author - "Rafiq Sandeelvi"

Strange Are The Cadres Of Being

Suddenly, a visage
With a hushed leap
Rushed past the mirror
Black and yellow stripes
Like waves strung together
Suddenly, the dressing table trembled
The clock’s golden reflection shuddered
The body – wrapped in fever – thawed out

In the microcosms of blood
In the self and attributes
Are uncanny secrets
In the sieves of faiths and doubts
Are a thousand cracks

Strange are the cadres of being

Just now, I was wide awake
Groaning in deep pain
Then, how did I drift off?
Just now, I was fast asleep
Then, how did the eyes open?
How did the quilt’s mound lift off?

I don’t know how
the joints dismantled
the mouth broadened back
the fangs crop up
the gaze emblazed
the toes curled back
the spine stretched out
the skin turned into hide
From where this bushy tail sprang up
In the caverns of being,
Where did I vanish, roaring?
I don’t know a thing!

Strange are the cadres of being.

When The Day Dawned

The day was yet to dawn.
From the warmth of my cosy bed,
as I stepped out of the house,
the entire town slept;
a gigantic cocoon,
in its depth,
the silkiness of existence,
folded in the mystique of darkness,
in the aura of a wasteland from ancient times,
as if the roads, fields, houses and trees cast by a magic spell;
time, to its core drunk with antiquity,
environs perpetuating colour.
In the timelessness of eternity,
in the mute fog,
people in their bed-chambers crouched in sleep,
the radiant moonlight in the sky paled.
A deathly silence,
flames in clay-lamps dwindling to their end.
A probable rain ahead.
Right above the street, chunks of clouds coursed the sky.
Shivering in the wintry wind adjusting the folds of the dark shawl around my body,
wiping away from the canopy of tearful eyes,
images of children serenely asleep,
mumbling to myself,
I reached the riverside,
got into the boat.

The day was yet to dawn.
Yearning for the other shore,
my boat moved with the rushing waves.
The morning star winked.
The boat, water,
the sail, the oars, the darkness and my drowsy self,
all elements converged into one:
a long lost memory flowered in the heart.
Then the day dawned.
The sun took over at noon,
shadows crawled in the descending light,
evening fell,
then darkness cloaked all.
A journey of several hundred nights at last touched the shore.

When the next day dawned,
my house was draped in mourning.

It’s a camel ride, and I
In a desolate street
Of a ravaged city
Holding the worn-out leather reins
Drive towards that home
On whose threshold
A sorrowful woman is tethered down
With a cord
Of my promise
A sturdy cord, weaved from heart-strings
Bare-headed, for many centuries
Teary eyes
Eyes with the glint of an ancient star
Anxious to imbibe the smell of my ashen robe
And to hear the distressed grunts
Of my brown camel.

The same soggy corner of the chamber
Where one night
When wooden arrows were raining down
I had abandoned her
Vulnerable and lonely
I still remember every bit
The drizzle had stopped
The moon was seated in the night sky
Like a youthful prince on the throne
The air caressed the cheeks like a silken shawl
The street was fast asleep
The houses, in their cold and wet shells
As if made of soft and thin paper
Or carved out of wax
Standing since eternity
In a big painting


The same soggy corner of the chamber
Where glittering sunbeams were spotlighting
The fresh fig leaf
In her long, unbraid hair
I still remember every bit
The kiss on her wheatish elbow
The same night
When I had laid my sword at her feet
And had pledged:
“My body, and the strength that runs it
Will accompany your passion
Till eternity … beyond eternity
Till the verge of existence and nonexistence
Time listens
I make my witnesses
This moon on the sky
The sword in your feet
And the fig leaf in your hair.”

God, what a moment that was
what a moment this is!
The street, deserted and hushed
What a wretched moment, in which
Neither a tiny bird nor a moth
Or a paltry ant has crossed my way
Much less a human being
It’s a camel ride, and I
Holding the worn-out leather reins
Drive towards that home
… Drive towards a doomsday, a silent doomsday
A doomsday of somebody’s sobs and sighs
A scene
A scene where a street
And a brown camel
And the company of a spineless man
A never-ending journey till eternity

It’s camel ride
Or the ride on the exhausted nerves?
Or a trial by a bizarre dream?
Frozen pupils
Unmoving shadow of the camel
All images have lost in the mirror
I’m in the street for a long time
Where is she, my dearest?
She, of the soggy chamber?
She, of the melodious chimes?
She, of the lands, of oceans, of souls, of heavens?

The eyes strain but the tears don’t roll down
The street never ends
Command the street to end!
I, sitting on the brown, frail camel
Count my last days
How I long for even a bee from her era
To flit through the street
How I beg for pardon at her doorstep
How I crave to bow my head
So that, on account of that bee from her era
I take my withered body
And my frail camel
And cross the last bounds of the street.
Poet:Rafiq Sandeelvi

The Red Blanket

Pale, consumptive face
parched lips
sunken cheeks
withered ribs
lifeless knees
sweaty joints
the chest - like a bellow
gripped in stridor
sagging, eternally half-closed eyes
Dense, phlegmatic breaths

a whirlwind
rising from the spine
spiraling in the head
blending with the blues
a chronic pain
in the ancient tuberculosis
blood writhing in the veins
the body, wasting away.

What do I do?
this thick, grubby, red blanket
has enveloped me from head to toe
I want to kick it away
I want to smile.