Many forms, many faces-

They parade every day!

Grief is among us

Every day,

In tangible nuances

Or concealed mourning!

One may cry till the Sahara

Bursts in bloom

Or one may be stoic

And be like the eternal stone

Unmoved outwardly;

One may go to the other Pole

And party incessantly

Or one may grieve wordlessly

Without any sigh or other signs,

Patiently repining.

There is grief in lost love,

There is grief in loneliness,

There is grief in rejection,

There is grief

In never being claimed,

There is grief in unexpressed love,

There is grief in abject desolation,

There is grief in eternal melancholy,

And there is grief

In a life that lived well, but transiently.

Grief is intense, not bland.

It grips with pincers

And leaves one

In an excruciating cauldron of pain

Or holds one in numbing hoops

That leave life drained.

Grief may come in periods

To lead life in fits and starts.

Grief can be pervasive

Or slovenly, keeping life out of focus.

But grief is untold!

Those who grieve

Choose their paths;

They strive to return

To a life before grief

Or pursue some open paths

To life’s untrodden choices.

They are the silent ones,

The ones without voice’

The ones without power,

And the ones without sting.

Words cut like rapiers

And they have no shield;

Words thrust, but no one parries;

Words strike, but no one feints.

And there is no riposte.

Who is clever enough

To sharpen wit to fence back

And who is aggressive and vicious

To hurl back diatribes?

They suffer around us,

The silent victims;

They are the lambs

That go mute and soundless,

To slaughter.

Not a  single bleat escapes

Their closed lips.

They have no retaliation!

They are tender and mild;

They are soft, meek and humble;

They are the angels

Without flaming swords.

Patient as the earth,

They endure without malice

And without rebuke!

In mute bearing,

They are always there,

Unnoticed, in the wings.

They are always waiting

For ever at the beck and call-

Always down to the earth,

These heirs of  the earth!

Time is tired,

Trees are fatigued,

And the year is nearing the end;

The leaves have shed green

And have donned

A conflagration of colors

Only to be dwindling

To mute hues of grays and browns.

The nights are lengthening

And stars are brilliant;

But days have diminished

Into brief periods.

The nude trees stand sentinel

But to what end?

No one knows!

The bare branches

Stretch in supplication;

Again, to what gain?

The birds have fled;

The animals are drowsy.

White has shrouded the land

And held it in a freezing vise.

Men huddled

Around tiny fires

For light, for warmth

And waited…

Keeping hope alive

By tales of former times

For the green of grass .

All around me, faces zoomed,

In and out, up and down ,

Left and right!

There are happy faces,

Gleaming and smiling,

Chuckling and guffawing;

Then, then are the  sad ones,

Gloomy and long,

Teary and sobbing.

Some are kind,

Some are amused,

Some are angry,

Some are petulant,

Some are caustic,

Some spouted vituperations.

But, these are alive

With thrum and thaw

To spill out

For us to see and behold,

For onlookers to be filled

With awe and yearning,

To be touched

With gladness

And cupful of sadness.

Faces speak

Without a word,

Faces reach

Without a hand,

Faces call

Without a voice

Faces reject

Without a shrug.

Faces demur,

Faces frown,

And

Faces smile;

Then the world straightens!

It is always the sea that beckons,

Always waiting for every return!

Going home is to go back-

To feel the sand and the sound,

The light and the shadow,

The motion and stillness

Of the abundance that is the sea.

The siren call of the Arabian Sea

Starts with the low murmur and rumble

Of the gentle waves and splashes

Cresting to the crescendo

Of the lashing and crashing

Of the monster waves of the Monsoon.

The sea calls me every time

And she waits for me every time,

Cocksure that I will make the time,

Time and time again,

Every chance I was given!

I picked my way gingerly

Over the edgy rocks of the sea wall,

A recent creation to ward off the sea 

That keeps creeping forward.

The sand was still there, diminished,

Allowing the tree line to close in!

Did the trees move

Or the excess sea water

Of an unwanted universal heat

Extend its borders?

Sandals were so cumbersome

That I tossed them away with abandon

And splayed my toes into the dry sand

And let the grains trickle through

To feel the delight of little touches.

But, that is not enough!

The salty brine is still waiting

To splash and soak and dampen.

I inched forward

In delectable longing.

Ah, the first touch is always novel!

The froth swirled around the toes

To wink away abashed

While the salty breeze caressed

And fondled the sun-kissed cheeks.

High tide is coming…

I ventured, yes.

I slowly stepped forward

And dug my waiting toes into the wetness.

The waves rushed in and wavered

And receded in haste,

As if ashamed to go any further

And regretting the forward boldness .

But, my soles and heels dug in,

Not to falter in the hasty back-flow

Of the roiling sea.

The air was heavy with salt and moisture

And was scented with the briny damp.

My clothes clung to me, waterlogged and salty,

Abrading with the cluster of grainy sand.

Foamy crests rose higher and higher

And the water rushed up the sand

Trimmed with lacy froth on scalloped edges.

There were shrieks in the beach

When the water sucked the sand

From under the feet and tried

To topple the upright onlookers

Struggling for a foot-hold.

The waves rose with shimmering crests

That sprayed and spewed in reckless abandon,

Settling down to simmering motion

That glittered in the slanted rays

Of the descending sun.

The day is waning  and nearing  closure

While the slanted rays of a westward sun

Garnished the waters in pearly tints

That outshone the reds and purples,

The gold and orange, the salmon and shell pink.

The riotous hues marveled in their abundance

And bathed the sea and the sand

While the golden globe transformed

From fiery ball to red orange

And began to cast a pall over the beach

While dipping lethargically

Into the clean circular end,

Finally to submerge completely,

Leaving just the debris of the light

In meager portions to outline the people

Who were leaving, desolate in their loss

Of the glory of the sunset.

Another day has come and gone

And the pall is lifted from my heart

As I thrilled at the magnificence

That the sea has showered

And the sun has shared!

Day is done!

CThroughout the year,

The stream flows,

Often in fits and starts,

Passive and turgid,

But mostly in tune

With climes and seasons.

In wintry mornings,

In the limpid light

Of a pale sun,

The stream lies sluggish

With chunks of ice

Floating listlessly

Or lying in wait

For the dormant life

To revive and breathe again;

Dry leaves and dead branches

Lay crisscross

Amid brackish water,

Reminders of spent lives.

Then life blows in

And spring sprouts green gold

Which peeps  out

With first life

Of thoughts shaking off slumber.

The stream awakens

In gurgling movements

That swirls over

The debris of last year

And moves like  a slithering fabric

Of light and shadow.

Feelings begin to churn,

Up from long wait,

To the full life of summer

When greens wax to lushness

And torrents of emotions

Seethe  in full strength.

The gentle stream chortles

And rushes out

In froth and laughter

With the strength and noise

Of life’s calls

Which spell out

Churning passions

And wayward thoughts.

In the fullness of summer,

The stream’s flow is intense

And floods break out

In tumultuous fuss

To break out in excess

To submerge the roads

In roiling waves.

Time passes and passions cool

After trees are decked

In fiery shades

Till leaves let go,

One by one,

Their holds on trees

To descend in submissive landing.

Life’s currents slow down

And the turbulence is paced down

With the subsiding stream;

The dormant life of freezing clime

Is gently creeping in

And the vivacious stream

Enters a reflective retreat.

Winter’s slumberous stillness

Ventures to keep in check

The boiling passions

In a temporary vise

To play the reel of seasons

Once again…