Victim of gadgets and networks Funny, how we think of flowers, trees and birds chirping- A foliage from mountains and waves from unknown seas drift right across the bittersweet memory lane Days pass by- A few with new learnings A few with breath afresh A few with just breaths.
Meaning or none; Feelings or some Time- it doesn’t cease From bud- to flower- to withered remnants all lost in blink of an eye We try to heal from “wounds of actions” Only to find ourselves etched with “scars of experience” Creations once brimming with youth Narrations now by voices forever tired A medley of gallantry: no, I am not certain A hum of survival: a lullaby before I say the final goodbye.
Oh no! This isn’t a sight the artists would paint pretty But the one the poets would run away from in search of peace Yet the writers would love to stumble upon the chaos- For the “rush” that inspires an early mid-life crisis or a moral turmoil once in a while. I might speak otherwise, but the city- it has my heart; Born here- you’ll never realise the difference Travel a step or two: within this city you’ll come across abundant hues. The roads here are always rushing The streets crave for pin drop silence- Alas! All they accomplish is pitch dark corners; Harbouring a new crime or conning a judge for an event soon to be deemed “historic”. History here once was a matter of gallantry and pride- Memoirs of war heroes; battles- now merely “narrated scars”, Monuments standing tall and wide; Crossroads named after idols who once had a future bright But how come the present is dusted with a “phenomenon” called smog? Is it a roof over head for those who are “forced” to sleep beneath the stars on the umpteen footpaths? Men and women torturing each other inside homes, keeping themselves vocal But no one to raise a voice against the unjust! Oh yes! Communities for festivities and fancy parties But in times of hardship are we all alone? I might speak otherwise, but does the city have my heart?
She was painting a picture, Water blue, the sky lit white Shore had yellow, mustard, a bit of brown But how did the sea in her picture make that sound? Bikini and sunglasses, readers and surfers But why could he not un-see that sundress fluttering and listen to that one girl thinking? The bushes were green; flowers dotted pink, yellow and red But why it was the wilted ones who talked beyond words? The memories were clear, the picture being painted with a hint of quagmire But why were the details from that one dialogue reading between the forbidden lines?
Been stuck in a room; now for a while? The windows are at a stand still, The curtains flutter towards the familiar edges, The walls- they wouldn’t move The fan hums in an absurd harmony while the roof reeks of monotony- Truth be told, the time has come Try and take heed beyond that stubborn door.
Been trapped in a city full of lights; now feels like a lifetime? The road is drenched with noise The flicker of the red light glitters; Yet it doesn’t appease the one in your eyes The sky is dawned with dusk The pace now depraves the lust for the details- Truth be heard, the time has come Try and find peace in a lover’s arms.
Been loved like never before, now for an eternity? The walk- the talk- the fears- the tears- Lived through them all The fun and games have been left behind Curiosity now pays the debt of adapting; The stories aren’t wicked anymore, Just crooked with yet another encore Truth be felt, the time has come Try and stop being a slave to your inner boredom.
You came across these words Glad, probably intrigued Hence, here I assume you have a shelter to retreat I know you can read; I wish you understand.
The world has come to a standstill; even though for a brief timid while- It had been all over the headlines But there’s a mother in a village who knows not why- The world is shutting down While her’s isn’t even around. What went wrong? Why was the voice trembling in those last few calls? A wife cooks that humble delicacy now reduced to two or even one meal She might not understand the written- But deciphers the silent cries in those last few calls. The little children roaming around had been asked to stay home While their mother struggles to get their lessons right They wish their father’s stories were a little more convincing over those last few calls.
Have you ever been in memories? No, not in love- that in itself is a bitter ball game But in memories of someone not for a day or two- Somehow, managing to take heed for an eternity Not the same forever A picture- new and vivid being painted each time One morning, a flicker of the first kiss Another night, all the reasons why you walked away An evening filled with contemplation of who’s, what’s and why’s A noon in remembrance of all promises made with fingers crossed and heart set free A dusk of those absurd fairy lights with giggles and laughter A dawn of tears when we couldn’t stand each other. Do you ever stop by in someone’s dream? In nightmares hurting them; A little more dramatic than reality, In day dreams- as stories that were never lived. Do you know? Do you realise? Somehow I wish they weren’t just mine.
Wasn’t a morning, neither a night It was just a noon- a time nobody cares to write with pride That is when I met him Rather a glance while he was at rest. A beggar, a thief or just another vagrant- Simply I do not know. I saw a man that just ‘another afternoon’- A man sleeping on the road, The penchant for pain was obvious Hence, I stood there in awe and wonder No alcohol, just a dirty pillow beneath his dreams An ugly torn quilt atoning the crimes of that winter wind. I looked and looked; It was more than a while Tucked in during the day time A tiny wound let his head hurt Did anyone sing him a lullaby? Did anyone, anyone kiss him good night? When ire of his destiny started knocking at the door of my empathy- That is when I decide to get past
I saw the man Now a chilly night He still was tucked in, sleeping sound I stepped towards him That is when derision mocked life He still was at rest, but now in peace .
After years of dodging; every occasion with a more bitter excuse Finally came a day when somehow the visit just couldn’t be refused From far away, that house in village stood still and tall Now haunted with lifelessness On inside did it suddenly grow small? Or was it the memory of it that brimmed with grandeur? The windows creak The walls reek Spiders smile weaving a trap of nostalgia The garden once full of roses and lemons is now musty; Haunted by emptiness somehow braved through my grandmother’s beliefs- Evident by the statue of Shiva I remembered since I could remember; Survived lessons from my cousins teaching me to play games- While I stood there being timid, young and shy.
Monkeys in the yard My aunt’s smirky remarks Talking to uncles altogether a hurdle- I knew I never would fit in there, Now affirmed. Yet the lullaby from past lingered longer Singing to me of a wish why did I let go so easy- So early at an age so tender! Alas! Now it is too late to return Only reminscence, what hath been done cannot be undone.
A pretty lady with thoughts gruesome
A heart lady-like but deeds one and all unkind
She looked fear in face-
No act of medallion or an attempt of being brave;
The mere trouble that she craved.
A wish to leave it all behind
Yet a victim of trauma and memory that she cherished and longed to embrace
Each day a new person aids her introspect the vacillating soul
Better or worse- she doesn’t realise upon dusk or dawn.
She’s curious, not lost
She’s not damaged, just hurt
She seeks muse, not love
She’s tired, not afraid
She is heartbroken, not disappointed;
Or is this all she speaks to put herself to sleep each passing night?
Can I tell you a secret,
Even if my lips promised the head to keep mum?
Can I narrate you a story,
Even though I don’t want you to recognise the fiction reeking with reality?
Can I sing you a song,
Even if the music can’t hide the shenanigan beneath the happy lyrics?
Can I look into your eyes,
Even when mine would let you glance through the tears I have been holding back?
Can I say all the promises I make are mere words,
Even if I stay wide awake making the ends meet?
Can I walk you across that one dreaded street,
Even if it ends amidst the unkempt memory lane?
Can I show you all my fears,
Even if I won’t be able to mend you for eternity; followed by those beautiful years?
Can I paint you a picture,
Even if I wish to mask the vision blurry?
Can I write you a letter,
Even when the words fain to lead towards the true expression?
Can I leave a mark,
Even if you wish to flaunt you’ll embrace it hidden?
Can I say the rose on my cheek is newly bought,
Even when your presence does that to me?
Can- I – Can – I – Can; but-
Alas! I better keep that secret.