Inconsolable

When you reach out 

from darkness and know

Whose fingers lace in yours 

No questions asked about 

where you lead them

When you pour out

the black ink in your soul

And watch it spread on

Pristine white

Not caring how 

it blots out the light

When you think not

To pull your punches 

Or blunt the glinting edge

of your words that draw

Angel blood with a whisper

When you see 

the Ugly in you

In the mirror only One can

hold up without 

turning to stone 

in the glare of

your medusa head

When you fly home

With wounded wings

dripping lifeblood

and try to heal

Selfishly feeding on 

Another soul, not knowing 

or caring how much

is to spare

And in the end

when you calm down

Having stifled sobs 

into her pink pyjama top with

The hugging grey teddies

You do feel better 

and it hurts a little less

But never can you forget

The echoing sorrow of the

Wide eyed little boy

Inconsolable 

In the hollow corridor as

Your lifeless words 

tumble out

Already turning to dust

Meaningless

Much like your efforts 

To save his father

Crossing Jesus Green

A distant digger stencils 

the silence in the air

A hint of children's chatter

In the shy summer breeze

as I cross the green void 

Aiming for those 

trees in

regimental splendour

I savour my thoughts dipped in 

a dollop of silence

Waves of grass rippling around

My feet, much like water lapping those

Of that other son 

Famous for feats with feet

Among other things 

Mundane Monday

Monday was bad.

Had a complication at work and the person ended up in a worse state after I treated him than before.

Another mountain of paperwork awaited silently judging my inefficiency but I didn't have the heart to deal with it after all that had happened.

Like a cat burglar or perhaps an assassin my migraine was creeping up on me - I could just see it out of the corner of my eye but felt helpless to stop its relentless advance.

It pounced as I drove home - nearly blinding me. Exquisite pain - if you were to sell it you would have stamped it 'export quality' and plumped the packet up with nitrogen. Such perfect unadulterated agony.

Somehow I crawled out of the car and went straight up to bed, catching her eye halfway up the stairs as she sat tucked up on the sofa with the kids draped across her legs.

I wanted her and then she was there and without a word she put my head in her lap and ran her fingers through my hair as I slipped in and out of a fitful sleep.

Hardly a best seller this mundane account of my ordinary life, but as my head eventually stopped trying to splinter and crack I remember thinking - to feel her love and her tenderness and the way she treats me like a wounded child, to feel this secure in someone's company - I would happily have an exploding head any day.

Firework tree

On lazy days when Mother Nature feels rather arthritic and grumpy she lights some magic fireworks under tree roots and sneaks off, not waiting to see how they shoot up the trunks and explode in wondrous colours weighing the branches down with unbearable lightness - pink and white and deep deep red

Here's the firework tree I see out of my bedroom window 

Winter morning

Grim and brooding and cold,

gnarled fingers raised 

to the heavens

stencilled painstakingly 

Every dark little twiglet

White on black

The proverbial silver lining?

Or perhaps the love child of

a wayward zebra

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They burn with the fierce determination
Of those hell-bent on hell-fire termination

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Hunger gnaws on dark little feet
Juicy morsels of innocent meat
Tenderised in tenderness lite

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Hate flows magnificently
How useful this human(s)kill
This life-hack to hack those down
Who we do not like

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Birds fall out of the sky
Taking with them promises
Baptised unceremoniously
In the unfathomable depths of
This ever-shrinking world

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We judge in reckless abandon
All those we love ...
to hate
Secure in our inherent insecurity

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In the midst of all this selfishness
All this brand-new technology that pales
Before age-old human stupidity
You still shine – gentle and true
Now and forever more

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Christmas lights

There are a set of traffic lights on my way to work - where a slip road joins the main carriageway.

Perhaps it was the angles involved or the lie of the land or simply a lack of imagination - or all of the above - whatever the reason it was a struggle to picture my own car from the other side of the lights - and yet I take this road to work and back every day.

Why did I bother? Was it just part of my never ending neurosis? Perhaps so but it was nonetheless an interesting exercise.

If I cannot see myself from the other side of a set of traffic lights on a familiar journey, what hope do I have of seeing another's perspective on life? His green lights and his journey and his car? His thoughts as he sits waiting for the lights to change so that he can get home to his family after a long day's work and recharge his soul with their love.

We are nearing the end of another arbitrary unit of endless time seen from the puny perspective of our species. Another year of technological marvel comes to a close but the ever shrinking world seems to be filling up with more hate than love - driven by nebulous interpretations of geography, history, religion and politics. 

As I slow down to admire the Christmas lights on my drive home I wonder whether it would help if we all take a moment at the next traffic light  - to think about how we look from the other side, hunched up in front of our steering wheel in a wrinkled shirt and a travel worn car. It may come as a surprise to see the unexpected look of anger on our faces - and it may take a moment or two before we realise it is only the red light spilling on to our windscreens - open to false interpretation, causing unintended offence and yet purely circumstantial.

Season's Greetings one and all and a sincere wish that all of us find and keep love in the New Year.

Perfect imperfections

We pick fights and 

disagree vehemently,

as if our lives

depend on our

disparate thoughts

We draw our

Lightsabers

tracing arcs of

fiery opinion

Unnecessarily brutal

in our honest

appraisals of 

the other

When the

dust settles

I get grumpy 

(Oh boy do I!)

And she turns silent 

walking away

gracefully

leaving me in 

in the company

of bad old friends

- self pity,

fear and loathing -

huddled close in 

the cold emptiness

of my pride

stoking the glowing

embers of my anger

As my silent 
company of wolves

slaver for my soul

A dim light shines

A distant slideshow

The little scar on her forehead 

A timeless imprint of 

childhood impishness

The hint of wrinkles

On those slender fingers

that lace in mine 

The tiny bump

on the bridge of her nose

as if it leapfrogged over

a little pebble underneath

As the dip and rise 

Of her breathing

Gently punctuate the night

I gaze at these 

perfect imperfections

stencilled in the rising moon

While time pretends ...

to stand still ...

(perhaps taking a moment

to pet my pet ego

before moving on)

Slowly they depart

My foul weather friends

And as the fire dies

rather inexplicably

I am cold no more 

Inspired by All of Me by John Legend

Nursing home dreams

If I were to get to a ripe

Old age and sit on bedsore 

Preventive armchairs

In nursing homes manned by 

Nurses from distant shires (or shores)

During my brief moments of

Lucid thought caught 

Between continents of confusion

As I struggle for continence

I would like to remember

The way my boy's nose tip 

Sweats like a puppy dog's when

He is fast asleep

And the way my heart soars

As I brush my little girl's hair

And if possible 

On good days
top it off

With the memory 

of those

Slender hands 

delicately perched

in my 

Ugly paw

That beauty

To my beast

And then it would be time for my nourishment

Puréed vegetables

Laced with cholesterol pills 

Overanalysis

An innocuous book for five year olds to hone their reading skills. The plot is simple enough - lion is hungry, so he catches a rabbit, but then sees a deer and runs after it, the deer proves too quick and so the lion goes back to the rabbit - and of course finds that the rabbit has escaped - and the lion goes home hungry.

End of story.

I ask my son what his thoughts are - and he says he feels sad that the lion is hungry. 'But then the cute rabbit and the deer have escaped, haven't they?' I ask, to which he says 'yes, but the lion really tried hard all day and still was hungry, which makes me sad'.

His young mind did not pick up on the undertone - don't be greedy, which is what I think the story is trying to say.

Oddly though, I am happy he did not get that message, for it does not sit comfortably with me and I could not bring myself to tell him that the lion was wrong to chase after the deer. It somehow seems to suggest that one should just be as good as one is now and aim only for what one can be sure is within one's grasp - in other words reach for the middle shelf where the sweeties are but don't reach for the stars. All bets are off unless they are safe bets.

Of course this is probably an extreme and unfair interpretation of a five year old's reading book but I do wonder whether such little things leave lasting impressions on our psyche.

Choosing the standard beaten track has never really appealed to me - but not from any excess of moral fibre or spirit of adventure - simply because it fails to satisfy my curiosity.

'What's your plan B?' - people often ask me and I say it is simply 'refer to plan A'.

'But then don't you see that you are putting all your eggs in one basket?' they ask to which I say 'yes, but then I only have one basket to worry about.'

By this stage the majority come to the (right) conclusion that I am just an obnoxious, pretentious, know-it-all megalomaniac who refuses to see the light and move on to something more worthwhile.

So how would my admittedly skewed version of the story go?

The lion chases after the deer and fails, he goes home hungry but then comes back the next day even more determined to catch the deer, but the deer is still too quick and so the lion goes home even hungrier. This carries on with the lion getting more and more hungry and desperate. All the other lions are full of cute little bunnies they caught with ease and are laughing at the silly lion who keeps chasing the deer. 'You are too proud' they say. 'This chase will be the death of him' they whisper behind his back - 'and serves him right too, the arrogant fool!'

But the lion has seen what the others fail to notice - fear - in the eyes of the deer - for it knows this lion is hungry for more.

The next day under the unforgiving sun on the dusty plains, a roar echoes - bouncing off the rocks where the other lions are having their siesta after stuffing themselves full of bunnies - and they say, 'oh well, I think our idiot has finally caught the deer. Good for him I guess.' 

A little later the greedy, foolish lion walks up to his friends and lies down in the afternoon sun having had his first taste of deer. Just as he slips into a well deserved sleep he overhears a little lion cub whispering to his friend - 'look over there, there lies the only lion who has tasted deer.'

And a smile plays on his sleeping face.

Always go after deer my son - they do taste better - even if you only catch one a week.

And remember what a great man who dared to dream in psychedelic technicolor while others dreamt in steely grey monochrome once said:

Stay foolish, stay hungry.

Always.

Pleasantly jealous

In the middle of the night 

When time pretends to move

forward half heartedly 

He starts coughing

Like a flash I'm up

Super Dad pushing sleep away

Pretending not to care about

My precious share of reversible mortality

I kiss his slightly salty cheek

And stroke his sore tummy

His sleepy eyes flicker open

As he whispers holding my gaze

'I want mommy'

'Of course' I smile sensibly 

(traitor! I add silently)

And relinquish my privileged spot

For his gentle mother

Who looks effortlessly beautiful 

In her whispery pink fleece jumper 

As those two parts of his whole

Sleep in pleasant company

Super dad is banished 

to the other end of the bed (world)

Where he plots silently in the dark

Against this boy, this son

Who like any other 

Chooses

His mother for comfort

And his father 

For fun

Highlights in her hair

2014, Cambridge
As I slump with my natural gracelessness into a chair, she silently tilts her head forward from across the table, filling my field of vision with her freshly washed hair.

'What?' I grunt with the grumpy indifference perfected in my teenage years to which she replies rather cryptically, 'highlights'.

Cricket comes to mind (for any self respecting Indian, highlights = late night snippets of test matches), but then it dawns on me - of course, the highlights in her hair.

Her eyes search mine for signs of approval.

'It looks very nice', I say - sincerely - for it always seems so effortless for her to achieve optimum conditions of understated elegance.

With that she gets up with a half smile leaving me to my ruminations and my tea.

1994, Calicut:
Annoyingly loud footfalls draw my attention amid the chaotic buzz of medical students clearing out of the biochemistry lecture hall. As the rest of us jostle each other in the aisles, there she is in high heels skipping over the desks as if it is only right that the world makes special concessions for her careless abandon. 'Loose women' I mutter to my mates with a roll of my eyes.

1996, Calicut:
She is a friend of friends and I grudgingly start smiling at her although I make a mental note to persevere with my stares of disapproval in protest of her general lack of concern for authority and her unsettlng confidence when facing upto sweaty palmed boys desperately trying to be men.

1998, Calicut:
She is not a bad sort after all and apparently no one else can fish out the cricket ball when it rolls into the gutter after bouncing off the asbestos roof of the third floor anatomy museum. Even the big lads shake their heads in disbelief as she gingerly picks her way across the sloping roof to stoop inches from the slippery edge and brush the dead leaves off the precious leather before tossing it down to the courtyard so that the match and the accompanying flow of teenage testosterone can resume.

2000, Calicut:
She is amazing and so sweet and innocent and so helpful and hardworking and such a good listener. I will be sorry to see her go as we say our goodbyes after five years of medical school. I hope she finds someone who appreciates her.

A very bad place, a very bad time:
I cut my hands on the shattered pieces as I try to put them back together again. Some say it takes all the king's horses but I am on my own and I can't stop now.

A good day:
I ask her and she says yes, so we walk to the shop selling sweet lime juice and have a glass each. I smile a lot.

2001, Eastham:
Tropical animals in temperate climes, our circle of friends huddle close to keep ourselves warm. She visits often, crossing the dodgy railway bridge to the flat where three idiots sit planning futures on steely grey mornings when the whole world seems Photoshopped into sepia tones.

2003, London:
She looks happy hanging on to my arm as I pose - a troll with a scroll. Highlights in her hair.

2004, India:
The knot and an idyllic boat trip.

2007, London:
I walk the pavement in Regent's Park on a cold morning, carefully stepping in the centre of each flagstone taking care to avoid the cracks - my personal offering to the Gods of superstition - till she emerges with a victorious smile on her face. Someone important has signed a cheque for her to record the antics of little things in a petri dish.

Darkness falls:
A desperate voice of self preservation in the back of my head tells me in vain not to rip my throat out as I cry like I never thought I could. She holds me for a long time and just when I am about to turn into a grey outline of a big blackhole, whispers something magical and I cling on, suddenly desperate not to drown. Everything hurts just the same but now I quieten to sobs.

Parenthood V 1.0:
System upgrade released in July 2009. Santa sends us V 2.0 the next year.

2011, Liverpool:
January pavements covered in icing sugar. I stand alone holding a little bundle of pink outside the door where she talks about her petri dish to wise old men. The bundle looks at me unflinchingly - quietly confident of her authority over her ugly father.

2014, Cambridge:
She dances to Bollywood tunes with little XX and XY in tow. Highlights in her hair.

Ten years today since the proverbial knot, twenty since I first saw her. I have no gifts to offer except these random memories - bright strands scattered in darkness, like the highlights in her hair.