Marigold

I will let you in on a mystery, if you are for keeps
Been harboring it for days, in my slience
habitual denial and hurt held in heaps
Obtaining the past lost and timeless

I wanted to say , you needed to be told
this journey of heartless to heartfelt
to be able to feel and believe manifold
It beats again, a thump and a sudden melt

Surrounded by a sea of unknown and cries
I lay my letter on you with a marigold
today, I could have said it with my eyes,
Our favorite orange- yet our story untold.

Halo

She stated endlessly
beyond the lights
ahead of the dulling horizon
It was not over, she felt
something in her soul was lit,
a fire of must do's and can be's
she felt light,
as if a weight had lifted

The wheelchair seemed easy to maneuver
If not the Olympics,
there was always the para Olympics,
Behind her, the light sparkled
like a halo of faith.

Boxing

She woke up,
tied her hair,
wore the bright neon pink saree
the tattoo showed on her biceps,
as she rode her Harley

Yes, she defined her own box 

Soul food

I am tired of a lot of things,
tired of trivialities and mundane-ness,
everyone running this endless race,
competing hurt, unsatisfied,
yet running.

I really don't have patience anymore
for this chase, the corporate rigmarole,
and passionless existence
It annoys me when no one
really understands the
true essence of life

It is not a pot of gold or the designation,
where is the contentment and inner peace,
where is the soul really?
I am annoyed and am impatient
I need to do so much, see so much
feel so much.

I need to live, to love, to cry, and to fly
to discover and  to loose myself in the process,
yet, find and pick up the scattered pieces
of my soul,
Yes, I need to
and I need to now
Do you too?

He

He was the silver lining,
and he was the cloud,
 he was the rain,
and he was the rainbow,
He was the faith yet an illusion

Infinite

If I could be infinite,
I would be infinite with you.
The pastels on my paintbrush,
can never reflect the colors,
I saw with you.

I can smell only your fragrance,
in the woody misty air,
amidst a fresh forest.
I extend my hand to caress the air,
which you walked in,
So, I find a part of you.

I look to recreate my soul,
with your memories.
Your long dark tresses,
caressing your face,
the slight swing of the hip,
caught only by my lusty eyes.

You made me love and lust,
with equal measure.
The kind beyond definitions,
cause love without lust, is meaningless,
and lust without love, hollow.

My soul yearns for yours,
if I could be infinite,
I would be infinite with you.

Sitara

In star spangled skies,
or the moonless starless nights,
I search the lone shooting star,
that shone and left.
I used to call her my “Sitara”. 

Mirror

 Mirror Peaks and troughs galore, 

engulfing the auburn sky, 

shades of life it bore, 

uneven lows and familiar highs, 

ocean’s blue is no compare, 

to the mist borne hues, 

mountains shout out a dare, 

nature in its glory gives a cue,

 the spellbound dreamy mortal, 

stares in lost disbelief, 

the sights which mirror the soul, 

an abyss of unquenched belief.

Perfect Harmony

Every day he would go for his stroll around 6 pm. The dusk somehow always beckoned. It was always the same routine where he would wear his favorite hat and walk down the cobbled path just around the bend of the “rosewood road”. The Church was rarely visited now, the stained-glass window was broken, the creeper once laden with white roses, today, was just a mess of cobbled twigs and the bench which was once green and welcoming, was full of moss. 

Yet, the gray called out to him. Though uncanny, the place in its entirety made sense, forgotten, untouched, laden with memories of yester years. It was comforting. It reassured him, that, even in today’s fast changing world there was some constant. A place, he could visit everyday devoid of the constant flux. No one bothered visiting it or sprucing it up. The shiny white Church with the Saturday choir and the Sunday fest was more attractive to most.

Each day the routine was the same. The walk took him thirty minutes down the cobbled path, past the post box at the corner of Cobalt, past De’ Souza’s Patisserie, up the small hillock and then around the bend. It would take him exactly 28 minutes. He had timed it on multiple occasions. The Church did not have a name, the signboard was long gone. He had named it “Church of Harmony”. Its existence and serene surroundings created a melody which somehow sang a tune of perfect harmony.

He would sit there every day till 7:10 pm when the sun would set admiring the myriad of colors splashed during sunset. As the colors splashed, the sun would leave for its heavenly abode, he would take out his mouth organ and play the same tune, “ a melody, he wrote, years ago”. He could never give words to the tune but it did seem to have a beginning, middle and an end… As the evening gave way to night, he would walk back down the same path home…

………

She had wandered off the group. The school trip was so not fun. The teacher had promised a day of fun and games but this educational tour was not what she had signed up for. She remembered fighting with her mom, insisting that this trip was compulsory

Yesterday

My verses

You broke my verses,

into tiny shreds

and blew them to the wind.

It was out of shape,

had no depth or flow,

in your roving eyes.

Endless moments

of my musings,

were my words.

You will never see,

how words can,

make or break.

They were pieces,

of my scattered soul,

stitched in a pattern less weave

You failed to see beyond,

within and without,

you failed me.

Maybe, now when you find

the flow, in these words,

keep them as memory.

You broke my verses,

into tiny shreds,

but you did not break me.

Bookmarked

The sight was so familiar. The white Chantilly lace fluttered against the pane almost making a pattern as it blew with pride against that rare evening wind. The paint bordering the perfect squares on the window needed paint, she thought. The whites had faded to greys, chipped off from random areas, the edges of the glass conjoined with the wood had gathered dust. It looked worn out. 

The lace though seemed bright and vibrant.  She took care of it as if it were a precious gem. An heirloom in a way. Her mind drifted and fluttered as the breeze floated through familiarly. 

Nyra thought of her mom. She was adamant on the name “Nyra”. Never truly divulging the meaning she always told her that it was lyrical in a sense. It would add the music in her life. The name had grown on her though whether it was adding any rhythm or purpose, she was not sure. 

“Antra was a much nicer name.”, she thought. Ma and her name were synonymous. She was Antra. It meant the body (the second para) of the song in Sanskrit. Ma was Antra, she was the lyrics, she was the tune and she was the song itself. The one you could sing and never forget. The kind which would imprint in your soul and taking up a corner forever. 

 It had been a while since she saw her. Somewhere deep down it still hurt. When life throws a curve ball and you just have to ride the tide. Though she still had unanswered questions, the hurt remained and that abated rage stayed warm in her soul. 

The bell rang. She woke up from this array of thoughts and ran to the door. The bell sounded familiar. “

“What is it with door bells?”

“Each one has their own style of ringing the bell, even the ting tong could sound different.” she thought.

She opened the door in a hurry and was scooped into these familiar, comforting and safe arms. Kabir was back. Nothing like familiarity. The kind which you need when the world around you is whirling. 

“I missed you.”, he said. He always said this after few days of travel. 

“How have you been?

It is so hot today though the breeze is a saving grace.

I hate to travel and be away for long. Is there any food?”

Kabir had indeed returned. The silence was replaced with the familiar cacophony. 

She smiled to herself knowing fully well that if she attempted to answer the flurry of questions. He would not hear it till he had settled, had a hot meal and paused. 

“Did he ever pause though?”, she wondered

The left-over rice from last night and the chicken curry was devoured in no time. Kabir had that “I am full” smile. 

He pulled her close to him. He smelt of musk and vanilla.  She snuggled and buried her head in his chest. It was home, in a way. His hand moved swiftly as he pulled out the stick which held her hair in a bun.  He untangled her long tresses as if he knew his way around. His lips sought hers with a burning desire, hurried and impatient. She responded as she arched her head while he nibbled his way down her neck. He knew what worked.  They moved in unison, drowned and floated together. Panting and breathless, he lay on top of her. 

 She smiled and wondered about the ending. There was this story she was working on. It had been three months and she could not work out the ending. It just was not coming her. It was not even writer’s block. She had written four different ends but no one of them was it. It just did not seem like the end. It just did not seem right. 

“I think I will go finish buying the groceries and grab a cup of coffee on the way in”, she told Kabir.  

Kabir mumbled something back as he slipped into a satisfied slumber. 

She eased her way out of the bed. Grabbed her dress from the floor. It was white just like that lace as she looked back at it. Something about the lace which kept beckoning her today.

She quickly grabbed her laptop, her wallet and headed out.  Groceries could wait, she thought. The corner table was a her favorite in this forgotten coffee shop around the bend of the street. 

Thankfully, it was empty. The server smiled at her. She grinned back sheepishly. She sometimes wondered maybe she was the reason they continued to exist. The shiny coffee shops down the road attracted the crowd and this café with the forlorn chairs, the dog eared books, the ceramic cups kind of faded away against all the sparkle around. But, she loved it.

She opened her laptop and stared at the screen. 

“Is there an ending”, she wondered as her mind again wandered off.

She went back to the bookmarked website, the painting of the saree clad woman braving the wind against the banks of river seine was her favorite. Why was it untitled, is what she wondered. Ma could have named it “braving the wind”, “my moment”, “letting go”, “freedom”. Untitled seemed not right. That abated rage was brimming. 

The phone call on her 16^th birthday was a memory etched in time.

“I am sorry Nyra. I wish I could be there. It is just that I had to go. I needed to fly. I could never be chained, you see. Someday, as you grow up you will understand. I will always love you”

“Why? Ma. Why? Could you not have stayed? Loved me. Held me. Laughed with me. Taught me.. “, I wished I had asked this. I wished I had called her back. Written to her , flown to Paris to see her, shaken her, hugged her, yelled at her and screamed.

I never understood. That day a lot of her died. Nyra stopped being lyrical. She had lost her antara. The white lace came back as a memory. It was what she remembered. Ma talking about chantiliy lace and Paris. She spoke of romance and life. She dreamt. She had wings, she always said. The lace remains and so does Nyra, or some essence of her.

The server served the black coffee with a smile. I smiled back distractedly.

Suddenly, I knew it as I could feel tears gushing down my cheeks. I typed furiously…

“There was no end. No chain of events could lead to an end. It was a journey of sorts. She had to let go. She hated her yet she was her. A free spirit. It was the moment of realization. The moment she knew, she could not go back to the lace hanging on the window. She had to flow. No matter if it did not have a destination, a path , a reason or any logic. … She was and will always be Nyra…she had to find her music….”

Just then she knew the title to the painting, It had to be “bookmarked”.. it was book marked for her. It changed her. Beckoned her and in a way set her free.

Kabir would understand. Maybe or maybe not.

She called and waited till he picked up, “I am sorry Kabir. I wish I could come back. It is just that I have to go. I need to fly. I can be chained, you see. Someday, you will understand. I will always love you”

……………

The soul mirror

Peaks and troughs galore, 

engulfing the auburn sky,

shades of life it bore,

uneven lows and familiar highs.

Ocean’s blue is no compare,

to the mist borne hues,

mountains shout out a dare,

nature in its glory gives a cue.

The spell bound dreamy mortal,

stares in lost disbelief,

the sighs which mirror the soul,

an abyss of unquenched belief.

आशना

इतने दिनों की बातें,

ख़्वाबों से सजाया,

एक चेहरा,

हज़ारों एक ख़्वाहिशों,

से बंधी एक माला...

आज मुलाक़ात की घड़ी

यह सींचा चेहरा,

किसी और का ना हो,

कोई और ना हो,

कि बस एक मुख़्तसर मुलाक़ात हो

ऐसा भी ना हो,

कि मुलाक़ात में मसरुफ ऐसे कि

बेजा ओर बेसाबब

उल्फ़त का गुलशन बिछ जाए

डर लगता है मुझे ,

मुलाक़ातों से,

रंजिश है मुझे हक़ीक़त से,

क्या आशना की जुसतुज़ु काफ़ी है?

Scars

As I stare across the window pane,

looking down ahead of the flights wings,

I saw scratches, on a full proof glass.

Scratches, disorderly, unorganised,

lines, dots, zig zags, bumps,

it was chaotic and disturbing 

The glorious skies,

somehow seemed cluttered,

it made me angry and uncomfortable 

Suddenly, in a brief moment,

the sun’s rays glistened,

one of them pepped from the puffy clouds.

It shone around the scratches,

highlighting, bordering,

caressing and engulfing.

The scratches formed a pattern,

a labyrinth of unknown,

a myriad of almost mystical designs 

The glass turned into a canvas, sparkling,

a message in the briefiest of moments,

scars are pretty, it said!

Unkaha

Intezar to tera pal pal kiya 

Dil ki dhadkan,

Ghari ke shanon se tez thi,

Na dikha sakhte the tujhe,

Na bata sakhte the tujhe ,

Dosti ka wasta jo tune diya tha.

ग़म और ख़ुशी

ग़म और ख़ुशी

तो है एक ही पहलू

दिल तो दोनो ही, उछालते है

ग़ैरों से ना उम्मीद कोई

ना दर्द, ना ही बेहत ख़ुशी

कुछ आज के मुसाफ़िर

कुछ कल तक के

तो क्या अपेक्षा,

और कौन सा ग़म

जवाब की उम्मीद ना थी तुमसे

पर यूँ अनदेखा करोगे

सोचा ना था

आशा और निराशा

भी तो एक ही पहलू है,

दिल तो दोनो ही दुखते है।

इंतज़ार

आज फिर वही शाम

हवाओं में वही ख़ुशबू

शोर में भी सन्नाटा है

तुमने कहा था,  मिलोगे

वही जगा है

वही सब कुछ 

कल भी तेरा इंतज़ार था

आज भी।

Perfect Harmony...

Every day he would go for his stroll around 6 pm. The dusk somehow always beckoned. It was always the same routine where he would wear his favorite hat and walk down the cobbled path just around the bend of the “rosewood road”. The Church was rarely visited now, the stained-glass window was broken, the creeper once laden with white roses, today, was just a mess of cobbled twigs and the bench which was once green and welcoming, was full of moss. Yet, the gray called out to him. Though uncanny, the place in its entirety made sense, forgotten, untouched, laden with memories of yester years. It was comforting. It reassured him, that, even in today’s fast changing world there was some constant. A place, he could visit everday devoid of the constant flux. No one bothered visiting it or sprucing it up. The shiny white Church with the Saturday choir and the Sunday fest was more attractive to most.

Each day the routine was the same. The walk took him thirty minutes down the cobbled path, past the post box at the corner of Cobalt, past De’ Souza’s Patisserie, up the small hillock and then around the bend. It would take him exactly 28 minutes. He had timed it on multiple occasions. The Church did not have a name, the signboard was long gone. He had named it “Church of Harmony”. Its existence and serene surroundings created a melody which somehow sang a tune of perfect harmony.

He would sit there every day till 7:10 pm when the sun would set admiring the myriad of colors splashed during sunset. As the colors splashed, the sun would leave for its heavenly abode, he would take out his mouth organ and play the same tune, “ a melody, he wrote, years ago”. He could never give words to the tune but it did seem to have a beginning, middle and an end… As the evening gave way to night, he would walk back down the same path home…

………

She had wandered off the group. The school trip was so not fun. The teacher had promised a day of fun and games but this educational tour was not what she had signed up for. She remembered fighting with her mom, insisting that this trip was compulsory and she just had to go. In fact, Sophie had warned her that the teacher would probably make them visit all the museums and all the historic places, making each of them memorize all the history. Little did she know, that there was going to be a test, where they would need to retell the history.

Evie was a bright kid, full of life. She enjoyed talking, a lot. It was tough to tell whether she was more inquisitive or more talkative. However, the teachers loved her because she remembered everything and could ace any exam. She also had a creative way to address any question- simple and unique.

Evie had wandered off from the sunset point towards the little hillock that day. While all the other girls from Convent Mary sat and ate their prim sandwiches with a fruit enjoying the sunset, Evie decided to go for a stroll.

Suddenly, she was taken aback when she saw a church. Broken down and tattered it almost looked spooky. The cobwebs, overgrown weeds, unkempt grass and bushes, the broken glass at the door, all seemed very uncanny. She did get a bit scared.

As she turned around to run back to her group, her foot got entangled in a bundle of twigs and she fell flat. Her heart was beating so fast, that she could almost feel it in her mouth. As she tried to scramble up, she saw a shiny object near her foot. It glistened in the setting sun. Quickly she picked it up and saw that it was a mouth organ… She yanked it out of the twigs and pushed away the dry leaves, cobwebs and moss away.

She got up and saw that she was staring at a tombstone…

“Patrick Gonzalves”

1850-1920

It read, “I played my melody at the Church of Harmony”

She was sure, she had heard the mouth organ playing at a distance. She glanced at the time and it was 7:10 pm. Hastily she ran down the hillock to her school group.

 In the background the church stood aloof and still…… in perfect harmony..

Unsaid

So much left unsaid,

waiting for a reply..

If only tombstones could speak