Paan, My Love

Ha – ah – ha … love them both : the man and the outlet !

No one can make a great paan except with love.

Shot in winter time, rather dark evening.

There is a queue, if did not notice.

Ah, Paan, my love !

Have not partaken as frequently

but the feeling for you is undiminshed …


The Pan Outlet

I Joke Because I Need Your Steam

Woman r guilty


Of course not, but the point made was as follows :

If women go for vaginaplasty or other ‘lotions’ to tighten up the vulva to please the men or themselves, or go for younger ‘studs’ to literally fill themselves up, they actually are underscoring the value of size, the rub, and virility or hotness of vitality for themselves …

Which is fine in itself, for themselves. Except that it is not. For, why then is the society shocked or hold men guilty when they go for their preference for size and softness, when they fall for younger gals or have mistresses, or when 60 year old Saudis marry 10 – 12 year olds ( it’s legal in their country ), or when 1% of men can’t contain their desire overdrive ( any statistical distribution curve would be their alibi ) and grab girls in manner they legally should not… such as kidnap, molestation or rape ?

I have to agree that ‘women’s lib’ trend should allow women the same statistical allowance for some of them to kidnap, molest or rape men.

But, of course, I find myself covered with stupidity :

Society rightly want men to desist; but from how it’s going, by the time men reform or even before, women would need to be handed the same advice, to “desist.” Untill there is no one to advise or listen.

Would the wiser ones, especially women, clarify the argument ?

For me, the issue might start with men or women, or both, but its resolution must end in the family. Anything, act or value, that harms the family, breaks or erodes trust, or creates an unbridgeable distance, should be unacceptable … inelectable, howsoever pleasureable or legal it be, or legitimate and right it may seem !


English: Young Saudi Arabian woman wearing Isl...
Young Saudi Arabian woman …

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

~ T S Eliot


Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question….

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin? . . . . . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep… tired… or it malingers.

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald)

Brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups,

After the skirts that trail along the floor

—And this, and so much more?

— It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves

In patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.” . . . . . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?

Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Resource :

Related articles

Journal : My Odyssey

Light – Courtesy @Doug88888)

This publication is my tribute  

to  the wayward amongst us;

and especially to ones who outgrew it.

……   ……

This spiritual saga over years score

Shimmers alive at a temple door…

Today, I hold myself erect

Halt at the temple entrance

But skip the practice ancient

I demand my own light

Submission I refuse

And all forms I deny

Here and now, O’ Deity

At your hallowed shrine.

Great you are, same

Being in all

The Master Grand

Cause primordial

But screened in

By our ceremonials.

Thy ritual dos and donts

No more compel, thy priests

With faith without love

Seem just a cartel

In their cloister of sad smiles

Flags, façades and piety.

*  *  *

Now this burden of life

I take upon myself

To costs I agree

Its choices I embrace

I know It’s me…

Small and weak

But the sole thing too

That’s known to me.

It’s where I’ll stay

Whom I’ll discover

Shrink all space

Let Time arch over.

I will break in, O’ Deity

To the depths of peace

And its light revealing.

*  *  *

Sure, it daunts

The vastness barred

In me haunts

Unknown and spread dark.

But the alternates just distract

And I reject yet the game false

Upon all souls hangs its pall –

Our fear masked in playful calls.

I trundle long in black tunnels

Fail to grasp a speck of heaven

Fling off hard and bounce sharp

But crash back in with vengeance

It shocks and tries, draws to test

The mind taut : deny or consent ?

In my eye rise each term and form

As a vagina wet stands in witness

Alluring still, accusing harsh

The dripping penis caught offguard.

And so goes the series march

Boxing me to voluting prompts

Libidinous – the despised rot

Bonds of yore, cravings taunt

Teeming abrim but worth nought

Transitioning nights, vague dawns

On empty core, bombed raw

Vigil in pits … awake now –

Cannot yet embrace myself

With choices diseased

I no longer defend

In that dungeon dark

Though depressed

Transfixed, yes

I refuse to crank

And I frozen face

Edgy sandstorms

Moral marshlands

Whirling sqall

In my mind’s mirror

In which I’m had

My universe

In cloudy bands

Where the soul bleeds

Pinned stiff

Lacerated within

By revelations demonic …

There’s more

Stubbed senses for sure

Of imposing forms

Unblessed, forlorn

The far sound of running tap

Unnerves the neural nap

Dead, dumped odd

Hung estranged, out cast

On just a thought nebulous

Of a hurl sudden, victorious.

I yet honour the memory

Of many a false start

Of fired highs

And puffed starch

So I sit over the furled self

Unharmed by head

Its mingled thoughts

Into feelings on the lurch

Bear unmoved

The throbbing pulse

Alassed recount

Of acts corrupt :

This licentious prisoner hovers

On wracked breath

And draining cough

But is in fact choked

On a past present

Of ambitions frayed.

*  *  *

‘Twas a journey long, my dear

To witness all and keep safe

On the path blank but unclear

For a spark just my trust’d pave

For those late mornings clear

Unencumbered winter delights

With a sun warm and mellow

On lazy cats half asleep alive

Contrary to that unsure bed

To discordant shades my will would take

Spent on view

On the first cue

At body feast, gazing vivid

With overrun sensuality

Chasing the shapely hind

Tinge in fancy nets sweet

” Possess not, O Youth !” I knew

But the sage call seemed so far

Too wrongheaded for my regard !

But then I began to see

With just half a good eye

Wherein it reflected strange

The world, its masks

Its ugly mirage

Stranger ways

Roles – give and take

Swings mighty fake

Without root or heart

Faith or permanence.

‘Twas a blind alley, O’ Deity

But that half eye was yours

Which saw the farce

Lent weight to pause

For the burst of shine

On a cold summit

Impelled glad dance

And bells resonating repeat.

I wait … instead

With familiar anti-self

Same paths of lure

“Not mine,” I sense

Then hold dilemmas clear

In my spirit –

Where light still flickers

In snag heaps

And weaning disunion.

*  *  *

Barely upright, on what I know

I doubt each moment in the flow

Witness, accept and now embrace

The rocky views, their barrenness

Slip, collide, slide into wreckage

Stare close at the mind, incessant

Holding myself with love

Wipe off the damned tears

Pat the fears to sleep

And dress up my own sears

For day next in odyssey

Wade into pains

Burn the same

To be free …

Untill that day, in radiance

Enveloped with transcending sense

I stood high

On the walling fence

Still hauling up

The rest of myself

Eyeing all

The being in morn

Before the rising peer

Basking healed

In its glowing balm

With nothing

Not a trace in between.

Unburdened complete I found myself

Stripped neat

Free of subtexts

Layers mental

And body zones

Sans celebrations then

Just smiles about

Beaming from the sun

And lit I everywhere

No hope or fear

No gain or loss

No being made

… Homogeneous.

I met myself much later

The buddy from start

Then witness dear

Of all that I thought.

There was no being–for–itself ever

The one who lived was a prayer

By whom I know not, O’ Deity

To whom or why is the mystery.

*  *  *       *  *  *

This is an intimate poem, started in late 1980s,

reviewed umpteen times and finished minutes before.

Body-Mind-Spirit s

Journal : Lyrics Of Rebel

The days pass in bits and parts, night avails in shreds n pieces;

We’re each endowed in accord with heaven’s cover, its reaches.

I’ve wished to know this heart of mine

But have heard the laughs on each try

Like a yell on top at my defeat once more

Will in rout and loss, my life down and beat.

But what of defeats, of their attacks oblique ?

Move on I must, keep on walking

I have the beau after my heart

And this unrest too, ever since.

It starts but is without consequence

When my story is without that name…

That co-traveller who dissolves

In the dark folds of my mane.

Ill-repute, yes, I do embrace

But am lost no more, no more misplaced.

Why must I not heed

The calls of youth in heart ?

Pick at its joyous yields

Its smiles and laughs ?

Not all are destined otherwise

To avail in life… those rewards.

Flowing tears pause to tell the eye

It’s not the goblet that melts in wine !

Is the day over ?

Or is the groom’s party

On the boat drowned ?

No dirge from the shores

I hear not a soul’s howl !

~  Meena Kumari

Freely Paraphrased.

The Seven Vows In Sanatan Way

The Essence Of Hindu Marraige …



Groom :

You will offer me food and be helpful in every way.

I will cherish you and secure welfare and happiness for you and our children.

Bride :

I am responsible for the home and all household necessities.



Groom :

Together we will protect our house and children.

Bride :

I will be by your side as your courage and strength.

I will rejoice in your happiness. And you will love me solely.



Groom :

May we grow wealthy and prosperous and strive for the education of our children.

May our children live long.

Bride :

I will love you solely for the rest of my life, as my husband.

Every other man in my life will be secondary. I vow to remain chaste.



Groom :

You bring sacredness into my life, and  complete me.

May we be blessed with children, noble and obedient.

Bride :

I will shower you with joy, from head to toe.

I will strive to please you in every way I can.



Groom :

You are my best friend. Be my staunchest well-wisher.

You have come into my life, enriching it. God bless you.

Bride :

I promise to love and cherish you for as long as I live.

Your happiness is my happiness, and sorrow my sorrow.

I will trust and honor you, and will strive to fulfill all your wishes.



Groom :

May you be filled with joy and peace.

Bride :

I will always be by your side.



Groom :

We are now husband and wife. We are one.

You are mine and I yours, for eternity.

Bride :

As God is witness, I am now your wife.

We will love, honor and cherish each other forever.

*   *   *

I am amazed at the poetry …  Are you ?

Journal : Diary Rhythms

Extremities, In Between

[ These are ‘ Diary Rhythms’ from another age. But I perceive that nothing has changed.]


The sunset reflects the day
Casting blood in the west :

They walk in file, load on padded crowns
Eying the feet ahead, to pace and drown
Steps, stepping on steps…

In silence

Stop on cue
To tilt their heads

And throw the damned pile off

Sitting light on disdain

In a jerk practiced

To scorn the Fates.

The thud loud is but without relief
Prompts the humour best

Calls in beauty

Of the body

On its return vicious

And in thought cool

To more of it

For these tribes women

I leave my soul

So, like the forest people, may I be

Free at heart while bound still.

*     *    *        *  *  *        ***

A kid asleep is pulled up sudden
By the hair, jsmacked hard then…

Horror of horrors, the eight corners fill
With the lad’s terror, howling screams
As if he’d woke up without his limbs
Or watched a ghost face in slow-twist

Trembling, traumatised by Dracula king.
*     *    *        *  *  *        ***
Nothing soothes …
Questions terminate on own failings
Spirit voluting in harsh rhythms …
Looking now at men addicted to sodomy
Their curious, gullible or bored victims !

They bend to offer to ego lord
Hum and shriek to ecstasy sad

Harnessed to inadequacy…
Curled in defeat

Impressions bloody
Too weak to strike

Angry, surging …

Unsought beauty, joy disused
Potential latent, sleeping muse …

The options are clear

In soft breeze
And shimmer rustling

Off sesame leaves.

*     *    *        *  *  *        ***

Sunlight pours on choking humidity …

I curse behind the squint

As inflaming sweat trickles

Into the eye…
It makes me yearn of cool drafts

Of the winter months

Of romance filled days

Deep yellow mottles

And nights under a warm quilt

Content with happy dreams.

And now, walking the streets

I rush, imagine

A pick-axe in hand

To kill the burning sun.

Anything, any… I mutter

But that fiery presence !
The damned heat exhausts

Blasts off indoor walls
Into hair, clothes, water and air
And this very body

I am off again

To lie bare in mango grove
In its shade and breeze

That quiet shore …

It comes back then

As matter of course
The night frozen

That morning cold
With a chit in pocket for rail patrol
To identify myself, just in case

I was dead before the sun rose

Famished, dying

Feverish, curled up

On my own shivers

And a bleak platform
The last train since long gone
Leaving the lone

Moonlit soul

Stretched, deserted

Breathing half and losing slow …

I feel and know the heat now
Know and feel the freeze

And how !
Think yet of pleasant mid-day sun
An afternoon open and summer fun …

Feel and know, know and feel
The insufferable extremes
Sweet and sour in between
This power overwhelming me

How do I find and tread the path
In the middle

The wise mean ?
Must I bite the apple to spur on
To ‘nother knowledge on the brink ?

Till the fruit is known once more
Through shattered balance

And restoring chores !

*     *    *        *  *  *        ***


I’ve had enough of the fruit, I say
One day …

The facts impressed integrate

In me, the self, free in itself
Knows meanings widely spread
Over space, cultures, time scales
In these tip-of-the-iceberg appearance

Of forms, names and relevance
To desires imagined

Real and apparent.

Bang !

Now I tread the middle way
With this perspective, seated at apex
Awake to all perceived

As hearsay !

Journal : CALCUTTA DIARY, 1985 …


There … crammed in dark spaces

They huddle without love

In their angry images …

Here no one dreams

Just wants and thinks

Of wresting the meagre

And damn the others in –

Own parents and siblings.


It’s the world of the poor

With noises many

In the slums of the city

With cubbyholes to each


Where impotence lords

Over the women and kids

Who have no hope

And nothing to beat

Except laughters forced

Empty, mirthless

With nothing to hold

Hunger, dead men and idleness

Where children cry for ever more

Of simple needs and food ” sure ”

While adults think of worlds away

From unsure rations and bad tea

Sexual lees and cigars cheap.

*    *    *


Soft voices float in a pub elite

Over protean faces, strange links

A world cool and high, busy cooking

Among waiters dressed

Sellers and iced drinks

Well attired ladies and gentlemen

Brooding, whisper in festive silence

Precipitate their leisure, build up pines

In deep seats plush and semi dark confines

Look through the walls of tinted glass

The crowd, cars loud and the din barred

Mobbed by heat, speed, sweat and scars …

*    *    *


Back home, the evening spoils

Over argued nothings

Matters expressed

As in, ” i’m just saying ”

I seethe needless

But keep the regard intact

Instead, arch over to scratch

The unreachable on my back.

In between, the smoke seems tasteless

The heart looks dark and drinks depressed

While the peeping moon full hovers

Through the window

On this day disempowered

In the night about our bed

As she moons holding me

As of old … resurrected.


*   *   *                      *   *   *

Journal : Three Poems


Gaiety all about

Good company, fine drizzle

Chow spreads great

Hearts free, loud people

We saunter lucid

Lost in perceptions wet

Breeze blows cool

By our glasses raised

To toasts joyous

With joined laughters

Then unmarked

Recalled now much after

Colours !  Colours !  Everywhere
Merry greets, embracing brothers
Expansive whirls to gods’ ardour
Without craft or thought
Or heart’s dark shadows …

Colours !  Colours !  Everywhere …
We meet, I lead her away
To read again
The book long open
With my confession
On page one …

Deep, without sobriety

Merged… lit complete

When, from within the drapes
Of her tresses, she laughs
And says :
“ I caught myself speaking
Of you all the time
For no reason or rhyme.”

Spaced full, I moon
In the glow wrapped
With the blessed one.

Spaced full, I moon
In the glow wrapped
With the blessed one.


After months of unconcern
I yearn to see her again
Rouged in blush …

That glow simple
The sparkling gush.

Nothing interrupts
As I find my way
Through the noise
That people make

Past the motion
And events…

At the door open
I halt to watch her
Raise the eye
And shoot her query
Expectant, without a word.

Instead, I soar on the scent
Of a surprised rose
And a silence
Lit in warmth.

We speak, but that
Isn’t high with me

Sitting just…
Facing the care
In smiles deep
And deeper still.

I flirt seriously
To its silliness.

Up for bye, the wave lingers…
Through dust and heat I walk into

While I get a hold on me
Resume with skill to raise
My world opaque
Lost on significance.

The game tires… it’s a race
Without real value or grace
So I go back for a moment
To the parting I feel
Lodged perfect
To all I meet

For, beauty
Is the first virtue
I found in my vitality.


Below, on the ground
Under the mango tree

One flailing, turning crow
Looks bewildered
Gasping for breath.

All local crows
Crowd about
Circle about
Flurry blind
Witnessing death.

The creature aground
Flips to its back
Wide eyed
And back to its side
As others poke
Bite and strike
For good old response
And goad him
To revive.

But he’s lost, losing sharply
Gaining more
But sheer incapacity
Bewildered, bearing high
The drama last, of life
In anguish and pain
But ‘thout craft
Or cruelty.

Just concerns loud
On flapping wings.

I am partial to this blog post when I had watched almost back to back a movie from East, Gudia, and one from the West, Time Traveler’s Wife.

The one from East was directed by Gautam Ghose… and presented what seemed like transcendent existentialism. The Time Traveler was fun, with multiple dimensions potent within a plain love story.

Read it here…

Truth Within, Shines Without

I      GUDIA – [ The (Triumphant) Doll ] – Directed by Gautam Ghose

Trailer :

Full Length :

A gem from another age, it seemed while I watched it yesterday. It portrays the lost art of ventriloquism and uses folk theatre within the narrative set in modern times, with its characterstic consumerism, social conflicts and corrupt politics. The beauty of its tale, its simplicity of structure, and the human complexities it deals with, would have made Satyajit Ray proud.

The movie has a simple story about a puppet doll, Urvashi, literally a demi-goddess of ethereal beauty, that is passed down from the master to his protégé along a series set in tradition. From start to finish, the entire presentation is of intense human interest. The relationships its main characters have with the doll, and with each other, is complicated. In the background is a political clime…

View original post 1,622 more words


I am a working man on a day off
Till late mooning in dreams, lost
In sun, shadows and sand dunes
Dance, haunts lucid, silhouettes

But they now thrust the news, you know

That daily collage from under your door

I smell but hear the rush, as feet recede
Serving publicity, they turn the day in
In this thick wad of crisp, fresh newsprint
With texts barren and models kindling
With busts, butts, pouts, lies and skin
All smiles and cheer
In sad, layered reckonings
Grandstanding without meaning
Aggregating things
About lives empty.

I glance at the tidings and literary heap
Shake at the predictable

Skip to sports leaf…

Exult at fluky joys

Like what

My charwoman keeps
For me

This sweet, viscous day of the week.

I light up and read

In fact, waiting for her

My gladness make the words ebb
To a blur
And the ash falls as I rise
To knocks I hear
I stare, by the door open
As she enters, but avert
With a grin wide
Glowing back to hers…
Mon ami, I am alive
As I’ve never been
And could now die
For what it means…
She picks the clothes I had cast last night
Opens the drapes to let the sun in, bright
While moving to kitchen, for the first brew
On feet firm, body supple, sweeps through
It’s a great world, dipped in peace
She’s draped in red and joy clean
There’s green and yellow
Fiery black somewhere
A clarity in abundance
Replete with assurance
In echo
Like a cuckoo call
Or a music stretched
In relaxed miracle.
I wash n dress…
While she’s over with
We sip the tea, laugh
Our pleasure relating
In anticipation clear
She put the tray away
In freedom we hold
Kiss to heart’s way
Warm and stirred
And happy within
Spaying thoughts
Jus’ feel touching
Soft and hard, push
Each enveloping
Melting attitudes
To hungry being…
Beyond, in depths, resonating

We draw the other

Body held in hand
Size, seize and move

Assume full, unplanned

Play and offer our vitality

The other we enter, take in

Hear the calls farthest

Drive and meet it close

She opens smooth

Curls up in pose
Accepts and showers

Divine unfurls, glows

O Whirlwind Goddess

Of this blossoming
You awaken the worlds asleep

At point each within

Your secrets simple, your involved play
Momentums massive you generate
Sources joyous, unknown

You sure bring to spate.

And now

Your being full

In slumber deep

Love loving love

As newborns keep

Just simple, flushed

Glamour free


Deserving all