The Song

As the grim bells of doom grow louder,
The heart gets ready at last, to turn inwards,
Each second readier than it was the last,
To accept the arrival of impending death,

And as the soul accepts its dark fate,
Sets in, within, a tranquil state,
The eerie silence of terror unclouds,
Giving way to peace that's loud,

And within that silence, I hear a whisper,
A feeble sound, a squeak, a faint murmur,
Listening further, I found it was a hum,
The sound of a tune I'd heard since I was young,

'Twas familiar, yet new, this tune, this song,
A tune I hadn't heard, but my soul knew,
Like that cafe you'd walked past, but never noticed,
Like the letters of a word you'd never observed,

This song, I found, felt cool and warm,
Cushioning my angst in this dark, lonely realm,
It soothed my soul and eased my pain,
Whispering words of solace and calm,

I saw, now, this was the song of my angels,
Locked within the deepest chambers of my soul,
It'd sung ceaseless, throughout my life,
But hidden by the noises of the without's strife,

I see it's played, this tune sacred,
Beside the beats of my now slowing heart,
And while death draws closer than ever,
This song, my song, plays louder,

I wished I'd stopped, when alive, for a while,
Paused, for a moment during my busy life,
I wished I'd heard this song divine,
So it'd have made me feel less alone,

And now, I sent my thanks to the Divine,
For bringing my focus to this gentle sound,
For now, as darkness closes in, ruthless and fast,
My wounds hurt less and I'm at peace at last

A Midnight Monologue

Dear world, have you slept? I have not*.

How do you manage to sleep so easily, worried only by work, a few bills and perhaps some pills?

How is it that you do not hear the hooves of death, gallopping towards you in the form of countless honks, short slips and what not? Do you not feel His touch when you slip through his fingers so easily? Perhaps, like the touch of your spouse, it has only become too familiar to even matter? Do you not read of His warning whispers that escape his black lips and spill over the news and coffee table discussions, where that man or woman, just like yourself was killed? Intelligent that you are, didn't you realise that He was talking to you?? To you in particular, indicating to you to do whatever you seek to, with this nameless life you've been given?

They write books about finding true meaning, but has anyone even stopped to find it? Has anyone truly figured it all out? No, I am not talking about "having it all figured out" - that pathetic usage they have, to imply having a "concrete" plan to keep yourself busy for the next few weeks - a plan that's likely to work out if He chooses to not intervene. No, this makes no sense - a career/ A spouse? Children? And then what? What new construct will you come up with, to fill your ever-expanding, shapeless mind until it outgrows it, feasting upon the endless fodder of boredom that it secretes for itself, that pushes it to seek the next "big step" or, well, rents itself out to that despicable one to set his workshop up - aah, even trees might stop growing, this pathetic mind shall never..

Perhaps there's a way to see this - to see beyond what the senses can perceive, to realise something with that formless instinct, that conscience that feels so real despite it not being plotted by any book of pure science, whose scent is occasionally caught by a book or two on philosophy, in stories of passion and greatness, and in narrations of great ones. Perhaps there is a way to find out if there is indeed a God - a being to look up to, who shall bestow a relaxed means to walk into one's end. Perhaps one or more of these religious texts might actually indicate a way to know this for sure, than to merely believe, but hey, isn't a lifetime too short?

Of what use is science, and poetry that fill pages, gratifying an ego that isn't the true source of its content, that merely takes credit for another, humble soul's work, as an author's name ad photograph do, upon a book's cover, that can print his words so well, but not the soul that trapped them from the Nameless Source. What surety can science and poetry give, that is more obvious than that death shall come? Ah, these might articulate the ignorance that our souls harbour, that threaten our very being to shiver at the dark edge of life - but life, so cruel, so cold, forgets the need to be rational when one is hungry, when one is desperate, when one is cold and scared and pulls one back into this heap of chaos and fries their souls there in an instant, soaking them 'til the last stain of death's thought dwells in their loud minds. And if that doesn't happen, it weightens the lids of the eyes as no book on science has ever fathomed and ushers sleep like no drug could ever, establishing its profound mastery over every thread that puts the mind out of, and man into action, bringing him into that invisible line that all are meant to toe.

And yet, you argue that there isn't fate, don't you, my dear world? That your life is a garden laid open before you to pluck flowers matching that scent of passion you've known since birth. Tell me, when did you choose this path? Was it not sewed into that black part of your heart that you haven't visited yet, long before you were born into the mercilessness of this world? Tell me, do you choose the desire or the drive to pursue it? Do you choose what you like, what you don't? You blame what you don't control, on lifeless chemicals and hormones that are secreted by this critter you dwell in, urging your mental throat to swallow all that is labelled "science", spitting out that which doesn't satisfy your highly flawed, conditional rationality. I wish to laugh at you, but how different am I?

I know to not trust, and yet I wish so hard to - to fall in love over and over again with all the colours of this ailing world, to be hit upon by waves that can deform my jaw forever - aah, what can I do, but let my eyes well in tears?

And at long last, I see what is truly mine - the choice to let something overwhelm me - I get to pick and choose the waves that shall gobble me up, and I stand for them as they come, unflinching, unblinking, looking straight into bubbles that seem so much like eyes, but alas, they know not, that they are feasting upon me such, for they are lifeless indeed.

And yet, I cry, my face wet with the tears of today - not for them, not for another to see - perhaps not even for myself, but because I know I can, and it is truly gratifying to. As I wring my dripping wet heart thus, it lightens, letting its salty water flow down my eyes till I can see nothing - and I see that I can still see, not with my eyes, but with the heart that's lighter. So I let them flow as I lie upon my pillow, now wet with all that my eyes could offer and in it, I sink a little deeper, hoping to dive even deeper into this soul of mine, but alas! I see now that I've been tricked again, as my eyelids feel heavier. It's hard to know that I shan't remember this musing nor this treachery when the sun rises in the morn', when a fresh day shall begin with the feeling of a fresh birth, oblivious, clueless of the experiences of the past, albeit with vague memories that shall come by to remind me of the most trivial things - a table at a restaurant or a bench on my way to work. I seek to pick a pen to write down the map to this state, but am I not lost in this maze of thoughts? If I had sat, dropping pebbles or breadcrumbs on the solitary path I took, would I have even managed to reach here?

Seeing no other alternative, nor the drive to hold my pen, I let go, curling a little, bringing my limbs a little closer within my sheets and dipping my heavy head onto the salty wetness of my pillow, hoping if I curl up so, I may remain within this sacred haven of my soul a little longer for whatever it's worth before I'm pushed into the pointless world of dreams where the mind alone matters - or worse, into the world of waking where even that doesn't.

As I Lie to Die

Sans the strength to move I lie,
As my name and identity choose to fly,
Leaving behind a curled critter,
With no hope of getting better,

The first to leave is the sense of smell,
That could taste the fragrance that dwells,
And with it, evaporates all interest,
Leaving behind, nothing but disgust,

It's followed by touch's sense,
That unique feel of skin on skin,
That sees and craves the touch of another,
Sans the need for eyes to decipher,

Then goes the power to taste of tongue,
Half dead when smell vanished,
A touch more intimate than that of hand,
That learns and knows beyond what's seen,

Now flees the sight of the eyes,
And with it, the world with all its lives,
Reducing my cries, loud and soft,
To pointless knocks on formless doors,

The last to leave is the ear's child,
Subtler than the subtlest sound,
That forms the soul of all my alert,
That formed from words, the stuff of thought,

I lie now, weak and still,
Knowing again I shan't stand or sit,
Thinking I'll see nothing but naught,
Listening to the moans of my quivering heart,

Its beats, they ring like the bells of the clock,
Ticking away ruthless with mercy not,
Hiding behind its thick, loud veil,
The face of silence the eternal wail,

I lie still, closing my eyes tight,
Seeking to see some form of light,
I knew all along, this journey was to come,
Why didn't I ever try to look within?

I walk ahead, not looking back,
For now, there is no more going back,
I walk ahead, timid and slow,
For there's all the time and nowhere else to go,

The heartbeat slows, my heart giving in,
And I strain the eyes that look within,
Shouldn't my self now be bitten and low,
Fading away, perhaps, quiet and sans glow?

But no, it shines with a light so bright,
Dancing within, in its own delight,
Who said I needed eyes to see,
Or ears for music and a nose to breathe?

As the critter I'd been now chokes and bleeds,
I walk away now, disentangled and free,
Oh mother, oh father, oh brother and son,
See me now, shining so bright like the sun,

I was never what we saw, yet being it still,
I was more the feeling, that sheer will,
I now walk free from bonds that never were,
Dancing in the joy that lasts forever.

After me

Oh for how long is a person himself?
Would I remain this man in death?
Perhaps I'd be the evil man I was in my dream?
Please do not take my wishes seriously,
For I am but a poor soul,
Claiming to know the world and its ways,
Moving about through matter of stardust,
But then again, what do I know?
Perhaps I might be right too -
Take my words as you would a child's,
Not too seriously, but do listen too.

My cremation isn't the end,
It is my death itself -
Perhaps I cannot see or hear -
Or even feel the presence of this world,

Or worse, I might feel it,
But as an inresponsive body,
With my soul locked in it,
Imprisoned for eternity,
Like those trapped in corpses burnt,
Or buried in graves,
Crying out for help,
In a voice none can hear.

At C514 a few days ago

Draft on 1.1.2017

Caged in Time

Lost in the shimmer and glitter of the distractive world,
He whiles his life away,
And before he stops to look at the time,
It strikes him down into sickness,
Like a creature let loose from its cage,
He roars loud in a fit of rage,
Only to reach,
That it wasn't a thing to capture in a cage,
That it had always been free,

He breaks the cage of his watch prison,
Which outstretches its pointy hands,
That'd been empty all along,
And it ticks away through the silence,
Seeming alive but deaf,

He falls now under the weight of fate,
Unable to get himself up,
And with his heart, stops his watch,
To record the time of death.

Written at 6:51pm on 9.1.2017

Freezing to Death

I shivered in solitude,
My insides colder than the exposed outside,
Friendless and alone,
Upon an icy, barren farm,

My cries for help carrying into nothingness,
That filled this white expanse of ice,
I struggled, hard and in vain,
With none to sympathise, with me for all my pain,

I gave up, for it was a struggle futile,
As a momentary warmth filled my soul,
I turned for appreciation from the empty space,
While nature turned a cold shoulder to my pleas,

And there I stood, frozen,
My breath quietening all of a sudden,
In deference to the loud silence around,
That pervaded the entire surround,
The beats of my heart conforming, slowing down,
Draping my critter in an icy gown,
As the cold caught up, merciless,
With the tired thuds of my coronary footsteps,
Pinning my spirit and self down,
Preserving the look of my last frown.

Written on 5.4.2017. Edits made by 3:34pm on 12.4.2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay
I wrote this when i read an answer on Quora that had this picture on it:

Faith

                            I

             (Morbid Thoughts)

They speak of hidden truths driving all,

Of the meaning behind life,

Asserting to each event, the work of a hand,

That’s large and moved by a gigantic heart,

They move about preaching,

Giving long talks and sermons,

Each dismissing the theory the other worships,

And then there are those proclaimed rationals,

Who assign a chemical to each feeling that comes,

And a term to each phenomenon,

Oh no matter what they believe nor what they preach,

Are they above the feelings that they scorn?

They dismiss these things as sins or reactions,

But are they not still slaves of desire?

Perhaps they are, or perhaps they’re not,

But in the end, for sure,

They’ll be wiped away by death.

                             II

           (The Religion of Death)

I see not these books,

Filled with science,

Equations and graphs,

That reason with life,

It applies logic, dismissing all magic,

Claiming to unearth,

The stuff that is life,

But is it that simple,

For our minds to know,

The force that drives this creation and more?

I know not for sure,

What this planet holds,

But I’ve learnt to bow,

To these fields and meadows,

To learn from the pain,

That my friends go through,

To hurt not another,

And live without pride,

For there may be a god,

There may not,

But death shall arrive,

And knock upon my door,

Swallowing me whole,

Spitting my cold corpse.

Written between 2:12am and 2:27am on 28.1.2017 at C04, IIT Bombay

I is to be read as an independent poem and I+II is to be considered a different poem.

Handle Me Gently

Pray, handle me gently,
Valiant though you are,
Why do you choose,
To whisk me away in stealth?
Why not walk up to me,
And ask my hand forever?

Gentle and chivalrous, though you are,
You choose to pull me by the hair,
Forcing me onto your chariot,
And carrying me away,

Do you not wish me to see,
The love you are about to give me,
The care which you will shower,
Upon my undeserving self?

Why do you look upon me,
With such ferocity?
Do you not want me,
To love you from this very day?

Am I to only turn to you, helpless?

Giving in to your heavy tugs?
Do you not want me to love you,
For the good that soul you are?

I am but a poor girl,
Failing to fend for herself,
Berserk, yet deluded,
I consider myself a princess,

You sought me, and found me,
At an abode that none knew of,

Hidden within a crowd of millions,
And yet you found me with ease,

Now why don't you find,
Gentle ways to earn my love,
Why do you see the need
To force yourself upon me?

Oh dear Death, know this,
I seek to embrace you,
And I will,
But give me time until I see sense,
And I promise you now,
I will seek you the next time.

Written on 13.1.2017 at 11:30pm at C504, H13, IIT Bombay.

Mercy Killing

"Put me out of my misery," begged his eyes and lips,

While I stood by, watching him suffer

From within, up unto his tips,

He beseeched me for a favour,

That none would ask another,

While I stared, helpless, into his teary eyes,

His body burned and so did his soul,

Under flames that would never cease,

They blazed forth, consuming him whole,

Yet leaving behind, a little life to live,

Oh how could the lifeless inferno be so cruel,

I thought only the living could,

But this was no room for thought,

For he needed help and fast,

The heave from pain to ease,

Seemed a losing duel,

And any attempt to heal or cure,

No matter how pure,

Would only cause him agony beyond bearing,

And let him suffer for life,

I shuddered, holding the knife,

That'd both save and relieve that man,

And it slipped, wetted by my sweat,

My hand trembled as I took it forward,

Towards his wounded skin,

A stab to kill, I knew, would be,

A stab unto my own heart,

And though he'd be free from his wounds,

I would never be for life,

I cursed fate, that ugly god,

Which put me in this place,

Forcing my innocent hand to hold,

This bloody knife of choice,

I sought to run, abandoning him,

And this dagger that ruined my day,

I knew if I tried, I might save him,

And the other would free him too,

But the thought of putting him,

Through any more pain,

Paralyzed my limbs,

And I stood watching,

Not him but my knife,

That's already pierced my soul,

Time flew past us,

Precious time,

And I knew I had to act,

So I held it tight,

Turned my wrist,

And drew closer to him.

Written at 4:35pm at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

Impending Death

I stand, motionless,
Imprisoned in this bodily cell,
Staring into the arrows of death,

That come swiftly, straight at me,
Fearing the pain of the impact itself,
Over the uncertainty of death,

Choosing to close my eyes instead of facing it,
For anticipation of pain scares one,
Further than pain itself,
I hope it will be quick,
And yearn for unknown death over prolonged pain,

I take my last few precious breaths,
Tasting every last ounce of comfort it gives,
And listen to every last beat of my heart,
Cherishing every knock,
I find the fear of facing overwhelming,
And choose to flee instead,

I take another peek at it,
Before I turn away,
Distracting myself with stories and sports,
With the little pleasures that surround me,

Forgetting that which truly awaits me,
Losing awareness of time ticking away,
And of life wearing away,

And while I lie such, intoxicated,
The arrow hits me hard,
Piercing these coils,
Freeing me in exchange for terrible pain,

My nerves take one last bite,
As my soul tears apart,
From these mortail coils,
And I ascend the final stairs,
That countless men have taken,
Into the doors of that old friend,
A strange, yet familiar one,
The doors of Death.

2:45am 30th Dec. 2016 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

Come, sit by my grave

Oh dear reader whose heart I may have touched,
I give you my thanks for listening to my work,
You may be a stranger to me, but I am not, to you,
For you have seen a speck of my soul,
And tasted a morsel of my heart,
Pray, I beg you, I may be dead and gone,
But visit me by my grave,
And sing to me a song.

My grave shall not scare you,
For I am timid myself,
A sensitive and mellow man,
I crave your company,
My nights may get cold and damp,
And my corpse may writhe in vain,
I pray to you my only friend,
To come, sit by my side,

I may lie motionless,
Silent and inert,
But I beg you, my worthy friend,
To come, sit by me,

I fear death and closure,
As a kid would, a ghoul,
I'll lie quiet and await your entry,
And revel in the joy of your company,
My life is dark and so shall be my grave,
Yet my heart is all light,
I promise you I won't scare you,
When you come to visit me,

I speak of solitude and the bliss it gives,
But maybe that's only in life,
I know not what death holds,
Perhaps I'll need a friend,
So you, my reader, my friend,
Come, sit by my grave,
Come sing a song or talk long,
But don't leave me by myself.

Don't leave my grave,
I'm not so brave...
I'm sorry if I've hurt you,
Through my writing or in life,
Forgive me and come to me,
Come sit by my grave

Written between 12:28am and 12;45am on 19.10.2016 (night of 18.10.2016) at Aero structures lab, Dept of Aerospace Engg, IIT Bombay.

Initially thought of titling it as "When I'm dead and gone"

A wandering thought

These words that put my mind in labour before spilling out my pen onto paper, they stay there, disconnected from the soul that bore them.. Oh some may perish in vain as victims of the test of time but those that endure?

Oh they are of no use to me even now* - of what use will they be to me when I'm dead and gone?

And tomorrow, when I cease to dwell on this planet, nay, even this plane, people will connect it to a name and face that I might perhaps no longer relate to..

*Well, they do serve the vain purpose of letting my ego gloat with a false sense of achievement when I complete a piece, or receive praise..
Written at aero structures lab, aero dept, on the night of 18.10.2016 (11:30pm or so, perhaps a little after)

In a weak moment..

In the blink of an eye*,
Desire grabs the wheel,
Clouding judgement with a translucent wall,
Jerking one's stance albeit however firm,
As one stumbles, possessed,
By a compulsive impulse to slip,
To taste the nectar of transgression,
Intellect trips and so does sense,
As a powerful urge takes over,
Caprice's eyes meet his,
Before she steps behind him,
Ready to push him into the abyss of vice,
He looks down into that well of contrition,
Contemplating on the joy of breach,
The lips of sin smack in anticipation,
His mind surfaces, facing a moment of choice,
While his feet stagger at the cusp,
Instinct nudges him, and so does compunction,
Once more he trembles as he makes his decision,

The Fall

He picks the easier one as his heart races,
Guilt engulfing him as he gains momentum,
There's no turning back now that the choice is sealed,
The Devil smirks as he falls, weak,
Choosing to relish the fleeting joy,
But alas! 'Twas too short,
A moment's pleasure, followed by,
A lifetime of remorse.

The Abstention

The right choice was harder to make,
Yet a higher joy overwhelms his soul,
His soul revells in a bliss unknown,
And conscience sends a kiss forth,
Yet, a trace of regret stays smeared,
Secluded in a corner of his heart,
And while the brighter side rejoices,
The road more travelled receives an empty gaze,

But the heart is a maze,
With countless corners and passages,
Behind both, conscience stirs,
Revealing yet another sign,
It tells him, as it tells itself,
That even the stumble was a lapse.

Epilogue

The deed done, he looks back,
His head hanging under the weight of his choice,
He assesses his actions with a biased eye,
Praising or cursing the source of his decision,
And slowly he rises looking at it from above,
Accepting the effect as an outcome of his resolve,
With a deep breath and a firm mind,
He embraces his resolve swallowing it whole,
In time he digests the lessons he learnt,
As it adds to the person he's made himself to be,
And the choice he made, it stays with him,
Perhaps as an effect, but evolved into more,
It gains lustre over time,
Condensing into a pearl of wisdom.

Written at 12:53am on 18.10.2016 at C504, H13 IIT Bombay
*This line is a humble offering to the Tamil work, Sivapuranam from Tiruvachakam.

Standing by the Funeral Pyre

Amidst blazing flames I stand,
Their fumes filling my lungs,
Fires that burn corpses,
Bodies that were once persons like myself,
Eating, walking, talking and living,
Ones who were loved, hated, ignored and cared for,
Persons that now lie as lifeless logs by my feet,
With no life in them to feel the heat,
That burns them into an ashy heap,
We see them now as mere things,
Objects that were once alive,
Ghosts of which dwell where I know not,
Haunting ruins, houses, perhaps floating around,
Or perhaps burnt away or in another world,
I, however, am haunted by a restless mind,
A bundle of thoughts clouding me from reality,
For I stand here amidst men who have faced doom,
And analyse it objectively,
Doom that I know lies on my path as well,
And yet, I fail to see,
That here lies my fate.

On Dying in Battle

He walks into the battlefield,
Head held high,
Wielding his weapon, striking fear,
His fiery eyes unflinching,
A thousand questions pose themselves,
Will he see another sunrise? Or be slain?
Just as a thousand enemies glare at him,
Both are greeted by a fearless glance,
As he walks forth,
The sound of his tread
Echoing through the noise.
It is indeed great, that he has put,
A cause before his own life.

Moments later, he fights on,
Somewhere in a cluster of pairs of battling men,
Drenched in blood,
Some others' some his own,
His weapon strikes precise blows,
Maiming, killing and mangling his foes,
Such action continues tirelessly,
Until he is struck.
Struck not by a weapon, but a valiant rival,
It is indeed a blow,
But is meant as a bow,
A trophy for a glorious fight,
The foe knows it too,

And it is not he who falls,
It is fear, defeat and death that die.

Written on 3.6.2016 at 1:27am, at B001, H13, IIT Bombay

The End?

Does death end a person?
Perhaps the soul is trapped,
In a motionless body,
Crying out to not burn or bury,
Still feeling pain and agony,
In spite of inertness or decay,
While we, being hasty beings,
Carried away by what we deem right,
Pay no heed to such calls for help,
Discard the carcass mercilessly,
Like a kid would throw a toy,
That refuses to dance anymore.

The Walk to the Scaffold

They held his hands from both his sides,
Down the narrow passage,
Their steps echoed forth,
But hardly heard by him,
His feet felt like heavy iron shoes,
His limbs numb, refusing to move,
He dragged himself forward,
His heart pounding hard,
Knowing these were its last beats
He tried to cherish every tread,
Knowing they wouldn't be retraced,
His throat was parched, his lips dry,
His eyes trying to cry,
He couldn't hear, couldn't think,
Couldn't even gulp,
Couldn't say a thing,
He tried to dry his eyes, to think of his life,
To regret his crimes, but remorse wasn't going to pay,
His loved ones seemed aeons away,
It mattered not, they'd forsaken him,
Now nothing was going to change,
No friends, no wife, no family could help him now,
His life stared back at him, an empty heap of thoughts,
He struggled within, his heart racing,
Until it settled on him,
He gave in, stopped resisting,
Letting it fill him up,
All he wanted now was for it to end,
And as quick as that could be,
He raised his head, glanced at the scaffold,
And it returned his empty gaze.

*Written on 20th May, 2016 at 5:53am at B001, H13, IIT Bombay while watching Jesse Pinkman being tortured on Breaking Bad
Title was previously The Walk to Death