Haiku

cold night 

a mist hangs suspended 

nothing moves

—

Anant Dhavale

Mist of the Rinayars - Chapter 1

 I been writing this story for fun. Here's the next ( rather the first) chapter. I have pasted some chapters on the Booksie website.

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The mist

-

Kaniu's hands were frozen with cold. His eyes hurt so hard did he strain to see ahead. His boat moved slowly but constantly, pushed away by some secret wind. The water was eerily quiet. The only sounds he heard were the water lapping against his aging boat and the occasional creak it gave as the boat moved. It seemed as if the haze was frozen, making a thick shroud that hid everything that may have existed in these parts - these mythical, magical waters of the Rinayars.

Kaniu had never experienced this extreme cold or seen such misty waters. His heart fluttered with fear. Something is bound to hit my boat. It's only a matter of time before the old thing's shattered. He was convinced the boat would not survive another blow. It had taken a significant beating from the roaring waters of the Macareth sea. It was a miracle he had made it so far in the boat.

But nothing happened. Some unknown force was keeping his path clear. The old boat kept moving into the unknown, cold mist. It kept getting colder every few strides. Now his teeth chattered, and he crouched awkwardly, wincing and writhing in pain as his back felt a sharp tinge of spasm. This is it. I am dead. All of a sudden - by a flash of survival instinct- it occurred to him he still carried the shawl gifted to him by the old painter back in the city. It definitely looked warm. Now was the time to use it.

He fumbled for the leather bag his father had packed him as he left. Bread, a few coins, a change of clothes. And the old shawl. But all he could see now was faint silhouettes of things around him. It must be here somewhere. He tried mumbling, but his lips were so cold the words hardly came out. Unable to stand, he rolled down from one end to the other of the small, creaky boat, trying to feel for the old leather bag. Every time he reached his trembling hand out, all he could feel was the cold touch of wood. The whirling motions he earlier experienced while crossing the sea of Macareth must have thrown the bag into the open waters. 

Kaniu began losing the hope he felt a few moments ago. Now, he pulled his knees close to his chest. His whole body ached and pained with the cold. He could feel something hard and sharp pierce through his left foot, but the intense cold had numbed his feet. Pictures flashed in front of his eyes as he tried closing them. His father's weak, ailing face. The vague contours of his dead mother. Their home. The wooden toys his father had made him when he was a child. Lecki. Her beautiful, comforting smile. 

I must be dying. He thought as his mind jumped from twig to twig. Dying people see their lives flash in front of their eyes. He had heard old people in his town talk as they drank and smoked and told stories of bygone times.

Several moments passed. Or probably hours. Kaniu must have fallen asleep. He came to, feeling something resting against the back of his head. With great effort, he stretched out his hand. He could feel the touch of leather. He yanked the bag to his side and pulled the shawl out. Aching, paining, and wincing, he managed to pull the shawl over his cold body. The soft wool felt comforting. Soon, he began feeling the warmth. His body no longer shivered. The shawl was working magic. This old, tattered gift was probably going to save his life.

Several hours passed. The pain numbed by the cold this time had reared its head back under the warmth of the shawl. Kaniu came to with a sharp pain in his left foot. He pulled himself up, feeling and fondling his way to the side of the boat. The mist was still thick, but now he could see what was nearby. He had probably brushed his foot against the sharp edge of an old iron hinge. He must have been bleeding. He could see faint blobs on the cold floor.

Soon, there were voices coming from beyond the mist. Drums? Some weird music - rhythmic beating and thumping. This felt strange but also mythical. Somehow, though, Kaniu was no longer scared anymore. He felt a reassurance.

- Anant Dhavale

Copyright Reserved.

Reading poetry..

 

The Mist of the Rinayars

 A tale of the fantastical, the brave, and the chivalrous. 

--

Eight thousand years before the common era, the world was not so much different. Were the means vastly different? Yeah, perhaps. But people were just like they are now if you know what I mean. Kimayar was still the biggest plateau on the whole of the Earth; at least, that is what the inhabitants of the great kingdom of Soloma believed. There was nothing more glorious, prosperous, or beautiful. The plateau overlooked the giant sea of Macareth. The wise men had forbidden crossing the ocean. It was sacred. Crossing the Macareth would have invited the wrath of the sea gods and unknown maladies unto the people of the Soloma.

But Kaniu did not believe this to be the case. He was a young man of twenty-three, all brave and strong from growing up in the alleys of Soloma city. He had survived the streets of the city known for its crime and thuggery. Bamik, his aging father, was the only family he ever had, except for an aunt maybe, of whom Bamik sometimes spoke; when tired from all the day's hard work, he drank Davu, the hard country liquor popular among the commonfolk of the city. Kaniu's mother had died from a plague outbreak ten years ago. Bamik never re-married. 

"I will die alone, a widower, but not betray her." Bamik had vowed on a drunken night. Ten years gone, he had stayed true to his word. But he had aged more than his natural age. Kaniu could see it in his father's tired eyes and his thing hands that shook on their own now and then.

"You don't need to work anymore, Father," he had once said to Bamik. "I am earning now. I can take care of you."

"I don't want to stop, my boy," Bamik had responded. "Life is all about hard work. We must work until our last breath, as the gods wish."

"How do you know the gods will us to do only hard work? What if they want us to make money and live a good life?" Kaniu had asked.

"I am a simple man, Kaniu. I do not have the answers to such questions." Bamik had responded in a low, resigned voice before dozing off to sleep.

" I know the answers, father." Kaniu had whispered, "And I am willing to go to great lengths to change the story of our lives." 

**

All rights reserved.

Copyright © A.S.Dhavale (Anant Dhavale)

What the Tornado Left Behind

My poetry collection is now available on Amazon. ‬This is the outcome of the sabbatical I had over the last few months.

https://www.amazon.com/What-Tornado-Behind-ANANT-DHAVALE/dp/B0C2SCNY1V/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1HO0LCJ8FWNPW&keywords=anant+dhavale+what+the+tornado+left+behind&qid=1697394802&sprefix=%2Caps%2C80&sr=8-1

Haiku

a quiet evening

the clock hand moves n' moves

click clickety click

-

Anant Dhavale

Haiku

I want to let go of

a few things urbane

be the simple kid I was

-

Anant Dhavale

Haiku

 at once alarmed, the

flock takes off in a jiffy

sounds of flaps linger

*

 at once alarmed, the

flock takes off in an instant

a flutter reverberates

- 

Anant Dhavale

Haiku

deep blue and 

untroubled - this pure

thought of yours

-

Anant Dhavale

Haiku

surreal summers

a fragile gloss adorns days

a stupor tends to nights

-

Anant Dhavale

Haiku

years have become

weathered charms of time

strings of dust

-

Anant Dhavale

Haiku

a depressed afternoon

sullen sky looms large

this, here, now.

-

Anant Dhavale

Social SciFi

Categorizing this book has become hard for me. This book has sci-fi elements, but it is essentially about human behavior!

Anyways here's the link :

Days of the Waning Sun - A space opera

 My first foray into fiction - Nobody's War' is now available on Amazon.

A Haiku

years have become

weathered charms of time

strings of dust

-

Anant Dhavale

A Million Years ( edited)

 On whose shoulders perches the eagle? 

Who mourns through gusts of eastern rushing winds?

A boy who grew up in dullness could never escape it

gripped by a melancholy

too great for his little heart

But the band marched on

he watched decades descend on the great delta,

hoping for better days -

an ascent of his own

Grief is borne out of grief

and nothing more occurs

The valley surged with new delights

newer clans took over the streets and the

capitalist mansions of hallowed democracies

But his rising never arrived

He wrote, and he kept writing

To the rise of the valley and his own ennui

Everything shall pass 

Nothing will remain :

the tree that gave you shelter, 

 the 'you' that took the shelter, the shelter that gave, 

or the act of taking. 

there is no greater conundrum,

than a meaningless wait,

no sadness bigger than what dwells in your heart

you, the tiny island of life

in you, revolves the end

He walked with a peasant's feet,

with smells of soil in his soul

through his eyes flew the monsoons, the dreary summers

the toil of generations – scattered along the sparse shadows of Neem

We were no warriors; our king taught us to fight.

Cities – glittering settlements of hollow people in their

grim, sky-high sepulchers of opulence

Cities – the urban barrens of wealth and dust and smoke

they mocked him,

Pushed him back – crushed him to death

Never the truth – and the truth lays

scattered in feathers of slain birds

sullen backroads covered in blood and soot

He walked into the cold, dark gray blossoms

"Who am I, my beloved?" he asked the universe

"Where am I headed?"

decades have passed, and he hasn't reached anywhere,

And the Godavari, she

has flown past another

million years.

-

Anant Dhavale

A note to the readers of this blog

I have kept this blog as a journal up until now. Most of my work here is largely unedited and needs cleaning up - which I intend to do over the coming days. 

Thanks for your patience!

Haiku

 years have become 

weathered charms of time 

strings of dust 

Anant Dhavale

copyright © Anant Dhavale

Haiku

 years have become 

vague notions of the past 

a string of rays and dust 

Anant Dhavale

copyright © Anant Dhavale

Haiku

quarantine or not

the spring is bound to arrive

the blossoms fear none

-

Anant Dhavale

Haiku

at once alarmed, the 

flock takes off in a jiffy

sounds of flaps linger

-

Anant Dhavale

Copyright © Anant Dhavale

Haiku

 deep blue and

untroubled - this pure 

thought of yours

-

I want to let go of

a few things urbane

be the simple kid I was

-

Anant Dhavale

Copyright © Anant Dhavale

Of Spring and Hope

 (Wote this poem many years ago, and I have kept editing it since. )

Wheelchair tucked into the table

she can hardly breathe, and yet
he tries to feed her smaller morsels

God knows how many jobs
she had worked
to feed him

Her head wobbles every so often
and the tissues keep falling off

He slowly tucks them back

She can hardly eat

all she wants is to spend some time
with her boy
before it all comes
crumbling down

He holds a glass of water.
she sips a drop or two
and shakes her head
the effort
takes a toll on her weary life

The day is dying bit by bit and
the sky is probably crimson red outside

Spring is slowly making its way,
they say it brings hope and life for the 
new and the old

Days dissolve into dusk
nights roll into dawns;
the coherence
simple and easy, caring
like doting mothers
and loving sons

The tissues keep falling off, 
and God knows why but
I got tears in my eyes

 
--
Anant Dhavale
Copyright © Anant Dhavale

From my WIP novella

Nuggets from ‘Nobody’s War’

 

 

 

‘Liberals, my friend, are bad for business.’

 

‘Politics and poetry betray logic, Kwaqa.’

 

‘It always takes an outsider. For better or for worse.’

 

‘I do not age. I may die, but only if a system somewhere thinks it’s my time.’

 

‘Men my age die alone, in sleep.’

 

‘One must be in their element, no matter the situation.’

  

‘There is a certain joy that poetry exudes. A sadness too. A beautiful, blue sadness.’

 

‘Trust means nothing to us. It’s a phony construct. We do not deal in such currencies.’

 

‘For some, information is a deterrent. For some, it is a call to action. For us, it is plain and simple leverage.’

 

‘Her face shines in the moonlight like a sculpture. It’s his sculpture, a picture he has imagined and drawn and chiseled in his mind, a ripple of glimmer, a momentary breeze. For him, this togetherness lasts forever, though his mind tells him otherwise.’

 

 Anant Dhavale 

A poem

 Now this calm, now this tumult

how we’ve closed these circles - a lapse,

a gossamer of things gone, things to be 

When old age strikes, and we wince and writhe in pain, what would these loves mean then? Broken statuettes of yore. Faded artifacts from another time.

Guilt hangs from the gilded gates - 

years recounted, faces rehashed 

This, here is how looking back looks like 

-

Anant Dhavale

A haiku

a quiet evening
the clock hand moves and moves on
click clickety click

--

Anant Dhavale

In progress

Dear reader - I appreciate you stopping by this blog. I haven't really been able to write much poetry lately because I've been working on a novella. In the interim, I also tried out some of my Urdu and Marathi poetry. I have a few poems brewing in the background though, want to post them here as soon as I am able to get them in a coherent form !

Three Couplets

 

 

Three She'rs from an Urdu Ghazal  

یوں ساون میرے گھر آیا 

کمروں میں پانی بھر آیا 

بیٹھا تھا بڑوں کی مجلس میں 

سو اونچیں  باتیں کر آیا 

پھر ہمنے وہی نادانی کی 

پھر پیش وہی منظر آیا

اننت ڈ'ھولے 

Anant Dhavale

© Anant Dhavale