Caught in Translational Symmetry

 

The mind toys with the idea
  Of the departure day,
    While tracks of the colorful Tuk Tuk,
      That dropped me here,
        Are still visible in the dirt.

It toys with anticipation,
 The wanderer's delight,
   Cruising through concourses,
     Having a glass of red wine,
      Sitting in a lounge,
       Before heading for the gate,
        To the next destination.

Minimizing the present,
 Magnifying the future,
  It forgets the law of transnational symmetry:
    When you get there,
      It will be the same as now.

Life, always an anticipation
 For an elusive tomorrow.

Anchors for Wisdom

 

Yesterday I stopped by
the neighborhood store
to pick up anchors
from the bottom shelf of aisle four,
to hang some words of wisdom
to remind me
when to go left,
and when to go right.

But alas,
the shelf was empty.

Life continues to drift
in a shoreless sea.

The times we live in...

People departed
live on as contacts,
among those I friended
and if not, then
as their friends of friends.

In old emails
ghosts of the past linger
and on random occasions
to say boo or hello

when searching for John D.,
the one who is living,
a dead one in ether says
Aye.

For a moment
it feels discombobulating
conversing with the dead.

Such are the times
we live in. 

Life's Algebra

 

Add or subtract,
multiply or divide -
life's algebra
never quite aligns
just right.

Down Here

A sense of vastness—
of space and time—
is brought into our minds
by the Webb Telescope,
drifting above.

Down here,
a seed sprouts,
its roots weaving
in search for the meaning
of being here,
of being now. 

An Adventurous Threesome

 

Yesterday I decided to
cut my bushy mustache.

It was the first time in thirty five years
since we have known each other,
and seeing my lips bare
you said -

Oh dear
what have you done
I don’t know this person
who stands in front
how I am going to dance
and or make love with
a complete stranger?

That was the beginning
of our foray
into an adventurous threesome
you, me, and the stranger,
and it all happened
in the middle of the month
of a steamy May.

The Algebra of Life

 

Another year
and I will turn from x
to be an x+1,

but,

there lingers an uneasiness
that perhaps,
there is something more
the algebra of life
should have done.

Brother in Arms

 

Just like a stone
that is thrown
against the attractive force of gravity
reaches the vertex,
and then,
starts to descend,
the attractive force of mortality
does the same to our life.

They – gravity and mortality -
are brother in arms.

God's Waiting Room

 

The sign said, “Turn Here for 55+ Active Adult Community.”
If we are diligent enough in the fine print it also said welcome to “God’s Waiting Room.”
The developers did not have to include that.
Wherever we are, we all live in God's waiting room.

Somewhere along the arc...

 

Hurled from the womb, kicking, screaming,
we soared up in the sky
oblivious of the law
of the gravitational pull

and of the
approaching vertex -
that fleeting moment
when ascent slows,
and stillness holds,
and descent begins.

Somewhere along the arc,
unnoticed,
we also grew old.

We are a paradox

Another day passed; nothing seemed to have changed in the universe.

The sun rose, punctual as ever, though perhaps a minute later than it did
yesterday.

The sky bore the same deep blues, the clouds thankfully subdued,
and yet beneath this serene facade, churned songs of different hues.

Within, the invisible hum of countless battles echoed:
Some cells, battered and weary, fell in silent surrender,
while others, newborn and bold, rushed forward to the front lines.

Fierce and unrelenting, the wars raged in unseen depths,
keeping the machinery of existence alive.

We are a paradox:
a facade of outward calm,
but held together,
by unseen chaos.

Having the fortitude...

It was eons ago -
(or it seems to be so) -
I was bicycling
through the lanes of Lucknow:
some narrow, some broad,
some brightly lit,
and others, pitch dark.

Then, I neither knew
where I’d be fifty years from then
nor had the fortitude
to even ask.

And today,
here I am,
fifty years later,
just realizing:
it has been a good journey.
It could have been worse,
but thankfully, it was not.

The least I can do
is to have the fortitude now

to thank the universe for that. 

Living Inside the Gates

“I Grieve for Myself and for the Life I Used to Have” was the caption of a photograph in The New York Times. It accompanied the story of a woman in Gaza who lost her parents in the war and bore a scar on the right side of her face from an explosion. These words spoke of a life shattered beyond recognition.

Amid the chaos and suffering that define much of the world, we find ourselves ensconced in the cocoon of a 55+ community, attempting to insulate ourselves from wars, hunger, poverty, and the harshest cruelties of humanity—all of which persist just beyond the gates of our haven.

Inside, we play pickleball, spending hours practicing or watching YouTube videos to perfect our skills. We invest considerable effort into constructing a world that feels detached not only from external crises but also from the existential realities of our own lives. We strive to shield ourselves from the anguish of mortality and the inevitability of what lies ahead.

Yet, despite our best efforts to sustain this illusion, the occasional wail of an EMS siren shatters the fragile bubble. The flashing lights, the idling engine outside a neighbor’s house just a few doors down, serve as stark reminders of the truths we try to evade.

In the end, no gated community can keep death at bay. When our time draws near, perhaps the greatest blessing would be to leave with a sense of peace, unburdened by the haunting thought: “I grieve for myself and for the life I had” and not be one of millions whose life gets shattered just because of being in the space and time they happen to be.

Your Languorous Steps

 

The joy you find
searching for beach glass;
your eyes lit up
finding something different
than a seafoam green.

While you do that
I sit under the shade
of a beach umbrella
singing in the wind
and watch your silhouette
      against the backdrop
of the turquoise sea.

Occasional gusts of wind
push the flowery skirt
in between your slender legs;
they make you hold the rim
of the panama hat.

Your languorous steps
meander around 
relishing the inner joys
of unhurried days.

Once in a while you take a pause
look back as if to ascertain
that I am still there
and not vanished
in the folds of time.

Which gene I lack

 

There is a joy
that you are able to find,
in the simple act of
searching for beach glass.

Walking along the shore
your eyes lit up,
coming across,
something other than
a seafoam green.

Watching you languorously walk
your steps in sync
with breaking waves,
I wonder,
which gene I lack
to miss your pleasures.

Aging and the Mailman

 

There was an old lady,
who lived alone
across the street
from my home.

She had told me a story
of how her days
in her old age
feel labored,
something akin to
when she had once climbed
Mt. Kilimanjaro.

But then, life was young,
the sky, it felt brighter,
and there was a companion
walking beside her.

These days, she said,
life looks forward to
a glimpse of the mailman,
who holds promises for,
connecting her world to
a world she once knew.

She is there no more,
and now old myself,
I understand what she meant.

I catch myself
hoping that the mailman
will stop by,
and pump some air in
my ever-shrinking world.

Conservation of the Cone of Misery

Seeing Helene’s cone of uncertainty
veer away,
we prayed it to hold,
and not sway.

For our own relief,
we chose to ignore,
that someone’s loss
is our gain, and more.

In the physics behind life,
a principle holds -
The net sum of misery,
is conserved,

It never folds. 

When Mortality Meets Life

 

When the realization of mortality
embraces the need to live
the result is an awkward dance
and a cataclysmic kiss,
not dissimilar to
when matter and antimatter meet,
creating an expanding sphere
of gravitational waves
reaching out to
ever distant conclaves.

That kiss lets you know
that life is short
and although a day may seem long,
a year, not.

It also lets you know
that it is time to slow down
and a time to figure out
this life, this game
before limbs get tired
or just go, lame.

The Corgi’s Gaze and the Lonely Me

Where did the urge to get a puppy come from?

Was it from the old lady who walks her Corgi in the afternoons on the sidewalk?

The Corgi that mostly waddles ahead, but occasionally turns its head and looks back at her with love and gratitude, as if there is nothing else it could have ever hoped for.

Do I want a Corgi who feels the same for a lonely me?

What it Takes

 

What it takes,
for another grain
to make the mound
avalanche?

What it takes,
for a smattering of drops
to turn into
monsoonal rain?

What it takes,
for an occasional ache
to turn into
a chronic pain?

What it takes,
for fleeting thoughts
to become
existential angst?

What it takes,
to know it all
what is all
there to know?