Early Morning Train

In the first rays of the sun, whatever darkness it dispels, saw a range of trees, a forest aflame. (Flame of the forest is a kind tree that blooms red flower). This bitter cold morning brings me to Bangalore on a journey wherever the path leads.

Thick granite structures, erstwhile repair yards and gang rooms, flank both our sides. Ruins mostly, but caused not just by elements and Time but the human hand and the ceaseless machinations of his mind.

The first few steps seem to have taken me into a century or two pasts- when the Army in India sought refuge from heat, among other things. (Even Churchill, it is believed)- Not for long .The advertisement board “everyone is invited” with flickering bulbs and a policeman clearing the night squatters “it care of life flimsy”

The pillars that supported the roofs were thicker than the average railway toilet and cleaner. The exit was a choke point as if they expected to defend it again the hordes with one man. In a way they try to, with the ticket collector.

Open, Shadowland

A dream to be, eternally
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Open, Shadowland

What's the thing that has come to haunt me
The dream comes alive
Inside the gateway of time
At the dead lake of bitter waters
The future reveals
I see the end of the world

The last time I played in a band was the day we all parted, from a rag a tag group to the best spit and polish military band to a group of boys turned men by common painful memory.

Carrying legacies are never easy; ours was no different, state champions for many years until debarred for improper conduct, it cut both ways. In order to pay the up keep were reduced to playing at church functions and weddings.

Forget the common ad jingles form which we learned our Mozart and Beethoven, we learned the real pieces, from “Ride of the Valkyries”, the duke’s trombone to “Abide with me on a single muted trumpet, we learned to march and swing. The man who taught us all this died watching them march by. A slow march after the bump on the head, the bike wheels spinning their own music, the road on that night lacked only corporal beings.

For his remembrance service we played this song, along with “A Bouquet of Tears”

Reflections of a Grave Digger

I know all of your needs

You who is six foot four

Of a metre deep pit

Have no worry you’ll fit.

I am a grave digger;

Of the age old kind

One who let your body grow

As grass, plant and trees

I tend not schoolyards

Where you grew old

But these graveyards

Where flesh turns bones

These moments of last embrace

Of earth, body with no grace

I give you all honour

As much as one he who never got, can

An exile’s song

Fallen from grace and exiled

Into never known lands of despair

Even the air I respire

Had fumes of dreams killed

Searching for a true cover

Life, once a safe bubble

Broken by unseen trouble

Come to end will it ever?

Waiting for the final kiss

Drive through the roads I once lived

Which wouldn’t laughter applaud filled

Rather tears of those who for long wouldn’t miss

Vacant Corridors

Rain mixed tears

Weeps the same

Watery visions in sepial hues

Pale orchids and un-nailed coffin

Melancholy bell tolls

Ambulance slowly rolls

Tear stained travel worn

Gathered around to mourn

Half smiles, knowing nods

Distant eyes watched vacant corridors