Hope is the Last
Thing to Be Lost
Ever since Man has come into existence has been swinging between hopelessness and hopefulness. Modern man’s predicament has become precarious because of so many new man generated complexities. The poem is an attempt to capture the persona in various moods, among various problems—physical and psychological—and of course various solutions that come to him from his consciousness and through tradition. The poem has six sections of varied length and is experimental in nature.
I
The damp dream
Was being dried in the open
When the Sun was covered
With green clouds.
The dream could not be
Dehydrated then.
It was kept
In the electric oven.
It emitted black light there.
We thought it was roasted
And could be had at the tea-time.
The voice cracking the dream
Remained faint
The key could no more be turned
The dream was not yet impregnated.
Was it not a mistake
To have dreams
At tea-time?
II
Many souls have burnt themselves
In the eternal Pentecostal fire
To purge themselves
Of the worldly material.
Their dreams were dreary
Their prayer not-attached
They wanted to put off
Sense and notion;
To find order in disorder was
Their chief prayer.
The sound of the voice
And, the sound of the noise
Are not much different.
The praying mind discerns
The right sound
And, listens to the Lord’s clicks.
The world does not listen
To the praying mind
And gets involved
In the incendiary war.
The plant listens
With gaiety
And is saved.
Will the posterity think
Of Brahman and become infinite?
Or, will it be carried
To taste the forbidden fruit
To fall asunder?
III
I want to learn
The art of caring
And, of not caring.
Who will teach me
To tread the path of
Walking on the sword’s edge?
The Guru has meandered through
The jungle of temptations
And has come out
Shining like a moonlit dome of the Taj
Or like a flagship from the Tsunami?
The one who abandoned his wife and son
Sleeping on the couch
The one who renounced his throne
The one who was beckoned
To become the light of the world
Is suggesting the way out.
Be your own Buddha
Be your own enlightened soul
To realize the reality
And to shun
Whatever is false
Whatever worldly
Whatever comely.
By watching the breath
Going in and going out
One can know
What to do
What to know and
What not to know
What to embrace and what to shun.
Be your own Buddha
To find the garden
Among the rocks
To salvage the savage.
IV
Sitting still is a great task.
I just have to watch my breath
And forget all my projects
And, agendas.
I’ve to forget my body
And, the ant’s crawling over it
And, the mind boggling games
To turn the government upside down.
Breath is the only reality.
The smell of simmering samosas doesn’t matter
Nor does the sweaty smell of the body
Nor even the aroma of South Indian Coffee.
Skin below the nostrils is the only reality.
I’ve come a long way
To learn this art
Of sitting still and
Of watching breath
And turning the back on
The baggage of nostalgic memories.
The world is at my door steps.
People don’t salute me anymore
They just fall down on their knees
And, bow down to touch my feet
And, seek my blessings
As they did to Buddha.
The world will live longer now,
There won’t be any War
Over the issue of water
Nor, to capture Oil Fields
Even the power of Atom will remain dormant.
Neither will be required space-ships
Nor will be required space-covers.
The earth, my earth, has become
A safer heaven
I thank you Lord
For teaching me
To sit silently.
I thank you Buddha
For teaching me
To sit silently.
V
If it was easy to insert
Blood in his sight
And speak knife in his voice
The water could be boiled on his back.
The country would be free
And the race redeemed.
The hatred gone
Love remains
I remain
Yes,
The dravid, the untouchable,
The nigger, the outcaste
Will wither
Angst will be gone.
VI
Hope descends from the sky
Spreading its wings
Around me like a dove
To safeguard its chicken.
Hope descends from the rising sun
That waits patiently to shine
As the dark clouds disperse
Under the stroke of sharp wind.
Hope comes from the busy bee
That engages itself every winter to make
A new beehive –
To store honey
Knowing fully well that
Angry hungry humans
Wait for the opportune moment
To plunder honey and render
The bee homeless.
Hope radiates from the monk
Who sits patiently on the Ganga Ghat
For salvation to descend on him and his disciple.
The world does not move
If he does not get peace within.
Hope has some feathers
To wrap me around as
I shiver traversing the
On the lower Mall near the Library.
Hope gives me courage to
Enter the gates of the Operation Theatre
To touch the etherised patient
Lying restful to get rid of the pain
That moves his conscience
Now and then.
Hope gives me courage
To enter the gates of Heaven
Where I have to face God
To accept my retribution.
(Susheel