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....