illusion and truth

I:
it's an illusion...
indeed, it is...
but not against truth...

We:
illusion?
and not against truth?
you speak of smile and laughter?
no, it can't be either...

I:
be quite for a while, I beg you...
and let your sight be opened
and your ears be alarmed
at least for a moment...

We:
remember, you were against laughter!

I:
Yes, I was! but not against truth!

We:
you aren't a liar!
yes, it can be either...

I:
illusion may be fact
but fact may not be truth...
they differ... and they are together
like father and mother...

We:
but we remind you
of your father's sperm!

I:
it's an illusion
indeed, it is...
but not against truth...

We: .........

I:
do you listen?
that strange noise within the 'Self'
like a plain crash on a barren gulf!

We:
yes, we do...
it turns into a great lamentation...
yes, we do...

I:...........

We:
do you listen?
there we are! laughing
not lamenting...

I:
yes, I do...
its not an illusion...
but against truth...

We:
but you were against laughter...
weren't you? is it also an illusion?

I:
your eyes are open!
and I am there, not in that illusion
neither in that lamentation...

We:
you are scared!
aren't you? scared of the truth...

I:
THE Truth?
illusion... again its an illusion...
yes, it is!

We:
your eyes are closed!
we see, that you are blind!
we cry... yes, we do...
and for you, we lament...

I:
please do lament for me...
if your cry can change the truth...
I laugh in my 'Self'
not for the changed truth
but for the unchanged illusion...

ಪಕೀರನ ಗೋಳು

ದಿಬ್ಬವನು ಕಂಡು ದೊಬ್ಬೆಂದು ನೆಲಕುರುಳಿ
ಸುತ್ತನಿಂತ ಪ್ರೇತಗಳ ಉಬ್ಬುಹಲ್ಲಿನ ಜಳಪಿಗೆ

ಕಿಟಾರನೆ ಕಿರುಚಿ ಕೇರಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟ ಗಳಿಗೆ

ಕಾಣಲಿಲ್ಲವೇ ಬಿಡುಗಡೆಯ ಕನಸು
ಬಡಕಲು ದೇಹದ ಈ ಪಕೀರ

ಅನ್ನವನು ಅರಸಿ ಹೊರಟ ಬಿಡುಬಾಯಿಗೆ
ದಿಗಂತದಾಚೆಯ ಬಿಳಿಚುಕ್ಕಿಯ ಬಯಕೆಯೇ
ನಡುಹಗಲು ನೀರನರಸಿ ಚಾಚಿದ ಬೊಗಸೆಗೆ
ಸಾಗರದಾಳದ ಸ್ಪುಟ ಹವಳದ ತವಕವೇ
ಅದಾವ ಇಂಗದ ದಾಹವೋ ಈ ಬೆತ್ತಲೆ ಪಾದಗಳ ಪಕೀರನಿಗೆ

ಅವ ಕರಿಯ, ಅದು ಅವನ ಮೈಬಣ್ಣ
ಅಲ್ಲಿ, ಊರ ಹೊರಗೆ ಅವ ಹುಟ್ಟಿದ್ದು
ಅದೇ, ಉಪ್ಪಾರರ ಕೇರಿಯೊಳಗೆ
ಅದೂ, ನಮ್ಮ ದೇಶಕ್ಕೆ ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯ ಬಂದ ದಿನವೇ
ಅಂದೇ ಬಾಯಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟಿದ್ದ ಆ ಬರಿ ಮೈಯ ಪಕೀರ

ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯ? ಅದೊಂದು ಕೆಟ್ಟ ಶಬ್ಧ...
ಎಂದಿಗೂ ಅರ್ಥವಾಗದ ಕಟಿಣ ಪದಬಂಧ
ಸಾಯುತ್ತಾ ಚೆನ್ನಿ ಕೂಗಿದ್ದಳು, 'ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯವಂತೆ ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯ
ಕಾಳುಸಂತೆಕೋರರ ಹೆಣ ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯ'
ಏನೊಂದೂ ಅರ್ಥವಾಗದೆ ನಕ್ಕಿದ್ದ ಆ ಬಿಡುಬಾಯಿ ಪಕೀರ

ಈಗ ಹಗಲಿಡೀ ಈತ ಅಲೆಯುವುದು ಊರ ಒಳಗೆ
ಮುದ್ದಿನ ಚೆನ್ನಿ ಇಲ್ಲೇ ತಾನೇ ಹೆಣವಾಗಿ ಮಲಗಿದ್ದು
ಶಾನುಭೋಗರ ಮಗನ ಪಂಚೆಯ ಮೇಲೆ!
ಚೆನ್ನಿಯ ಕನವೋ, ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯದ ಮರುಳೋ,
ಏನದು ಕೇರಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಊರಲೆಯುವ ಈ ಪಕೀರನ ಗೋಳು?

there, the saviour...

there i was once in that village
many skeptic eyes were on my baggage
they smiled at me, after a long time...
i was puzzled, what was my crime?
they laughed again, breaking the silence
mocking at the dirt in my mustache...

there in the corner i saw a young girl
sleeping beside her dog, staring cruel
what does she need? a piece of bread?
perhaps a cake? she wouldn't mind...
kept walking i reached that old well
and saw an old man with a story to tell

there i sat next to him listening to his story
enjoying his offer of a half-smoked beedi
'she is my child' began his narration
swallowing the smoke he took my attention
'she loves playing and also singing' he paused
she was still starring, but now at her dad

there he was shot being a warrior
whole nation applaused for this brave soldier
he didnt see people when he woke up
there his young child, was not able to get up
who were his enimies? he tried to remember
memory was lost and the family too. but not the war

there he paused again for the second time
i saw the young girl now staring again at me
'she is my child, she loves playing and also singing'
i tried to get up, but in vain for my limbs were aching
'don't sit too long' the old man wispered
'for the victory was not ours, we were just used'

there were three pieces of bread in my bag
one for the young girl, one for her tiny dog
and one for her father. 'we don't need saviour'
the old man's eyes were red with blood and anger
'we fight, and will fight again, until we win...'
now i turned unto the villagers, and there were none!

brain, body and the soul...

when the body is beaten
and the soul is forsaken
what remains to be spoken?
is it all a game of brain?

for the lonely hours of night
the brain went asleep but
not the soul, neither the body...
revenge, anger, and agony...
remained as an unspoken story!

monsters entered the body once
the soul reacted with remonstrance
but the brain remained deaf...
cruel, helpless, and worried of self...
borders remained unnegotiated proof

protest continues both in and out
but the brain speaks of hegel and kant
body is beaten, soul is forsaken...
no fear, no scream, and no words spoken...
center remains a timid skeleton

what will be the end of this game?
do hegel and kant know how to tame
the elevating power of the center?
brain smiles, but the body weeps with anger
and the soul shouts, 'its not a game; its a war!'

april weather...

and finally, it's finished
the april weather... found its end!!!

i sigh at the popular sayings,
'april acts as she desires'
morning it snows and evening sunshine
and never stops unless drizzling rain...
i think again and again
what to wear and what to eat...
too cold and too hot...
who knows what comes next?

it was not a long back
i screamed so loud to break
the wall she built with fear and...
and the next moment i giggled
as if the wall is removed...
'you are my past' i was alarmed
and wept in silence for her last word

thirty days! not so long and not too short
no beginning and no end, only a moment...
disfigured by the thought
i kept sighing again and again...
a crazy month indeed, i was driven,
loved and finally forsaken...
not too easy to relish
but not too much to perish

april is over...
but she remains forever
like the first snow drop
that remains for a moment on the top...
she lives yet as the one-moment-sunshine
after that heavy and non-rhythmic-rain...
no more sighs! for i'm convinced
that it's not yet finished...

oh april, april...
please, for my sake, be still...
i pray, i beg and i order
don't go away from me ever
you are what you are...
you laugh, you cry and you shout
but you never pretend
to be what you are not
that's where i find 'me' in you
that's why i dare to plead you
oh april, for my sake, be still in you...

ತೊಗಲಿನ ಕನಸು...

ಬದುಕ ಅಂಗಳದಲಿ ನೂರು ಕನಸು
ಹೊತ್ತು ಸಾಗುವಾಗ ಎಲ್ಲೆಲ್ಲೂ ಬೆಳದಿಂಗಳು
ಬವಣೆ ಮೀರಿ ನಿಂತ ಗಳಿಗೆ

ಭಾವ-ಬವಣೆ ಎಲ್ಲಾ ಸ್ವಪ್ನಸ್ವತ್ತು

ಕಡೆಗೆ ಕನಸಿನಾಳವ ಹುಡುಕ ಹೊರಟವಗೆ
ಕತ್ತಲಾಳದಲಿ ಕಾಣಿಸಿದ್ದು ಬರೀ ನೆತ್ತರು...
ಮತ್ತು ಅದೇ ಇನ್ನಷ್ಟು...

ಕೊಳಕು ಚಿಂದಿ ತೊಗಲಿನ ಬಯಕೆಗೆ
ಮೆತ್ತಗೆ ನಕ್ಕವರು ಹಲವು ಮಂದಿ
ಇದಕ್ಯಾತಕೀ ಪರಿ ಅಸಹ್ಯ ಕನವು
ಪರಿತಪಿಸಿದ ದನಿಗಳು ಮತ್ತೆ ಹಲವು
ಕಂಡೂ ಕಾಣದ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಕನವುಗಳ
ಅಂಡಡಿಯೇ ಮುದುಡುವ ಕಸರತ್ತು
ಕೊನೆಯಾದದ್ದು ಮತ್ತೊಂದು ಹೊಸಾ ಕನಸಿನೊಳು.

ಅವು ಕೆಲವೊಮ್ಮೆ ತೊಗಲಿನಷ್ಟೇ ಒರಟು
ಮತ್ತೊಮ್ಮೊಮ್ಮೆ ಅದರಷ್ಟೇ ಕೋಮಲ
ಒಂದು ರಾತ್ರಿ ವೀಣೆಯ ನಾದ
ಮರು ಹಗಲು ತಂತಿ ಹರಿದ ಪಿಟೀಲು
ಕಡೆಗೆ ಕೇಳಿಸಿದ್ದು ಮತ್ತೆ ಮತ್ತೆ
ಮದುರ-ಕರ್ಕಶ ಲಹರಿ,
ಅದು ತೊಗಲಿನಷ್ಟೇ ಒರಟು
ಮತ್ತೆ ತೊಗಲಿನಷ್ಟೇ ಸೊಗಸು

ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯದ ಕನಸು ಈಗ ದುಬಾರಿ
ಆದರೂ ಕೆಲವೊಮ್ಮೆ ಅನ್ನಿಸುವುದು
ಯಾಕೆ ನೆತ್ತರಲಿ ಕೊನೆಯಾಗದೀ ದುಬಾರಿ ಕನಸು?
ಮರುಕ್ಷಣವೇ ಕಾಡುವುದು ಜೀವಭಯ
ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಬಿದ್ದರೆ ಸಾಕು ಮುಂದೆ ಮತ್ತೆಲ್ಲಿಯೋ
ಏಳುವ, ಎದ್ದು ನೆತ್ತರಲಿ ಮಿಂದು ಶುದ್ಧವಾಗುವ
ಈ ತೊಗಲಿನ ಕನಸು ಹೇಗೆ ತಾನೇ ಕೊನೆಯಾದೀತು?

i am richly sick...

that's all...
chai and bread
after all
what else to afford?
fever, cold and,
to nobody's surprise, Cholera
but followed by Dementia

first time in life
i felt noticed,
a man of great importance,
lying in the midst of
men and women with big white
shirts and stethoscopes.
from morning eight till evening five
i'm the source and subject of their research

'its a rare case: Cholera with Dementia'
Cholera is very common for us.
after all
what else can we expect in darkness?
but Cholera with Dementia!?
a disturbing case for the doctors
and for their students
and for our masters!

a brain injury in darkness?!
has any doctor heard of Blue Balls
in Himalaya, the abode of saints?

'he read many books' a lady doctor assumes.
'perhaps all non-sense'
another cracks a joke and all laugh.
i slowly join the chorus

'they, in darkness, never own a brain'
i agree with them
for we never own our head
lest be the brain...
we were stolen a long back...
our body, head and brain.
our owners are in light
under their mughal-style chandeliers
very kind and very rich
their dignity is ours

my grand father died of Cholera
his grand father too
but first time in the history of darkness
someone has got Dementia.
a rich sickness...
i am proud of my sickness
and everyone in darkness...
but why does it disturb my master?
does he see me a threat to his power?
oh no! of me my master is afraid!?

i drink only ganji and sometimes chai
that's all...
after all
what else to afford?
but i and my people are happy
that i have a sickness
not of body but of brain.
we are happy for
our sickness disturbs our masters
after all
what else do we possess
to counter those bastards...?

A Shitty Song!

Shit...
How can shit
Be a starting point?
Why not?
When beauty, love and paradise
Can begin a whole story of violence
Why not shit?
Is shit nothing?

Now, listen to me my friend
I have a reason to defend
There, I have a friend
Maia, she is called
Maia, a familiar name...
Maia, not the mother of Krishna...
Maia, a street cleaner
In fact, a shit cleaner
She is paid for street-cleaning
Every morning and every evening
She collects and carries on her head the shit...
Our shit... the civilised human shit...

One shitty morning
Maia was on her duty, street cleaning
A pastor stopped her and asked
'Maia, what is your caste?'
She first coughed and then laughed
‘I belong to small-belly caste sir’
‘Small-belly caste?!’ puzzled the pastor
Maia laughed for the second time
‘Never my father had a big-belly sir
And never my mother
Never my husband had a fat-belly sir
And never my children
We born and die with small-belly sir
Very flat, and very small...’

'Never mind, come to Christ
And you will have enough to eat...'
Pastor shouted with a deep sight...
Believed Maia became Maria
She now has a new name
Maria, not the mother of Jesus
Maria, the new convert...

And what next?
Every morning and every evening
Maria collects and carries on her head the shit...
Our shit... now, the civilized Christian shit...

On the road, someone stops her and asks
‘Maria, can you tell us now what is your caste?’
She now boils with anger
Spits on the white wall of the church
And shouts aloud
‘I told you, we belong to small-belly caste
And we die with it.’

Every morning and every evening
Maia, now Maria, cleans our street.
Carrying our shit on her head.
Screaming a shitty song aloud.

ನನ್ನ ಪ್ರೇಮ...

ಅಸಂಖ್ಯ ಕ್ಷಣಗಳಲಿ ಯಾರಿಗೂ ತಿಳಿಯದೆ
ಅಮಿತ ಮುಖಗಳಲಿ ಮೀರಿಯೂ ಮೆರೆಯದೆ
ಅನಂತ ಕಾಮದಲಿ ಏರಿಯೂ ಇಳಿಯದೆ
ಅಜಾತ ಕಾವ್ಯದಲಿ ಸೇರಿಯೂ ಸುರಿಯದೆ
ತಿಳಿಯಾಗಿ ಹರಿವ ಇಳಿಮುಖದ ಹಿಮಮಳೆ ನನ್ನ ಪ್ರೇಮ...

ಎಲ್ಲಿಯೋ ಉದಿಸಿ ಮತ್ತೆಲ್ಲಿಯೋ ಮದಿಸಿ
ಸಾಲುಸಾಲಾಗಿ ಸುರಿದು ಮತ್ತಿನಲಿ ಮಣಿದು
ಕಾಲ್ಸೆಳೆಯಲಿ ಜ್ವಾಲೆಯಾಗಿ ಮತ್ತೆ ಬಾಲೆಯಾಗಿ
ಮೆಲುದನಿಯ ಮೊನಚಾದ ಕವಿತೆಯಾಗಿ
ಸೆಳೆವ ಸೆಳೆತದ ಹಿಮಮಳೆ ನನ್ನ ಪ್ರೇಮ...

ಹಿತವಾದ ಹನಿಯಾಗಿ ಬಿದ್ದ ಕಾಮ
ಹಿಮಾಲಯದ ಏರಿಳಿತದ ಸಂಯಮ
ಎನಿತೋ ತಿಳಿದೂ ತಿಳಿಯದ ಮಧುಮರ್ಮ
ಕೇಳಿತೋ... ಇಲ್ಲಾ ಕಾಲುವೆಯಾಗಿ ಇಳಿಯಿತೋ
ಅದೇ ಸುರಿಸುರಿದು ಸುರಿವ ಹಿಮಮಳೆ ನನ್ನ ಪ್ರೇಮ...

ಮೆತ್ತಗಿನ ಮಂಚವಲ್ಲ; ಆಣಿಗಳ ಏಣಿ
ಸುತ್ತಲಿನ ಭಯವಂತೂ ಇಲ್ಲ; ಒಳಗೆ ಮಹಾಗಣಿ
ಬೆತ್ತಲಿನ ದೇಹದಲಿ ವಿಧ-ವಿಧದ ಕಾಮಕೇಳಿ
ಕತ್ತಲಿನ ಸುತ್ತ ಸುಳಿದು, ಕಾಡಿ, ಮತ್ತೆ ಬೇಡಿ
ಚಿತ್ರ ವಿಚಿತ್ರವಾಗಿ ಗೋಗರೆವ ಹಿಮಮಳೆ ನನ್ನ ಪ್ರೇಮ...

theology 'for' bread...

so many books on theology you have read
it filled your bag with so much bread
but why did the rooster crow for three times?
nobody knows, including you, peter and jesus...
what theology helps you to understand
the fact that stone is not bread?

tomorrow morning you will become famous
for you will write a book for us -
'the bread theology,' you name it,
'the stone theology,' your second hit.
we buy them for 300 rupees each with discount
and with love and pride you sign on it...

but you didnt answer us, did you? and why?
250 books find place in your bibliography
“one of the intangible scholarly works,”
the ‘new york times’ remarks
you fly in seventh heaven, if there is one.
news paper, radio and television,
you are the hero of the year even in cartoon

and then, it burns the eyes of your neighbour
never in life you were together
and never you tried to be either
this is red and that, black
she is veda and he, mark
here is halva and there, burger
tell me, have you tried to taste it ever?
answer me please my dear scholar…
in what way your theology is better
than the story of the babel tower?

'feeling good' advent...

'dear friend...' the e-mail begins...
he has never seen me before, even once.
'hi dude...' my reply starts...
what a strange way to address!!!
he ponders, struggles and is disturbed.
'dear friend...' begins his e-mail, the second,
'it is not a good mannerism...'
he explains what and what not is ...ism.
i laugh not so loud but with a rythm.
how crazy is this stupid world!
he feels good if i write 'dear friend'
knowing for sure that i dont mean it.
an absolute naked untruth, to feel good...

'what then do you say about jesus?
he also addressed them dear friends...'
counteres me the white gown preacher,
he's paid for uttering non-sense from the pulpit!
i reply, 'if jesus is my running buddy
i offer him a 'knock-out' in a pub near by
and ask him, 'hey dude, tell me honestly,
did you really mean your words?'
and i am damn sure
he would suck the bear
on his thick mustache and laugh aloud...'

now my dog barks, strange and loud,
'it is a blasphemy' he wants to shout.
last time i had to stop my e-blog
a moment please just because of my dog,
he came with his partners and staged
a hunger protest infront of my gate.
he follows the ethos of freedom fight!
but this time i don't care anyone
because i have jesus with me,
i dont think it's for the sake
of that strong bear he's here...
i am told, he has come on a visit
for it is already the advent...