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

Dawn

You fell on me
gently, like a wistful drop of dew
on my million lonely dawns
when sleepy eyed
I had watched the sun rise
and closed my eyes again
to dream of the dusk in your porch
You fell on me
warmly, like the whimsical figment
of morning light that makes its way
through the crevices of our joined bodies
and weighs down my eyes
as I watch you
breathing, sleeping, dreaming

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.

May be

May be we shall meet

only after the moon

has been half asleep

and the heart, sleepless, 

awakes to solitary dreams

May be you will keep searching me

touching me and exploring me

through your words

on such long breezy nights

and go about your life

the next morning

May be that is how we will stay 

in what we call love

deeply, dreamily




Shared with Poets United.

Last night

You came last night

dressed in your best suit 

My heart fluttered 

as you smiled

that familiar, disarming smile 

That gold wrapped box 

you held 

glistened

in the light of the moon 

that looked almost

like a halo behind you 

But it was blurred 

by the mist in my eyes 

as you placed 

under my feet

those beautiful ballerina shoes

And I lost myself to the music 

and to you

for what seems like an eternity 

It still smells of you 

all around me 

almost as if 

you were really here last night 

Just you 

and me

No accident 

No wheelchair

Linked to One Shot Wednesday. Happy Birthday to the site!

Gathering Dust

Picture by Rob Hanson

Its been a year

since the end of anticipation

since the last of the million times

she picked the receiver

to check if the line still worked

and placed it back

with shaking wrinkled hands

He had said he would call

to tell her how high 

the jet had flown

How inviting the sky seemed

even at war

'Although there are
no borders in sky'

She had observed and sighed

He was thrilled beyond words

Too thrilled to hear the prayers

she muttered 

beneath her shaky breath

Then one day, the phone rang

and severed the last thread of hope

in her tiny fretting heart

Yes, the battle is won,

but he was her only son

The phone, his victory, her life

since that day, gather dust.

The picture that inspired this poem is taken by Rob Hanson, who is interviewed today at One Stop Poetry, and lends his picture for the Picture Prompt Challenge. If you are inspired by his picture, or if you would like to read other entries inspired by it, visit One Stop Poetry. 

Old Woman In The Moon

As a child, I was very choosy about food. It was a pain to feed me. The only possible way to make me eat my meal was to distract me with stories. My mother was a wonderful narrator, and she had a rich stock of stories to tell me. My father, however, would have a hard time as I would ask questions when the stories did not make sense, and I could tell when he was making them up.
Once, when I had a stomach infection, I woke up in the middle of the night due to pain. My mother went to the kitchen to cook the only thing that I would agree to eat those days, and my father picked me up and took me out on the verandah. I must have been four years old then. My father wiped the tears off my face and showed me the moon and the pattern of an old woman in it. The memory of that night still transports me to that verandah with the cool summer breeze drying my tears, the sound of utensils clattering in the kitchen as my mother prepared my food, the moonlight washing the street outside, the comfort of my father's lap, the peacefulness of midnight with the knowledge that the world is asleep, and the pattern of a kind old woman watching over us from the moon.

Somewhere, something inside me had captured the beauty of it all, for me to cherish years later, on a similar summer night.

Its a Warm Winter Afternoon

I ran away from your thoughts

all night

and sat down on the bench

in the park by the lake side
where I had seen you

that first time.

Here, you permeate me,

like the winter sun

that shines all afternoon

and brings the most dreamy naps

I allow your dreams

and this time,

they glisten and shine

as the children play

and the churchbells chime

The world spills over

on my search for you

and I seek you out

in a lonely stroller

who walks about

and stops to admire

the fallen, golden leaves

that crunch into my heart

as the wind blows

the hair off your eyes

I peep into them

Deep and blue

and I open my eyes

again, without you

Its a warm winter afternoon

and you have come around

in my poetry.

Again.

Thanks to Poets United for the above picture prompt. Park benches can inspire such varying lines of thoughts.   So much happens on a park bench! Love, heartbreak, the frolic of childhood, the agonies of adulthood, the imaginations of a poet, the laments of loss, the mundane gossip of everyday life, the lonely memories of old age! This beautiful picture is taken by Ella Wilson.

You might also like: A Vague Dream

Toy Story

What is true art but something that evokes emotions - genuine, sharp emotions. While I passed by Channapatna, the land of toys, I stopped by to admire this native and old form of wooden toy making, and I spotted this one (the picture above). While all the other toys will also adorn the house and bring a smile to a child's heart, this one- single piece, lying in a corner, seemed to have a tale of its own. There is sadness, ignorance, experience, and a haunting silence about this toy that makes it a masterpiece in my eyes. The couple shake their spring necks under their loaded heads, and in the attempt to amuse, they screech a muted story of toil, poverty, negligence, burdened love, and of an anonymous artist who sat down in a corner to pour out his stories in his work.

Love

 Love, 

What we share 

is sweet and scented

and dream-like

A story that movies are based on

Just sometimes I wonder

if behind those celluloid smiles

and happy sing song tunes

hides a muffled song

like the one of my soul

that does not fit in verses 

but that plays, without cue

on nights like these when you refuse

to grant me your friendship

and peep into my heart

When you surround yourself

with walls of silence 

and leave me on the other side

solitary and unheard

On these nights my love

I sing silent songs of longing

of a faraway land and a kingdom

and a princess and a prince

that kissed and made up

and lived happily ever after

Linked to One Single Impression. This week's theme was Love :)

P.S. The picture was clicked by me on my trip to Travemunde beach near Lubeck, Germany. Let me know what you think. :)

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.

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

You....

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. 

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...

To NDA, With Love :)

On this nostalgic Sunday morning, I raise a toast to NDA, for being a part of our identities. To those endless preparations for talent nights, sports days, teachers' days, debates, elocutions, one-act plays, to those majestic corridors where we laughed and ran during the breaks, those morning assemblies and prayers, that 'Big Field' with that 'magic' brick boundary which could 'make your wishes come true' if you completed one round without falling. To the canteen and the panipuri wala. To the grand Julie Hall that we thronged for all occasions. To the chapel where we prayed whenever we were unprepared for a test. To the mysterious sisters' convent where we weren't allowed to go. To Mrs. Bhavana Shekhar for her motherly attention to details and for kindling my affair with the Hindi language. To Mrs. Rekha Srivastava for her oh-so-fabulous accent that could make anyone fall in love with the English language, to Mrs. Madan for being the strict disciplinarian that she was and for always pushing us towards those perfectly tailored 'to-the-point' CBSE format answers. To Mrs. Tresa David for her infectious love for numbers, to Mrs. Sujata Mukherjee for those free periods and Mrs. Sushma Prasad for being a wonderful person and encouraging class teacher. To Miss Ekata Harshavardhan for supporting us when we needed her despite the hard times that we gave her. To Sister Joan, wasn't she the most innocent creature possible? To her music classes where she made us clap at 'clap with your hands, our God is good' , and to her Value Education classes where she taught us the Ten Commandments with extra elaboration of the 'Do not covet..' part ; ) . To that 12th std English class where we sang a prayer of rain with her and it actually rained. To those long queues of Michaelites, Loyolites, Boscons, etc outside the gate, who no matter how much we pretended to hate, managed to boost our teenage egoes everyday. Toast to Sister Jayshree, we grumbled and made fuss but we knew you were the best administrator possible. May your soul rest in peace. Toast to Shubhangi, Chinu, Nishu, Sneh, Nidhi, Sachi, Garima....my comfort circle, my friends for life..and to the uncountable magical moments we spent together. To Ruchi, Pallo and Monica who meant to me in their own special ways. To every single day spent in that second home that shaped us into who we are. To those memories that are still as fresh as if it all happened yesterday. To that ideology of Notre Dame where strength of character and truthfulness came first and material success second. To the 'women of substance' that it strived to turn us into. To all the girls in red who will undoubtedly rule the world and who will always remain Damians at heart. No matter where they go. Cheers...

The Secret

Snehal walked on the sand- barefoot, lost- neither happy, nor sad, just peaceful. Full of sea smell and the taste of humid breeze. She sat on a stone, gazing at the horizon, at the sun that was setting away from her day to rise into his. She felt connected. To him, to the sun, to the unfathomable sea, to the changing sky, to the birds that returned home in flocks, to the empty shell under her toe. She looked up at the lighthouse and noticed two lovers watching the sunset from above, silhouetted in orange, dusky red, and then grey, as if morphing into souvenirs. Souvenirs of the beautiful moments that had slowly, stealthily grown into memories. And now, they were her most treasured belongings- the hysterical laughters, the unembarassed tears, the crazy stories, the fast music, the long drives; life, in hindsight, looked like a fast forwarded reel. Only at some points, it stoppped. Like the day they spent building castles of sand. Like the game during which they exchanged dolls as a promise to be together forever. Like the day he picked up a fight with the bully of the colony for her sake. Like the evening she spent waiting for him in the park, full of anticipation, anxiety, hoping he would come (though she hadn't called him and he didn't come). Like the night of college fest that they danced away. Like that night on the beach when they came close, when friendship crept away from between them like sand from a tight fist, only to make way for something else. Bigger or better was for fate to decide. She smiled at the moon. It smiled back, a mischievous smile, as if it held a secret it wouldn't disclose. She understood. She had secrets too. In her heart and in her womb. She inhaled the scent of wet sand and closed her eyes, trying to listen to the second heartbeat. She wondered if it smelt what she smelt, felt what she felt, if it was aware of the strange pangs of love that she felt for it, love that choked her, engulfed her, transformed her. She did not know the answer. But she was content with the not knowing. She felt complete. She got up to leave. Tomorrow he would be made party to yet another secret of hers. Rest was for fate to decide.

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…

The whiff of life in the morning air
Those sights the heart beheld!
The noisiness of the playful river

that the silence of the mountains bequeath!!

The spirit's merry,broad-winged flight
while on an appalling course
...and on the zenith of the night
the indulgence in repose!

When after a long chaotic slumber
a familiar blessing voice reminds
one by one in astounding numbers
the melodies we left behind!!

The crashing cymbals in the heart
when the churchbells solemn chime
The crumps of longing in throat enmasse
listening to a forgotten rhyme....

The subtle songs of love and praise
that evolve with us through time!
The lovely caress of life's embrace
like the smell of earth.....divine! sublime!!