Monday, February 28, 2011

A page in the dustbin....and this is what it read

It is similar to a castle built on the sea shore....ephemeral but if to embrace time, and eternity perhaps, in the jubilant expression of hope.

She lay there spinning tales of life, as all of us do...same mundane routine, same events, merely replaced by the name of new to claim for. The name flashed across her mind as a lightening on a clear sky, all of a sudden- unplanned, unmitigated. The waves carried her beyond her present in the vast abyss of the past.

The coffee table on any Sunday evening awaited his regular presence.He settled his accounts on his laptop and she read beside him, sometimes looking at him with feline affection and sometimes drinking the words on the printed folds with full relish. Beyond that nothing existed. Eight cups of coffee replaced and replenished each other in due course of the time. Later in the evening, when the dusk began to appropriate the northern end of the table and when the last rays of the sinking sun began to gently retreat, he used to fold his papers, switch off his laptop neatly and begin to rise. She used to shed her spontaneous tears each of those times. And he used to lovingly wipe them every time too, sometimes kissing her and sometimes just murmuring those affectionate words. But this followed for ten long years....

Hmmmmm....dust hurts eyes. The calm of the beach began to blend with the graceful retreat of the sun. Yes, just ten more pages left before she could stash the book in her, "Read" section-neatly, just as he used to fold his laptop....

Hmmmm, long indeed life is.

It was a February Sunday. He came without any work. Just his own self. How carefree and 'himself' he was that day! They cooked together. Laughed and talked endlessly as if there was no sunset today, as if this time were to freeze them in this bliss. Her unfinished novel lay supine on the coffee table. The mugs awaited their first fill. But today they had no time to drink, to read, to work, perhaps to repeat. All was new, fresh- just as the fresh mango blossoms of the spring...

He got up to leave with the windowed sky announcing the onset of night. She asked him to stay. He smiled and bid her a goodbye. She cried again. He consoled her in effect. After all, this was the usual that happened amidst the newness that eve. He left. Perhaps he forgot to take his sweater. Or perhaps he left it on purpose. That was the one she knitted for him. Also the one that he loved the most. Turquoise bordering on a mauve...

Then there was no looking back. They settled comfortably in the individual lives that each of us strut along. She read and continues to read. No, she does not know of him fact what is there left to know after ten years of association? Hmmmmm....he is complete as he always has been, without anyone except himself for company- engrossed in his world, absorbed in the rhythm of 'my plump life' as he called his..

Is she actually reading? Perhaps not. Better that she wrote back. Not that he sought an answer. But not that he denied either. But 'what ifs' surround her mental scape. It is not that they were not a happy, 'loving' couple. But perhaps love is never enough. There is much more to living than a mere emotion. He knew it. She had to realize it. And, hence, the present.

The sun had melted in the sea by now. A crimson blush enveloped the air. She got up, picked up her book and gazed at the sea. Perhaps, looking for an answer. Going back in her apartment, she mailed him- explained her job, her moves, her tentative plans. And asked him to meet her family for dinner. And voila! he was online.....:)

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Random abandon

In the vast expanse of this desert
i kept walking.
The sun scorching-
scalding my throat.
The sands dry-
bruising my eyes.

I wanted to bleed
bleed to profusion
and soak the parched papery mess
of rudiments-
the reduced me.

What was to inhale was
a dry mouthful of arid dust,
sand, hot air-
enough to scar my heart
my soul
perhaps my inner core
and perhaps for-

What was to exhale was
a burdened air,
an ominous anticipation
of an exotic mirage-
choked with stench
profuse with pollutants.
Strong enough
to stifle and strangulate.

I chose to walk
just walk an innocent stroll
like you do when unperturbed
with perhaps no-nothing.
Waiting to collapse
with a defining thud.

Dry mist

It rained last night
soaking the dew
in absolute flood.
The rain washed off-
the leaves clean,
the bark fragrant.
It kissed the clay
to a careful abandon-
The rain moistened the night.

Waiting for the ashen sky to blush,
for the tulip buds to coyly smile.
The night lay
as if etherised across
the relentless march of time.

The timid sun refuses to yawn,
a misty halo surrounds the morning-
veiling the air
embracing the fragile fragrance.
It will perhaps-
soon enough
Prise open a thousand pearls,
a thousand words,
a thousand unsaid,
the miniml said...

Till then,
the night shall wait
caressing its abandon
straightening its curls and creases
refusing to hope
accepting to change.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Trampelled thought

February sun
smiles surreptitiously
each morn.
As if incumbent to defeat the
misty hangover of the receding winters...

Similar to the nascent fervor
of a lurking scheme to sabotage
the existing quiet of a system..

Mired in self confessed confidence
the sun stretches its limbs
gradually, slowly.

Just as the frosty kohl of the morn
melts with the progressing day-
Erasing the sharply defined,
carefully marked boundaries
of the dreams that rest
limply on the eyes each morn...

The sun conspires
to erase, to outshine, to perhaps flood
the night lost with itself.

Does it matter at all
to see its rapacious
beams scorch the
dewy fresh minty grass?
Perhaps no-
Because to defeat one is perhaps the greatest victory..

Smiling tryst

Is it okay to just let things be...
without holding or even trying to hold control
over the innumerable dreams and desires?
Those that you nourish over ages...
Carefully, with your
wandering, searching eyes
whispering endless motivations
in the tarred nights, in the scorching days.
Is it okay to be called a
loser by your own self?

Is it okay to erase and begin anew
as a novice perhaps?
To feign innocence and cry tear-less drops?
Is it okay to just dump the accumulated
grime and muck of ambitious lurches?
Is it?

Or may be just allow one's own apparition
to gradually melt
in the thickening soot of life?
Allowing oneself to be replaced by the other
willfully donning a new persona
without resistance, without an iota of regret?
Is it okay?

Is it okay to cheat on your own beloved
one that you have pampered and assured
of your lifetime commitment?
For betraying one you choose many smiles?
Is it okay to be an infidel?

Is it okay to just allow one self
a certain degree of numbness
so that one does not feel
love, hate, happiness, glum?
So that one grows
Calm and quiet
feigning grace, transcending engagements?