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.

Sanctuary

Stay, where, there is no glimmer on my face,
It's quiet and you could build a sanctuary,
A cloud fighting rays for your escape.
Lakes,
Wake, up to a dream wide-eyed,
Roses will bear thorns, you'll know
For you too adorned sunset scenes.
Holy herds of grace race against my voice,
As I see lustre behind their silhouettes,
Towards the land behind me,
Seemed to be heaven,
None the time.
Stay, sway, from every road our fathers built,
Build a way, and I'll light its vigil lamps,
And you'll walk alone,
And you'll hide in your refuge,
And you'll call it home,
And you'll have a lesser world to lie to.

Calm

Guilty of the words, the same memories,
I felt forever lonely on a crowded Friday night.
I wish you'd be here, and I'd still hold you dear.
I wish I had learnt to pray when there was light.
Like an island, stuck within all I wanted,
Like a beach being haunted by waves,
With all the water, and but all salted,
The world I've known, I wonder if death saves.

Poisons stealing the breath of its fluency,
Blood plodding for strength and haste,
Fallen vows wait deeper than my sleep.
And without a shout that would seek help,
Or a noise that would announce the pain,
I let the shadow of your calm take over me.

Empty Curse

Voices ring, like horses in
A shelter from the world.
A word to be heard wasn't said.
Branches swing, kites of spring
With winds against flight,
In a sky otherwise dead.
Greens bloom, like painter's loom
Out of the nothing one could see,
Passing stories never read.
Wrinkles spread, like it would they said,
Carry the truth on your face someday,
A death which life led.
Far from life,
On some hill,
Far away,
Its all so great, and all so brave,
All the cheer and plight.

Aftermath, the first

Darkness' retention lazed, in wait of my dreams,
And I lay in emptiness, within and without.
Across trenches that my mind barely swept,
I now bear the rot of yesterday's doubts.
In adherence to perception though, I will
Drink that wine, I remember its land.
A place to forget, in lieu of solace, I drink
To the world and lessons learned first hand.
Daylight hazed, amid the night it seems.
I wouldn't know, I wouldn't tell lies.
It tastes longer, now with the wine's betrayal,
I still recall being lost in your eyes.

Creepy Fog

On the note of dawn, the leaves were struck by dew.
Not quite the smog, the song that bled in the air,
White fog  and pure, whining over Creepy Bog,
Her sombre waves, her motionless crust.
A sword for greens that would face the day,
The drips that fell from the thickness of morn,
Feeding life for tomorrow's dream, while
Sun and its owners plan to rankle who reside,
Proclaim itself the bog's only morning bride.
The oak in the southern marsh though would still smile,
For it has heard  the ballad of pollens flown,
Once when it first learned, then again every May.
True, life bred itself amid death's promise and trust,
As it's seeds of hope ply unnoticed in fog.
Chirps of the sparrows  amass in spring's annual fair.
In stealth of the summer, of course, pollens are few.

Froth

I crossed the road in a boat,
When the levies were drowning in asphalt.
You may want your life in parables,
Or take my problems if you want some.
And, like a wage too high,
I see the morning bride,
Boasting of shine through the day,
Toasting to none but itself.
Alike the froth over snow,
Within winter's wicked lore,
The light through sunset will fade away,
As daylight calls it a day.
The night and its mermaids will remain,
As memory of a life kept in pain.
A furrow in the face of my dreams,
A boat I bought last birthday,
But needed a river too, not today.

Lurker

It would have descended upon the conscience of some as a seemingly  deceptive memorabilia , a tyrannical artifact breaching history of it's ability to evade truth, a hoax treasure demeaning  the glory off the deserved. It would have appealed the protests of the anguished, the cynical, the suspicious, for it bore nothing that would prove justice reigned in yesteryears . It would have crawled into the undiscovered lanes of history without a trail of appreciation or a trace of greatness, lying orphaned by the patrons of everything against what it stood for. It would have freed light years of angst and leagues of despair had it not earned itself an inspiration, the massacres and tortures that widowed and warred with impartial agility and brutality. It could have also succumbed to some disaster, decayed from within , led an unnoticed life in some forgotten corner of existence. It could have, had we not been so helpless and perplexed in avenues of bemoaning the unrighteous, berating the unforgiven, betraying the attractive, for our conscious is so truly deserted when we are basking in the magnificent.

Neural Weed

Ponds, water's sold, not a soul,
Who'd bathe in them for
Greeting a new sun.
They'd take a second snore.
Wet, feelings get, but forget,
A door would cease its day,
Their day's else for.
Clouds aren't bred , aren't flown.
Dead, in their ways, in their bed,
While preachers praise their Lords,
They gaze through halos.
Dead in their own ways, I suppose.
Ask, who fake, cared and masked,
If they'd spare , a second for a sky,
Blue , brilliant, shy.
I get it. Third snore? Aye.

An ode through the night

Jingles and jollies when Christmas was far,
Carols of a time God forbade each avatar,
A road through the oceans my sailor then led,
Alone through the night,with an ode to the day.

Fingers and fortunes fought to go back,
And sailor of May knew these he won't lack,
For the grace of men who sought to care,
He bore a thought, and thoughts he'd bare.

They would all say something.
They would all think for best.
They would all think they think
And think you don't unless
They find themselves in you
Or a mirror to gaze.
All they'd look for in me,
A pinch of similarity
And what grace, he couldn't guess
When only thyself thee praise.

Hope will breathe with each luring fray
And my sailor razed the seas through weeks in May,
The doldrums and storms, the realms of the blue
The sharks below his raft,fables of fishes too.

Every next emotion twitched a muscle less,
And those that twitched hailed no witness.
A road without trails, my sailor thus traced,
An ode through the night, alone to the day.

On Board One August Mutiny

I had the upper berth of a 3-tier AC Coach . The train, christened August Kranti Rajdhani, was Mumbai bound. Amusingly standing with unchallenged irony as it actually was August, 25 probably. I boarded the train at Kota sometime in the evening. The coach was a dull social show of people who were under the impression they were reaching somewhere, the dullness only enhanced by the cold insipid air. I took my seat. 35 read my ticket, which was only strangely purple in colour. I bore an emotionless face, staunch to the ambience. My compartment somehow was larger than others in the carriage. I was not surprised. I took my seat in the empty lower berth. It was my only legal location where I could park my body without upright legs. My sleeping seat, the chocolate coloured upper berth, softer due to being suspended from one end , was occupied by a hairy creature. The creature had gentle streams of black dead tissue falling all over it's face and was not perturbed by the crowd's hustle assaulting the carriage at this halt. Other eye catching obtrusion in her figure, which was approximated by the sheet she had covered herself with, suggested it was a lady.

As the hours retired, the mob had gradually settled, at peace with everyone else's existence, content with the world as one passive dream. But Miss Berth Annextionist probably found silence too hard a truth to bear with. She descended from her sleep capital of the day and sat on seat 33 beside me. I stared at her with no look of a hungry wolf. It was far more serene, probably as serene as it could be. She stared back at me. And like a flower and a bee, we accepted each other's penetrating eyes. Not a murmur, nor was there any soft noise of discomfort. Only Cupid's pathetic ideas shaping up. Then after, without aeons having passed us, she sank into my arms, while I embraced her like a childhood memory. The compartment had resorted to dreams and dreamless sleeps.There was a window which claimed moonlight into face. The humble stars in their unaltered relative positions graced the view, like holes in an antique cloth, indispensable in their rendering of imperfection. Only to reinforce the notion that 'good things have expiry dates', something as mesmerizing as a clear night sky would soon fade. But the upcoming show was a Nature masterpiece. One that we both relished to the bottom of our hearts. We were witness to every artist's failure in capturing this brilliant transition. We sat there compact in awe. Dawn.

The train halted at the first stop of the day. The coach attendant was serving breakfast. I grabbed my lot while she walked down to the platform. She went somewhere towards the tail of the train. I don't know why she went there, I didn't ask her. I haven't asked her anything yet. There was a tea stall in front of the door, so she obviously did not want tea. Her trail was only traced to the entry to the coach. She had disappeared into the frail early crowd of Vadodara. I felt all longings for anything and everything aligned towards her and only, undeniably only, evidently only to tease me further , the train begun to roll. I screamed a name. I don't know why I screamed that name, but I did and she was there, a few metres trying to make up ground. I stretched outwards and reached for her hand. The slightest thought that this may be the end of it all probably made my arms stretch a few inches more. She clasped my wrist and I knew there would be an 'us' now. I pulled her up, looked at her hazy eyes and tire face. I don't remember a detail. I felt her lips on mine, felt her arms around my neck, and I felt found. We returned to the site of our night camp, a sealed glass window portraying dynamic scenery had been our witness to fulfillment. The railroad was getting bumpy.

There is an old staircase at my grandma's, that leads to a solitary room on the roof. The train felt nervous as if it had stolen a driver or a coach when it had last been to Mumbai, unwilling to return. I am at my grandma's place, dull afternoon prompted to inactivity by the tropical heat. She grabs my hand firmly as I kiss her softly in the neck, she was scared of the restlessness encroaching the hour. I decide to displace some dust from it unkempt steps with my feet, as I desperately wanted a peek of the roof after a decade. I tell her that it would be alright even though both of us know how little we can do to avert change. I pull open the latch of the door to enter into blinding lights of the afternoon, scorching heat being the least it is,as if it is where the sun had his siesta. There are sounds of groaning metal and screeches from the front of the train, followed by the scary feeling of weightlessness. I walked the length of the roof to reach the door of the room where I used to read Tinkle and Champak, nostalgia. I look at her face, still in failure of spotting details, as we fall off the bridge into the Narmada. It can take ages to open a rusty key with a loyally cranky lock. We grab each other's hands as our silence promised we would, but she was pushed behind by another passenger. Finally, the lock is open. We lost our grip. The door opens.

Awake.

August 26.

Moonless Night

Moonlight,
It used to be on my side of the window,
Like a lonesome spot in the face.
Moonlight,
It used to see above what I did not,
Like a tired horse of the race.
Oh! Those days.

Moonlight,
Whose window do you watch in the night.
Like a bird on the basilica, upright.
Moonlight,
Would come back to me? Would you someday?
Like a shepherd of the dusk, shepherdless night.
Would you moonlight?

Lonely white of the night's lullabies,
Sing for me a world I could see.
Lonely white, where would you be tonight,
When I am dying for a song.

Lonely white, reminisce our riverside,
The drops that witnessed our lust, are lost.
Lonely white, do come before it is alright,
When I would like you better alone.

Lonely white, my heaven's eyes,
Lonely I am , and heaven's vice,
There was me a few forevers ago,
And then there is me now.
I have no faith left to spare,
Regret is all for all I ever did vow.
Alone and alive, I take a road in the dark.
I was wrong. I am wrong.I am aware.
Moonlight.
Goodnight.