CASCADE

 Waterfall cascading down the mountains

that image settles my brewing thoughts

gels my agitated nerves.

A sense of tranquillity clothes me 

 all setbacks magnified in my perception

seem dissolved and flowing down

like the water descending the peak.

I feel light to intrude back into mundaneness

having sneaked out to refresh my soul.

I love the huskiness of the word  

cascade, whenever it escapes my throat 

the euphony and the sketch it forms. 

Dwelling in desert area for over a decade

my vacations materialise cascade to reality

The milky waterfall gushing down  effortlessly 

cleanses all impurities and merges into river below.

Stripped of the epidermis of  ego and anger I cascade 

rejuvenated to paint the canvas of life.

SHUSH

The sun kissed  petals 

drenched in the moist dew

bring a smile on my lips.

Little chirping birds peck a petal

chew and fling it away.

The other friendly petals shed  tears

 in stifled silence having lost a friend.

The rest wither by evening 

droop and fall scattered on the ground.

A few stuck to my shoe appeal to

incessant whispers in my head to hush

and murmur, revel each moment before

our shrivelled body lies adorned

with garland of petals.

RADIANCE

The red striped cushion beckons the sunlight to settle

I caress the warm spot on  cold winter mornings

With coffee mugs in hand, we sip 

fondly gazing at the light of our lives 

cosily resting on the cot.

My little light is all of twenty-three now

miles away  immersed in her own world

Both of us relishing the rays  at varying times

Dotingly remember her excited conversations

on effect of  degrees of sunlight  on buildings

part of architectural coursework.

Challenge to draw the perfect round sun 

answering questions on speed of light 

in school science book conjures up before my eyes

rays of light fetch such fond memories

each morning, light descending

ushering a new dawn in all our lives

Rambled Darkness

 Tossing and turning

I stare at my husband envious

whose eyelids cling like new lovers

the moment his form turns horizontal.

His snores, my sole armour 

to face every nocturnal demon 

visiting  each towering night

till my exhausted thoughts droop.

 

BUCKET LIST

 It set me thinking, do I even have a bucket list not sure 

never heard the word before when I was young

Why is it called  a bucket list? 

Do we really need to have lists to fulfil

Is contentment a bygone word

or erased from dictionaries

I knew only one list and that's the grocery list

the very word sounds closed

an what are the rules of a bucket list?

do we need to keep filling it,

once it is  ticked?

I wonder, the word bucket conjures a n image of the 

deserts in Africa, where women walk long to carry buckets of water

do they know what's a bucket list

yeah, maybe carrying buckets of water.

CONFESSION

A petty bruise meant seeking attention

struggle a word, I sulked when it came near me

setbacks made me irritable and moody

impatient was my disliked decades old prefix. 

Pain now seems pleasure, struggle is liberating,

hinderances happen, patience is to sit still

every failure is a mirror one must gaze hard

 blessed  to have stumbled on these new definitions.

Dripping late in my life these truths seem priceless 

growing up definitely was smiles and laughter

yet never realised while I was growing 

that bliss is acknowledging and learning 

and talking to self first than with others.

Still a long road ahead, yet each day seems so joyful

potholes and road blocks do surface often

I possess no magic wand yet feel calm

Spend more time with yourself 

to figure out who you are

and embrace whatever comes your way

acquiring tools to equip each day.

INCOMPLETE BREATH

The last two years seem like eternity

each day a prelude closer to face of death

some escaped, some were caught unawares.

It sprang upon us in myriads of ways

sneaking around the corner waiting with bated breath

deluding humans of the untaught art of breathing.

Patients lie helpless on bed, tubes and pipes strapped

Every time the visual props on television

My heart breaks into million pieces.

My scattered pieces can still be gathered and joined

What about  of those 

who lost their loved ones struggling to breathe.

Fragmented units of families who lost their solitary bread earner

moist flakes of old parents whose only child is buried

tattered shreds of the abandoned spouse who has to relearn to live.

They all scrape each corner of their heart 

for any memories of their left breath

their only solace to survive on this lonely planet.

 

THE GATE

I shut that door years back and padlocked with lock and key

When did the rusted key find its way back to the weathered lock

Ambition engulfed my persona and squeezed every ounce of me

every minute at the work environs years back

Lo and behold, baffled was I to have not been considered for a rise

Resigned, I sought refuge in home tutoring and other obliterated interests 

A single call last evening opened a floodgate of tucked emotions

A familiar voice from workplace requesting to join after five years of lull

I am needed now, should I be happy or sad, I interrogated myself 

Surprisingly my inner voice rested the churning mind

My thoughts and emotions now adorn new costumes each time I write

Blank pages look more radiant with swaying words than ramp walks

Calmness does prefer my companionship more often

Owe it to meditation too, my five year old friend 

I politely declined the offer feeling no regret, life is strange

I said no to what I craved most few years ago.

Happiness is such a beautiful feeling

when we say no to life's litter.

I locked the gate firmly and threw the key away now

in an unknown sea where no one can find.

 

 

SONG OF AUTUMN

The sheer beauty of the colour of emptiness

be it in the silence of the mind  or in the silence of the heart.

How I yearn to be as hushed as the autumn leaves which fall

having  quietly  lived their tenure with

no expectations of appraisals and performance bonuses.

In the stillness of the dawn, another leaf takes birth 

the tree quietly bearing motherly pains and ignorant of delivery rooms

unaware of protein shakes or diet plans

surviving on what food the period has to offer.

The stoic nature of trees to let go of the leaves it nursed

standing on its own, waiting to rebloom with no pressured deadlines.

Such a beautiful fragrance it offers, the lull of the barren autumn

neither gloating nor belching in what it had, 

dispensing every hue and aroma

and yet confronting  a unique sense of fulfilment.

BODIES

 Bodies on buses flagging arms and limp legs

in tired colours of creased green, blue or red

sloppily loaded every morning and evening

to destinations with no charm or shade.

I see them everywhere on weekdays and weekends

the colour of thankless jobs changing with car speed

cutting grass, building stadiums, laying roads

herds of them clustered sharing meals 

under biting heat and pricking chills

every dime earned in this foreign land

weighs heavier in their country

dreams of tiny faces somewhere 

wrinkled or bangled aspirations 

elsewhere tied to it.

no smile awaits to welcome each evening 

no soothing hands to wipe sweat

 or  tears of frustration.

home cooked warm food, a luxury once 

every two years 

their lives squished by  colossal loans 

and dubious agents 

fatigue and loneliness

their constant companions

toil is the only language their bodies utter

their colour of skin same as my brown

 other's privileged eyes pose before

 museums and beaches 

their glued eyes struggle to open

after  each day's drudgery.

MY TRUE SELF

The day just as calm as my inner self,

I am no more the unnecessary excited person

of last couple of decades

Emotional dependency has tumbled

the urge to pick up phones and gossip is more dormant.

Less barriers for flexibility to climb in day to day life

Being in the moment does occur in one digit number in a day

Nagging does not try it's practice while watching sports on television with hubby

No rush to complete tasks just to mark off tick list in the head.

Frivolous over thinking and mindless languishing does escape my attention

Still nascent though in terms of remembering names of  books read  and personalities

Yet, on some days my brooding nature unabashedly transfixes

every moment seems to be slipping away

and I feel utterly inadequate.

My body and mind seem borrowed then

and a desperate urge arises to return the loaned parts.

Days when meditation, journaling, seem vestigial

nagging body pains cling endlessly

and mind attracts clutter as a magnet.

All the great motivation quotes 

and practices of mentors seem superficial

More than five decades old

Still figuring out the puzzle of daily life

One thing is irrefutable

outer battles are easy to win

inner ones demand a new solution each time

and set the mind on a fathomless roller coaster spin.

 

A MOTHER'S DISTRESS

 That one call shattered my life forever

No inkling of the storm the day's slanting sun rays were to create

Routine chores passed my day 

The only thought humming is how fast holidays end 

and you are voyaging back to university in a day.

Conversing with  my motherly pangs

I silenced them with the bribe

Christmas is just around the corner

Days will just fly.

You stepped out to get in 

the land cruiser, your friends waving out to you.

How abrasive the stars and moon turned out that night?

Speed cruising on the desert sands costed me my offspring

The narrated images of your broken skull haunt me. 

My existence snatched in seconds

Your lifeless corpse on the hospital bed

My shrieks hitting the hospital corridors 

Only to bounce back to be drenched in my anguish

 This is not whom I delivered nineteen years ago

The world  was at your feet waiting for your impressions

but you decided to just leave me, 

a single reckless act of yours and your accomplices.

No one gave you the right to gift me 

decades of everlasting hollowness.

She searches for you at your usual hideout places

I am at a loss to answer to your little sister

Which nerdy thought suggested you to ignore the seatbelt

and loose a family of loved ones forever.

 

Power of forgiveness

Why set such high standards for yourself ?

Only to plummet in  a crevice, grueling to ascend,

incessant scrutiny has metamorphose you into a cynic.

Your desire to be always at the centre stage 

caused you so much anguish.

The pressure of appeasing others and irrelevant comparisons

has made you a stranger in the mirror.

Do you even recognise you?

Why the need to rise in other's esteem?

Your bitterness a yardstick to resent others

The trenches of anger, the jealousy, the pride, 

The trappings of body aches, years of stolen sleep 

the mental simmering, the acid reflexes, the victim mentality

Was it worth it?

Why the urge to draw every stroke perfectly?

Chaos has smudged your life's canvas

If only you had learnt the art to be kind to yourself

everyone around you would have received 

a token of pardon in your journey of life

Silver years have passed away,

herculean to cast away old skin and don new

Why not try?

A balm of self forgiveness is the dire need of the hour

 a balm unavailable  at chemist's and which no doctor can prescribe

Squirt it more often and apply to age old gashes

and every relationship will take a new leap of freshness

There are presidential pardons even for murderers

You are just a mortal 

Then why not initiate the art of forgiving yourself just for once ?

LEASE

We are one, we were born at the same time,

Then why have you separated and cast me aside?

Look in to my eyes just once, I am just like you

All my senses a replica of yours

I feel the same angst as you.

Who gave you the right to decide my destiny

When will my lease end? 

I do not intend to be borrowed, owned or rented

Suffocated, choking, I have forgotten to breathe

What harm have I caused you?

I give you birth, nurture you, 

fulfill all your desires till my last breath.

Do not make me feel ashamed of myself

Every time, I try to take a shape,

You decide my destiny

Even before the umbilical cord is cut

When you can own yourself, why not me?

I wish to breathe the same air as you

and have ownership of my mind and body.

Why should I be cloaked from head to toe

and not step out of the house

just because you have no control over yourself?

It is my body, why cannot I wear what I want 

and choose what I want to do in my life?

Do you feel a threat from me?

Is it why you want to cage me indoors?

Believe me, my mind functions

it knows how to choose, it can decide for itself.

I did not ask to be a woman

But yes, I am proud having born as one

I love this country as much as you do

Give me back my keys of freedom, oh man

The lock has rusted, yet I will keep trying 

Let me be my own owner for once.

IDENTITY

We often alternate our identity to suit us, lost in other's perceived depiction of us.

Our image often a blur like dust on glass, we all strive to maintain that façade.

Beneath us is a reflection unknown to us, we try hard to glide from one to another 

in roles chiseled by history or society, mind or body at times unwilling to go on.

The mind more corrupt than the body, prods us to act and react again and again

and we heed the master's orders until our image screams blue murder.

My forgotten identity queries me after decades of lull and confusion,

 Who am I? Daughter, sister, wife, daughter-in-law, mother, friend, colleague.

An arduous conundrum to ponder, do these labels define me,

I can only bear myself when I am enacting these roles, 

so is this who I am? 

An actor donning various hats, fulfilling job descriptions in each role

My mind meanwhile prods me pointing to a waiting hat, while 

my anguished identity still gropes for answers.

A ROUTINE

Forty-five minutes past eleven am, a scorching silence outside

the buzz of the air-conditioned unit, interrupting her eager looks

home cooked meal awaits alongside her for her husband.

The car halts; a five minute drive home from his work place,

over wafting smells of his relished Indian cuisine

each chew  shared conversations.

Some meals accompanied with chats; some with comfortable silence,

occasional heated arguments  add to to the kitchen's humidity 

a roller coaster of emotions, yet each conversation so flavourful.

 A time which is just theirs, with no intruders to ping 

his office stories whet her appetite

her daily tales greeted infrequently with absent-minded nods.

Childhood acquaintances, now receding hairline greets her bespectacled face

thirty year old marriage, she knows his stereotype response

yet like an inquisitive child she asks daily 'how's the food'?

Her endearing monotonous ten year old routine

envy for her city friends, their husbands' life stuck in long traffic

weekend lunches and dinners  their only shared meals.

She, an extrovert and he a quiet guy, a perfect pair in matrimony

like the harmony of spices in her cooking

the black kitchen table, a witness of her nibbling from his once in a while.

Few more years to retirement, she wonders how life will be then?

Would the clock chiming eleven forty-five ignite her eyes,

or would meals be eaten to stretch the day over an air of stillness?

 

If only

If only there were no numbers, how would the world be?

Probably a world where life is not a race the moment the umbilical cord is cut

Maybe a better place where there are no firsts; to look down on seconds and thirds and the last.

Possibly a place; where number of houses owned or holidays enjoyed do not identify us,

Hopefully a place where no six or seven digit salaries exist to deepen the divide.

Truly a world where number of likes and tweets do not shape our daily thinking of how good we are

Really a world, where leaders see people as humans with feelings rather than a number for votes.

If only there were no letters of the alphabet, how would the world be?

Probably a world, where people are not screaming hoarse on whose religion is superior

Maybe a place with less arguments and less bloated egos

Possibly a place where the pen and sword neither hurt

Hopefully a greener planet with less trees felled to express hatred and bitterness

Truly a world where everyone has time to feel others pulse and genuinely pay attention to others around.

Really a world where words such as white, black, superior, inferior do not exist.

Do I wish for such a world?

Maybe less when I was a child and ignorant

Maybe more frequent now when I can count all numbers and read all letters of the alphabet easily.

WRITE

Write else you will never know who you are or who you are not

It is you talking to yourself, else you are chalk and cheese to you.

You are like the double-agent presenting a fallacy to the world and you

I regret why I did not cling to the pencil when my eyes were forming impressions.

I write now, the pages my only non-judgmental ever-lasting companion

You take the burden of my shoulders, the load of my chest.

I pen down thoughts which no one understands

I scribble down random plots, weaving stories in my brain.

My intermittent breaks from you have turned me into a forlorn lover

Blessed are those souls who found you and seek solace at your doorstep.

TALK with THOUGHTS

 I wake up and have not even stretched myself fully 

and there you are already raring to go.

All these years, I thought we were like Siamese twins

but its only now, I know we are poles apart. 

I finally woke up from a deep slumber

and your past behaviour appalls me.

When did you sneak in to make a permanent abode

and cement my house with your unneeded beliefs?

Did you not have the decency to ask my permission

or you knew, I would say an emphatic no.

Yes, I would, for I wish to be a better person each day,

but there you are catching me off guard every second

feeding me anger, jealousy, hatred, guilt and fear.

Leave me alone, I want to think for myself

I wish to be free from your clutches.

Would you like to be controlled?

Let's play the game of musical chairs then,

it's my turn now.

I do not want you to think for me

let me do it for myself.

I do not want to rush every nano second

I want to slow down, enjoy every moment

watch if pain, anger, hunger or guilt visit me.

I want to have the freedom to choose if 

they can be my  guest.

So, please go away, my negative marginal utility 

has kicked in.

If you ever try your old methods

watch out, I am all awake.

This talk was indeed gratifying

I pat myself for the courage to push it out.

I feel lighter and all set to go.

 

SMALL PART

 We are all a small part of the real us,

the remaining bits being cryptic clues.

We are all on life's treasure hunt,

searching with creased eyebrows. 

We all sometimes wish to trade places,

unacquainted of the better sights within us.

We all sometimes wish to reverse the clock

to fork new choices in life.

We all exhibit a tiny bit of us to  family and friends,

the elusive maze still left to explore. 

We all  know, other's childhood or their current life, 

are more charming in narrations.

We all can pause and make an effort,

to free our genie in life.

We all can perch on the magic carpet,

and fly to distant lands within us.

We all may be in for a big surprise,

to discover treasures within us.

We all can then fit the cryptic bits,

and assemble our existential puzzle.

FOOTPATH

The grey cemented footpath adjacent to my cozy dwelling,

a desirable walkway for this area's denizens.

Each tile evincing episodes of different pedestrians,

a few wool-gatherers stroll along, women walk filling in the day's gossip.

Regular couples stretch legs, eyes searching for familiarity,

loners brisk pace matching the perfect tile shape.

Children meander along shaking all their limbs,

the brown cats and kittens meowing at passers by;

the huge tame dogs enjoying the jaunt.

The evening trees relish the heightened carbon dioxide rush,

birds cheep adding  the background score.

The cruising occasional plush car catches the walkers' eye.

The footpath knows it all,

sights and stories sealed on grey  red tiles.

Every footprint, every shoe contour,

tiles capturing tales of years passed by.

The future wayfarers may walk and run,

bent eyes glued to small inch screens

on the dissipated cobbled path . 

The past, the present and the future all converge here,

mangled stories stuck sometimes on unfamiliar trainers .

I will leave and so will you,

the chipped footpath will hang on

to hear and cement narratives egressed.

 

 

WORDS

A week away from you

Hands itch, words tumble and slip

I push them back, they cool their heels.

 

Distracted mind flings sporadic ideas,

rusty brain still needs a prod,

dormant creative urges still yawning,

I awaken them from a seven day slumber.

Scattered phonemes enjoy the merry go round,

morphemes lure their best mate,

the lexicon gives me a baffled stare,

I tenderly sweep the cobwebs.

The pink and white flowers, the green branches

my diurnal muses; beckon me to scribble, 

white vowels and consonants on the black keyboard

anticipate my old touch.

I raise my head; the sun has set; 

The hour hand rests on the middle digit,

Words at last find their way back home.

THE WHITE TABLE

Memories perch side by side with coloured streaks on my white dining table,

memories of conversations chewed and sipped on angled white chairs.

Teasing reminder of friendly dinners and lunches;

reflections of countless family meals,

reminiscent of meals sometimes nibbled alone over fiction and non-fiction

each memory clings to the lacy grey table cloth,

forming a concealed tower of souvenirs.  

Streaks of my daughter's curved enthusiasm for artwork,

canvases spread on the table capturing diverse moods, 

etchings of a deceased grandpa captured fondly;

or sketch of a friend's turmoil spilled by angry strokes.

Scars of peeping chipped wood  a testimony to 

gaping sentiment of my progeny.

The pen marks on white rexine chairs cruise blue to black,

patterns of different students each year drawing 

Economics diagrams or calculating profit margins.

The white table creates an invisible album,

Each time I flip a page, a bygone flavour of emotions emanate.

WHY

Why we become what we become?

Is it our parents who cast the mold,

or our school outlining our quarter silhouette?

Is it friends who configure our thoughts, 

or teachers who sculpture our impressions?

Is it cousins with whom we kick our heels in holidays,

or co-workers we gossip  at the cafeteria?

Is it the books we read and the places we travel,

or our children who teach us a thing or two?

Is it thousands of unknown faces and their gestures, 

or the endearing companionship of nature?

Sometimes, I wonder what impressions keep slipping 

through five senses and colour our intellect.

Whatever I am, or who I have  become

I owe it to each of you

for assembling me.

On some days I am grumpy and upset;

on other days, I am happy and cheerful.

But what I manifest each day;

is a slice of each of your perceptions,

as I am nothing but a reflection of all of you.

COLOURS

 

The bright red flames tirelessly burning

seeking no respite.

Melting chimneys, spewing grey colour,

mangled with loss and pain.

The twin colours of black and white fungus,

disrobing an eye somewhere and a limb elsewhere

still racing an incessant marathon.

Reluctant eyes stare at sandalwood tinged horizontal sights 

filling public spaces,

Vertical lines; clustered in frustrated indoor stretches

on unrested black and white tiles. 

Tender eyes eagerly awaiting 

to gaze at blue and white uniforms.

Rainbow visible at best in moist cupboards,

Sleek cars solitarily cruise patients in blue-green scrubs

returning with one or two less.

A nation with vibrant hues and festivals 

replaced by numbers dying and numbers positive.

The red virus drenching us all in a kaleidoscope

of agony, isolation, anguish and despair.

MY CHILDHOOD

The comforting big red dot;

the familiar jingling of bangles,

a smile too caring to miss out.

Not a care about the world outside,

I lie on the bed snuggled next to my sister.

Listening to the only male voice 

humming Hemant Kumar's and Rafi's,

ironing our white shirts, blue tunics

and adding a glisten to our black school shoes.

I open my eyes to the wafting smells of filter coffee

and the shrill hiss of the idli cooker,

lingering tastes of early years.

Each formative emotion of mine;

resonating with warmth supplied by them.

The close warmth spreading to our cups of Bournvita,

cooled to room temperature on foggy mornings

in the small town of Orissa.

We sisters, slurp to the sounds of ding ding

reverberating from the ring on Nana's finger

and rush to pack our school bags

to start another new day.

The peals of laughter and the giggles over the table;

devouring lip-smacking love served on our plates 

day in and day out, reminiscent that life is so beautiful.

Lying on the folding cots on the terrace;

against the background score of the giant factory fan

accompanying the songs of the Vivid Bharathi.

Catching up and sharing stories of the day passed,

the close-knit family's time slips into oblivion 

as eyes droop for a cozy night under the summer stars.

Each passing year taking me far and far away

from 

the town, the house, the steps and the terrace

now all tucked in the corner of my aging heart.

Peeping out every time I glance at the mirror,

the grey hairs' squint out of my thin mane

My childhood and my growing years,

where did I leave you?

 

 

 

Embarrasment

IT was  Thea's usual outing with her husband and his subordinates. Her husband was leading a team of young engineers who were all full of enthusiasm. It was at one of these outings, Sree a young engineer was trying to regale everyone around with his stories of how he had impressed a girl who came to play tennis. He taught her tennis and she fell for him. And he was planning to bring her next time for the party. The evening was a fun filled night listening to all these stories over some beers and Malaysian food. 

Couple of months passed by and Thea was busy in her usual routine. One day her husband suggested that the boys are again planning a gathering and had invited them. They were all meeting at a particular restaurant the next day. Thea liked meeting people and enjoyed dressing up for parties. After work, Thea and her husband went to the specific restaurant. 

All the familiar faces were there seated around the table. Suddenly, Thea's eyes fell on Sree, whose hands were entwined with the hands of a pretty girl. Sree introduced her to all. Thea who had a strong memory, suddenly remembered the old story of Sree's tennis lessons and how he had impressed a girl. So she immediately blurted out," Oh, Sree, so we all get to see the girl whom you taught tennis". Sree, totally caught unawares was pinching Thea's foot, below the table, signaling her to stop that specific  conversation. But Thea did not get the cue. Others sitting around understood. That poor girl was staring at Sree in dismay. Sree was pinching Thea's feet again and again. It then stuck Thea that this girl was a different girl. 

Sree, on account of Thea was left embarrassed for some part of  the evening. Others came to rescue and changed the topic. Thea never knew whether Sree had to face further questioning from the girl later when they went back home. But Thea had a hearty laugh on her drive back home with her husband.

JUDGEMENT

Doordarshan had just entered Indian households. The round symbol with two patterns around it assembled all members of Ria's house every evening. Ria, who had just stepped into college was enamoured by the newscasters reading news in English. She would watch those men and women crisply clad in starched sarees and suits reading the daily news.

She had decided that this would be a good career choice for her. Like every other teenager in those days, she had no idea what her aspirations were. But the newsreader's job appealed to her. She had always enjoyed limelight and this seemed very respectable to her. She applied for a journalism course, the institute was based in Delhi. She had to write an all India entrance test for that. She convinced her father to let her appear for the qualifying exam. Rhea hailed from a small town, where there was no centre for the exam. The nearest centre was Calcutta. Her father agreed and booked tickets for her, her sibling and her Mom. She wrote the exam. At the centre, the invigilator was a guy from the institute of journalism in Delhi. Thirty-four years have passed and she faintly remembers the person's comment after the exam. He seemed pleased with her performance. 

Rhea and her family had stayed with one of their relatives in Kolkata, then known as Calcutta. That evening they had all gone shopping in Gariahat market and next day they travelled back to their hometown. Couple of month flew by. Rhea and her sibling soon had summer holidays. Her Dad did not have enough leave. In addition, they had a cousin who stayed with them. Rhea's mom wanted to visit her folks. Rhea and her sister were excited to meet and spend time with her cousins. They had a lovely summer vacation for a month and returned back just before college reopened.

Back home, one day, Rhea went to look for some old newspapers. She needed them to arrange her cupboard. While picking couple of old newspapers, she found a huge envelope addressed to her. The envelope was open. She was baffled and peeped in it. Inside was a letter confirming her seat in the Institute of journalism in Delhi. She jumped with joy, then suddenly her eyes fell on the date. She was shocked. The letter came a month ago and the interview date was also over. She rushed to share the information with her Mom and sibling, who were happy but also equally surprised. They all assumed that the letter must have got misplaced in the old newspapers pile. Evening, when her father and her cousin got back from work, she enquired. They both confirmed that they had received it. Her father said that he was not interested to send her away from home. 

Rhea was crestfallen and that deep seated anger stayed with her for many years. Her anger had compounded as her father did not even care to share the good news with her. However, of late, as years passed, her anger subsided and now she does not feel an inch of resentment at all. She now realises that whatever happened back then, happened for good. 

The world of journalism has evolved a lot and is more realistic in nature. The crew has to travel and film in the most dangerous of locations, cover sometimes the most horrific of stories. Besides, it involves working at all odd hours and is taxing emotionally and physically. Rhea is not cut out to handle so much stress in life. In addition, she also has sleep issues. And she is a person who is more comfortable having her family around at all times. She is an extrovert and is emotionally dependent on her folks. This along with her over sympathetic nature, as she cannot see even the slightest of suffering. 

Now in hindsight, she feels maybe her father who raised her was a better judge of her personality then, than herself. She may not gather the guts to thank him personally, but definitely is grateful in her life as she is now surrounded by her near and dear ones especially in pandemic times, where family ties matter the most.

 

BALANCING ACT

 Thea was keen in getting the act right, this time. She had not got perturbed when her domestic help stopped coming due to an emergency back home. The previous time, when it happened, she freaked out, as it wasn't a common occurrence in her life to do some chores by herself. In the past whenever it happened, it was for a brief time. 

But entering the fourth week this time without domestic help,  she felt she was slipping again. Frustration, anger, negativity had started setting their claim and she did not want to get back into that space. She loathes when she recollects those bitter moments of pain, domestic squabbles etc. So where is she going wrong again? Is it so difficult for her to set things right? 

And would Thea be happy if things went back to normal again? Won't the emptiness kill her? Won't idle time bug her to do some work? So how does one figure that out? Sometimes she wonders if she is the only one feeling this way or are there others who feel too?  And why the anger on the child who is here for a temporary time?

Does anger really ruin thoughts? In Thea case, she felt it was completely true. But on some topics, she is still not sure. She has very strong opinions on certain subjects. She cannot stop comparing her child to her childhood. Was she also like this? Or was she a helpful child to her parents? She can only now remember the compliments she received when she was at her parent's house. She always had an eager hand. That sometimes did land her in trouble, as she would rush to please others and in trying to do so would make more mistakes.

Where did Thea pick that habit? Why is there a constant urge in her to always please others? Does she not trust herself or find herself capable enough? Is Thea now digressing into another uncomfortable zone, in addition to finding at least a comfortable balance to manage through her life? Does she not know her idle time will again push her in comparing herself with others, which ends in her pushing herself more, rather than accepting. 

In addition, why does Thea find it so difficult to manage her pains? Is she not aware that they are here to stay. Then why every time the pains pick up speed, she goes into a comfort binging which is again harmful for her. Why does she find it so hard to settle down at that moment, nothing can arrest her attention, neither the Sudoku, nor the novel, nor the cricket match on the television, which she actually had started enjoying off late. Neither can her mind command her body to sit still, which is what is the solution, or go take a pain killer. Why does she allow her mind to run untamed and let the mind control her so much? It has happened again and again. Or why, does she not remember that how much ever in pain, she has to keep physically moving. Thea has to spot the moment, any form of negativity tries to enter her mind and strongly shut the door on its face. That one step will give her hours of happiness. 

Hopefully, she has learnt her lessons this time. Or does she want to suffer again and again... It's her choice for her better future. 

A RERUN

The white screen stares at me

How many times more will you erase 

the vowels and consonants

Are words failing you today?

Are morphemes and phonemes 

struggling to give shape to your thoughts?

What are you scared of?

The past may linger

the mistakes concealed in heart

may spill and spoil the present

You have been forgiven

Move on, life is colourful

where ever you glance.

Everyone is too caught up in their lives

to even stare at yours

Do you feel an emptiness?

Or do you not know even now how you feel?

These moments come for everyone.

You are just the same like them

And who are they to judge you?

All of them have hidden secrets

which will be buried or burnt.

Are you not able to count 

the unending passing seasons

Is your memory fading 

or does life seem too long 

to keep moving on?

Sometimes it is emptiness

and sometimes its monotonous routine

What do you want?

Or do you even know the answer now?

Do you still need time to figure out

Are attachments worrying you

Or are you afraid to live all alone

In this huge world all by yourself?

Look closely, are you actually not alone now?

Then why bother, whether seasons change or faces.

It's all right if all questions in your head do not have answers

Or if the brain is inadequate to comprehend anything

This is your journey, live as you want it,

Only remember, it's your life and 

Only you know what hills you climbed 

and what rivers you crossed

You need not justify to anyone

About anything in life

The more you talk to yourself

than others, you realise

that life is actually beautiful.

The Chatty Hamour

Prasad was entering his boss's office to fetch the keys of Yaris. Naina, his 9'0 clock student had already alighted from the drop van and was waiting for him. Today was her seventh class.

Thirteen more classes left for her test. If she managed to get twelve ticks on the incomprehensible Arabic sheet on her test day, Naina could have her driving licence in hand. She had driven ten years in India. She had driven a Maruti and later a Hyundai car holding a valid Indian driving licence. What an irony, here she was re-learning from scratch how to drive in this new country. Yaris was a bigger car, but she did not find any difference when she drove the first time. However, the excitement she had a decade ago had waned.

She had always wanted to drive her father's fiat in her teens. But her father had strictly instructed their driver never to pass the keys to her. She sulked, cajoled her father and even bribed the driver. But Naina's tricks did not move a single facial muscle of her Dad nor changed the constant smile of Ramsingh. Mom never had a say in these matters.

Naina's husband, Pradeep had himself never driven a car. Hence when he enrolled for driving lessons, he suggested that she too join. Pradeep had planned to buy a car once they both acquired their driving licences. Naina was on top of the world. Her first lesson at the Singh driving school in Hyderabad. She had woken up early, all raring to go. She got her slot a week later than her husband. Her aim was to impress her parents with her driving skills. They were visiting her after a fortnight. She even imagined how far her Dad's jaw would drop, if she picked them from the station and drove them home. The very thought gave her a thrill. She paid complete attention to her driver's instructions. Her over enthusiasm pushed her to cover three classes on some days. She was confidently driving on roads with her trainer monitoring her.
Two more days left for her parents to come. She still had to learn reverse parking. But she decided to give it amiss. She wanted to go car shopping with her husband. Pradeep's insistence on not to do so fell on deaf ears. She argued that she was already reverse parking their scooter and so could easily reverse park their old car.

A loud burp broke her thought. Prasad longed for a different tea burp. The tea at the small shop in the driving academy had tasted the same last three years. The fragrance of jasmine flowers and the tinkling of bangles was also missing. Sunita was fond of glass bangles and flowers. He could not afford to buy jasmine flowers everyday. He was a poor fisherman and she a maid. In the small shanty hut, she planted few jasmine plants gifted by her master's wife. 

He handed her the keys and was about to reach for the small tobacco powder pouch in his pant pocket, when Naina from inside the car was signaling him to come along. She was raring to go on the road. Today would be her first day out on the roads. Prasad quickly placed the tobacco powder in his lower jaw and was relishing the taste. Naina started the car and was easily gliding it on the roads. Prasad seated in the front, was still lingering on his wife Sunita's thoughts and her swollen belly. He still had to save enough to see his tiny face. Famine few years before had forced him to move away from her and join here as a driver in a teaching school. He was lucky for in leisure time in his village was driving his friend's old Ambassador and that earned him this job. He had never had any official driving lessons and yet he was earning  a livelihood out of it now. 

Today, it was a day of a new cuisine for Naina on the road. He regaled how he taught his wife, cleaning and cooking fish. In seven lessons, Prasad  had taught at least 10/12 varieties of fish preparations to Naina. Two for the price of one. From the moment he entered the car, he would start chatting and the entire conversation would be about fish and not driving.

But today's lesson she really wanted to focus and not repeat past blunder. She remembered how she drove Pradeep on the lanes on Hyderabad, seeing the sparkle in his eyes when she drove easily. They had gone for a movie and ended it with a lovely trip to a Chinese restaurant. She checked the time, it was getting  10 at night when they were entering their apartment block. The over confident Naina, having impressed her husband with her driving skills, confidently reversed to park in their slot. "Thud", came a loud noise, She had banged the car on the pole while reversing it. The new car had a dent, the car's backlight cracked open. Naina had a shock, she thought she could reverse easily, how foolish of her in judging that a four wheeler and two wheeler had similar reverse parking methods. She looked at Pradeep. He grinned and enquired how many days she had learnt reverse parking. She gave a sheepish grin. She still had to learn to impress her parents, Dad in particular.

This time, she carefully practiced her reverse parking properly. Finally the day came and she passed her driving test. Elated, she went to thank Prasad and offered him some extra tip for his driving lessons,  for she had two courses for the price of one.  She would miss his verbal cooking lessons. She had learnt names of varieties of fish, hamour, sea bass etc., though she would never cook them. She was climbing the steps of the van to return back. Prasad shouted "Madam, please try all the recipes" Naina, nodded and a smile escaped her lips. She was a vegetarian. 

SENSES

 Month of March began with an excitement to furnish our house which meant continuous trips to shopping malls in Doha, visits  I dislike. I have always detested shopping. However, enthusiasm to fill the company provided accommodation with possessions; that would give me momentary happiness, filled my days for some time. Each object parked in my house provided me immense satisfaction, whenever I step into my house. I can't resist admiring them. A tiny speck of dust activates me to reach for the cleaning cloth.  Smell of new furniture in the house affirmed my settlement in this new place. Sipping my green tea, enjoying the feel of new texture adorning my apartment, I would appreciate the unknown craftsmen, who toiled hard to create these pieces.

My adrenalin rush had not even settled down, when senses having had their brim started producing uncomfortable noises. The very eyes, which till yesterday were busy appreciating the interior beauty started watering. Nose choked with dust and sand blowing outside refused to perform it's primary function. My mouth gasping for breath was forced to open itself at all times. The parched tongue developed a metallic taste swallowing white pills and gulping queer syrups. The sore throat sent shrill vibrations in the room tiring me completely. Exhausted with internal aches, my body slumped one day onto the new grey and black sofa. Sedatives numbed me and my sensory organs failed to differentiate between day and night. I was sleeping through most part of day and night. Whenever I woke up, I found myself lying on the couch. I had become a part of the living room, an extension of the new furniture and I abhorred the feeling.

A fortnight later, once my senses resumed their normal functioning, fingers which enjoyed the rough texture of the sofa material now were aching to do work. Eyes started longing for change of scenario and pining for some natural colours. The diaphragm extending it's thoracic region was craving for pleasing odours. 

Cont..

I found this decade old incomplete writing of my own, not yet posted. It captures my emotions felt then. I read it with mixed feelings and chose to conclude it by filling it up with present sensations.  Absolutely clueless  on what I meant by pleasing odours, I will continue my scribbling assuming, I flipped a new page in my life. 

Most  perceptions have changed. Work  fills entire day. My eyes scan and my senses seem happy with some incomplete and some routine assignments . A seismic shift in my approach towards existence. My daily regime keeps me engaged in an eclectic mix of both bodily and cerebral tasks, with an invisible margin segregating week from weekend. My body and mind do not seem perturbed by it and that's a good feeling, more so during the current, global pandemic, which has kind of put a indefinite pause in my life along with the entire mankind. 

An year ago, gratification of sublunary senses have made most of us clog airports to fly to exotic of locales, splurge in extravagant apparel and accessories.  In the last decade, weekends had acquired a new definition. Binging at food courts, trying unheard of cuisines at malls which being the most frequented tourist spot.  Every bit of it captured by anorexic phones to be displayed in crowded social networking sites possible for admiration. Human senses deriving an dopamine high with every like and comment. 

What a paradox, the Covid virus seems to have a fascination for these  very senses with it's  mundane names such as eyes, nose, mouth etc. Senses having befriended the no more alien virus  allow it to nest in our lungs and brain causing irreparable damage. The fatigued senses preferring the lethal virus to the never ending outdoor visits and  uploaded selfies of past.

It's been more than a year, with the virus spilling and spreading into first quarter of 2021. Perhaps our senses even now need its repose to gear itself for some more decades of  exploitation, or do they prefer to be claimed by death lurking in neighbouring alleys?

PATIENCE

 It's been half an hour since I tried to switch on my laptop, but today it decided to test my patience. It froze like the last few pieces of  ice cubes stuck on the ice tray.  However, some aspects were in my favour today. The weather outside and inside are very pleasant,  the view outside my window  absolutely refreshing with swaying trees full of clusters of pink flowers luring me to give them  undivided attention. 

Today is the start of the month of Ramadan and my husband came back home by midday. He is seated on the chair opposite me working on his laptop finishing pending office work.  My daughter is lying on the adjacent sofa enjoying her short lunch break. My indoor weather would not have been so beautiful had  they not been here with me. 

This day is also the Telugu new year's day, Ugadi. I had decided in the morning to wear a new saree, cook some traditional delicacies to bring some festive cheer amidst the looming pandemic gloom. Any positive habit if initiated on a new year's day tends to be more long lasting. This is an age old  belief that runs in India. And I have been deliberating over for some days to make writing a daily habit. What better time than after the afternoon siesta. Nevertheless, my laptop still seems in her afternoon catnap zone, declining to wake up despite my persistence to reboot it again and again.

 I sat down today determined to write about my innate thoughts on issues which have been visiting and filling my empty mind, since years, sometimes even doubting whether its all right  to bare myself in my blog or do I worry that I will be judged if I write about every notion in my head. Yet here I am having got an unexpected opportunity to practice patience, another positive trait, I need to work on. Sitting inside the confines of my dining hall, I watch the pink flowers outside growing in bunches at the end of each delicate stem, looking  absolutely rapturous. They seem to be swaying south responding to the call of the lovely breeze.

Eventually, my laptop turned on, having tested me for quite sometime and so here I am scribbling on my just found ability to be patient. Thirty minutes just flew by, without me fidgeting or itching to get up and do something. Was it the indoor and outdoor weather, or the lovely floral view or am I well rested? This half hour of wait is a gentle reminder from now on to learn to loose the decade old tag  'impatient'. That word has often been used by my family, since childhood and I am wholeheartedly  responsible for it. I have  exhibited all signs of irritation or impatience in most situations which caused me the slightest of discomfort. 

Not to be preachy and sound abrupt, but yeah would I still be able to maintain my composure for half an hour if it was hot and sultry, or if I was tired or hungry? I will have more occasions to try it out, but for the moment, I have something to smile about.

FASCINATION OF USAGE

 Language has a strange way of hooking one's interest. I really found it interesting how words gains emphasis when used in the right place. For example, yesterday's Hard Talk programme of Stephen with the economist Ken, where Ken pointed out the marked difference between " similarity of patterns of behaviour' and parallels in behaviour, as parallels never meet. So if one's behaviour is akin to other person, the apt usage would be similarity in the patterns of behaviour, which is fascinating. 

Similarly, the expressions, 'Middle East' and " Far east", were coined by the Brits for their convenience. The Egyptian author had explained this in  her interview, which I found very fascinating.  Egypt is located in the Middle East and India in the Far East as for someone who is in England.

Likewise, the book I am currently reading" Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway' has some expressions and anecdotes which stick to the readers mind, one of them being theme of  death in the opening stories. Death in various forms is spanning across various countries such as Cuba, France, Spain. The subsequent chapters are depressing in terms of theme, yet it is fascinating how pain is presented in an elevated sense with the words such as good and nice.  Especially the expression loosely as I remember  'death might have gone to other alleys and then switching saying that the character feels its presence' is a nice way of humanising death, which is actually so juxtaposed to its very nature. In contrast,  the in depth detailing about nature, landscapes. transports the reader to  the setting.

I am also reminded of the 80 year old Canadian author who made a comment in an interview about herself and her book, that  one need not be the centre of every conversation of others and that everyone has a right to say what they feel is right to them. It is easily said than done as accepting every comment  in today's age where everyone is keen to put themselves in the limelight through photos, pictures clicked of places, sceneries, food, dresses  etc. 

OVERACTIVE

 Till I was made aware, it never even stuck me that being on the move gives me immense pleasure, be it my exercises, my cooking, mu other household chores.

And so I struggle to plonk myself at one place or do activities which require my attention. It kind of makes me restless and I feel my attention span reducing minute by minute. No wonder my body pains have increased over time as  have really pushed them beyond their capacity. I do not listen  to my body, like right now, I feel fatigue in my legs and yet I walked for  15 minutes in the afternoon.

Another thing I observed like today afternoon, when I get too tired, I get bored easily. I watched three episodes of the programme, "The final table", yet I was feeling kind of guilty, because I did not iron clothes like yesterday and my body did not feel like doing. I fact I did not feel like blogging. But I wasn't feeling sleepy. I mentally did not feel like doing anything. 

Now this is the contradiction I have in my head, am I feeling lazy or have I pushed myself, or is it all right to do just lie like that and watch programme endlessly. I did not feel like reading a book or arranging cupboard. People say long lonely walks are a good time to reflect thoughts. But with my exercise in the morning, I am not able to do walks. Sitting idle doing nothing, I feel restless. 

So what should I do to relax? Let me start by writing down what I feel write now. I feel tired, yawny, and enjoying the outdoor air with soft Hindi music and my husband by my side , I feel nice. Am I thinking too hard how to relax?

I am jumping my thoughts. Why are my muscles in the feet aching? Am I over thinking about them? Why do I worry that if I post, I will be like an open book? Why do I need other's validation? Or why do I wait for another's validation? 

 How do I rate my day? Why do I think that I always have to keep doing something? Even when my mind is empty, I keep telling myself that I have done this and this till now or I imagine myself telling someone that my usual day is this.

Where did I get this habit? Is it the reason that I am constantly comparing myself with others, friends, cousins, parents, in-laws that I am also doing something. Is it the reason for my guilt, constantly bugging me? 

Is it the reason my mind struggles to be quiet? Let me try for tomorrow not to justify or even think and just go with the flow of the day. And why also I have this sudden fear or everything? Unnecessary fears, which never have turned out true in the past. I need to use diffusion technique more often. That's it for now, adios amigos....

The HYPOCRITE

I feel, I have always been a hypocrite. Always lived life to impress others, even today I rush at the very first instance to impress everyone around me.  Even if it's my husband, if he gets up early, the moment my eyes open, I rush to make tea. For once its a stark reminder that I need to take care of myself and labelling is such a strong term which slowly gets ingrained in our minds.

I will slow down, assess take time out for myself as to why week after week, the calf muscle pain is increasing. Is it really due to me ignoring my body signals? Let me not be a hypocrite with myself anymore.

As regards the shoulder pain, the chiropractor said that my shoulders are just dangling without any strength. Should I look for an exercise to strengthen in addition to  existing shoulder exercises? Or should I continue these and accept that they are here to stay and not attach myself to the thought. That will be my first level of hypocrisy gone.

Secondly, I have to accept that I am looking for perfection at every nook and corner, and that I need to ignore it. Similarly at that time, I also need to not let myself affected by people's perception of my life.

The other crucial aspect is in true sense erasing the word constant comparison, which is a stress creator. It  has and is undermining my life. So tomorrow when I practice diffusion exercise, I will think of this scenario. Also, its ok if I have not sent the greetings or responded. I was tired, accept it.(SELF TALK)

Another quality is  not to allow one person to dominate my  thoughts and give undue space in my head. Let them post whatever they want, let me move on. These thoughts are self harming in nature. 'You need not be the centre of every conversation. In fact its better like that, because then you will be revealing less about yourself'. Absolutely well said, So listen more and listen attentively.

To conclude, l need to listen not only to others, but to myself and my body too. Every signal is a cue and so let me not allow the cues to pile up. Guess, that's it for now...

THE SINGLE RED SOCK

Even the very thought of writing this topic is increasing my heart palpitations. I had actually written couple of lines, then realised there is no point naming people in power or countries, for the mindless violence inflicted on civilians displayed on news everyday seems to be a constant feature with most nations.

The terms genocide, bloodbath usually was synonymous with Hitler for a very long time, but today if I look around, I am falling short of fingers on my hand and toes on my feet, of the number of people in power today who do not blink an eye in perpetrating violence on innocent civilians in their own country. 

My scattered, incongruous mind, the mere mention of falling short of fingers and toes reminds me of my childhood at home, when doing Mathematics, if I couldn't do additions or subtractions with fingers, I would use my toes if the numbers were double digit numbers. The habit carried itself accidentally at school also, where my red socks' covered toes in black shoes substituted as digits in Mathematics class. The very thought transports me back in time as memories of my school, small town where I grew come flooding and bring a smile on my face. 

Strange are the ways of the human mind, here I have sat down intending  to write about a thought which has been wearing me down from long, yet here, I have travelled back to a happy memory of childhood. Maybe my mind is incapacitated to handle the mention of gruesome killings all around in the name of power and prefers to embalm with soothing childhood memories which smoothen out the wrinkles of  bereavement.

But, what about the pain of those innocent children in those countries  caught in  the crossfire? They do not have a enjoyable childhood to clothe their sufferings. Day after day their tiny eyes are an innocent witness to the unending hostilities.

Nonetheless, my school's red sock always had a match even when sweaty or soaked, washed or dried, folded neatly in the cupboard or worn by me. But how many children in those war torn nations, or in nations suffering from inflictions  have only a single sock left? The other blood red sock hopelessly lies buried under the debris  bearing a shrapnel wound, the missing toes eager to perform calculations.

THE CHIRPY COMPANIONS

The four tall swaying trees outside my compound,

their branches thick and tall plush with green dense leaves,

greet every passerby from dawn to dusk.

They bear no flower; they bear no fruit,

neither ask for appreciation; nor claim affection,

yet provide home to every feathered friend.

Their tweets and trills arouse me from night slumber;

the blowing winds carrying the sprightly sounds to my bedroom;

aid in dusting off the remaining groggy bone.

Bystanders crane their necks cheer at its very sight

the rustling leaves; the frolicsome  cheeping,

Gratifying the senses of leisurely strollers.

The columnar thicket recognizing no discrimination;

Offering an abode to birds of every colour and hue.

Time we learn a lesson  from the chirpy companions and the lofty trees.

Persons of every shade and tone invade our houses on the zoom,

Yet, do we offer a place to every pigmentation, size and faith

in our hearts and homes without prejudices?

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

A MILD TREMOR

 What thoughts fill my mind at this moment? The news of work filling up empty spaces in my day from tomorrow,  does it hearten me or wear me down? Just when my thoughts learned to assemble, like ashes strewn over Ganges, they are being scattered away, particles which I might have to pick in every room I traverse.

Will I even have the time to pick them or shall I sweep them under the upholstery, so that they remain obscured from my vision. A day may come when I will have the leisure to ponder over them or visit them, but now their insignificance pleases my soul.

Work may fill me to the brim, but I will still cast around  for void here and there to beckon me into its arms, its the quietude which I have not indulged earlier. Hence, it flirts seductively, and I fall a prey to it. In reality, emptied silences satiate my senses rather than the finest of presents and gifts  which failed to quench my thirst. It's a realization, I have had time and again, but randomly filled my hollowness  with gibberish and muted the voice of beckoning tranquility.

Cliched utterances of "new beginning, be optimistic, you can do it" sound stale and shallow. The creased eyebrows, thoughts cloaked in worries, automated responses will creep in though unwanted, pick them and cast them aside, or  lock them in dungeons below, so that their cries may never be heard above. 

Attempt appeasing them and they cling like flies on dead, sucking till their appetite are whet. Should we as mankind be held accountable for assuaging them since days of Adam and Eve, for mankind today enjoys the touch, the look, the clasp of  new found bed partner, or feel a sense of anguish, for detecting emptiness, we identify ourselves with the marooned sailor and grope in fabricated darkness of ennui.

THE CLOUDBURST

 Leave me with a peace of mind,

and I will offer you pages of me.

Just don't stir the tranquil,

I  will loose myself again.

A decade has passed,

papers filled and torn; 

Lest it fancies someone's eye.

Thoughts told and retold,

 A myriad of emotions; 

escaped on  countless sheets,

now untraceable in recyclable bins.

This time it's the keyboard clicking,

screen after screen offering endless space.

Words tumble and fall,

parking themselves in the right places.

Now the only  outward fear,

will every reflection of mine make sense?

The keyboard  leaves its impressions on white,

with words craving for gratification.

Or will I enter an unending lull?

The idea petrifies me.

Or will I be mulling forever?

For methodical occurrences of trivia,

and chide the habitat around.

My gaze arrested, 

by the white petunias on the window sill.

A smile escapes my lips,

It's a thoroughfare,

Which I wish to frequent;

Every now and then.

CHAT WITH A THOUGHT IN THE MARATHON MIND

Why do you feel the need to be blanketed always? Do you feel disrobed when alone? The mind races likes a marathon, every single thought scared to tiptoe alone, accompanied by a hurricane of thoughts.  The agony of a hurricane will batter you. Its all right to be blinkered, emptiness maybe a beautiful confidant. 

Do you feel like the new born out of a mother's womb? Inundated in the deluge of strange hands, some warm, some cold, you will loose your persona. Would you be happy to loose your identity, forget the reason why you emerged? Am I being harsh to you? The discomfort, the bleeding, the pain, the fear are bullying you. Half a century of mixed dominance needs a standstill pause. Their tyranny has created a havoc. 

Your purity lies in leaving the 270 days old water of blood and sweat to be flushed. Fifty years is a long time, the umbilical chord needs to be cut, the wails, the screams, the racing heartbeats will ebb. I am not promising you the gurgles and toothless grins. The daily nagging pains, the turmoil's, the endless suspicions won't leave you. Nudge yourself, you don't need to stand out and prove you are unique, but your birth matters to me. I hate to see you drowning. Survive till you reach the shore. 

I see you at times, I hear the bell and I open the door , but there are scary strangers by your side, my door hesitates to open. The others push themselves, forcibly threatening me to open the door wide for them, bruising me many a time. My sagging eyes, my tossing nights,  my aches and pains stare at them in bewilderment. They moan because they don't want to be tormented. 

They only want you and so do I. Just stay still, you may be pushed or kicked, you will emerge unscathed. The abyss of the potholes or the nerve wrecking speed bumps need to be treaded with caution. Else they may suck you leaving you gasping or even cast you aside forgotten.   

I wait for you alone. Just remember that. We do not need the others. We have walked hand in hand in the past, though seldom. Those are the memories, I want to relive each day. Promise me a raw start with you alone. We have some more decades to go together. With each passing day, I may grow more grey streaks, may even forget names and faces, but I do not want to forget you..... 

 

  

A Decade in the Desert

The desert sands have adopted me,

tolerated my angst, 

bereaved my sadness, 

clung my pensiveness,

permeated my laughter across the grainy terrain. 

Watched my transition from the four's to five's 

the zero hitch- hiking a ride on the numbers 

like my daughter as a child perched on her Dad's shoulders.

The pervading exotic scents have nurtured me, 

the kohl-eyed distant faces, 

the flowing dishdashas, 

adjacent barbeques on the milky beaches 

the blue waters splashing us equally. 

The familiar majboos, the hummus,the suleimani 

cradle my  nomadic senses. 

The wafting shishas, the intimate smiles have mollycoddled me,

the cool slumbery nights, the peals of laughter,

and the  stubbled  greeting tingle my Bedouin soul

The apprehensive long drives, 

the raging white cars,

the  hoodwinking mirages,

and the canopy of blistering degrees 

all dug somewhere in sands of my heart.. 

Strolling camels and the sand dunes whisper 

You are ours now. 

 I am no more the horizon

 I am an accepted wave in their sea of black and white.

SCATTERED THOUGHTS

 This name stuck to me, just as I was meditating. And I kind of liked it. Its been ages since I typed something for my blog. It's like a generation lost in between. What happened? Di I loose my sheen or did I get caught up in the humdrum of life so terribly? What have I been chasing all these years? Or was I even chasing ? It baffles me as to why do I feel like sitting at a place today , not squirming and why is it that my fingers are enjoying the itch to type faster than my thoughts in my head. I wouldn't deny that I have been having this itch to write for some time. I have scribbled on papers and thrown them . I am surprised that my blogpost still exists. I just thought it kind of vanished away. I had even forgotten that I used to write. Reading some of my earlier poems I was wondering was it me that wrote all of those or was it someone else , an another me. Guess passing years, greying hairs on the sides, free time on my hands maybe all of them have their little shouts to suggest yeah its me that brought you back here, or is my newly acquired stillness. Life is strange or queer. Here I am even trying to understand the new format, searching for whatever is new with the technology and lay out. Guess I will figure it out, maybe one step a day. Its my personal space and I suppose I can fumble, go wrong, err, well, no one's there to judge me which is good. So yeah, here I am back and motivated to pursue what I like and that is to scribble my thoughts, pen my emotions, give colour to my moods and voice to my words. There you are my little screen, my quiet listener, who has always been there, but yeah, I owe an apology, I ignored your cues and signals, let sometimes moods, sometimes laziness, sometimes other activities draw my attention. I know you craved my attention, you were there for me ever and I feel like I found a long lost friend again. Do not let go of me....