In Modi Mode

Media is rife with Modi stories. A day does not pass by wherein the Gujarat Chief Minister does not attract attention to himself. I am stupefied by the responses that the article on Mr. Narendra Modi in The Hindu has generated especially the ones that laud the Gujarat Chief Minister’s self-acclaimed developmental agenda. Is this a window to India’s general opinion on Mr. Modi? Has the Congress with its innumerable scams so disillusioned the minds of the average middle class Indian that he is now not averse to an alternative like Mr. Modi? Do people actually believe that “Gujarat riots” is only a stick to beat Mr. Modi with? Can we so easily deny the fact that at the very least a doubt has been cast on Mr. Modi’s ability to protect the minorities? Have we become so numbed by the oft-repeated accusations that we are now prepared to condone them?

The mirage of poetry

Poem is a subjective portrait of a poet’s mental landscape. What woes lurk beneath that calm visage? The poet feels deeply and in a precious moment of inspiration ventures out from his inner shell to part with the pearls of his solitude. To him, every word rings true, each an embodiment of a deep-seated emotion. What sense does it make to the uninterested onlooker or the enthusiastic browser? Does the poet care whether he is understood? Does he yearn for a soul that resonates with his own to come along? In the secret altar where the muse resides, what tempests rage hidden? Does his heart quiver as they break away from every shackle of reason and bursts forth laden with the seeds of passion? Does nature hold her breath when the poet writhes in agony as the pangs of a poem’s birth rends him asunder? Will she shed a tear for the stillborn words that fail to touch upon any heart? Will she rejoice when his words quench an inner hunger and ideas come alive in a flash of brilliance to impregnate the hapless world that awaits his seeds breathlessly? Or is it a schizophrenic delusion of grandeur that the poet suffers from? Does the world really take heed? Yet, so tempting is the mirage of poetry that the poet wanders on thirsting after its bewitching evanescent waters!  

Weeks and months ebb away tidily,

The pen I wield not

Nor the painting brush.

There is only stillness;

Peaceful yet uneasy

For even in this silence

The lure of words endures,

Hidden in that empty space

Where only the blessed ones can enter.