The Grand Inquisitor

Shukra aka Morningstar (Mumbai, July 2012)

He took me to a place
hanging loosely in the stratosphere
and he showed me the kingdoms of the earth
in splendour, sealed with blood.
But, he was only a shadow.
He was not
the Prince of Darkness
and he didn't ask for my soul.

On this day in July,
blood looms bigger
than faith.
My mustard seeds have lost their fragrance.
They're scalded as if
the mustard oil
had been left unattended.

It is time to look for other flavours,
says the earth,
athelas, sanjivni, valerian root ...
But something inside me whispers, even burnt mustard will suffice.

Katya and Grushenka (Mumbai, 2013/2014)

Red velvet in my hands
holding you in my heart
until the end.

Unwoven strands of present
tense, wasted, swirling.

In the basin of the night,
the veiled Mistress
smiles gently.

"Patience, my love."

They will find you
when their time comes.
You'll be ready
red velvet in your hands.

Strange Days (Mumbai 2013/2014)

She gave me an address
and instructions
on the way to get there
but I was blindfolded
a hand covering my eyes,
my face,
my mouth
she had been there before
it seems
she seems
confident of the path she takes
strange loops of glamor
underneath the full moon's light
opening the trees like curtains
in a well-rehearsed production
scenes edited like history
delivered as only-begotten children
once having entered
must exit
through ways predestined
never to be born again

And After All the Tea and Cakes and Ices (Patna, 2003)

That's all, your Honour!
no more witnesses today.
The stars are dull.
Look in my eyes
every question wraps around my irises
like a solenoid
you are magnets, held
to black pinpoints
look, how you tremble
locked inside your iron will.

Laugh with the Fool
he has forgotten the Footman
the settled dust of memory
awaits the coming of a deeper night.

The Kiss – Heathcliff and Catherine (Mumbai, November 2014)

A smog of memory breathes droplets
shimmer in November's lamplight
a million moths crawl across the chasm
conversations thicken
into zero watt serial patterns

Lips lock into lips
Spirit locks in human 
Human twines into Spirit
Warp drive to Stars' End

He lives on
Sowing bullet seeds
The majesty of willing life-in-death
in Absolute Zero 

The Peasant’s Verdict, Through a Glass Darkly (Mumbai, June 2007)

An enemy
is only a mirror
that reflects
a few stains
on a dress that doesn't fit.
Sometimes I snap the threads
that seem to hold it together
and there are times
when it hangs so loosely
that I am utterly shapeless
an amorphous mess
spreading out like something sticky
into spaces where I dare not venture.

But when the bugle calls
I look into the mirror
and I fit myself
into the soldier's uniform
to give those stains
a chance to belong.

That when my peace
comes back to me
I will not be distracted
from my joy
by those naive remarks
that fall upon
some stupid little stain.

The references to The Brothers Karamazov (Fyodor Dostoyevsky) are too numerous to mention. Strange Days is a song by The Doors. The Footman and the cakes and tea and ices are taken from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. Stars’ End is a reference to the Second Foundation by Isaac Asimov. Heathcliff and Catherine are from Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte). Athelas is from The Lord of the The Rings (J.R.R. Tolkien). The other references need not be cited because they fall well outside the purview of any copyright laws.

Night’s Neurons

The Weaver (June 2007, Mumbai)

Betwixt waking and eternity
the corridor twists
and turns
darkness peeps out
of many doors
left ajar.

Out in the open
a man steps out
of the lamplight
into the rain
he wears a long, black coat
his voice
is breaking
and his eyes are earnest.

He drives off
in a van, full of people
into mortal danger
there are no digits
on the number plate.

The corridor turns
like a thread for Sydney Carton
on a spindle
in his weary hands.
He reeks of midnight's oil.
The rain drips off
his shoulders
like a chill
into his heart
His lamp is burning
and the door is shut.

Wait Until Dark (February 2014, Mumbai)

The wings of night are spreading wide
the Morgul Lord unmounts
his hands are cold as ice
his breath
forks like a tongue
a sheet of flame, twisting and unwavering
his eyes the usual 
empty sockets
hopelessly out of sync
for it is daylight that he haunts.

The night, the pristine, the undying 
keeps us safe, 
within Her bosom
for if any of Her creatures should see the day
be it an owl, besieged by ravens
or a candle flame
in a pile of amorphous wax
or a student grappling with a crowd
of random cadences and flashing rhythms
a fastening of fancies
into tens and fives 
and sevens and their noises,
if one of us forgets a turning, strays
into the deepening shadows of daylight
and forgets the way,
the noonday sun will have his fill
and let us go
and She will find us
where She left us
in the midnight hour.

To Swell A Progress (March 2015, Mumbai)

A voice: What will you do
when you're free?
When the memory of this tiger and that
no longer snarls
at your gate?
When your bones have left their grating
at chalkboards
squeaking clean
no dust particles to settle with ease
at the counter
dark matter
white matter in a parallel universe
I answered - almost.
My eyes are tired
from too little widening
the muscles are stretched thin
now blowing out
at elliptical fault lines
cavernous as hot air balloons
and just as vacuous in their leaning
into the bitter air.

And yet, there is a way
of gentleness
a deathly stillness
that rips the sky open
and in between the seconds
uncountable millennia
leave just enough
breathing room
for a promised freedom.

Class (October 2001, Philadelphia Suburbs)

Your curses clamor through the walls,
the crickets shrill, the boiler's rumbling grin
a grin, 
not quite a laugh, a grin
escapes the boiler room below
muscles in its chin
contort in heed, in heat, 
to conversation's end.
Pieces of your soul are strewn like coals
into this empty din.

I read between the minutes of the night
freezing autumn night unquenched
the boiler's heat in rhapsody, in flame
in flame upon my back
in chill upon my feet.

I read between the minutes of the night
your face
caught in a struggle 
with my swearing friend 
I looked at you
with brave and tender eyes.

Other Poems by Acushla Sarswat

Myth of Social Media / Gouri Nilakantan

The world is nothing but staged, we are living each day rehearsed in our make believe world of happiness and tears and enjoying the facades of living the “real- unreal”. I see this anomaly of the world depicted every minute in the social construct of a demonic, hedonistic, ‘practiced everyday journal keeping’ of facebook and twitter.

This self indulging practice that we are consumed with, becomes thus our daily practice show, our daily practice rehearsal, and our daily practice “for viewership and arduous, colossal, consumerism”.

We are therefore living in our own moments of suspended disbelief, where we see ourselves as the ‘heroes of change’, ranging writing words of protests; enjoying the moments of glory in well taken pictures of the rising sun; or the intense moments of rising passion through well documented pictures of the white marbled Taj in pale white moonlight.

Yet, despite all these “high moments”, why do we feel alone?Why do we cry ourselves to sleep? Why do we constantly check the messages of that unknown stranger on facebook through the night? My answer might seem simplistic, the answer is nothing but the “untruth of reality”.

When we realize that we are creating our own make believe script, that is false, and that strangers on facebook might cease to be the “ideal” guy or girl we so desperately need; our myths are broken. When we see that these myths are broken we are only foolish to create more; we reuse our old photos for more such destroying social interactions.

Let us for one moment only, see this as stages of representations – as we are only actors doing functionary parts of the unwritten and anonymous text of facebook and twitter. We might cease not to laugh along with that ‘unknown stranger’ who we take to bed with us, without the feelings of being in an adulterous relationship, or even without a sense of a single minute of pride of feeling an intimate part of being a part of a stranger’s life. We are not strangers to others but to ourselves.

This terrible system of social media that we have created is only for our own downfall and decay. It’s time now to become real, to remove masks, to meet and greet the living and mourn for the living dead. Let us not get wasted by looking at the keyboard, and creating our downfall and realize the folly before we become strangers to ourselves. One never knows, one day we might not even see our own eyes and not even know for whom we are laughing or for whom we should cry. Let us, my dear friend, ourselves, only cry for ourselves today.