The Harmonium Player

He sat on the side-lanes every day, playing,
On something that closely resembled my briefcase,
With its lid open. Melodies flowed out of it,
Like bees from a bee hive and ants out of their hills,

His hands played music, but I felt otherwise,
I could feel them touching my heart, caressing it gently,
It made me forget the miseries of my own life,
My shrivelled heart rose and danced with joy.

A harmonium, I think it was called. A set of black and white keys.
To me, it resembled life itself. Life was a mixture too,
Of days good and bad. Of moments light and dark.
That turned the wheel of Time over and over again...

Over and over again, we move, from trial to trial,
Some we win, some we don’t. Yet we fight ‘em all.
Just as this man sat on the pavement everyday
Fighting with life and her twin sister hunger.

He opened his box of music every day, with hope,
To fill his plate with coins, to feed the stomachs at home.
Those that waited and expected his return, with food
Or something that would scare away the witch called hunger.

So do all of us. We wake up every day with hope,
That today goes better than yesterday, and helps us,
Finish tasks left undone and claim what we believe is ours.
And yet, we go to sleep every night, as restless as we woke up.

He had finished playing a song, and the next one began.
The man waited, not for coins or accolades, not even for rest,
Maybe he had more in him to learn from, not just music,
For I had learnt from him the best lesson of my life.

I had learnt from him, to never give up fighting,
No matter how much against me the odds were.
I also learnt to never look into my plate
Before I went ahead and finished a good day’s work

This man had become my preceptor,
Yes, the simple, poor, harmonium player,
Who played on the streets, had become my moral Guru,
And I, the headstrong individual, became a humble disciple.

The lesson I learnt from him, has stayed with me,
And I had tried my best to live by it, as a good student,
I might have fallen off the road, may be more than once,
But I have always stuck to the teachings of a humble harmonium player.

The man was a true believer,
He had faith in God’s existence
And spoke with him daily,
Without caring or bothering for a reply.

His neighbours thought he was mad,
They condemned and ridiculed his actions,
They accused him of heresy,
And of being in pact with the devil.

He worked hard every day, without fail
He did not complain, not once, of ill health.
And at the end of the day, he held up two sheets
Of paper, and looked up at the sky as if in contemplation

Every evening he spoke to the heavens,
Reading aloud from one sheet of paper,
His sins during the day,
And the crowd cursed and ridiculed him.

The other sheet listed God’s sins
Giving him tasks beyond his abilities,
He read this aloud too,
And the crowd cursed and ridiculed him.

As it happened, the earth shook,
And the town was gobbled up by the shocks,
Free of the earthly confines, the souls rose,
And stood, in front of Him.

The negotiations began, to decide where
They were to go next. The register was brought out.
Topping the list in golden letters was our worker.
And he was to sit by His side on the golden throne.

The crowd was dumbstruck, or maybe not so much
For there was yelling, and name-calling of the worst kind,
Everyone who cursed the worker, wanted to go up there
And without knowing their fate, they tried to claim his.

Then He spoke, in a voice as booming as the thunder He created,
He ridiculed them, derogating them worse than a stone,
He iterated, idle prayers or sycophantism were not what he wanted,
That was not why He had given them arms and legs.

He resounded; work for mankind was better worship
Than all the sermons of all the religions. That his favourite priests
Were the men who laboured day and night for the society.
That the seats of heaven wait for those who don’t wait for time...

Thus it was, that our worker sat next to the Golden Throne,
And his critics were shunned back to the mortal world,
With orders to toil and reap the harvest of their sins,
While their victim, the worker, sat by Him and watched them from above...

The Princess of Her World

She woke up early one day,
From her cottage by the sea,
Finely kissed by its waters
And protected by the mountains...

There the angel slept under the stars,
The morning sun woke her up,
Gently chiding her with his long fingers,
That poked through a canopy of Pofali trees

Feigning anger at being woken up,
She sat away from him, on a rock, hidden by green foliage,
Her lover, in distress searched the worlds, high and low, in vain..
His all-seeing eye had been blinded by his limitless love...

Her curiosity got the better of her,
And she peeped out through gaps in the tree foliage,
His heart soared, in joy, he embraced her.
And there she was, lit in all her glory...

Her hair shone, like strands of gold,
Oh please, save her from the prospectors of Europe
So that they don’t make a Kimberley out of her,
Coz her treasures are reserved for her man, the sun.

She was, like I said, an angel, she floated above the earth,
Or maybe it appeared so, as her fair feet clashed with the red soil,
A flower, that she was, she danced amongst her kin
In her garden of marigolds, kissed yellow by the sun.

There she danced, a flower in the garden,
Beautiful than the cottage she so adored,
There she stood, under the yellow sun,
There she stood, the princess of her world...

Life Under a Tree

There we stood under a tree,
We stood right under it, just you and me,
Being blessed in its bosom,
We were the modern Eve and Adam,

It was a tree in full bloom, in the peak of spring,
And we stood right under it, just you and me,
A happy couple, for all the world to see,
A joy for all the world to sing.

We were the perfect couple,
Perfect for each other, if not for the world,
True, we were not fit for this world,
A different world awaited us elsewhere.

We had always thought about going there,
But never felt the need to do so,
For we were in bliss, where we were
And never thought we had somewhere else to go.

The tree showered flowers upon us,
Probably happy with our amorous adventures,
It was not someone that censured,
The happy dance of lovers.

The tree was our abode, our guardian and protector,
It was there when we needed a shelter,
Shielding us from the prying eyes of the devil,
Who had, in him, nothing but evil.

But somewhere you fell prey to him,
Somewhere, when for a minute, I had dozed off,
Out of Love’s labour, that had tired me out,
You had submitted to his whim.

The tree that sheltered us, sheltered him too,
He had come there to see us and envy,
He had hatched a plot to separate you from me,
And had, to this end, persuaded you.

In a moment of weakness, you had fallen prey,
Ending our happy ballet,
You had drifted far from me,
And become a part of my fancy.

You have gone to the other world,
A world we often talked about,
And you call me there often,
But coming there, I don’t know when...

I stand under this tree, all alone,
It has, now become my home.
My days are spent here in your memory
As I stand all day under this tree...

Dead Man Walkin...

I am a dead man,
Not one of those sorry souls
Who leave the living world trying,
Their best to hold on to it.
Oh no! Please don't count me in that list...

Nevertheless I am a dead man
I had stared at death in the face
And we joined hands to walk his ways
I went along the road that he took me through
And crossed over to the world of the dead.

I had seen him in the past,
Swinging his scythe over countless other man,
His scythe usually succeeded my sword, in action.
And he took those men who I thought I had slain
And thus we had often met on the battlefield...

We knew each other well,
Or at least I thought I did,
Before he came rampaging for my life
He was full of sorrow, at having met me
In a manner different from the past.

For this time, I was not an accomplice
I was his victim, or so he thought...
And he didn’t want me to be one
Of his poor victims. He had thought,
That I had more time on my hands.

But that wasn’t to be, for my days were over
I had seen and caused death to many a man,
And today it was my turn, I was ready.
But it looked like my friend, Death, wasn’t
He regretted the way he had to come for me.

But I told him, that I was not sad, that I was ready.
I told him, that I loved my hours of sleep,
They rejuvenated me, and sharpened my senses,
If a few hours of sleep could do that to me,
Then the eternal sleep would probably make me a God.

Saying so, I tried to boost his spirits,
But he was gloom personified,
I told him that people like me and him don’t die.
That we are alive as long as we are remembered.
That we live forever.

I told him that people live only as long as their deeds,
That we are alive every time someone talks of us and our deeds
And people like me and him, are never forgotten,
We are liked by some and feared by some, but never are we lost
Not to this world we walk in, nor the other one we walk to.

For we were the immortals, the ones this world cherishes,
We are heroes to our friends and doom to our enemies,
Thus, we are known to all, and even our critics,
Talk of our glory in vanquishing them.
So my friend, dear Death, do thy task.

I could see him convinced; he asked me if I was sure,
I asked him if he was ready and we both smiled.
We walked hand in hand, two friends who had met each other
After a very long time. We walked ahead into the setting sun,
Knowing that we lived lives of glory and will live forever...