Works of RK

 And then as always, suddenly, I would feel like the city is out to kill me. Its horns assault my senses, its garbage and incivility grates me. As I run towards fifty (age), the glitter and the shine of large urban clusters start looking more like monoliths of enslavement. I feel that Indian cities enslave the human soul and convert us into automatons. Shorn of kindness and joy and art and village greens, we become tools for the relentless advancement of its chaos. As I see it, only the city lives and thrives and we simply die. We die slowly, in sectors and crossings of our being. And then, as always, I packed my bags and went on a road journey. All 37 days of it. Back to the city, the clinical anomie of it all waxes and wanes and continues unabated. Nothing changes. The same set of dirt poor migrants walk back home in the evenings to their shanties, with their infants and their belongings on their heads. A BMW 7 series sounds its horns as it zooms past on the same road to paradiso. Th

I am not a beach person I am for the rapids, the waterfalls and the mountains. I like far away, offbeat places Places that have nothing to offer to the tourist soul Nothing that would mean anything in whatsapp statuses and Insta Posts I like places that don't call out for attention Nor grudgingly even,  acknowledge my presence. Raging hearts roaring and clouds tearing up Peaks that pierce the silences of the skies And moss and lichens glazing the sides. Unrepentant,  unperturbed,  dangerous Let me be and leave me alone kind of places

My soul is a vagrant It wanders around in time Like pollen and like leaves Caught in the wake of life I find meaning in this chaos ====== In the little moments in time that I get,   I open my windows to a world in which I know you live. I hope I see you on the other side   ==== A butterfly sat on the wings of an airplane As it taxied into an airport One carried me in The other,  my dreams.   Birds of a feather Unknown to each other     ==== Airplane windows are modern day apartments. The one who is inside wants to be outside And the ones who are outside They don't like being there

  On the sidelines of a business meet Or the time spent Waiting for the guest of honor To honor There are moments of extreme clarity Wherein  I can see far into myself And I can also see the journey that brought me here. Across the trail Through all the climbs And the dips; Through hunger and sleep And absence of sleep My longing for you has been The only consistent constant.   The only cross I have carried Through all times Always.

 I look at that child in the photograph All bright and beautiful And I know that it is not me   Dear child I have no memory of you   We die so many time Before we eventually die

As you step into a river in spate Remember The river is not angry with you But, you would never know The mountains that caught the rain The riverines that flooded over The villages that caved in Before you decided To step into A river In spate. Frank Cornfield Photography The river My dear Is not your enemy It is not your friend either It is just that An angry moment in your time.

When we were children, we would sleep in one large bed, I, my Sis, and my cousins. The house in the village was ancient. When it rained, the tiled roof would start a slow Tibetan throat song and lull us to sleep. But what stands out is not the rains on tiled roofs.  Etched in our little minds was a night when we heard a Cat Mother mourning her dead kitten. In the dark of the night, she created stories in her mind of her lost child and cried. She would sulk and wail and talk and curse and cry. I could hear her over the noise of the falling rains. I could feel her heart wrenching sadness falling like rain.  Sadness is not a Human quality. To feel pain is universal.  I think sadness is the soup upon which the reality of life floats. It is the salt in our otherwise unremarkable blip of an existence.  An appalling apology of a story! The artwork is by Ankita Swaroopa (Mystique Sunshine) titled: Self Hug.