage,
Of burnt corpses hanging out from the bogies.
Of vomit and urine
From Kanniyah’s innards.
The stain of chewed betel
Or is it blood splattered
On the walls of democracy? 

It is in the air, the smell
Of fear.

Come out, come out of the cubicles
The partitions and the corridors
From behind the tinted glasses
Out to the open fields
Where we can hold our heads
High, without fear and breathe
The air of freedom.

************* Balachandran V. 25.02.2016

Firefuck

“Let’s, let’s do it, uh”, asked Adam.
Pouting her lips,
Offering the cleavage, 
Eve, fluttering her eyelids, asked – “do what?”

“Let’s light up the forest”, said he
Looking up at the green hills,
“What fun would it be! This
Breeze would spread it far and wide”.

Widening her legs, inviting him, she said-
“Oh yeah, let’s, let’s have a firefuck!”
“Birds would rise, panicking from their roosts
Nests toast to a nice crisp.”

Drawing her close, he slapped hard;
Her rump burned; she moaned.
“Monkeys will fly, through the sky
The tufts on their tails, dancing balls of fire!”

Flies and flying ash looked alike.
Butterflies flew like flakes of corn.
Flames licked and ate the trees
As their hearts cracked and split.

Grass spread a carpet in red
For the firefuckers, to fuck to death.
A light in green smouldered and glowed,
In the mother-wolf's eyes, as she died.

************** Balachandran V. Nagercoil.02.02.2016

View from my residence. Forest fire, Nagercoil. 02.02.2016

To My Wannabe Friends in Facebook.

I am flattered, no doubt
And pleased to some extent
That you request me to be your friend.

But pray, why?
Struck by my looks, I guess not.
Impressed by my words, I'd like to think so.
Seen a kindred soul, well, that's nice.
Enamoured by my images, hmm, well, maybe
Or not.

Then, tell me why.
I am not hot and sexy
Neither rich nor famous
Not a chance that I will win
The Nobel prize.

Be my friend, but tell me at least once
Why I should clutter your page
And vice versa.

My heart is not a door-less bus
That stops at every wave of a hand.
Not a passenger train
That you can enter ticket-less.

I am not a leaky tap
By the side of a street
Where you may quench your thirst;
Drink from me, but close the tap,
Let not my blood drip away.

I am not the Banyan tree
By the side of a blistering road
Where you may rest awhile and leave
Leaving your wastes strewn over my lap.

Friendship, oh my wannabe friend,
Is not a casual thing
I am not a hooker that
you can hump and leave.

Be my friend, but tell me
Beforehand why
So that I may know you
So that I can love you
So that we may cherish
Each other.

An offer of friendship
Is not a frivolous act.
To be a part of me
Of my life, of my thoughts
Is to enter
The sanctum sanctorum
Of my being.

Do not trample upon my heart.

****************** Balachandran V. Nagercoil. 13.01.2016

Songs that Live with You

One of the songs that have stayed with me all my life is this: Kelungal tharappedum. It is a Tamil Christian gospel song. I think I heard it the first time when I was ten or eleven. Nearly 50 years! A long time for a song to have been in the background of my life. I am not religious; Hindu or Christian or anything, but the voice of the singer, that appeal to greater powers, man's helplessness and his hopes that his life will be redeemed by the Lord - it haunts me. The immensity of our insignificance resonates in the song. Whatever ill may befall us, faith in an external power power us to survive...

One Sunday, as I placidly cycled along the vast green landscape of Nagercoil, the strains of this song came wafting along in the morning breeze. It followed me, in rhythm with my breath, in rhythm with each cycle of the pedals. I look at the birds, the dragonflies, the lone men working in the paddy fields. I look at the blue blue sky, the rock outcrop of the last of the hills gradually sinking into the sea...

I hum the chorus of the song, the only lines I know from boyhood.. 'Kelungal tharappedum, thattungal thirakkapedum, thedungal kidakkumentraaar, Jesu thedungal kidakkumentrar...' "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you." I do no know any other song as powerful and simple as this that can give hope to mankind. Though I will be singing the song to myself, for I have faith only in the powers of Nature...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjoUb7gPjgY

Celebrating Time

Quoting Einstein, a friend throws a damp towel:
"The dividing line between past, present, and future
Is an illusion". So, she asks: What New Year???
Another philosophizes: It is just another sunset,
Another night and just one more sunrise, what’s new, he asks.

As 12 o’clock midnight approach, I sit all alone.
Not even a drink beside me, no music, no friends
No joy and revelry.
As 12 o’clock midnight approach,
I cock an ear for the sounds of fireworks
The screams of motorbikes, the shouts of greetings
The wail of the siren.
My dog, sound asleep at my feet.

As 12 o’clock midnight approach,
I lean back on the chair and
Remember yesteryears, the New Years gone by
Streaking, drunk, on the highways
Weathering a storm, snowed under
High on the grasslands, in utter silence
High on Grass, listening to Kishori
Slumped, head sunk deep into the chest
Drunk, absolutely soused.

Bidding goodbye forever to a friend,
Together looking out at the sea.

Mr. Einstein, you may be right, but
Tell me, what isn’t an illusion?
Hiroshima and Nagasaki maybe?
My friend, to celebrate time
Is to celebrate the passage of life.

We are butchers, chopping Time
Years, months, weeks and days
Down to seconds and nanoseconds;
Popping morsels into our mouths
Fully aware, afraid, that –
We swing our blades down on nothingness…

**************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 01.01.2016

The Visually Challenged

Like blinking lights, on-off, on-off 

Flickering lamps, wicks burning out

Nobody to pour in love

Nobody to keep it alive.

What if the lights fade out

And die,

What if the lamp goes dry

What does it matter to one

Born blind....

**********  Balachandran V, 16.11.2015, Trivandrum

Morsels of Love

Like the destitute child, hungry

Gazing at the goodies in the glass shelves

Hoping, that if he looks at it long enough

The glasses would melt

And those inside would come marching out

Straight at him –

Or, the shopkeeper, taking pity on him

Or to get rid of the pest –

Or a kind heart would buy one –

And

Throw it at him, ridding himself of the guilt –

The possibilities are many

For the beggar who cannot choose…

************* Balachandran V, Trivandrum 16.11.2015

The Hangout

At the click of the mouse -

History is on.

Switch off History

At the next.

At a click are gone -

Memories,

Love, longing

Rage, Sorrow

The moments you spent -

With me.

No, the next will not

Bring them back.

I shudder to think -

If in real, as in that virtual

You would flick - me off

With a click.

**********  Balachandran V, Trivandrum  12.11.2015

The Winds of Nagercoil

Like being hit by a speeding truck

And then, like a lover’s  gentle caress

The winds of Nagercoil blow

From the east, the west and all around.

Among the grass, the dragonflies veer-

Swing up and away and then twist

To drop: pummelled by the winds, they

Grapple with the twigs as if on a joyride.

The ponds ripple; little waves rise

Like young girls shivering at their lovers’ kiss.

The crows and doves like drunkards

Stagger in the air; the tall palms sway

Their leaves chatter, huddled close like kids

The green paddy, as far as the eye can see-

Undulating waves of a vast sea.

Then – the winds would drop

As suddenly as it blew.

Dead calm – and you wonder

If the winds were a dream,

A hallucination.

Nagercoil suits me fine.

Because, within me too,

The winds blow, blow, blow –

And die - all of a sudden...

*************  Balachandran V. Trivandrum. 11.11.2015

Eruptions of Love

In the mountains, high up in the grasslands

Where mist swirls; where every blade of grass

Is wet with dew –

Tread softly, for you are trampling upon beads of love.

Love erupts slowly, the moist soil swells –

As you watch, it surges, drips

Drop by drop.  Press your face onto the soil -

On your nose, your lips, your tongue

Love spreads into your blood.

Love erupts at the tips of your fingers, my love!

Caress my face, touch my lips!

Run your fingers over my ravaged face

Over my ageing skin; perhaps it will glow again

At your touch!

Love spurts, my dear, red beads of blood

As you tear into me in ecstasy!

Love, Love, as you hold me in your arms,

Flares fly high; I am blinded by the light!

Love flows only from your fingertips –

Touch me when you love –

And – before you leave, for ever…

****** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 03.11.2015

The Clam

The clam is a lucky creature
because it has a shell to go back to.
Or it has a shell to live in
Clammed, keeping others out.

The only problem being a clam
Is that people would pry it open
For a pearl or two
And would discard when disappointed.

It is indeed sad for the clam
To lie disembowelled, splayed,
Displaying all its innards
To all and sundry passing by...

************* Balachandran V. Trivandrum 01.11.2015

Borderline

Borderline is a thrilling word
Borders between countries
Evoking images of the drama at Vagha.

Borderline is ominous
The borderline between
sanity and insanity.

Borderline between friendship
and intimacy,
Bringing into focus
And blurring your vision, the line you step out
From restrained emotions to riotous expressions
of love.

To stand on the borderline
Is to hold your life in your hands
To decide to cross over or not.

Borderline is an exciting place to be -
Until, with an empty stomach in the morning
You are told by the pretty girl -
"Your blood sugar level is on the borderline!"

****************** Balachandran V 0730hrs 01.11.2015 Trivandrum

The Housewarming

New house -
Sweep up the courtyard, scrub down the floor
Open the windows, let in the Sun.
Let in the cool breeze, let in the laughter
Let draperies sway on a dancing spree.

Light up the lamp, boil the milk
Let it spill, dousing the flame.
Scatter the blooms, the sweetest of scents
Serve up the food, pour down the wine.

Flowers in pots, dogs in cages,
God’s in heaven; all’s right with the world.

Now bring it in then, the red coloured tin!
For, they hide -
Behind the doors and nooks and corners
Below the shelves and show-off cases
Beneath the steps, above the screens –
Hiding in despair, huddling in horror
Trembling in wrath, fraught with fear
Making themselves unseen to us.

Now bring it on then, the red coloured tin
And let’s douse it on the ant and roach.
Let’s watch the spider stagger and die
Let’s behold the shriveling up ants.

Cockroaches run helter and skelter
Only to pause – and turn over-
All legs up and dancing in the air.

****** Balachandran. V. Trivandrum 19.07.2015

Old, Empty Bottles

Cleaning up my attic the other day

I chance upon some empty bottles.

From the fading, moth-eaten labels

I read the names; Glenfiddich, Glenmorangie

Jack Daniels, Jameson, Johnny Walker, Chivas Regal

Old Putney, Old Smuggler and a few others –

And there! My eternal favourite, Glenlivet!

Gifts from old friends, none I could afford.

I pull out the corks, twist open the caps and

Breathe in, deeply, the exquisite fragrance

Look lovingly at the traces of golden liquid, the dregs

Languishing at the bottom.

Life, as you get old, is like a near- empty

Bottle of Single Malt

Carrying the haloed memories

Of happiness, of abandon

Of gaiety and camaraderie.

Life, the elders would know,

Is all about remembering the smells,

The sights and sounds of the past.

In the fading light, I smile to myself

Ruefully.

Yet - I am happy

That I had once tasted good things

That I could recollect and rejoice now

Though, they are just memories.

************    Balachandran V, Trivandrum 07-10-2014

ഔട്ട്‌ ഓഫ് ഫോക്കസ്

ഇത് ആദ്യമേ ഡിലീറ്റ് ചെയ്യേണ്ടതാണ്
ഈ അവ്യക്ത ചിത്രം.
ഒരു തുമ്പിയും ഒരു കിളിയും ഒരേ ഫ്രെയ്മില്‍
പിന്നെ ചില പച്ചിലകളും വള്ളികളും.
ക്യാമറക്ക്‌ പിറകില്‍ ഞാനുണ്ടേ!

ഒരു തുമ്പിയും ഒരു കിളിയും
ചില പച്ചിലകളും ഞാനും
ഒരുമിച്ച്.
രാവിലത്തെ ഇളം വെയില്
കാറ്റിന്റെ തണുപ്പ് മാറിയിട്ടില്ല
സ്വാമി ശരണം, അടുത്തെങ്ങും
ഒരു മനുഷ്യനുമില്ല.
ഒരു പട്ടി എന്റെ ബിസ്കറ്റുകള്‍ തിന്നിട്ട്
ഇനിയും കിട്ടാന്‍ വകുപ്പുണ്ടെന്ന തിരിച്ചറിവില്‍
പുറകില്‍ അല്പം മാറി കിടപ്പുണ്ട്.

ഞാന്‍ തിരിഞ്ഞു നോക്കുമ്പോള്‍
എന്തിനാണ് ഈ ചാവാളിപട്ടി
വാലാട്ടുന്നത്?

കുറച്ചു ദൂരെ, കായല്‍ക്കരയില്‍, പിത്ര്‍ ബലി.
എന്റെ അച്ഛന്‍, എന്റെ അമ്മ -
 എന്റെ ബലിയിടല്‍ കാത്തിരിപ്പുണ്ടോ എന്തോ.

അവ്യക്തമെങ്കിലും, ഒരു ഫ്രെയ്മില്‍
ഒരു തുമ്പിയും ഒരു കിളിയും
ചില പച്ചിലകളും ഞാനും ഒരു പട്ടിയും
എന്‍റെ അമ്മയും അച്ഛനും
പഴയ, മങ്ങുന്ന ഓര്‍മകളും.

എല്ലാം വ്യക്തമായി തന്നെ കാണണമെന്ന്
എന്തിനാണ് നാം  വാശി പിടിക്കുന്നത്‌?

*********  ബാലചന്ദ്രന്‍ വി. പുഞ്ചക്കരി, 27.07.2014

ദേ, ഒരു പെണ്ണ് സൈക്കിൾ ചവിട്ടുന്നു!

കൈത്തണ്ടയിൽ കരിവളകളെന്നപോലെ

വിരലുകൾ കൈപ്പിടിയിൽ ചുറ്റി

കറങ്ങുന്ന ചക്രങ്ങളെ നോവിക്കാതെ

അവൾ നിന്നുകൊണ്ട് ചവിട്ടുകയാണ്.

പൊള്ളികുമിളിച്ച വിടർന്ന പാവാട

പുറകിലേക്ക് പൊന്ദുന്നു.

ചുരുളുന്ന കാറ്റിൽ

അഴിഞ്ഞുലയുന്ന മുടിക്കെട്ട് പാറിപ്പറപ്പിച്ച് അവൾ.

തിരക്കുള്ള തെരുവിൽ 

കുരുക്കുകളിടുന്ന

ഒഴുകുന്ന വണ്ടികൾ.

അതൊന്നും അവൾ കാണുന്നേയില്ല

അവളുടെ മനസ്സിൽ

തലേന്നു രാത്രിയിലെ

കാമുകൻ മാത്രം.

ബാലചന്ദ്രൻ വി  27.06.2014

(അവലംബം : തിമോത്തി വാൽഷ് - ബൈസിക്കിൾ, ബൈസിക്കിൾ, 1958)