Going Away

We’re going our separate ways,

Knowing not what the morrow betrays

Love has never been easy for us to find,

And people have not always been this trustful, worthy and kind.

We’ll miss those savoury days

Spent under the suns cheerful, dreamy haze.

We’ll miss those fights, those questions and those doubts

The laugh, the fun and the mock-pouts

There have been moments of stress and regret,

Hearts have been broken, promises left unkept

Although, of sadness, we’ve had our share

We’ve also met those who taught us how to care,

People who’ve made us feel better, sturdy and strong

And have corrected us when we were wrong.

In all, the journey has been great,

Two parts love, and the rest left to fate!

 I do not know what it is that we do here

You, Me and this fortuitous place.

It is too bright, too cold

Too long ago, the grey memories refuse to grow old.

 

That I do not want you in my life –

I’ll admit with all surety,

But this night, this place –

There are too many variables, too many people

Too long ago, the gnawing emptiness opens old doors.

 

Resigned, I let my sigh call your name

But you, are too far away.

A Man, A Woman and Passion

“I do not know what this song means”

She says, a careful smile plays on her lips.

“Ah, it is about a man, a woman and passion”

He answers, “the best songs usually are”

He takes her hand into his own,

Making her small, tiny world – his own.

 

“Dance with me!” his voice dares

She laughs – nervously – they smoothly slide

No sound, but for the careful shuffle of feet

 Suddenly – she pulls herself away!

The snow outside settles, her mind weeps in turmoil

 “And what is this about?” she whispers,

letting her gaze meet the mystery in his eyes.

“A man, a woman and passion”

Comes a low, warm reply.

“The best stories usually are.”

It’s a wonderful life

“When was your life most wonderful?” the answer, almost always is- “When I was a kid.” But why is it so? Is it because we eventually grew up to give it all up? Or because we decided to forget how to be a carefree kid?

It was Math exam. We students, (as it happens before any math exam) were at our textbooks for any last-moment enlightenments. A last chance at passing the test was being searched for with unseen fervor. Pages hurriedly turned, formulas rhythmically chanted.

 In this chaos, I saw a few of my classmates, laughing and running around- a stark contrast to the roomful of loonies I was in. I decided to give up the hopeless pursuit of last minute knowledge and joined them instead.

Through the pores in the brick wall, the sun’s thin rays are seen in the corridor. They look like the fragile, silver-golden spells from a magical wand- ethereal, alluring and serene. From where we were, they also looked impossibly tangible, revealing the trail of dust speckles along their lithe course.  For some unfathomable reason, we decided to catch hold of the luminous beams and put it in our pockets! We ran about the corridor-a couple of 16 year olds, giggling and comparing the amount of ‘sun’ we could catch hold of. All of which was done in the cheery, frivolous attitude, of which children are the only masters.  

As we teased each other, holding on to our precious pockets, all of the Euclid and trigonometry were forgotten and their place was taken by unadulterated joy. Five fortuitous, happy minutes (and a few pockets), at the cost of losing one’s label of ‘maturity’ had made the day a new, wonderful one.

Wasn’t it what we’re all searching for? A little laughter, a little wonder and a pocketful of sunshine? For all our wisdom, we have a lot to learn from the little kids we had been for those few minutes- that life, indeed, is immensely wonderful, in all its stages- if you want it to be. Take this moment to be a kid, have a wonderful life and grab that pocketful of sunshine before it is dusk! 

A MOTHER'S LAMENT

Who do you blame
 When a leaf Falls off a tree?
The wind that blew it away?
The branch that never let it stay,
Or the leaf, wanting to let go, To break free?

A hundred miles lie between us, My son.
The roads, the seas, the vines curled
The trees, the stars, another world.
To them, I shall let you go, my only one!

Heartless and cold, your mother is not
Anger, despair and grief, she does feel.
But to your love’s strange demands, I shall keel
And in the cave of tears, not be caught.

So go, my son! Live your dream!
Go to the crafty world, Her tempting sheen!
I shall not stop. I refuse to weep.
You, from your heart’s deafening roar, I shall not keep.
                                              

                                               The leaf has fallen off its tree.                                              
                                                Leaving me in his love’s clutches, and him – free.

Does It Really Matter?

“Where are you going?”, he asks

Taking a long drag off his time-worn cigar

A long drag off his time-worn self.

 

Biting my tongue and placing my

Perplexed dispositions all too clearly,

My lips form the words – “I do not know.”

 

His eyes are uncharacteristically lucid,

His face – uncharacteristically keen.

“Then, does it really matter?”

And the winds below the moment away.

Endless Night

 Be quiet, let me sleep

 I am done with the days toil,

 The work, the competition, the promises 

The noise, the laughter And the sympathy 

Don't you feel my plight? Won't you let me be? 

Or will you continue with,

 Your ununderstandable demands, 

Until you are perfectly sated?

 The trials, the torture, the doubts

 The fear, the criticism and the hatred.

 Your questions I haven't any answers to,

 The pressure of being indebted 

Leave me!

 Let me succumb to the pleasures of sleep 

That uninhibited, unfathomable spasm

 Of unfeeling trance.

 Let me go.

 Let me be.

Because I've Been Asked This Too Many Times

I write because I can. I write because I am sheltered person, who like the rest of my tribe has an opinion about all things under the sun. I write because I find pleasure in thinking ill of the world and its people. I do no write for you, or my parents or the handful of people who’ve loved me and hated me. The world has too many books and too few trees. I write for deadlines and longing. I write because my pen demands me to. I do not write out of frivolousness, I write with my sweat and my blood. I write as much out of jealousy and spite and ignorance as I write with love and hope and tears. I write for myself. And in doing so, I write things I want to read. I write things I don’t like, and then things I fall in love with. I get frustrated, kill a few people in my head and vow never to write again. I criticize, throw tantrums and rip off pages. And then I rewrite.