Winter come

There is no pain in my shoulder,

When I know I must hold her,

And carry her through the crowd,

I will make her proud.

I will feel like the winter,

Warm till I'd have poured my tranquil,

Like the winter, I will feel.

There is no pain in my chest,

Till there is a pillow for her rest,

And a dream to keep her alive,

I will make her jingle.

I will know like the winter,

Lost till I'd have found white snow,

Like the winter, I will know.

There is no pain,

Not anywhere I can tell,

Not a fear of wrongful death,

Though we all burn to char,

We'd have outlived the fire,

Not a speck of ash will regret

The few years that flew.

Come What May

It rains in the dusk of summer days,
As the weather, like I, has lost its way.
An April of my life counts its breath,
But I'll still walk come what may.

The robe of one worshiped sways,
Giving away scars that always stay.
The wind raises questions in a wave,
But I'll still pray come what may.

A wrong the river won't wash away,
While I stand silent on its cay.
I'd have floated without my heavy heart,
But I'll still swim come what may.

I hum a song with willed disarray,
And second the life I lead to dismay.
Freed and bound to all echoed sounds,
I'll sing to life come what may.

Eighty Five

I feel like drowning in the fragrance of your hair,
As the world seems so worthy, life seems so fair.
I feel like breathing the air through your skin,
Through the night of the moon and day of it's kin.
I will submerge my soul in all our flaws,
I will hunger for our fallen defense's cause,
I will relive those days, in the midst of December,
I will shed a tear, for I remember,
And I will inhale your presence in my own,
For I had loved and you are long gone.

Wooden Feet

Dear Blog,

There are good times and there are bad times. For you bad times may mean a server malfunction or may be a hacker intrusion. Ours are far more complicated and preposterous. We unlucky monkey descendants have a lot more to pile before we make head or tail out of a problem. This incapability of human behaviour is totally a non-issue with me. But many a times, even after careful insight into the problem and agreeing upon a solution, we have the immensely disheartening habit of recommitting the mistake.

My father, a gentle being, used to scold me for putting my feet on the sofa. He had his understanding of furniture mechanics which I need not, would not, dare not question. I abided and embraced the peace which had ghastly alternatives. But, every now and then when I visit my Aunt’s place, or even a movie theatre, I take delight in the fact that my father is not present there for any resistance. Freedom is utilized to the maximum, and my feet are blessed with cushion underneath. I can see a few jealous Reebok lovers, but hey! My cushions don't run. All this can be discarded as an irremovable habit or simply advocated against again and again and …..

I have my own advanced sense of extra pressure points on a static wood-frame, which is not credited duly to my alma mater. I realize the fate I bring upon that erstwhile green joyous tree that sheltered and swung with all ranks of nature. But what really subdues all that rationality is my willingness to take the detour. It is my urge to disobey my conscience and burn the guilt that drives me through such minuscule misdeeds. I am flawed and unwilling to change.

Although, coming to think about it we are all flawed. In our custom made criticized areas, we have our own rebellions set up for something we don’t owe to the world. Or do we? If Richard Bach is to be believed, which I personally do approve of, then “The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant, are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn; whatever steps we take, they're necessary to reach the places we've chosen to go”. So, we owe this to no one else but ourselves.

Maybe I will learn the beauty of a hard-earned sofa when I sweat for one. Or maybe I will never accuse my children for such a ignorable crime. But the thing that I truly find assurance in is that one day, when there will be people who look up to me, who seek pride in having ever known me, who relish my presence and resent my riddance, I will not be a person who sat on a couch with his limbs near his hips. And if I am to ever be such a person, I might as well begin now.

As for you dearest blog, Google and myself are your only exploiters. Comments are priced high, so you can’t expect much of them either. I wish you a safe server.

Forever someone’s,
arcane

The dawn and the swan

Home
Threading the mist, eerie and white,
Weaving a day, the dawn and it's light,
As a love to the lone swan afloat,
In a lake that was the old castle's moat,
Asked if she well knew what heat would bring,
And why isn't she North, where there's spring.

The swan
The swan had flown in before her lake froze,
The home where she grew, her feathers rose.
The waters near the nest where she hatched,
Would have it's ripples, with ice, patched.

Across the skies, over varied lands,
She flew with her flock, swinging hands,
And finally reached this cozy lake,
Where winter planned little to shake.
It was then that she met her swan prince,
The ruler of her heart for then and since.

She levied him love, for love she gave,
With promises that ended with their grave.
The world of their own was a shadowed smile,
They played and they swam dreading the while
When they'd chose between her place and his
In flying back North, after winters seize.
This was when she chose to never go,
This was the palace of the dreams she'd known.

Her love, of course, left with memories and spring,
For he led the flock lest duty sting.
The swan embraced joy in the hope of next year,
What if? What if? Oh! The answers she feared.
Hoping the wraths of seasons would ease,
She waited for Northern waters to freeze.

The Dawn
The light knew enough on losing love,
Chasing it's muse forever and above,
Knowing all well both can't stay,
Darkness had to part, there's night, there's day.

But seconds they'd meet, there is bliss,
Sunsets and sunrise, heavens amiss.
It adds no news, there is no love for noon,
But hours of luring the sun and the moon,
Where the canvas and ink exchange grace,
Inseparable but divided unless they brace,
And create beauty for the world to see,
Knowing naught's closer than they would be.

The canvas
But the wait is feared for eternity nears,
What if the painter is deaf, can't hear!
Or may be the view is not overly appealing,
Or may be the colors are there for stealing.
Or may be the picture's a trial and done,
And some other canvas held a happier one.

The Open

From the open space, the wake begins
Tearing screams and gun fights belied.
Wishes pull a hunger strike,
Dreams take a holiday from life.
For the things you've wanted,
For the ones you have loved,
Lad smile.
From the open holes, the snakes slither
Piercing defenses, tears run a riot.
In a second that lapsed, flashes hire
Ruthless priests, gospels bore the friar.
Not the one that was stranded,
Not the one who had won,
Had smiled.
In that openness, in a second,
Waiting to be found in a pile,
Only if you want it to be,
You'll stop and smile.

Waterfall - a prelude

On the morn, of the end of all queries,
We'll slip into peace,
We'll slip out unwary,
Renege on all void and reach
For
The Glow.
On our day, in the land of the fairies,
The winds of the meadow,
The winds of the prairies,
With memories of two lives will,
Flow.
Flow, till it snows.

Immortals

We evolve. Trespassing spaces, ages, experiences, people and void, we have so little left to ourselves. The puniness of our existence and the adversity that accompanies separation, together, descend upon us unlike the smoothness of a child's skin. There have been a plethora of subconscious choices and untraceable footprints in our road to this moment. All these are, but, symbols of our ungratefulness to the past.

The First Hearing

In the summer of 2004, three things fell into synchronisation- me, the only single storeyed house in  Vigyan nagar Kota's main road, the 6 computers inside it. The cybercafé was called 'Heart to Heart'. I loved the people who stayed and who frequented the café. I had grown such an addiction for the place, I can spare the exaggeration and still say I spent 2-3 hours a day there. My friend Sumeet would often pose the proposal of hanging out there, and I would never say 'no'. Those were the summoning of my days of Counter-Strike, FIFA, Yahoo (and internet in general). I last visited 'Heart to Heart' on 29th April 2006, two days before evacuating my residence in Kota.

I have been to Kota five times after that, each time ensuring good food, hearty entertainment, but memories?  I am not fond of memories, specially good ones. They are the source of what poets often refer as 'blissful agony'. I had, each time, decided at the back of my mind that I would never wander near H2H, for it would only bring out memories that I cannot relive. In my last visit, while searching for an apt room for my brother, I hovered towards that familiar neighbourhood. I had made it a point to walk in the farther side of the road, so that Raju bhaiya and his family do not recognise me. I had my head covered although the weather did not demand it. I promised I wouldn't look any more than a faint glimpse towards the only single-storeyed house in Vigyan Nagar's main road. And when I did give the house that fatal look, I felt a chill conduct itself through my spine and a part of me shivered to death within my warm clothing. There was no Heart to Heart, but rubbles.

The Second Hearing

May 11, 2009. I have an assignment demonstration that would buy me a grade higher in Computer-Aided Design course. I have an ache in my neck that rebelled against every horizontal movement of my face. I have a precious overcast weather amid summer that would facilitate my meeting with the love of life after 4 months. Needless to say, I chose to meet. She was a goddess in all her charm, and an unspoken answer to all my doubts. After walking for half an hour, we found a lonesome bench beside an enclosure for deer in a park. Besides the blabbering, which I usually perform relentlessly, I was relishing the very fragrance she enveloped the ambience with. The world seemed such a better place to be living in and my heart had all the life to do so. With closed eyes, I could still feel the comforting rays of the sun dodging the leaves of a stout palm tree in front of our bench.

Months and seasons transcended before I made an impromptu visit to the park with my Aunt's family. The lake of the park had dried up, with the ducks stranded to the damp bed. The palm tree had grown a few metres leaving the ground below it a lost cause for the Sun. The bench, on which we sat and decided to change our lives forever, was demolished. Only rods, that were probably subject to mercy, weren't removed. A day of joy in my life has no memorial.

The Impeachment

When I reiterate the puniness of our existence, I do so with humility. It emphasises how I am slowly coming to terms with things I cannot alter. We are barely ourselves without our past. It makes up for so much of our present, conflicts with it are disturbing and destabilising. We are the providers of our own ignorance and commotion, shelled in an ever pliable self-realisation process. We never change. We evolve.