About CC

P C K Prem (P. C. Katoch 1945 of Malkher Garh, Palampur--176 061, a former academician, civil servant and Member, Public Service Commission, Shimla, Himachal), an author of more than fifty books, post-graduated (1970) in English literature from Punjab University, Chandigarh, is a bilingual poet, novelist, short story writer, translator and critic (English and Hindi) from Himachal, India. He is a recipient of more than twenty literary/social awards including HP State Guleri & Academy Awards and Bharat Hindi Rattan Award. He can be contacted at pckprem.katoch@gmail.com.

1. Bondages

I am free I claim

Without everything is free

it looks.

And then bondages of men

Scribble their identities

On the rock,

And make a handy admission

That man is free and proclaims,

That life does not care

For the whole is

All That and This.

All imposition worthless in men

When without is free

The winds, the waters and the hills,

And the stars are free

And without any limit,

The ocean, the sun and the moon

Compact and bright are all,

There remains the Whole

Out of the Whole

Let there be peace, and peace.

Fill the life in homes that men make

In society that men created,

Still no one feels free

A dichotomy running without a stop,

So a hesitant decline to accept

That all are in bondages.

So listen without understanding

To the parables of the Sower

The Darnel and the Dragnet,

Waiting for someone to expound,

The fear and the bondages

In order to fulfill a prophecy

But I shall always refuse

To understand,

So I am here facing the blazing furnace.

2. Ego

When I collect like lollipops

clippings from newspapers

of half-truths and lies

I ask an uncouth derelict

Into truths that never existed.

For I often remember Chanakya

and Machiavelli in obsolete tit-bits

to assist me in distorting truth

so that a new scene is visualized.

This brings me close to Hitler

who cries for blood in guttural bursts

that mount high to reach deafening shemozzle

insisting in delirium

to handle a cresset

and allow release of an ego

before a hack-saw.

There I began to look out for parallels

and invectives against world helpless

which rise to a frenzied pitch

when a vast assemblage becomes dumb

and listens to angry words spellbound

without gurgitation

when a Confucius submits.

Such words of hate in grunts and spasms

and doctrined in historical perspectives

always a spoken truth

like a messiah

who issues forthwith a sizzling warning

that when I visit my tomb in ruins

it will be a death for all

because this way I hate truth

and refuse to raise myself on a stage

for this shall hurt my ego.

3. I Do Not Know

And I do not know.

I know

but I do not know.

I understand the limits

of ideas running across

the boundaries un-demarcated.

A man in thoughts taking counsel

thinking of blazing golden peaks

cherishes me.

And of terrific churning

sans mount Mandara

thus he finds poison only

accompanies to the stage

to recall a union in dreams

with Daughter of the Mountain

to produce mighty Rudra

the child of Fire

and a bundle of confusions

opens up

when eyes look around.

I know I am sleeping

I am fully conscious

and I am not sleeping.

It is death

between sleep and awakening

without life

a vulgar invitation

a counter check

to arrest an insignia

of knowledge when I know

I do not know.

4. As I Fly

Sweet and sour to fly

along the clouds

in a crowd

with the genie of Aladdin

and a lamp in hand

as wishes are rewarded

and appetite unparallel teases.

I simply fly in the terrestrial world

of Confucius and world undefined.

Good to world nothing at stake

lectures fine and healthy

affect under a Bunyan tree

spread like a crocodile

as an octopus is on the run

that forecasts haphazardly

to befool a man of science

as a mad crowd flashes news

on idiot-boxes

One nutty tells of Krishna serpent

holding the earth

saving from a catastrophe

to trust is bad and certain

while Holy Grail is buried.

A Hanuman looks up

men and monkeys on hills,

in search of a Jungle Book

of ancient wise men

either Arayankas or Samhitas

turn up to save breathings on earth

to commemorate sick matters.

5. Knickers

Entrenched in orthodoxy

safe to gesture future

you don’t question.

White caps or brown knickers

trendy ideals these are.

Old parents told.

Ancient customs

people accept,

a token charity

words juicy flow.

Old men told

I am not a great man

change is dangerous,

if I insist on white and brown

it shall eliminate.

I learnt the truth

beyond an age,

futile to revise pluck.

Old persons exhorted

blurted fixed mores,

while politicians as sleazy patriarchs

renovate culture.

Status quo stinks

forget in orgies

sport of chaos,

the old insisted.

Old men tread the true path.

Ancient rituals breathe

obsolete tenets

and refuse to grow,

not stoical

not redundant

but sexually opulent.

Patriarchs imitate God

escape charge of incest,

grandson goes to sacrificial alter

revitalizing inability it is

to recoup wrinkly bodies.

I wisely forget.

White-caps, brown knickers

of fake godheads

and ethics to the hilt,

they understand

in life nothing changes,

I wash headgear and undergarments,

smeared with stains red.

Words belittle old rituals,

cultural aberrations

muck dotted,

but live in glory so.

Void cannot change

talks of variations continue,

of the vestiges that are rebuilt,

so redefine tenets to be modern

dismantle for safety,

as new horizon hails.

Old continue trills in voices

abstruse burble,

a new born in old structure

stagnant and fusty.

Looking up, old men laugh

at Trishanku, not a myth

in disfigured visages.