Tuesday, October 27, 2009

A Vague Dream

How strange is the chase
for dreams that don't have a visage
Nor a definition

A vague hill...fluid, unbounded
A valley of unidentified flowers..
yellow and white
a soul, soul-mate-like
unnamed, without a face
but well-defined fingers
that slide behind my ears
to tuck a stray strand of hair..
And time..is frozen..
ice-cold. But its pleasantly warm
under the skin of my cheeks

I see no colour
hear no sound
as I try to identify
But all I am left with
is a dream
and its characteristic uncertainty
that tests my patience
bit by bit, crystal by crystal
through a narrow decade-glass
of Not Knowing

The mist above the hills
grows denser
and you walk away
leaving behind the illusion
of a smile, and the reality
of longing

This poem is linked to the Poetry Pantry at Poets united. Do visit them to share your work, or just to read some beautiful poems by other poets. 

Thursday, October 01, 2009

Such A Story

I am craving...for a nice, sweet, simple love story. One where they see each other and notice their hearts skip a beat. Where they steal glances at each other whenever he crosses the well where she comes to fill water. Where eventually, he gathers the courage to smile at her and she feels a thud in her chest. And the next day, she smiles, her face flushed. And this time, he feels the thud, and the thunderbolt. Where they finally meet and walk together in the yellow mustard fields. Where he plays the flute under a tree and she lies down in his lap, almost asleep, being caressed by the music and the gentle afternoon breeze. Where they look at each other and don't say anything...just smile...or may be cry. Where he fills the red sindoor in her maang, and she finds herself, completely transformed, completely surrendered to him, in that one moment. Where he goes off to the fields and she cooks for him, and waits for him. And the droplets of sweat glisten on her face when she holds up the lantern while opening the door for him. Where he sees a choodi-vendor and buys some choodis for her, smiling in his own thoughts. And she notices a missing button in his shirt and stitches it deftly, carefully, as if she could pour all the love in those stitches. Where they spend lazy afternoons alternating the hand fan between them, staring at the ceiling fan that never moves. Where she sells her bangles for his mother's medicines, and he kisses her on the forehead, both of them, overwhelmed, in that moment. Where they sit on the chaar-pai outside the house on a summer night...talking about the stars. Where the night plays its part, and the wind plays its own part, modulating their breaths, their heartbeats. Where he goes away to the city, and she waits....imagining, every moment, what he must be doing, writing a letter each day.....and keeping them safely....to give them all together when he comes back. Where he watches the moon after a long day at work and wonders if she's watching it too. Where they can't sleep the night before he is to come back. Where tears flow unrestricted in that moment of reunion until the throat gets blocked...by weird longings, belongings, admissions, anticipations.
It has been very long...since someone told me...such a story...