morning

Morning opened her well rubbed eyes
smiled as she had on so many before
and saw
the laughter fade in the other pair of midnight blacks
and with a smile-robbing shiver
realized
it was through the bars.

i see you

You astound me by your loveliness and loneliness in crowds. You bring me to my knees in prayer, wishing i had more solid ground. Your eyes see through to my soul, laid chillingly bare.Your joyous laughter makes me cry, for i used to be there.
I stare at you on my desk, my public page, their old souvenirs, my mother's treasured drawers. You are that short, slight stranger, that the mirror and the clock swallowed, and put past any compare, in dreams; and on bad days, nightmares.

"Your failures,devour your heart
In every hour, you're drowning
In your imperfection-" The Skillet - "Imperfection"

JOURNEY

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 19; the nineteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

The little wooden boats, the ones that gently rocked when you blew at them, cost thirty Rupees at the village fair . Rickety little things, that never left shore enough to touch another. This one was different though. The minute he clutches at it’s smooth, symmetrical polish – scented edges , he knew. He also knew it was not to be owned. The setting sun rippling on the river, the perfect postcard background for the grand launch; he let it go – envisioning it’s grand travels along it’s puny path on the mighty river.
And it travelled. It touched Benares and carried a whiff of the evening “aarti”. It touched Bengal, and the “baul” song reverberated in intoxicated rhythms from it’s then ripped sails. Somewhere in Howrah, a girl touched it during her late afternoon splash. And she saw the ‘pujari ’in his pot bellied , ‘tilak’- in –place splendor. She felt the cool breeze of Rishikesh , just a draft – but nonetheless. And then it stole away, leaving behind the illiterate girl with a glimpse of a highly coloured , high school geography book dream.
The shepherd found it in some crevice of the almost frozen river. Motion was difficult then. The smooth flowing meanderings replaced by icy obstacles. He breathed in long forgotten summer dreams in its hollowed length. It was like the last time he had picked mangoes in the orchard, he could still taste it on his tongue tips, the uniquely mango-ish juicy sweetness. The thrill of secretive climbing of forbidden trees.
And having delivered that last smile from far-off lands ; it breathed it’s last in the icicle cave. A furry creature scurried forth. Somewhere there were meadows with enough sun and trees.

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off the merry go round

one fine day i wake up sleeping
oblivious to your song
my heart and curtains that had been shredded
in the dawn light reborn
as the ground beneath my feet stop spinning
i see your dazzlingly colourless merry-go-round
have your new shoes, and games and parties
keep running towards the glittering, beckoning calls,
would rather have my unshapely hopes, and fears and falls
my closed circles, my square shoulders, my empty wallet and heart
for lately i have seen, and measured, and shudder to think
how hard the fall from that spinning high horse would have been
what late stabbings would have taken these vessels apart,
if life had not played its wisely cruel part.