Dreamer

He made a paper-boat

Of the wrinkled tissue paper

The emblem of the coffee-shop

Gracing its sail.

He smiled at his new masterpiece,

"It's not about this peach colored boat

It's about the lost childhood,

Rains are coming..."

He tried to explain,

Honestly, for once..

They mocked and left.

The paper boat stayed a little longer

On his table and in his mind,

Before it was swept away

In the tide of the nothingness

That filled his days.

A few clouds of memories

Passed over him,

Under the endless blues

Of a sky stretched across the times,

He looked at the marigolds

Their sun-kissed yellow

Like her evening dress,

And his bicycle tripped,

Again in front of that wrought iron gate.

Another sun melted away,

Another unforgiven day dragged its feet

And her giggle still floated in the air.

Sometimes, he talked about

An unforgotten love

A school girl who never grows old

An old rickety bicycle

And streets of a forgotten town.

Sometimes, he looks at them

And a smile shies away

They understand not

What he says.

He smiles, nevertheless,

And the birds stay back with him

Even after it's dark..

A dreamer...

A loner?

Is he?

(c) Ankur Srivastava 

Thank you Kirti for giving me this muse  :)

Silence

In the deep well of thoughts, 

words have dried up somewhere.. 

I can still stack up sentences 

And give you my story.. 

With a pinch of lie 

Some secrets dressed up..

But then i have taken the other way.. 

To scrap away every little line 

From the paper 

And make them stand 

On that riverside 

where i waited for her in my half dreams.. 

I tried to give words,

a voice, a song 

That could light up 

The grim darkness of a lonely 2-bhk. 

Then i discovered 

like the cuckoo in the nest.. 

This world is not mine.. 

neither is this my story.. 

and no, my dreams were too inspired.. 

I have tried too hard, 

Won too easily 

And lost so narrowly 

in love and life.. 

on a blank piece of paper 

i put my signature..

On the bottom

that's how i like it, absolute silence .. 

no prayers, no cries..

no half-lies

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Merchant of Dreams

Photo: courtesy Kirti.

PART 1

It was that time of the day when people came back from offices, tea shops became abuzz with discussions and women rushed back to their kitchens after what had initially started as an afternoon gossip. The hard sun had wilted in its own heat and fallen in the dust which was in the air, on the street and in the silent sobs of one more ordinary day coming to its jinxed end under the scrutiny of large street lamps. In the old park of the neighborhood, last ball of the last cricket match had been bowled; the kids, covered in sweat and mud, though were still debating over something. A group of elderly men was going back to their homes after their evening walk. A young girl on the footsteps of teenage was sitting on an old wooden bench and still blushing about something that happened in school that day. A man, not older than 40 but certainly not too young either, caught their attention. He stood near the entrance of the park, smiling at passers by. There was something ridiculous about him, something that was intriguing and fascinating too... Something other than his dark red jacket with large metallic, golden colored buttons. Something other than his thin and dramatic mustache. It was the serenity in his eyes, the grace with which he held up his hands to greet everyone, the all-knowing smile he flashed.

They waited for him to say something. There was soon a little gathering outside the park. Men and women, young and old, and a few kids looked at him with intrigue. After he was convinced with the size of the audience, he started his speech. His voice was child-like but sounded convincing, "Good evening my beautiful people! I once lived in this very neighborhood when I was a little boy. When the grass of the park was greener and the flowers smelled sweeter, I played here too. You must be curious where I had been all these years.. Why haven't you seen me? In my childhood I was an ordinary boy, like the ones you see everyday on the bus-stops, traffic lights and side-walks. Do you remember their faces? No! And so you have forgotten me too. My name is Salesman. I am here to sell you something."

A man in suit-coat and trousers wanted to turn away and go but he saw that the Salesman was looking straight in his eyes. Instead of going, he asked the Salesman,"What do you want from us?". The Salesman replied with a sigh," I don't want anything. I am here to offer you something. But since my experiences with this world tell me that for something to be worth having, it must cost something to own it so I want to sell you something." A bespectacled young lady in her neatly pressed shirt and trousers interrupted him," Look, we don't want anything and you have no bags or catalogs either...". The Salesman turned back sharply and climbed on a small rock near the park. He raised both his arms and cleared his throat," In the times of insurances and money-back guarantees, all I have to offer you is a dream. A dream that you have lost, a dream that you need. A dream that you have ignored, a dream you have once talked about and cried upon. A dream you can't refuse. Do you want to buy your dream? I am here not for you but for the dream."

To be continued...

...................................................................................................................................
PART 2

An old boy in his twenties sat in the grimmest layer of the darkness and quietly allowed himself to do the unforgivable sin of being weak and cried. Nobody saw him crying but we all knew. He was left stranded in the race of everything. He had been dreaming for a little too long and now he was left in the cold silence of being oh-so-alone with his dreams. He wanted to buy death but he had nothing to buy it with. Life is cheap but death?
He had nothing except a fragile hope in an unvisited corner of his mind. He knew what had to be done. That very day which has been now erased from our memories, he sold the little hope he had and bought a small slice of death.

End of part 2.

.......................................................................................................................................
PART 1 continued...

The crowd looked bemused. A man whose eyes looked as dull as the muddy waters of a drying local river asked the Salesman,"What is the price of my dream? How can I buy it? And how do I know that you aren't fooling me?"
The Salesman, now looking like a monk dressed as clown, closed his eyes and spoke out,"You have to trust me here because I have been in your shoes. I have sold my dreams to buy me tired days and sad evenings like this. I have bought them back when I could, to light up my nights. You have to pay a dear price too." He thought for a second and then paused  so as to hold the secret, the price.
The crowd, tired of this game now and reluctant after guessing what the price might be, asked in a hush, "What's the price anyway?" The salesman, now looking like a boy who has just got a new gift, said,"The price is hefty as it should be. You have to give something you have held so close to your heart for all your life. You have to give me your greatest fear....

The crowd dissolved, knowing too well that he was trying to  trick them. There had to be some conspiracy in it. It was late too and dinner had to be made, works had to be done. What a waste of their precious time?

But a man stood there, thinking. The same man whose eyes looked as dull as the muddy waters of a drying local river. He asked silently, "How does it work? You are talking as if there is some.....". The Salesman smiled and completed his question,"..... as if there is some MAGIC? " The man nodded his head,"Yes, how do I trust you?" The Salesman said,"There is a Magic. You have been seeing magic all you life but you have never believed it. You have dismissed it as a trick. You have been wrong. You can trust me... For one, the shine in your eyes is back...

(c) Ankur Srivastava

From The Streets of Bihar

From The Streets of Bihar

The streets of Bihar
Are the face of an abstract painting,
Sad.
The colors of history,
It seems,
Someone has washed away.
Or scrapped with fingernails.

A river has changed its color,
And the sky here is not blue
Anymore.
Tired sky and forgotten rivers.

The morning still basks
In an orange glow
Of a lazy suburban Sun
That fades
In the echoes of night,
Muffled screams.
The day is lost
Pretending deaf.

Fantasy poetry of
Unseen revolutions
Have often knocked
The doors of destiny,
In sweaty envelopes,
To be rewritten in blood…

But eyes have failed
To tell impoverished, meager heroes
From shameless, naked demons.
Reality, sadly,
Is a little gray,
Half lie.

I have often seen
A volcano
Walking on the streets,
Threatening to erupt
On evenings of nothingness.
Somehow,
It never does,
As the radio continues
To ramble shamelessly.

Streets of Bihar still believe
In prayers
With eyes closed.
And dream
Ignorant of a fear
That sits all night
By the bedside.

Streets of Bihar
Have lost their feet
In the race.
They are forgotten leaves
Of autumn.

They are the eyes
Of a frightened child
Who is learning to
Drag his feet
To unwelcome tomorrows.
They just stare.
Mute,
Like the volcano
That has remained quiet.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Rain Poem

It rained yesterday,

After an unending wait

Of summers

Stretched so long.

And I sat

By the window,

To sketch

Each falling drop

The way the earth smiled

Teased by the rains.

Lines that I could read

In the long summer nights

When we sat by our windows

And prayed for rains again.

This evening,

I read the Rain poem,

But the words had been
Washed away,

The lines had turned

Brown again.

There is no poetry in rain,
These days. 

Poems are not written...

On little green twigs

That grow in my garden and die

So soon.

About naked children

Running in streets

With joy

Soon to be lost.

Or about maple leaves floating

In pools of muddy water

On broken roads.

There is a woman

On the roadside.

Her skin, brown,

And hair,streaked with dust;

Her eyes are deep

Pits of emptiness.

Her lips are dry

Parched with thirst.

Her husband doesn't speak

These days.

He did smile when it had rained

For a moment,

And then cried

For some nights,

Turned quiet forever.

She sighs and looks

Towards the empty paddy fields.

The roof of her home

Leaks in the rains.

But she cares not.

If only the paddy grows

This year.

Or else?

There is no poetry in rain,

These days.

The woman told me,

"The rains were too little".

It will rain again

I smiled...

"Too late, may be!"

She sighed.

Poems are not written

Sitting by the window

Every time rain tickles

The sad face of earth.

Poems now lies silent,

And brown

Like the earth

After the rain has flirted

And gone back.

When the children

Try  to sleep,

Hungry.

And their eyes are wet

And shallow

Faces brown
Like pools of muddy water

On broken roads.

Poetry tosses and turns

In bed at nights.

It's verses

Are wet with sweat

Mixed with blood.

And lips are sealed

Forever.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

6 word stories

1.

Dreams floated in her eyes, misty. 

2.

Bubbles of hope..
grow..

shatter!
.
.
.
Survive...

3.

My jeans, once blue,
faded...
Me?

4. 

A candle melts before its time. 

5.

Love invites, passion lures... night surrenders!

6.

Dream inspires, hope survives...

Destiny cheats!

7.
A small-town street-fighter with royal blood.

I Am a Generation!

I Am a Generation!

Through my eyes,
History changes and un-changes
As in the eyes
That saw it before mine.

And when I look back,
In the pages of history
Will I ponder,

"Who am I?"

I am the one
In the corner of a classroom
Writing poems
On the back of an engineering book.
Half baked poems and
Half learned lessons.

I am the one who
turned his back on temples.
Instead,
I sit on noisy sidewalks
Sipping bitter tea
In plastic cups
And contemplate and reflect
Search for my soul.
In the bitterness.

I often cut my hair,
And color it
In accordance
With "post-modern art"
I am the face on the banners
Who has changed his name
To have some fame.

I forever join in the debate
On the soul of Gandhi
And sometimes,
The poetry of Tagore
The Nehru and the Ambedkar.
I am often caught,
On both sides of debate.

My mind ponders
On why Sukhi died.
(Sherman In RDB)
Patriotism or friendship?
Or was he afraid
Of the meaninglessness of it all
And of his existence.

I wear a secular mask
And I cried
And cheered a certain Mr. Khan
As he walked
To break the greatest boundaries
Of my times.(yes, perhaps.)
And beyond.

But I didn't walk
With Mr. Khan.
I wasn't stupid!

I am the one
Who applauded
A Slumdog Millionaire
As he charmed and amused.
I also slapped him in face,
For the other Slum-dogs
Who were still slum-dogs,
With empathetic heart
And well fed stomach!

All the while,
While, I split my pocket-money
Between petrol and pizza,
I never realized
I am not me.

I am a generation.

I wonder
What will I take to my grave...
A generation that had ambitions
Before it could dream!

A generation that put the blame
On the generations before,
And slipped into the grave.
With eyes shut.

I am scared
How history will be seen,
Through my eyes.


(c) Ankur Srivastava 

( For those who don't know about Sukhi and Mr. Khan.

Sukhi
Sukhi is a character played by Sherman Joshi in a Hindi movie, "Rang De Basanti". He reluctantly chooses to help his friends in killing the corrupt Defense Minister of India who was largely responsible for the death of their friend, the pilot who died in a crash of one of the MIG planes due to technical problems in the plane.
He then reluctantly goes with his friend to confess before the whole nation through radio and is killed by the forces. Through all this, he remains scared and confused and gathers some strength only when the end is near.


Khan

Mr. Khan is played by Shah Rukh Khan in "My name is Khan". Rizvan Khan is an honorable Muslim man from India, living with Asperger's Syndrome in US. When his son is killed by people due to the hatred against Muslims post 9/11, Khan selflessly embarks on a powerful journey through a contemporary America. He innocently becomes that most unlikely act of defiance, one of peace and compassion. In the name of the woman he loves, he wants to meet the president of USA just to tell him that, "My name is Khan, and I am not a terrorist." )

Knock!

Wrapped in a silk robe
Of shining darkness,
She knocks at your door.

Her fancy bag promises
Rainbow gifts from a distant world,
But you know
Those are dreams from the past.

If you let her in,
The night will simmer
In her stories of dreams.
And its lurid layers
Will melt drop by drop.

Her mysterious tone
Will rise and fall,
You will ache
To catch a glimpse of her face.

Then she will be gone,
A lipstick stained wineglass,
A sweet surreal scent
Left to linger in the room.

So, you pretend deaf,
Behind bolted door.
Her knock; light and faint,
Dissolving in familiar noises.

But,
Can you stop
From looking out of the window
When those dreams
Run homeless in the streets?

She is knocking!

(c)Ankur Srivastava 

Where Am I?

Yesterday,
I was there,
And today,
Where am I?

There is a trench,
A pitfall, a valley
Between yesterday and today,
And perhaps I lie there
In that hole.

I recall each morning,
"Cellphone, wallet, files"
And today I checked,
"Me?"
I was missing.

Where am I?
Where the sky bends down,
To kiss the earth,
A lie as naked as truth...

Where the Sun hides,
In the blue waters,
After a tiring day,
Another lie...
I lie somewhere there,
Oh, do I really exist.

Yes, I do,
In mirages and shadows,
And in the Echoes.
Or,am I lost
In that trench
Between yesterday and today?

Careless

"Careless"
They have named me.
And I don't really care.
Are they right?
I am not wrong, I know.

I walk on the streets
At my own pace.
No hurry to reach home.
Who is waiting there for me?

I dream, quietly,
And I let them remain dreams.

Sometimes,
I think of my old school bag,
To put all my dreams in it,
And throw it away.

I haven't reached home yet,
And I don't feel like walikng,
I want to sleep.

Where?
Where the dreams lie.
On orphaned footpath,
In bloomin buds,
Bellow beckoning moon,
On gold beaches,
On blue silver waves in sea.

Am I careless?
Ask them.
They care, not me.

And when I die,
Tell them to inscribe,
On my grave-
"NEVER TRY".

A Silent Poem !

To fly in the voids of a lonely heart,
I outstretch my arms again,
Only to realize,
I have no wings.

And then there is the moth,
I admire so much...
Arrested in a cobweb,
It continues to flap its wings,
Relentlessly, helpless!

We both have similar fate,
Neither can fly...yet we try.

Like this poem
That ached to say something,
But dies in silence.

Starting Anew

A poem without my signature,
Written some forgotten day.

In a race called life,
Footprints have faded away.

I walk back all over again
Slowly to the starting line.

I turn a fresh page,
New poem with a kissed sign.

Because Life Moves On

I look back
To see crowded roads
I left long ago,
Friends who deserted me
without a goodbye,
And gestures of kindness
From strangers.
"No looking back" I say
and move on.

Withered with thirst,
Tired, shattered and broken,
I look back again...
My mommy's lullaby,
My papa's strong shoulders,
My growing up,my first step,
My first failure,bruised knees,
Tears mixed with sand,
"No more tears", I hear
And move on.

Before a steep road,
Stoney and lonely,
With roadblocks all around,
I take a sigh and close my eyes...
I see my first date,
The blush on her cheeks,
My hasty voice,
Sweet nothings we wishpered,
The taste of her lips.

Suddenly I am shaken to truth,
No haunted solitude,
No one besides me.

I look inside...
So many memories
Yet i feel empty, drained, lost...
Voices fade away,
And breath is caught in my lungs,
Visions blurr...

I look ahead and
With a little shake of head,
A shrug of shoulders,
Clinched fist,
One giant stride
I move on.

Caught In The Cobweb

On a corner of my window,
I found entangled strands of silver
Beaded with pearls,
Sining in the thin sunshine,
Amused by its delicacy
I moved closer.

To my surprise,
It was a cobweb
Ladden with dewdrops,
Arresting a tiny insect
Hanging in the air
Perhaps unaware of its fate,
A life slowly coming to an end.


I wonder,
Is that me?
Chained with sackles;
Simingly delicate yet so strong,
However elegant and beautiful;
Suspended between heaven and hell
Unaware of the peril.

Joker

I make people laugh, they say I am a joker... I will tell you how it feels to be one,
It's about the real jokers, don't take this for me...

JOKER

I am a joker
with a smiling mask,
not a magician
but almost as amusing.

Thrown on the stage
to make you laugh.
The jokes you hear
are a kind of prayer,
a communication to God
my struggle to survive.

My mask vivid and colorful
reds and greens and yellows,
let the dark remain hidden.
Read the animated expressions
don’t look into my eyes
or I may crumble down.

Raise your hands
for a huge applause,
and grin, whistle and make my fun,
that’s what I am here for.

Please don’t sympathize,
don’t come for a handshake,
and don’t ask me how I feel,
don’t chase me behind the curtains.

I am a joker;
don’t ask my name
I don’t remember.
I was born normal
but its what they say
I don’t really know.

One day the show will end for me
but you won't get a clue.
What you recognize is a mask
that will be passed on.
The agony of death
I will bear alone.

Letter To The God

Dear God,
I hope you know how to
read and write,
Please answer my letter.

They say nothing can hurt You,
I wonder You don't understand pain!
If that's the case,
How can You heal it?

They say You love everyone alike.
But love is such a biased emotion!
Is Your love for me
Different than my mother's?
Then it must be "lesser love"!

They say everything happens
by God's will,
I hope its not true,
Or You would have died of guilt!

God, we don't need You.
We need a friend of Humanity!
We bully and abuse our friends,
And fall back to him
In times of crisis!
We don't worship them,
It draws a line!

God, I know I am foolish,
But You are wise,
Enlighten me, answer my letter.

God, a little question I have...
Are You a spoiled little child?
And this earth your Video Game?
You make us jump and fall,
And you bomb us away?
You laugh at our plight?

Please Answer my letter.
And don't mind.

Yours doubtfully,
Ankur

My Favourite Poem

This is one poem of mine that I am really proud of, cocky as I may sound!
Well, who demarcates between right and wrong? How clear and sharp is the line? And what about those who live at the edge not because they are bad but because that's where they get a little space to live? Just a poor excuse? Read on,


SIN !!!
The heavy knife swung like
A sword from the hell,
Chop-Chop-Chop...
Minutes before it was like his son,
Now it is just "chunks of meat".

He dared not look in its eyes
Its cry ripped apart his heart,
This one was particularly dear to him
But after all it was a lamb
And he is a butcher.


He could have spared its life
He loved it so much,
It was such a sin...
But what about them
Whom he slaughtered daily?
They too had a right to live
But he killed them
So he had to kill it.
Killing innocent creature is a sin?
How will he bear the load
Of "a life lived on sin"?

But he has a daughter of 21
He must marry her off this year,
His old mother cannot live hungry
After the tiring life she has had,
And his sons must study
they have to be different
Not like him who learnt nothing else..

He avoids the questions in his mind,
Spreads his heavy blood stained hand
And asks for MONEY.