Archer

Arched back, steady hands, eyes that never waver

Stands upright as a tree he does, yet graceful like a flower

His eyes stay focused on the singular aim, watching everything that transpires

A drop of sweat itches his brow, his fingers feel him perspire

 

He stretches the string taut feeling terse pulls and strains

He stretches it more with all his strength unmoved by the pain

Pain that emanates from fingertips and stings his collar

And brings the edge right to unmoving eyes fixated on the aim

 

‘The string may snap,’ he knows, anytime in his hands

Leaving him bruises, underserved and crass

Yet he cannot but stretch it the best he can

For he trusts the string, and the tying hands

 

He knows his bow will not disappoint him

And his intents the arrow will obey

The only unruly part being the string,

Subdued by nothing, apart from faith

 

He trusts the bow, the arrow, and the string

And knows they believe in him in every way they can

Yet he cannot help but wonder

The day when the contraption may strain his hand

 

Some day before he realizes, the string will grow too strong for him

Or rather, he will grow too weak for it

And it shall snap uncontrollably retracting against him

Touching every fiber of his being

 

His eyes will feel the first sting,

But his hands will be the first to react

Followed by a numbness in his brain

A scar on his soul that another dear one has snapped

 

The string, would suffer gravely for this offence

It will lose all its strength

Its essence being stripped away from in an instant

Only to be discarded and forgotten, as it was never of any consequence

 

He knows that it’s the eventual fate of every string

And has scars to tell the tale

Yet the only way he knows is to believe

That there’s one more shot within his range

 

And so he stands tall, unmoving unafraid

Aware of all the pitfalls, but uncaring all the same

The mark is all that is, the shot is all that matters

For as long as it lasts, he and the string are one and the same

 

Vishal Gupta

31 Jan 2022

Stopping by the Hills on a Cold Evening

Continued from Peace

Whose hills these are I think I know

He watches atop the highest though

He won’t mind me stopping here

To watch his peaks laden with snow

 

My simple cabbie must think it queer

To stop without a dhaba near

Between the valley the flowing river

The coldest evening of the year

 

He gives the car’s horn a press

To ask if there is some gaffe

The only other sound that sweeps

Of flowing water and rustling leaves

 

The hills are massive, white and steep

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep

Bhavya

 

अब कहना है अलविदा प्रिये 3

मुश्किल है अपना मेल प्रिये, ये प्यार नहीं है खेल प्रिये 

तुम Peddar Road की गाडी हो, मैं कांदिवली का जाम

तुम Colaba की night हो, मैं चेम्बूर की शाम

तुम्हे आदत Candies की, मैं Udipi का lunch खाता हूँ

तुम shopping करती Palladium से, मैं Fashion Street जाता हूँ

तेरे हर weekend plan होते हैं, मेरे colleagues मुझे भागते हैं 

मुझसे cover charge लिया जिन pubs ने, तुझे invite दे के बुलाते हैं 

तुम NCPA की भाँती popular, मैं मराठा मंदिर जैसा हूँ 

तुम year-end का bonus हो, मैं overtime का पैसा हूँ 

तुम NGO को CSR, मैं चौराहे का fine हूँ 

तुम queue हो metro station की, मैं दादर की line हूँ 

मैं boss का गुस्सा हूँ, तुम top खोज हो recruiter की 

मैं interns का सपना हूँ, तुम gift stat auditors की 

तुम offsite, onsite की ticket, मैं deadline की रात हूँ 

तुम CEO का हो vision, मैं assistant manager की बात हूँ 

मैं टपरी पे चाय-सुट्टा, तुम dark chocolate Theobroma की,

मैं office gossip से बेदखल, तुम नयी सी opening McKinsey की 

तुझे देख log खुश हो जाते,

मुझे देख "WHAT THE HELL" प्रिये

अब…

मुश्किल है अपना मेल प्रिये, ये प्यार नहीं है खेल प्रिये

Band

Long after, the last guest had departed

and the last joke had seen its last laugh

The last glass of brandy had been served

and the solemn chambers now stood still

The frenzy that had once endured

The chaos that had once ensued

Had taken its rightful place

Deep in the heart of the ocean

No one knew how or where it began

it all happened so suddenly

Hindsight is great, when the dust has settled

but foresight always seizes the day

It started as a bump in the road

Causing fear amongst the paranoid

Reality crept in like a maiden’s sleep

slowly… and then all at once

The first sacrifice would be made

by those who had nothing to lose

By the time we realized what was worth saving

it was too late for anything to be saved

The survivors knew what to do

till all hope was lost

The privileged few would of course get through

for their destinies were not written by God’s hand

The eerie calm that follows

would be the only evidence of the madness that once was

Every light and every laugh and every song and every story

was now shrouded with memories that haunted

A little mistake along the road

a little carelessness we couldn’t control

A little desperateness of the human soul

a little opportunity we sought to hold

When we knew not of what the future would bring

and lived each day to fight another

We knew not when pain and suffering would peak

and long held on to denial’s heel

When humanity was tested to show its colors

what it would do when the chips go down

Because madness you see, is like gravity

all it takes is a little push

In midst of the madness, four gentlemen came to pass

they brought out their orchestra, and continued the dance

A silent echo that reverberates through time

when the ship was sinking, the band kept its chime

The band played on through the wreckage

and continued till the last night came to pass

When there would be no more music and no more dance

but memories would stay, with the lucky ones who passed

And poems would be written, of times when they should’ve been heard

but they did not care, for they’d done their work

So in the final moments, they continued the message

not that it mattered anymore, but was their journey

Peril is bequeathed, when artists are ignored

and artists shoulder the task, of spreading the thoughts

Through canvas and paper and screens and sound

for an artist’s expression is varied and abound

But this message is spread and the work here is done

so we move to a different time in a different world

The last word, I must stand up and cry

Gentlemen, it has been a privilege, to play by your side

Vishal Gupta

21 Mar 2020