Adyar Footbridge: a descriptive

A sentinel of human speed, this bridge never sleeps as he bears the burden of his daily pedestrians and their baggage, both physical and mental.

The kind of company he keeps has a lot to do with his shabbiness; from paupers to rag-pickers and hobos who hovel in the stairway that leads up to his torso.

Wallowing in dollops of fresh breeze, he bears the distinct musk of wet-wrought iron and sports a grubby look. An occasional growth of lichens on his skin adds to his texture. It seems he only bathes when it rains.

Things always look stunning from his perspective The sun retires in a golden haze; soon, the bohemian birds of twilight race against the tinted machines in a neon world, painting a reverie that can bewilder the hoi polloi who trudge across his expanse; the silken moonlight falls upon the trees; the echoes of the husky engine throb in his metallic chest.

He is aging rapidly. He wobbles with every step, and every roll; withering away into a diaspora of rust. A lonely sentinel, he stands in the midst of two crowded roads.

A little tribute to ECR*

there is innocuous charm in running away. so what's if it's a half-day get-away for an academic assignment. The sweaty bus-rides of chennai have become my latest fancy. The thrill of getting to the destination in the most absurdest of ways. It calls for handsome cliches but the irony lies in their actuality; wind in your hair resulting into exorbitant goosebumps that succeed.

It is an interesting feeling to be leered by locals while forming their queer assumptions about you, ranging from being a foreign national to a local hippie(how i revel in these). Their juvenile giggles and in your face stares. My encounters have so far been ingratiating in multiple ways. Whoever defined communication in the diaspora of language needs to be sleep-shaken.

I board buses riding on my instincts but often aided by locals who swell with pride in helping a pseudo distressed traveler. The bus-conductors ensure you don't sneak into privy slumbers through jarring Tamil videos that trail in your memory like fancy-dress ghosts. The village women do it subtler ways which means an overdose of jasmine injected in to your laryngitis and the passage beyond. I seek unimaginable comfort in the male fraternity that dare not ogle at you in a women-dominated vehicle(whoever talked of Tamil nadu being a matriarchal society)

In such good-willed environs one can't help dropping his guards. All the reasons that make my solo-trips a refreshing piece of memory every individual time. Today after my trip to crocodile bank which is some 42 km away from chennai, I felt enormously well-suited for roads. The roads that guarantee a bounty of experiences. The ones that lap you after adopting thousands before you. The roads that defy the purpose of gigantic buildings and redefine living all together.

* East Coast Road connecting Chennai all the way to Cuddalore.

If one believes in the correlation between epidermis-blisters and guitar skills, i deserve to be inhabited in the hall of fame of rock n roll. In the past 72 hours i have developed sores akin to shoe bites. Now my fingers and toe-nails look like brother and sister born to same parents, unlike previous lengthy differences between the two.

it's true, sheltering yourself in someone's music composition in inexorably easy than building your own. It's only when you do music, you feel feverishly intimate with it. Yes, i experienced laughter spasm when my teacher spelled out "fingering-exercises" for me. Only to be shadowed by exultation of dancing notes on the fingers.

blackhole

a canyon of sorrow
your eyes,
in the abyss of nicotine
floating across,
the ocean of milky-way
bereft of emotions,
but full of life
humming but noiseless
as you draw,
the curtains of your gaze
a gaze that consoles
my previous sores

the storm of afterstorm

The skies are clear, the sun peeps through the ambush of perspiring clouds. The tree stands still in the resilience of its docile shadow. Has the morning arrived?

The toads bid goodbye in their thankless croaks, to and fro in their naked embankments. Some aspirational ones choose to stay back. Is the show not over yet?

The frozen windows exchange melancholic glances. Longing for familiar squark, in the glistened memory of raindrops. Any chance of recurrence?

coffee seeds brew and spill in the (now) black mugs of derision. Its nebular fragrance makes a quiet exit. Any takers here?

The road is thick, vociferous like an industrialist. walking hastily with a heavy briefcase and a squished umbrella. no looking back?

The heart of the lake is gelid, in fond remembrance of zephyr. Indifferent to thirsty cows, who flock over his meaty chest. a wistful wait, perhaps?

The storm harks back to the desert of quietude, in an unnoticed foggy departure. borrowing boats from it's past. gone already?

on a rainy day

the maverick wind brushed my lips,
like goblet of ice devouring the shore
the moment froze, in the rivulets of reverie
drifting me to an anonymous lure

the snarling storm held me by its fit
and i trembled till i forgot to tremble
before trespassing into the lanes of fear,
in my pursuit of relentless ramble

while the sands that bred cactus upon
dejecting the naked prospects of sun
thumped my back and left me alone
is this how battles are won?

skylark

who am i to you?
thickets of sun,
moist by cool wind
in the heart of a crammed shore
with two curious eyes
and two deranged toes

yet you smell familiar,
petals of antique,
where lichens grow
greens that feed maggots and more
a caravan of sights
i couldn't love you more

-mahabalipuram, November 1st