Thursday, July 30, 2009
As I reach the very end, I smile and smile and smile at myself,
Wondering at the child I had become – curious, stubborn and teary eyed.
As I bolt open the last door, I laugh and laugh and laugh at myself,
And all the “No’s” that I had shouted with pride.
I check my nose in place, high up in the air,
Refusing to move down and look into your eyes.
As I cross the threshold, I hear...
Something familiar, pulling me back,
Something poignantly sweet,
Something that speaks to me and sings to me,
Something that sounds a lot like music;
Not music designed, nor music planned,
But sounds coming from... within,
Pulling me back, asking me to turn around.
As I listen to this... thing,
I remember everything that I love-
Mother’s reassuring hands,
Friends screaming by the ice cream parlour,
A long drive in the rain,
A surprise birthday party,
Cuddled up in front of HBO,
Books, bowls of apples and oranges and a rainy day,
Peacefully sleeping at night,
A walk under the scorching sun,
Little gifts! Oh! Stationery!
A red scarf and a painted rose.
An auto rickshaw ride together,
Touches, kisses and long nights.
Something that goes beyond music,
Beyond your loving gazes,
Beyond the warmth of blood and
Beyond the kind words
Quenching the thirst of a lonely wanderer.
I stop, finally.
I enter and close the door behind me.
After all, it is time I faced the music,
All alone and all by myself.
Friday, July 10, 2009
A white page, or an empty blue-green glass on the table top
Strewn with debris – half-eaten chicken limbs, pulses and bread crumbs?
I am a kindergarten art book – grand and flying with colours.
A symphony, or a tune hummed by a couple in love
On a crazy, lazy afternoon, hiding from the world behind curtains?
I am the cacophony of notes, scales and skills – never coming to an agreement.
A tear, or a poignant tale of a long gone kingdom
With princes and princesses and knights on white horses?
I am just a helpless child with hopeless fairytale romances in her eyes.
A success story, or a corporate wearing an ironed tie
Over an ironed shirt tucked inside a pair of ironed trousers?
I am a struggler who starts over and over – again and again.
A petal, or a rose garden blooming in winter
In the foreign fields of a foreign country?
I am a bunch of wasted- bundles for sale.
I am not blood, thick enough to speak of
Generations of pride and legacy.
I am water stuck in a century-old well – green and creepy.