Monthly Archives: January 2013

A brief explanation of Sufism

‘Lead me, O Lord,
in the deep of the
Ocean of Thine Infinite

With these words begin
one of the greatest Sufi

All Sufis are basically surfers.

Scanning the horizon
standing on the shores of the Ocean
of the Infinite Bliss.

Waiting for the next wave of

They spend their lifetimes
perfecting the art and
discipline of riding the
ebb of a receding
wave to its source.

Every wave of
revelation is different.

The water every
wave brings in
is always the same.

It’s goodness.

And as it fills craters and
hollows of perception
it becomes religion.

Good enough for
most people.

Not for the surfers.

They are just watching and waiting.

Waiting for
the exact moment
to jump in
so that they can
be sucked right back
to the place where
it all started.

To the very heart of
the love that makes
the world go around.

The careless get to
go deep.

The careful wade
around on the shore.



The proof

The Dal Lake,
a vast bronze mirror
under the weak winter
sun, reflecting the

houseboats still
on painted water.

The shadows of
massive mountains looming
over the fog.

The call to the faithful
for prayer, echoing
in the empty streets.

The miracle of
frozen hands coming
to life again, over
the glowing charcoals, in
Kangris burnished gold.

The gnarled fingers
of leafless trees
clutching at the heart.

So much beauty it
burns your eyes
till hot tears run
down your cheek.

This is paradise.
The one we lost.

Therefore, God exists.

I rest my case.


It’s minus twelve
degrees outside
but thoughts of you
like a warm quilt around
me and I am
wriggly- toe-comfy,
thank you.

Morning is the
percussion of tall pines
shedding snow on
the tin roof of my cabin
and I wake up laughing
from a dream where
you are tickling me

The sun is
your warm
brown eyes,
baking me.

The ski slopes,
full curves of your
indescribable body.

Everything makes
me catch my breath –
like when you are

Everything is too much,
like your naked
greed for life.

Even this heaven looks
edible through your
eyes, you hungry

Every white hill a god-
scoop of vanilla.

I am hurtling
down the steepest
slopes straight
at your hot heart.

Ready or not,
here I come!

Staying up late

Talking with the
head on the pillow,
grinning at the ceiling.

Listening to you weave
the distant tales of
your youth
into a tapestry through
which the shape of
a young girl emerges.

Different from you
except for those blazing eyes

And a vicarious nostalgia
or the sun lit lanes you’ve
skipped through, for the
afternoons you’ve
spent day dreaming,
for all your delighting
in your victories,
your despair in
losses that
growing up
is all about.

A vicarious notalgia
for a city I have
never lived in.
For a people I’ve
never met.

A settlement besieged
by the army
of your memories
that I now call my own.

I could just listen
to you for a few lifetimes,
my love.

How much you


I want you
like the first man
wanted the
first woman.

Like an innocent
Adam, transfixed
by his Eve, who
crawls up him to
‘Am I so tired
because the
love you made to
me in your dreams?’

And in that
paradise is lost,
the apple is bitten,
the pyramid are built,
penicillin is invented,
Nagasaki is bombed
and I can’t breathe,
I can’t breathe
and you are so crazy ass
beautiful and my lips
are aflame against yours
and the night is
going mad with stars
and the wind
is soft like your
breasts and I
don’t want to
go and
I can’t ever
In this
Eden of yours.

That sinking feeling

Tonight she’s feeling
after a long time.

Tonight anything
can happen.

There is a madness
in the air.

One of those nights
that whisper
‘careful, now’

Tonight anything
can happen.

She’s alone in a bar.
Listening to a Jazz band.
Husbands away on business.
He loves her.
She likes him.
Life’s good.

She orders her third large vodka.

Tonight a storm is gathering.
She can feel it in the
pit of her stomach.

She looks around the room.

All the single men
try to catch her eye.
Except for a tall,  bearded
man at the end of the bar.

He keeps looking at the
wine list.
She keeps looking at him.

Suddenly he turns and looks
her with
the kindest Jesus blue
eyes and winks.

And the bar catches fire.
The ground beneath her cracks.
And a tempest blows
the roof away.
And there is hot lava
flowing in the streets.

He walks up to her
and picking up her glass
motions to the
bartender for two more.

The drinks arrive.

She takes her glass and
taking a sip and says
‘I am not the kind
who goes for
one night stands!’

He grins back at her
‘Me neither!

Tonight anything
can happen!

The thief in me

Every time I go to her place
the I feel like stealing

Her house is
like temptation central
for my inner kleptomaniac.

There are a million
little things,
all worthless
yet priceless
at the same time,

Carefully arranged,
glittering with personal histories,
basking in
the glory of having
caught her eye.

And I want to sneak into
my pocket whenever
she’s not looking
little things, like  –
a matchbox from
her collection of
match boxes,
a hair pin, an old
toe ring, an eye lash
from her eyes,
a little amber from
her iris, a lock of her
hair, a dart from her dart
board, a worry from
her brows, a gurgle
of her laughter, a
thread from her
winding, hypnotizing
a flake of time
frozen still.

She senses the workings
of my criminal mind,
I think.

But being an excellent
hostess chooses to
look the other way.

Leaving me smouldering,
burning up in
a thousand desires.