dreams on the edge...

the doors are open
but the homes are deserted
the food is ready
but the table is empty
there is no one here

where have they all gone!
there, under the tree
beside the river
children are sleeping
mothers are weeping
oh how cruel everything!

where are those dreams
disturbing deep sleep
at the mid hours of night?
'dreams are wanted'
 beware! hey, you!
'dreams are not dead'

dreaming under a tree
beside the river
this time they do disturb
not the dreaming minds
but the deserted houses
and the empty tables

the doors are open
and the minds too
the homes are deserted
but the streets aren't
'dreams are living'
and there, they are!

ನಿನ್ನ ಪಥ...

ನಾನಾಗ ಬಯಸುವೆ  

ನಿನ್ನಂತೆ ಮನೆ ಇಲ್ಲದ ಪಕೀರ

ಸದಾ ಸೇರ ತವಕಿಸುವೆ   

ಕೊನೆ-ಮೊದಲಿಲ್ಲದ ಸಾಗರ
ನಿನ್ನ ಗುರಿ ನನ್ನದಾಗಲೆಂಬ
ಬಯಕೆಯ ಬೆನ್ನೇರಿ
ಸದಾ ಹರಿಯ ಯತ್ನಿಸುವೆ  
ಎಲ್ಲ ಮಲಿನವ ಹೊತ್ತು

ಏನನೂ ನುಂಗದೆ,
ಏನನೂ ಉಗುಳದೆ
ನಾ ಸಾಗ ಬಯಸುವೆ 
ನಿನ್ನಂತೆ...

ನಿನ್ನ ದಾಟುವರು 

ಹಲವು ತೀರ್ಥಯಾತ್ರಿಗಳು

ತೀರ್ಥದ ಮೇಲೆಯೇ 

ಪಯಣಿಸಿಹೆವೆಂಬ
ಅರಿವು ಅವರಿಗುಂಟೆ?
ಹಲವರ ಜೀವದ ದೌಡಿಗೆ
ನೀನೊಂದು ಅಡ್ಡಬೇಲಿ
ಕೆಲವರಿಗೆ ದಿಗಂತಗಳ
ಒಂದಾಗಿಸುವ ಸೇತುಬಂಧಿ

ನಿನ್ನ ಸಂಚಲನಕೆ ಕಿವಿಗೊಟ್ಟು

ಮೈಮರೆತ ಕೆಲವೇ ಮಂದಿಗೆ 
ನೀನಾದೆ ಮಧುರ ನಿನಾದ...

ಭೂತದ ನೆರಳ
ನೀ ಹೊತ್ತು ತರಲಿಲ್ಲ
ಭವಿಷ್ಯದ ಛಾಯೆ
ನಿನ್ನ ಮೇಲಿಲ್ಲ...
ವರ್ತಮಾನದಲಿ 
ಜೀವಂತವಾಗಿರುವ
ಕಾಲಾತೀತಳು ನೀನು
ಕಾಲವನು ಗೆದ್ದವಳೆಂಬ
ಭ್ರಮೆ ಎಳ್ಳಷ್ಟೂ ನಿನಗಿಲ್ಲ...

ಎದೆ ಜರಿಯುವುದು
ಒಮ್ಮೊಮ್ಮೆ ನಿನ್ನ ಘರ್ಜನೆಗೆ
ಆಕ್ರಂದಿಸುವೆ, ಬೊಬ್ಬಿಡುವೆ

ಮತ್ತೊಮ್ಮೆ ಗಂಭೀರ ಮಂದಹಾಸ

ಜಗವ ಗೆದ್ದ ದೊರಯಂತೆ
ಪಾಶ ಹರಿದ ಗೂಳಿಯಂತೆ
ಮಗುದೊಮ್ಮೆ ಕೋಗಿಲೆಯಾಗಿ,
ಮತ್ತೆ ಪ್ರಸವಿಸುವ ಹೆಂಗಳೆಯಾಗಿ
ನೂರಾರು ಜೀವಜಂತುಗಳ ಧನಿಗೆ
ನೀ ಧನಿಯಾದೆ
ಸಾವಿರಾರು ಧನಿಗಳು ಸೇರಿ
ನೀನಾದೆ ಓಂಕಾರ ನಾದ
ಸೃಷ್ಟಿಯ ಜೀವದನಿ,
ಸ್ಥಿತ್ವದ ಮೂರ್ತರೂಪ...

ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಹಿಮಾಲಯದ
ತಪ್ಪಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಗಂಗೆಯಾಗಿ
ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಆಲ್ಪ್ ಕಣಿವೆಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ರೈನಳಾಗಿ
ಭೂಗೋಳದ ಬಂಧಿಯಾಗದೆ
ಕಾಲನ ಪಾಣಿಯೂ ಆಗದೆ
ಇರುವಿಕೆಯ ಸ್ನಿಗ್ಧ ಸ್ವರೂಪವಾದೆ
ಹರಿಯುವ ವರ್ತಮಾನವಾದೆ
ಇಲ್ಲ, ಕೇವಲ ಆಮ್ಲ-ಜಲಜನಕಗಳ

ಸಂಯೋಗ ಸೂತ್ರವಾದೆ...? 

ನಗಬೇಡ
ವಿಜ್ಞಾನದ ಮೂಢತೆಗೆ!
ನಾಮದ ಅಂಕೆಗೆ
ಕಾಲನ ಬಲೆಗೆ
ನಿನ್ನ ಸಿಕ್ಕಿಸುವ
ಮನುಜ ಮೂರ್ಖತೆಗೆ!

ಅಣುರೇಣುಗಳಲಿ ಮಿಡಿಯುವ
ಓಂಕಾರ ನಾದವೇ,
ಸೃಷ್ಟಿಯ ಜೀವನದಿಯೇ
ನಿನ್ನಂತೆ ಹರಿಯಗೊಡಿಸೆನ್ನ
ನಿನ್ನೊಳಗೆ ಐಕ್ಯವಾಗಿ
ನನ್ನ ನಾ ಕಾಣುವವರೆಗೆ...

ಒಂದು ವಿಚಾರಣೆ...

ಮೊನ್ನೆ ಬಿಸಿಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ತಲೆಬಗ್ಗಿಸಿ ನಡೆಯುತಿದ್ದಾಗ
ಮಾರ, ನನ್ನ ಆಪ್ತ ಮಿತ್ರ, ಎದುರಾದ
'ಇದೇನಿದು, ಬರಬೇಗೆಯಲ್ಲಿ, ಬರಿಗಾಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ
ಎತ್ತ ನಡೆದಿರುವೆ? ಮನದಾಳದಲ್ಲಿ ಏನೋ 
ಲೆಕ್ಕಾಚಾರ ದಿಟವಾಗಿ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಿದೆ
ಏನದು ಮಿತ್ರ? ಚಿಂತೆಯೋ, ಬೇನೆಯೋ,
ಕೋಪವೋ, ಅಸಹ್ಯವೋ? ಗುರುತಿಸಲು
ಅಶಕ್ತ ನಾನು, ಕ್ಷಮೆ ಇರಲಿ' ಎಂದ
ನನ್ನ ಕಣ್ಣುಗಳನ್ನೇ ದಿಟ್ಟಿಸುತ್ತಾ
ಎವೆಯಿಕ್ಕದೆ, ಆದರೂ ಧೈರ್ಯ ಸಾಲದೇ...

"ಊರಿನೆಡೆಗೆ, ಸಾದ್ಯವಾದರೆ ಊರಿನೊಳಗೆ... 
ಹೇಗೆ ನನ್ನನು ವಕ್ಕಣಿಸಲೆಂದು ಯೋಚಿಸುತಿರುವೆ
ಬೆನ್ನ ಬಗ್ಗಿಸಿಯೋ ಇಲ್ಲ ಎದೆ ನಿಗುರಿಸಿಯೋ
ಕಣ್ಣ ಕುಗ್ಗಿಸಿಯೋ ಇಲ್ಲ ನಿನ್ನಂತೆ ಎವೆಯಿಕ್ಕದೆಯೋ

ನನ್ನ ರೋಮದ ಮೇಲಂತೂ ನನಗೆ ನಂಬಿಕೆ ಇಲ್ಲ

ಸೆಟೆದು ನಿಂತು ಬಿಡುತ್ತದೆ ಎಷ್ಟೇ ಬೇಡವೆಂದರೂ
೨೦ ವರ್ಷಗಳಿಂದ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದೇನೆ
ಯೋಚಿಸುತ್ತಾ ಹೇಗೆ ನಿಲ್ಲುವುದೆಂದು,
ಯಾರೂ ಕೇಳಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ ಈ ಹಿಂದೆ ಎತ್ತ ನಡೆದಿಹೆನೆಂದು

ಹೊರಟಿಹೆನು ಮಿತ್ರಾ, ನನ್ನ ಒಡೆಯನನು

ಕೇಳಲು 'ನನ್ನ ಆತ್ಮವನು ನನಗೆ ಕೊಡು' ಎಂದು ..."

ಕುಸಿದು ಬಿದ್ದ ಮಿತ್ರನನ್ನು ಹಿಡಿದು ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸುತ್ತಾ
ಪಿಸುರಿದೆ ಅವನ ಕಿವಿಯಲ್ಲಿ,
"ಮತ್ತೆ ೨೦ ವರ್ಷಗಳೇ ಬೇಕಾದಾವು,
ಅಥವಾ ಇನ್ನೂ ಹೆಚ್ಚು...
ಆದರೆ ಜಾರಿ ಇರಲಿ ಮಿತ್ರಾ,  ನಿನ್ನೀ ವಿಚಾರಣೆ,
ನನಗಾಗಿ, ನನ್ನ ಕದ್ದುಹೋದ ಆತ್ಮಕ್ಕಾಗಿ"
ಅವನ ಒದ್ದೆ ಕಣ್ಣುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ನನ್ನ ಅಸ್ಪಷ್ಟ ಮೂರ್ತಿ
ಮೂರ್ತವಾದಾಗ ನನಗೆ ಹಿತವೆನಿಸಿತು
ನಡುಹಗಲ ಸೂರ್ಯನ ಜಳಪೂ
ಬೆಳದಿಂಗಳ ಮುತ್ತಿನಂತೆ ಮುದವೆನಿಸಿತು...

interlocutor and the intuition

what are you made of?

i am made of your desires
have i ever dared to speak
the violent resolution of your desires?
no. but i do play with them, with words,
a romantic flirtation with violence
"i am made of your desires"
you laugh!
yes, you do!
but you don't disagree, do you?

what do you care for?

a bundle of perverse and guilty secrets
the real secrets, the taboo secrets...
do you need a figure of speach?
a dog bites a child in the arm
you don't shoot the dog
though you can, easily...
but you beat the dog to death
a terrible sequence of howls and thuds
you come back and take the child
in your hand covered in blood
the fact is, you know for sure
that the child has teased the dog...
yes, i care for my guilty secrets,
yes, i do!
the real secrets, the taboo secrets...

what are you ashamed of?

in fact, i repent nothing
and i am not ashamed of that
not even of my names,
mad, shit and ugly
indeed, a ruthless murderer
i am, yet, ashamed of something
yes, i am!
of my failure to live on the edge
i yawn silently at my own cost
of my inability to inhabit extremity
i sleep peacefully at mid-nights
yes, i am ashamed of my failure
to be alive like you, my interlocutor!

what you fear most?

not my own death, certainly not!
death is my dancing partner
with her arms around my neck
i learn my steps from her's
my movements are decided by her's
but yet i don't care who she is!
i fear not the loss of my power to dance
without a hand on my shoulder
i know my dance is a craft
like carpenting, like coffin-building
i am part of a tradition
in fact, i make tradition
i loose sleep, weight and even blood
to achieve my goal, a 'noble' goal
goal of making tradition
but i don't fear such loss
but i fear...
yes, i do!
the loss of my being,
like the one who just left the bar
disappeared and vanished in dark...
i fear the loss my self, my interlocutor!

i stay the way i am forever

this is my story
some call it a song
for a few, it's an epic
and for the lady of the house,
it is a(n auto) biography
for she feels, it is her story
but for me, it's my story
for i stay the way i am forever

i was born on this day
a few years ago
how many years ago?
that really doesn't matter
what matters to me is the day,
the day i was planted in
this dark corner of the house
where i stay the way i am forever

many sigh in irritation
when their eyes focus on me
they murmur with deep hatred
"this plant has grown sideways,
twisted, just slightly upward."
"it defies the rule of a straight plant"
"it isn't pretty at all"
"oh how ugly it is!"
but i stay the way i am forever

someone asks, 'why do you still keep it then?'
"i can’t discard a living thing!
i placed it in the dark corner
for it cant be seen by any"
responds the lady
to whom i belong as a property
a(n un)wanted property
that stays the way it is forever

there is an untold fact in the story
a truth that needs to be unraveled:
in fact, i mean, in truth,
she sees me as her representation!
the off-course parts of her life
are mirrored in me!
some days she is right on track
then there is a knock
by an unforeseen challenge...
she is knocked to the side
and again she tries to start all over...
that is where she sees her 'self' in me
for i stay the way i am forever

she feels that i mock at her
so she scowls at me and then shouts
'why are you not straight?
tell me, why are you not pretty?
oh shit, why are you not dead?'
she cries aloud but without help...
what can i do?
i stay the way i am forever

a heavenly reason...

why the hell it happens?
what the hell it is?
where the hell it begins?
who the hell they are?
a heavenly reason to wonder...

it happens
she or he does it
it is what it is
nothing unconventional
a heavenly reason to believe?

somehow orchestrated
somewhere dreadful
discovered by choice
distinguished by chance
a heavenly reason to rejoice?

one proposition to another
one is implied by the other
one is destined to be superior
an Aristotelian logic of coalition
a heavenly reason to be in relation?

that is a fusion, however lethargic
the act of merging into one body
doesn't need to be an entity
but yet does have an existence
a heavenly reason to be a 'true' essence?

a move from happening to existence
no possibility for other way
strange, exotic but yet a substance
nothing beyond imagination
a heavenly reason to be in illusion...

sheep, soup and the party...

'you must come!'
Vicky invites me to the party
A Saturday Party!

on Friday i am on my way
back from a long stroll of morning hours
i pause at the down-corner
a garden of thirteen hectors,
a property of Vicky's father

there i meet two young sheep
tied with one single rope,
on a barely grassed ground,
bleating helplessly...
they are for the party!
on Saturday they will be slaughtered...
slaughtered for the party
slaughtered for us...

disturbed, i near them,
take the rope and tug them at a distance
there is abundant water and grass
the sheep drink at length
and then begin to graze

what a poor creature!
destined for the butcher's knife
since their birth...
i sigh with a sense of misery...
'what is remarkable in that?'
interrogates black-faced sheep
'when did a sheep last die of old age?'
'we do not own ourselves...'
'we do not own our lives'
the other, the white-faced, joins the chorus

'we exist to be used...
every last portion of us
our flesh to be eaten
our bones to be crushed
and fed to poultry
nothing escapes,
except, perhaps, the gall bladder,
for none of you would eat it...'

the next day,
on Saturday morning,
the Party-morning...
the sheep are back on the barren ground
"are they counting the last
hours of their life?
how miserable it is!"

i near the sheep
to express the new desire of my heart
perhaps my 'burden' to save them
"i'm thinking of buying you
from Vicky's father..."
i utter my desire
not with much confidence
but with a conviction...

for a moment they gaze at me
my eyes meet theirs...
'what will that accomplish?
a purchase of new slaughter-animals?
and what will you do with us after all,
after 'liberating' us from slavery?
set us free on the public road?
bind us in cages and feed us grass?'

i wait for the buzz in my mind to settle,
waiting for a sign
and after a minute, i take a step forward
and the sheep back away
to the limit of their rope...
i step back and back to home
with a vague sadness and helplessness

the hour of the party is begun
i sit in between Vicky and his father
with a plate containing two mutton chops
am i going to eat this?
i struggle to answer...
am i going to ask forgiveness afterwards?
a drop of tear falls into my plate
and i leave the table
with a vague sadness and helplessness...

(inspiration: j m coetzee's disgrace)

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!'