Goodbye

This is my last post here. This was my first foray into blogging,and after nearly two years, I feel a need to move in a different direction. A direction which requires a fresh start, in this case a new blog. So to the closed group of my readers who have been reading my posts, thanks. And hope to see you soon on my new blog, Carvaan. Clicking on the link will take you there. Hope you like it. Goodbye.

Postcard from Afar

A tiny box is hidden far away in a corner of a dusty cupboard. Feels like I have stored away memories of a time gone by. Out of sight yet never out of reach. Mere tokens today, what once meant so much? Yet more than just tokens. For was it not just yesterday when you had handed it to me, furtive eyes scanning the room, nimble hands thrusting it into mine? How much sand has flown through the hourglass since then? Neatly folded, fragrant with nostalgia; I rub off the dust to read. A hand I had read years ago to mock at. Only to long for it in due time. And although the turbulent land of my memories where you reside is worlds away from where I am happy and contented today, why is it that I hold on to your letter? And stranger is it not that I feel that you hold on to that copy of White Mughals? For love has died, and has burnt away all that came with it. Yet I sit reading your verses, like a postcard from a stranger written long ago to an acquaintance I'd once known.

Moss

With a pang of separation I begin

The journey to the ends of the world

Or just the corner over there…?

Down the slopes rolls the stone.

A stream the rocks have bred,

A flutter of leaves newly shed.

Pushed and nudged on its way

By the gusts that whistle amidst,

By the dewdrops and morning mist.

And the world is lovely.

I nestle among my fellows

And listen to what they say.

One’s been to the beyond and back,

The other wants to see them all

And I nestle and listen.

The stone likes his company.

Rugged and battered although they feign,

They’re straight and they’re welcoming,

They lie together through storm and rain

And together they rush downhill

Singing songs of this and that.

I swim down the river of life,

Down to the cities and the plains.

Washes me onto this bank to roll,

Alas! Without the moss I’d gathered.

It’s strange but it’s new, this new world is

And I roll on, unwillingly, grudgingly.

Under the orange heavens, the stone rolls on.

The sights odd, the sounds uncanny,

Yet can different be the stars?

Companions anew, and perspectives afresh

And love for company. And it nestles back

As the sand avalanches far off, all too fast…

I wish I could stay here, snug into the turf.

The cosmic struggle grows within.

The romantic’s hopeless dream surely

That the Universe can fail, or make an exception

Until the rock runs its course downstream

To wither at the bottom of the sea.

Weird : |

To me, weird is an enigma. The word that is. Although anything described as weird also in certain cases qualifies. Traditional use of the word as in the Weird Sisters and Macbeth’s witches implied a touch of the unearthly and supernatural. And yet, the word has certainly travelled a long way and holds a special place in the modern lexicon and more importantly in the present context, in the vocabulary of the age group I belong to. Getting back to the point, I say weird to me is an enigma. You have the ‘dictionary weird’ that covers the traditional usage of the word mentioned above. Then you have the ‘heterodox weird’; the look-down-upon weird you’d expect the kul dude to fire at the weirdo who comes single to the school Prom. Things get more abstract henceforth. Third on the list is the ‘awkward weird’. You crack a joke about Santa and Banta and then realise Sardar eyes glaring down on you till the far horizon. The “Uh-oh :-O” moment that follows right after (before, of course you hear the crunching sound of fists on nose) fits the bill of the awkward weird. The ‘unexpected weird’ comes next. That’s when your boyfriend/girlfriend’s mom invites you for dinner when you weren’t really sure you were allowed in the house. And finally comes the transcendental weird. Or keeping by the spirit of this piece, let’s just call it the ‘weird weird’. I’ll refrain from examples here. Each to his own memories then. The weird weird is that moment when the heterodox, the awkward, the unexpected and much more, all come together to leave you with a comic smile on your face, a spring in your step and a weird piece about weird in your blog. : |

Walls and Thoughts Beyond

Walls. A feature of our modern lives. A life of closer connectivities and more confined lifestyles. Where we reach out to the world yet can't see our neighbours over the walls we build around ourselves. Cold and unsympathetic, the poor poet's mountains, that which was meant to secure lives yet sucks the life out. Walls can often seem imposingly dignified and often repressively violent. And yet, it is far-fetched for sure to think of walls as serving any purpose other than keeping those in, in and those out, out. Other than perhaps, providing a place to lean for the lonesome traveller from the north and the aspirant who wishes to see the world on the other side. So it is with wonder in my eyes that I stumbled upon the work of a certain Banksy.

There are those times when you wished you’d known certain things earlier and longer, and Banksy’s works certainly ignite those feelings. As dull, grey landscapes suddenly transformed into a work of art; as out of nowhere, the wall of your morning walks suddenly became a canvas for ingenious expression; as ordinary, mundane ideas were taken and overnight, turned into that which is significant and conspicuous; you wonder why you hadn’t thought of it first. It’s just so plain simple. And then you smile, for it is the work of an alchemist before your sight that transforms the ordinary into the brilliant.

Banksy says “We don’t need any more heroes; we just need someone to take out the recycling.” Stinging words in a world living in its own separate, walled comfort zones. Words probably not loud enough to hear over the din of the music systems and the traffic the other side of the wall. Yet words that cannot be ignored on your way back from the morning walk when they are inscribed silently and beautifully overnight, especially when you’re expecting a steaming hot mug of imported coffee instead.I'll call it quits now, but as I tuck myself into my blanket, I sure know who I'd like to have on the other side of my wall.

On the Boulevard

The night's orange and there are shadows everywhere. The dog stares into my heart, and the heart is black and the dog a shadow. I stare at the orange streetlamps, and my shadow takes me by surprise. There are assassins at my back, I turn around and no one's there. Shadows. Everywhere. Billie sings broken songs and he's a shadow. I'm a shadow. A shadow none but my shadow can see. He's the only one that walks beside me on the boulevard. But that's lame. The shadow screams. I sing like a mirror. Read between the lines, he says. The assassins stare as I pass them by, lip-syncing with the shadow. I walk on. And then, it tunnels through me. All crimson orange. I smile. It's cold. Everything is cold.

Stairway to Heaven

The roof lay strewn with
The remnants of forbidden pleasure,
Dark was the field out in front,
Dark with people, or phantoms were they?

The night, blurring the city for once
Humming a melody of whispers,
I look to the sky, and then to you
And wonder

A star, is that faraway?
Or a dot hanging in the in-between?