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…

Did death take so many

That the crowded headstones

Vied for space and leaned

And stood in awkward silence?

Do I see an empty space

Across the aisle in the pew?

At the Thanksgiving table,

The numbers have certainly dwindled.

Fewer Christmas cards arrive

And I did not notice!

I shop less and

On the tree skirt,

The pile has diminished.

There are no guests

And the table is not laden

The food has lost its flavor

And the kitchen has turned cold.

The once riotous garden

Is in disarray today.

No constant gardener

To poke and pry and

To warn the plants and flowers

To be be on the lookout

For the expectations!

Weeds encroached in abandon

For the Reaper gathered the custodian.

Unabashed, the wilted leaves drooped

For want of care and love

Of the one who paid them homage.

Death had already crossed my threshold!

They come upon me in the morns

Of winter cold and tormented nights-

Crunch, crunch – the grasses crunch,

Brittle snap the twigs on branch,

Misty shadows loom around,

And foggy thoughts crowd and cloud.

Now, slumber’s veils are rent asunder

And lashes part and pupils wander

Out the frosted window glasses

Into garden hoar-frost and rimèd grasses.

Suddenly, o’er the horizon, ascends the sun;

The twigs and grasses soften;

Mists and fogs lift and melt away

And so my demons scatter away

In sunshine’s bright promise.

Here is my first love- my only love-

He lies buried under the sod;

Our shared headstone, a mute testament

Of oneness, in life and in death,

Eternally twined like the rings carved in.

Is he under the sod, my heart murmurs,

Do I meet him when I visit his resting place?

Thoughts wander at the site of the sod

Under which he lies in peaceful slumber.

But, I know that he is in our house

When I try to share a  joke and

I feel the whisper of a touch.

I murmur apologies at the chaotic house

Or at the forgotten or neglected tasks.

He is with me at the delicious moments,

Twinkling at the absurd and the ludicrous

These I share with no one else!

There are tears that gush at the untimely parting

And there is laughter and chatter

At the retelling of stories that he no longer is

A player or a partner on this side of eternity.

Often, I face the lonely precipice

And climb alone, reaching fingers

Straining to touch fate’s vagaries

And trying to dictate an alternate destiny!

Why wake up in the morning

To stare at nothing

And relive the dark moments

Just before the light went

Out of the dear life

And the paralysis

Of every fiber set in?

The might-have-beens parade

In never ending colums

To torment and point

At every little action

Or inaction of someone

Who could have

Or should have

Done something

Or other

That might have

Made the difference!

Life is sidelined

And stays in shadows,

Forgetting  routines-

Waking, sleeping, eating.

Then, the onslaught

Of torrential out-pours

That dry out tear ducts

And wring out torment

At the touch of a jacket,

The sight of a furled umbrella

And the black sandals

In the kitchen- ever ready-

Either for inclement weather

Or to be worn off carpets,

At the sight of a brochure

Of long planned trips,

Or the feel of the briefcase

Ever carrying work

For tomorrows…

Until the day awakens

When, in balmy moments,

A thought is compared,

A joke is shared,

And your hand is held,

In spirit, for ever.

The golden time is here

In all its glory and blaze;

The autumnal tints – flame hues-

The red, yellow and orange –

Crowd the nipping air in fiery leaps

Before the twigs and branches strain,

In skeletal supplication

In earthy tones of greys and browns,

Frigid in winter’s rime and frost,

Before the earthy sod grows hard

In the freezing climes

When the wintry winds howl

And shake the twigs to drop

And write cuneiform

In the pallid coverlet

That wraps the world in frost,

And before those waning moments

Lead to a numb oblivion.

          The golden time is here

          When wisdom’s kernels

          Plump up to the skin.

          Now, I stand upon my vantage –

         The tired past behind me –

         In calm, serene contentment.

         With sage and mature eyes

         I wait future’s progress

        Before the aural tints fade away

        Into silvery dullness and wrinkly grey,

        Before the rheumy eyes peer –

        Half-shuttered- at all around me

       When feeble limbs shake

       Like unsheltered aspen leaves

       And cracked voice rasps

       In listener’s ears

       Before the waning moments

       Inch towards eternal rest.