Humble Desire

Movie: Roja
Director: Mani Ratnam

Music Composer: AR Rahman

Lyrics (Tamil): Vairamuthu

Desires of this little heart are mortified -

innocent desires of a blithsome heart

to reach out to moon and stars,

the desire to conquer skies.

Wish today I exude redolence

like flowers sprinkle in garden their fragrance.

Wish yonder clouds be my veil,

wish I exult unhinged, uncurtailed;

the world trussed up with my lithesome braid.

The promised land transudes efflorescence such,

blossoms my heart, unbridled thus.

Wish I sing like a nightingale,

wish my self manifests piscine demeanor.

My youth is but motley dream's harbinger.

--

PS: Oscar, Golden Globe, Grammy and BAFTA winning composer, AR Rahman, debuted as a music director in movies with Tamil political thriller 'Roja' which was released in 1992 and catapulted Rahman to instant stardom. Roja's soundtrack is listed in TIME's 10 Best Sountracks of all time.

I've made a humble attempt at translating "Choti Si Asha" (a song from Roja's soundtrack dubbed in Hindi) into English. Inputs from Hindi speaking populace for meliorating this interlingual rendition are welcome.

Here is the video of this song dubbed in Hindi.

Gramercy Mother

O gentle Mother,
my ears are wrought
to disport thine plaintive song.
You seek to employ your son
to get good riddance of earthen fragments?!
This chamber whereinto dreams
from heaven usurp my being
and cradle my perplexed soul,
that upkeeps Dickens, Shakespeare, Dickinson,
Milton, Crane,
can never be the sombre destination
of potter's grains;
they hatch to playfully cavort
in the jocund environs under the April sun.
But, whatever motley detritus, which thou sayeth
has perchance inscribed my chamber
must seek execution at the hands of
the celebrated fille de chambre.
Where doth she travail?
'The Lord requires of thee',
say so and bid her hither anon.

O sweet Mother,
methinks, thine son embodies
soulless wit and fragile gumption,
so hark not to his repudiations anymore
and tread on to lavish pleas
onto bodies more suitable
to implement thine commandment.

Gramercy, O divine Mother!
Thy ratification is told of love so couth,
reckless, naive and sanguine forsooth.

Moonlight Sonata

Moonlight scatters beatific radiance
across the pristine verdant ambience.
Soft susurration of tender maples
lends contralto to blithe zephyr.
Ethereal melancholy of moor yonder,
conjures an operatic silence.
Taciturn fire-beetles dot the silver evening
with frivolous sparks of desire.

Hither treads my dearest with complexion
so fresh and sanguine that even moonflowers
that are hitherto imperturbable,
depict heliotropism.
They trip the light fantastic toe
as air du soir steals their fragrance
and serenades us with elemental joy.

We conjoin in soulful harmony;
our beating hearts complement
each other's seraphic presence.
As Hesperides spiels dulcet notes
and welkins perform ripieno concerto yon,
we weave rhythmic scherzo
of passion and unbridled devotion;
heavens bless us with blissful orgasm.

The Lethean silvern sonata
enamored me and my inamorata.


Note: Air du soir is French for 'Evening air'.

Discovering God

For God.


As a kid, I often wondered,
'How tough is it being God?!'
You need to answer every prayer,
make amends and repairs,
accept criticism
(derogative, blasphemous -
fraught with pessimism),
record births, record deaths,
smiles scattered and tears shed,
plant trees, flood rivers,
restore faith in estranged believers.

As I grew a moustache and beard,
I discovered
being God is relatively easier
than my limited faculties could gather.
All you need to do is pretend to listen,
preserve a grim demeanor
and forget everything that has been said
just before 'Amen'.
Exercise your own volition,
serve best for some and worst for others;
then mutter under your breath, 'I don't care!'
While sculpting humans,
sprinkle a pinch of lust, anger, greed, ego, attachment
in varying proportions
to lend chutzpah to your creations.
With a bucketful of nachos and salsa as side,
sit back and recline
on cloud nine.
Take a deep breath, relax
and watch as titans wax and clash
for survival and cash.

Disclaimer: This verse does not intend to hurt the religious sentiments of any individual or community. Views expressed by the author are personal.

Cosmetic Dreams

To Ogden Nash - the master rhymer.


Aisles are decorated with garish creams
that promise to perk up and garnish your dreams.

There is one that lifts age off face -
irons out the wrinkles and has dark spots effaced.

Another guarantees fairness for dusky hue;
bets on life to turn the world on you.

Some concoct an advert for self-tan lotion:
'Get organically tanned by this magical potion'.

Skin rendered rough by too much makeup?!
Allow cold cream and moisturizer to take the task up.

There are creams which facilitate light reflection,
thereby creating an illusion of enlightenment.

Acne can now be dissolved by wonder creams
even in an hour before one's wedding!

With so many creams on the aisle,
I can change myself in a while!

But these creams are for external use only;
cannot be applied on a heart that is dark and gloomy.

I'm yet to decide which is more important to me.
Is it external or is it internal beauty?

Of Father, Son 'n Superman

For my Father - a man of esprit and action.


Father and I
share a warm
filial kinship.
Our orbits cross
at dinners
or lunches;
we exchange
pleasing glances,
he tenders me first bite
from his morsel -
a ritual we've been
practising for ages.
Then we talk about food,
weather, work, music,
state of Indian politics,
recent book I read,
verses I scripted,
and my latest idiosyncrasy.

See, most of it is about me!

Talking with him
is pleasantly cathartic.
One, he is ideologically
pragmatic.
Two, he speaks not
of oranges,
when I am
talking peaches.
Third, his speech
bridges our spirits.

Despite ills,
his benign smile is
fascinatingly
fascinating.
Blues affect me,
but not him;
his demeanor is
perpetually pleasing.
Oft he pats my back
and says he
takes pride in
perfection.
Somehow, I can't
bring myself
to associate
with his wanton
benefaction.
Perhaps, he's just
being kind,
for he's my Father
and I his son.

His humility
is humanely humbling.
He flowers the dead
and salvages the tumbling.
He never fumbles
for dimes and nickels,
ardently believes
they are fickle -
ones to be expended
on poor and piteous.
A mark of a man
humble and righteous.

The buck stops here.
Am I doing enough
to shelter his unbridled love
and care?
I seem too busy
(scratching my head
with rows of books
behind me)
to shoulder his
responsibilities.
But he gifts me infinity
to quench my fervid
intellectual curiosity.
Perhaps, this is what
love is meant to be.

Like a sorcerer,
he ferments my distress
to happiness
(thousand flambeaux
turn all at once)
and protects me from torrential
harmattan.

No wonder my Father is my Superman!

Why I hate cellphones?

This little piece of machinery
works at its own volition.
Enlivens in the middle of night
and demands to be listened.

My heart skips a beat
when it extols an incoming call;
either it's 'You're fired'
or 'Let's breakup for the love of God'.

It dies down almost always on me
in the middle of rejoinders and repartees.
Notwithstanding modest battery life,
it altruistically bridges my boss' cacophony.

Many a time it tricks me -
sensing blues, reshuffles the playlist
and hither flux tritones of
profound jocundity.

It refuses to talk
when I'm running short on cents
no matter how critical or urgent,
it won't spare even a few moments.

It often fixes me in undesirable conversation
with cross talk and induction.
I fail to determine who's whose slave -
it's mine or its I am!

Swan Song. Separation.

For Koyuki Kato - the most beautiful woman I ever saw.


You walk down the aisle
towards the altar;
we exchange vows
and promise togetherness
till death do us part.

In trice I see you depart,
down the driveway
and out of my heart
in a huff.
But, the one who loved you
still does,
whom you loved once
still loves.

Small irritations
you dwell on
are nothing but salt on melon.
Man and woman
do not hear worldly music
in the same key;
as a consequence
dissonance
is imminent.

Does this mean we digress
and seek verdure somewhere else?

Bed is warm
with the perfervid fire
we ignited;
coffee mug deems
red succulence
you rendered it with.
Every corner and nook
carries me to you;
impalpable ash
of an incinerated heart
replays leitmotif:
'I love you, I love you, I love you'.

Alive I am no more
for my spirit's still besotted
with days of yore.
As you walk away O beloved,
this temporal vastness
between us
rips me apart in
rectilinear azimuth.

Keeping up with Miranda

To homemakers.


Miranda is married to a house
painted red with bricks.
It lodges her feminine ego
and cellophane
she arsenals grocery in.

"I {Heart} My Husband"
says the bumper sticker
on her station wagon -
quite spruced up with nouns, pronouns
and possessive adjectives.
It's all Sisyphean labor though,
pushing conjugate verbs
up her fermented kids.

The odiferous dame
(of mint and lemon balm)
adds flavor and sunshine
to gourmet cuisine.
She expects approving glances;
wishes fervently
she's their
very best thing.

Delectable dessert, glottal emissions
and bulbous onions
conceal her sobs and whims.
She is ready to sing lullaby
to the third
while the fourth
continues to chime in.

As seconds trickle onto the mantle
and moon climbs uphill,
Miranda hums to the rattle of utensils
reveling in her discordant thrill.