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.