Refugees

Do not worry
for the generations
to come
for they shall forget
the loss and blood;
for history
is selective
and is written
by conquerors.

Lets just hold a fistful
of soil
and weep
just a little
as we leave behind
childhoods and love songs
marriages and separations
tears and laments
of our half-lives,
while we turn overnight
into something
distant and unknown
that they call 
refugees.

Hold on to the soil and weep
for our kind, they say
are forgetful
but the land
the land
shall remember all

That time of the year

Its that time of the year again . . .
The nights are starry and almost cold
and it is almost the season of love

Its that time of the year again . . .
when people take out their overcoats
and walk on the pavements we had walked.
Once.
With the stars brightening our eager souls
and our hearts fluttering in the breeze . . .

The city is almost dressed up again . . .
with yellow flowers and fragrances
and a few leaves are dying again
to be crushed by couples walking under trees
so that new love can be born . . .

Its that time of the year again . . .
when we had walked the stretches of the city
on foot and heart, and on hopefulness
when we had wished upon stars
and lit candles in old historical churches
for the unknowns and the uncertains . . .

Its that time of the year again . . .
and my heart breathes out
warm dreams that we had weaved
upon a broken star
that no one wished on . . .

Tonight.

Tonight, love me not
for the luster of my locks
or the softness of my eyes
Do not compare
to velvet, my voice
or to music, my laughter
Tonight,
take off my pretense
and watch me
naked with my sorrows
Kiss the disillusions on my eyelids
and touch on my trembling lips
the laments of a life
not entirely mine
Find in me the night
that has stagnated in some corner
as an endless wait
and the darkness that smells
of unfulfilled promises
and unfinished songs
Tonight,
drink from the cup
of my regrets
and soak in my solitude
Tonight, lets be solitary
together

Ambient Light

[I often narrate in first person, but I am just a story teller. Almost everything I write here is fiction. This poem is from the perspective of a man remembering his wife.]


The light escaping from the screens
falls on our photograph on the side table
You and me, dim shadows
warm candle light
You were high on champagne
and laughed that hearty laugh
and my heart glowed a little brighter
than the ambient light
I had held you by the waist
and you were laughing loud
facing the ceiling
when the camera clicked


"You will have to move on"
you had said, teary eyed
as I had hushed you
and told you about the advances in science
I lived in denial, you said
and showed me the statistics
You saw the seventy percent
I tried desperately for the thirty
That was uncharacteristic of us both


I was painting the porch
for the imminent summer
and watching the butterflies
in the garden
when the doctor had called
He had the reports
Its all too distinct now
the smell of paint
the warm breeze
the exact brightness of the afternoon
All the months that followed are blurry
syringes and wards
disinfectants and phone calls
Identical days of urgent rush
and my solitary tears at night
I often watched that picture of us
to remember your laughter
and the long golden tresses
that chemo took away from you
You still looked beautiful though
Nothing could take away the twinkle
of your hazel eyes


I often sat by the bed
wondering
in what precise moment
the white cells in your blood
decided to mutate
and tip the beginning of our journey
into a cruel terminal
Your pale skin
smelled of lilies that night
when the moon was full
and you had shown me
how the diamond on your finger
glittered
"Preserve me in your poetry
when I am gone"
I have kept that part of the promise
But it feels unnecessary to move on
anywhere away
from your pervasive smell
that dwells in the house
and from our togetherness
that comes alive
in perfect tenses
on full moon nights


Shared with Poets United.

Oblivion

Toothless smile

oblivious

of the still silence

in the room

She will never know

what its like

to lose a mother

Love Died

There was a love who died. No, it was not resurrected, not even on Easter. It died a sudden death. True, it was not doing well for a while. But its death was like that of a man dying of common cold. Shocking, mocking, almost comic.

P.S. This is just a random scribble. To me, this story is complete in itself. But if it inspires you take these words and create something more, I will be interested to read. Leave me a comment! :)




P.P.S. I am still on the 'break', and I am enjoying these days of refrain when blogging does not come much in the way of life. I have moved to a bigger, more airy house that overlooks a park, and I love it! Thanks for your love!

Polymorphism

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"

The teacher's voice comes muffled to her ears, mingled with multiple different threads of thoughts. She sees class 8A going to the playground in a queue. Her best friend winks at her from outside the window and mouths 'Games' explaining the cause of her imminent freedom from the classroom. She acknowledges the unsolicited information and turns back, to look at the Lesson board, which announces the Chemistry class topic 'Polymorphism', many forms. She wonders if tonight will be different. Or will something she says get on her mother's nerves again. Last week, she mentioned how funny someone's dad is, and it went really ugly. She had to pick the pieces of the shattered china and give her the blood pressure medicines before she could run to her room and cry her heart out. She deflects the thoughts. Turns it to when her mom wakes her up in the mornings and apologizes with genuine tears. Her throat chokes, and blood gushes at the recollection, its like a craving for something you really really want, something that makes you so happy, it embarrasses you. All she does in those moments is smile. Too much articulation is not a convention in their relationship. Her mind soon roves to that first night, when she saw her, tipsy stepped, smudged make-up, getting down from his car. He helped her in and sat her on the couch, all the time ignoring that there was someone else, wide-eyed, terrified, confused, standing in the room. She hated him, she hated that woman on the couch, laughing the saddest possible laugh, looking at her through the most helpless and disappointed eyes.The next morning, she lay in bed expecting her to come in and try to make up for the night, but she didn't come. Instead, that morning, she was at her best fake happiness, wearing a mask of unshakeable confidence to disguise her haunted conscience. At her polymorphic best. Many forms. "Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation". She wonders what Shakespeare's life would have been like, for him to gain this enviable talent. She envies the ability of expression. She envies the other girls of the class who are always so glib and smooth, and who laugh so easily. She wonders if her hair is frizzy again. She wonders if tonight, she'll again dream of her father, throwing her little self up in the air on a golden afternoon amidst mustard fields. She wonders if this time he will finally be able to catch her back, or if the dream will again end in free fall.

Thanks to Carry On Tuesday for the wonderfully inspiring prompt that made the story happen.

She is a child, after all

The smell of cigarettes and shoes, the noise of ‘chai’, and a predominant feeling of dust all over me; I’m drowsy; and I force myself to look out of the train window as someone mentions ‘Bandra’. I get down, uncertain, fast heart-beat, heavy steps; I’m thinking of the orphanage I ran away from, I’m tired of running, my breath is heavy, hot, difficult; its hot, very hot, and suffocating, too many people, there’s sweat, and stink, and shove, and I’m too small; I wish I could be taller, soon. Someone shouts, “You! Boy!” I turn. I see khaki. I run. Again. Fast. Very fast. Till I am far far away. But I keep running. Because I can’t stop. I try to stop. I can’t. Why am I so small? Why am I running? Oh the ditch! I need to stop running!

It was a dream. I need to wake up. I can’t open my eyes. There is still noise. And wailing. Numbers. Lots of numbers.

“What about 143?”

“85% burns. Still unconscious”

“Hmmm, Observe for some more time. We need beds. There’s a fucking queue outside.”

I still can’t open my eyes.

“Glucose!” “We can’t do anything” “No”, Wailing, “Sorry”, “Get the injection!” “Fast!” “Who the fuck left it here” “Burns” “We are out of bandages” “Number 21”

Why can’t I open my eyes? I feel pain. It boils. Overflows. I should sleep. I’m slipping. There’s a thud. In my chest. It’s the scent! Oh God!

I run and run for a long time. I stop there. The chai shop. I run no more. I breathe. Chacha Jaan. The saucepan. Brown masala chai. Ilaichi. Hot. Money. Labor. Tears. The tea boils. Overflows. Like something else that I can’t remember now. It stains the slab. I clean it with the cloth on my shoulder. For a very long time. “Ek chai”. I pour it through the filter. I get tipped. One rupee. Gandhi on the coin. I wonder why.

They order it from the house today. I carry the metal stand. 6 cups. Daddu on the khaat. He smiles. He talks cricket. He talks of his days, years ago. It was a better world. Cheap. Good. He laughs. She laughs. I look at her. She smells of lilac and jasmine oil, or something like that. She runs behind her brother, and laughs. Adjusts her anklet, and laughs. Teases her mother, and laughs. Her eyes water. She smudges all her soorma with her dupatta. I smile. She is a child after all. I feel much taller, stronger. She is a delicate little girl. God bless her.

The scent fills the air. I see nothing else. Just her small feet and her green dupatta tangled in her anklet.

“They are coming!” I see them, coming towards Mohammad Ali Road. I see swords. And sticks. And a lot of saffron. Fire. Shouts. They are at her gate. They are banging. I hide and watch. Jumman comes out, and the other brothers and cousins. The gate is locked quickly. They are fighting. They are hurt. I know one of ‘them’. He plays cricket with Jumman and me. He is not himself. No one is themselves. It makes no sense. My heart will pound out. I need to hide. I am ashamed. Why can’t I fight? But I don’t. I am scared. For life. For her. I can’t run. Anymore. I peep out the back window. She is outside the back door. With the other women of the house. And her small brother. She clutches his hand. She stares back. With her big, black eyes. Will she ever smudge her soorma again? They are already there. I squat. I press my head between my knees and squat. I wait for them. They kick me. “Hindu ya Musalman?” I wish I knew. I can’t speak. The boy I know sprinkles the kerosene oil. They step out. Everything burns. Instantly. For a long time.

“She is critical.”

“Hmmm..We observe for a few minutes”

I inhale her scent. I shut my eyes hard. I won’t try to open them anymore. Give her a chance. She is a child after all.

Open Diary - 27th October

I feel it too often these days-this strange déjà vu, this tendency to cling to sadness when I ought to be happy, to be celebrating. There’s something amiss in the picture of life, or may be there’s an extra piece somewhere that I can’t remove no matter how hard I try. The wind- it makes me so numb, so blue as if I’m not where I ought to be or I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be. It brings with it such distinct, fresh memories that they refuse to register as memories- they become the here and now with every hollow breath, every single sensation alive. I dive deep into it, knowing it leads only to nowhere. Darkness has a strange charisma about it. It invites you with open arms and you somehow melt into them. There’s a certain glory, a liberation in every single tear you shed. Its as if you’re accepting, embracing, and may be even forgiving yourself for your mistakes. I just figured why life does not have a rewind button. Its something like a computer program with multiple threads. It takes different paths of execution every time you run it. So may be even if you had a rewind button, you couldn’t go back to exactly where you wanted to- the butterfly effect of life…