perhaps she captures the essence of my poetry the drama of my life more evocatively than others do a photo blogger a shia hindu in her eye i see myself clearly too totally true a bit older in wisdom but in a different hue totally new what you see is what she viewed
for a better future they slog and wait neglected denizens of maharashtra state empty promises khali pet who cares what they ate aged old feeble carrying freight on their heads another mans crate dire straits they live die their children stagnate on the soul of humanity merely dead weight their cosmic misery their karmic fate to appease democracy used as bait a vote bank that god creates keeping the wishes of the politician who for victory at his feet prostrate win they must add wealth real estate kissa kursi ka survival of the fittest at any rate they who are trustees of his spiritual estate while the poor stand in a winding line beg at his gate jai maharashtra jai ho a realistic poetic update
No state treats its original inhabitants like slave drivers as Maharashtra does,, and this is what I show through my pictures as testimony of their oppressed lot , this lady is a daily wage worker she carries stuff for the shop keepers from the foothills of the Malangad mountains to the top of Haji Malang where the Holy Shrine is located , this is her karmic fate and good she is being enumerated as human thing at census time..
And it is hateful even children are made to slog this way but I am not an activist simply a poet and a photographer as much as a Marathi Manoos than those who sit in their gilded citadels.
And I am sure , hundred and one percent sure, that my dear poet friend Aditya Thackeray sees this poem of life .. and does give a healing hand when his time comes on the throne.
This is a genuine appeal beyond politics I hate to talk…
published on the soul of the cybernet a page that opens as pictures of life as a moving set giving hope to the cuckoos nest the hijras that hompophobic people detest shia poetry to my dear and nearest bush poetry bushism at its best love poetry hate racism the cry of a poet victim at the hands of a poem hunter multi color hate for black poets you bet by hardcore racist poets least blessed megalomaniac of pedestrian verse overtly obsessed who they are you need not guess on they soul of poetry forgotten mortally regressed through the hands of karma by the curse of a barefeet mystic crazily dressed
to the whirling dervesh john dixon...this poem dedicated duly addressed ..
as they writhe in my hand weeping as the time has come to go away into a nether land they were born to give hope touch the lord as per cosmic plan flowers the only arbitrator between god and man as garlands to lal bagh cha raja as chaddar to malang baba their purity to divinity goes hand in hand on the soul of humanity as tears they expand
what belongs to me someone else owns squirming in the silence of my soul i writhe i moan once blood sweat tears now all stone within the silhouette of my despair all alone from the mound of her Venus dethroned master of the rings turquoise my birthstone barefeet bent backbone as i flow from the gutters of the street into an unknown zone suicidal my death i did postpone a withering wrist as it groans what was mine i have dispwned caught in the tempestuous fires of a karmic cyclone as i open my eyes in my dreams i see her siting besides my gravestone unmarked weeds have grown gone forever all friends relatives i had known
crossdressing the soul of man fragmented as it spins to be or not be a woman the only deadly original sin biologically man but a woman from within sometimes out sometimes in yin yang as twins the pathos the pain the pin drop silence from the rib of man the birth of the elusive inclusive iconic androgyne
At about 8.30 am I decided to leave Haji Malang , I hurriedly took leave of Kumar Ketkar and on the way I met the crossdressers and my hijra guru Laxmi Narayan Tripathi, they told me to wait shoot Suultan Shah Babas sandal but I had made up my mind to be in Mumbai ...
invoking his blessings facing hardships and pain winter chill and rain the devotees of haji malang baba suffer but dont complain huddled in open places on street corners haji malang their spiritual domain hindus muslims all bound to a common chain of mohamed ali fatima hassan and hussain the gates of paradise without the ahle bayt you cannot gain
i shot blindfolded with my cyclopean camera eye a thought she may deny raw beauty lies in the soul of a camera lens beauty never lies the myriad moods of a hijra goddess human in disguise on her cheek a tear rolls as the fleeting moment flies in the silhouette of her eyelashes i find my poetry my paradise neither man nor woman nubile sensual voluptuous sweet serene a slithering soulful soliloquy king size a sleeping goddess my muse i wait for her to arise on the mound of my despair the rays of her sunrise i wonder is it merely loneliness why she makes me cry barefeet a beggars bowl a beggar poet of mumbai as the brazen winds kiss her lips my cosmic fate jeopardize a drop of a seminal silence as it flows down my thighs