The Brave Pedestrian

There are others in need, and they deserve you more This year, Goddess Lakshmi, please pass by my door There are others in need, and they deserve you more. Take my earnings, my wealth and my pride, I pray Let shared wealth — not my own — glow radiant today. Am I falsely proud, Mother? Is this illusion and lie? Take me down, Maha Kali. Make me stand small and shy. Come with your sword, like a sheep shear me naked And then hold my hand, help me hold my head high. My countrymen stand small, how can I stand tall? Cast their fate upon me, in their midst let me fall. And then, Mother Shakti, give me love, strength and grace To be a guide they can trust, and a true friend to all. ——————— Happy Diwali, my friends. I am praying for an end to our collective mania for endless economic growth, and our addiction to the rat race. I’m praying for peace, contentment and a healthy dose of reality. I humbly ask you all to join me in this prayer. Krish 98215 88114   – October 15, 2...

My hair I shred, my blouse I tear, My breasts I beat, I wail in grief. Gopala graced my humble hut And I… I lay asleep! My lover hugged me in my bed Cupping these breasts of mine. With whispered words and gentle love He sought to break my sleep. But I… I heard him not! Oh woe! I lay there like a corpse! Dreaming all night of Gopala I dreamt all night of love! I wake to find my Lord had Lain with me all night in bed. Oh! Blessed am I! Ah! Cursed am I! I weep, I beat my head. His footprints at the door are there, Bedsheets are all askew. My Lord, witness my breasts and hair, My shame! O Lord, I grieve! [ Footnote: To understand the essence of this poem, p lease think in the context of the gopis of Brindavan waiting, hoping, praying for a nightly visit from their divine Gopala . Assume the mindframe of a lone gopi who unsuccessfully tried to stay awake for her chance to be with her lover god.] P Nayak is reminded of Meerabai’s bhajan: palka par ...

Mother if it please you if it be your will On this mountain of unreason this illusory hill That I embrace and call sacred ground Let the pebble of Truth be found. Not knowing its shape size or colour I search From round stone to rough rock to red thing I lurch Scraping like a creature possessed Grasping each new thing to my breast. Truth is indifferent to light and to shade By people’s opinion not unmade nor made Neither blooms in profit nor withers in loss Then teach me to equally love gold and dross. Mother take my hand guide my feet be my eye. Confused by intentions no compass have I I do not  know how to look where to turn Sift harsh truthfulness from deceitful concern. Like a candle in the winds my faith flutters Oftentimes I doubt my purpose my sanity. Help me guard the flame Mother don’t let it die Else what shall I live for and why? -- Krish   --------------------------------------...

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high,  Into that heaven of freedom, my father,  Let my country awaken. THE NIGHTMARE OF A GROWING GIRL is the benignly smiling relative – the great man whose reputation is beyond questioning. No matter what he does with you in his private moments, nobody believes a word against him — not even your mother. THE NIGHTMARE OF A MARRIED WOMAN is the family guru – the great man with credentials that cannot be dented. What he says becomes the law. For decades he exploits your family, but his every word is regarded as golden truth. THE NIGHTMARE OF AN HONEST WORKER is the charismatic boss – the great man to whom all credit gravitates. He takes credit for your work, while you carry the blame for his failings. And you hide your rage behind words of praise for his astute management, and smile when your colleagues smile. THE NIGHTMARE OF A JUSTICE-SEEKER is the judge whose mask of unquestionable author...

Somewhere someone is making love – Maybe bird maybe beast or man Somewhere a child is being conceived And I am that child. So I have a date to keep For that I’ll have to die, again. Somewhere a mother is heavy with child – Maybe beast maybe ape or woman She’s my mother, I’ll suckle at her breast And if I don’t go now, if I stay on here My mother will hold a stillborn child  To her breast and grieve and wail And so I have a date to keep So I must die, again. And elsewhere a child is born – Who some years hence will seek my love I must not keep my lover waiting Or she’ll pass her days in barren need. Oh yes I have a date to keep So I must die, again. And my lover and I must then conceive Our children waiting to be born My unborn children call to me The mother of my children calls to me They all will die so that we can meet And so my loved ones, I must go. My mother, lover, children, friends  In an unborn future form...

Under a straw roof In a village courtyard Within high bamboo fences, Alone I waited. For whom? For what? I knew not. Maybe it was for the young man Who came in through the wooden gate Deadly intent in every stride. Was I to fight To scuffle To flee To cry for help To beg tearfully on bended knees to be spared? Panicky thoughts Scrambled. The blood ran cold. Too late! Cold steel pressed to my head. Say your prayers, he said. Was I to die then? Unbelievable! But I chose To believe. These were last moments… Precious moments. No time to waste On hope and fear and regret. Eyes closed, All thoughts exhaled Fresh air inhaled I saw my priorities change. Ah, the time had come For the iceberg to melt In the ocean! Ah, for the bubble would burst And be with the air above! Ah, the raindrop was plunging to the end of Its brief free-fall To be absorbed by The green earth! Ah, my Friend, my Beloved, my only Love You would embrace me again! Ah, Father, Hallow...

I write this tinged with sadness. I feel sorry for us… For the tragic comedy that is the essential human condition. In the midst of a carnival of plenty, Some of us are dying of thirst. In the midst of a deluge of love, Some of us feel left out and lonely. There is no dearth of emotional give-and-take in the crowd of relations that we stand amidst… Father, mother, brother, sister, son daughter, spouse, lover… And yet we suffer bouts of feeling heartsick and unloved. Yes, I feel sorry for all of us. Poor forked animal, whose overdeveloped mind afflicts him, Ambushes him with emotions that have little to do with the present. Poor forked animal, who carries a baggage of emotions from the past, And borrows some more from an imagined future. Poor forked animal, who cannot be simply happy With things as they are. We live our lives with the sour aftertaste of Yesterdays and yesteryears. We live with the bittersweet foretaste Of what the morrow will bring. We live in a world that has plenty,...

PRAYER – I Softly, softly He enters my heart Wearing masks I can never recognize. In my innermost recesses, He cuts me, leaves me bleeding. Gently, gently He wounds me, And in my bleeding, he rejoices. Mere mehboob, mere dost My beloved, my friend… Silently he sits with me And shares my sorrow, my grief And through his own tears, smiles. His smile makes me forget my tears. He laughs with me, He laughs at me, Sometimes the distinction blurs And frankly, I don’t care. I gaze at his radiant face And pray that he never stops laughing. (If he does, I shall gladly play the fool Let him laugh at me.) But I see him raise his hands To secretly wipe his eyes. And I seize his hands Because his salty tears are mine Mine by right to kiss away and to drink. PRAYER – II Mere mehboob, mere dost, mere aaka You struggle to express your love And then you struggle to conceal it. I have felt your wounding touch. My be...

Mumbai, September 9, 2013:  Today, on this occasion called Samvatsari Pratikraman, many Jains will  typically to call me and say, “Michhami dukkadam” i.e. ‘I desire your  forgiveness (for any pain i might have caused you with my words or deeds)’. They will call because that’s the done-thing today… and not because anybody remembers ever hurting me. And to all of them, what I want to say with a smile is: Don’t say it. To hurt me, you need to be within arm’s length of me — punching distance of me. You are just a remote acquaintance; we barely know each other. Don’t say it ritually, because I will not reciprocate. But please look at those who are so close to you, whom you have routinely wounded with a mere gesture, or absence of a gesture. You would have wounded them throughout the year, and throughout your lifetime, with hurtful words, inconsiderate gestures and selfish acts. I don’t want to preach to you… but I am angry. If you are...

Forgive me, Lord, this broken drum speaks In a unworthy voice — now true, now untrue. Sift truth from the lies if truth there is, Else spill me in the dust. My quest is the quest of a one-eyed man Whose vision oft deceives him; He depends on his poor eye not because he trusts it, But because people who offered to lead and show him the way Did not earn his trust. Dimly-remembered voices from a past So distant that it is doubtful Whether it existed at all Echo in my skull Half-voices, half-noises… Disturbances in a cave of unknown depth. With the tips of my mind I seek out the cracks Between wakefulness and sleep Where I hear these voices loudest, And glimpse faces that I recognize – Faces not of those living Nor of the dead I know. Fleetingly with forceful gestures they speak. Seeking to grasp their words, I awaken Only to find my awakening empty Bereft of the meaning of what I saw and heard. Something I knew and trusted was lost And so I grope a...