Monday, June 27, 2011

The Waiting.

Summer has feasted upon the green fields, his dusty apartment and everywhere, in and around him. It made him happy and sad. He could feel the warmth of his own breath, the warmth of his own solitude. Blue birds in green trees made him happy now.

And a pretty face in a big city.

How time goes by he wondered.
The earth flies around the sun.

His thoughts drifted back to those days, when he would patiently wait.
When the shadows were taller, when the fields were strewn with little children and white balls, young mothers and old men, the bhelpuri wala and the fuchka wala and a little white girl by the swing.
He would see them all. And that would be his call. He would patiently wait for them to come.
And then he would soar to the field to be among them. A tiny speck in the large ocean of mortals.
For the Universe was expanding and he hated being alone.

How time goes by he wondered.
The earth flies around the sun.

But this time of the day he would love, when the shadows were taller, when he would patiently wait for his acquainted system of a daily humdrum of meaningless mortals.
Little children, young mothers, old men, a white girl, the bhelpuriwala, the fuchkawala…

He would wait for them like an unrequited lover awaiting his lover’s attention, momentary yet timeless.
He would hate the rainy days when no one would come, when he would be all alone sitting in his spotless apartment with his physics book.

He would read that the Universe was expanding and he would hate being alone.

Summer has feasted upon his life.
He could feel it.

The earth moved around the Sun. Years rolled by. So did joints. A branded institution. Ideologies.
And a confused will to change the world.

A thousand pegs and a few enemies were made. So were best friends.
His apartment grew dusty.

And some stars died somewhere in the Universe.

But summer was all around him.

The Universe was expanding.
The earth flied around the sun.
Continents drifted away from each other.
And he hated being alone.

He was waiting all over again. He hated giving up.
For his childhood taught him to wait.

But it was different-waiting not to be a part of something, waiting to be that something.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

From someone else's diary



I escaped the barracks of my perfect self and for the first time in my life I started living.
I played hide and seek in marijuana fields before traveling back into the time when my parents lived.
I sailed through an ocean of blood shed by brave men and in that way I felt braver.
I made a fool out of myself by being madly in love time and again.
I wept for friends whom I lost.
But I never did anything. I never spoke out.
I ran away from everything. And I just let it be. For life happens. So does love.
Could I have made a difference?

I have been running for a long time, with no direction, absolutely clueless. I have felt better that way.
But it dawned upon me suddenly I am tired of all the running. I need to sit down. I need a direction. I need to change things.
I need to make a difference.

For life is about making a difference.
And love?

The Ghost Of Him.



As a little boy he would write ghost stories. Stories of bloodsucking vampires and zombies, how they would prey on helpless people. He wrote about them because he despised them, he was scared of them.
He doesn’t write about them anymore.

He only writes about his own self.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

The Winds are Whispering.



The winds are whispering.
I hope they will whisper my words.
Words of love and poetry,
Promises of a lifetime.

I hope they will whisper
The truth.


I hope they will carry my words beyond the horizon,

Into that distant land where she belongs.
Beyond the rivers and the mountains
Into the far west.
And silently
They will whisper my words into her soul.

Friday, March 11, 2011

It rained for the first time.



The rain comes every year.
So does the summer and the winter.

But I don’t know why every time it rains
It reminds me of my childhood,
Of my parents, my brothers,
Our tiny little cats..

Of That dusty little apartment above the garage.
It reminds me of a time when life was holy,
When we had each other.

To you the rain is us,
To them its the change.

To me it’s a passage to the past
And to some ,
Tears from
Another heaven.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Memories of a Spring long gone.




I like this time of the year when everyone’s away somewhere.
I like to see those newly sprout leaves of spring through my window. I like to hear the cuckoo sing in the morning. I like to hear it in the evening.
I like the blue sky and the cool breeze. I like it here.
Even amidst all this concrete crap, I still like it.
I like to stare at that lonesome tree standing amidst all the concrete crap. I like to stare at it for a long, long time until my solitude comforts me.
There’s a sense of calmness everywhere and I like it.
 
I like it here around this time. There’s a sense of comradeship everywhere, in the streets and in every dark alley of my aged hometown.


I know you hate it here. But you would have loved it.
You would have loved it here around this time, when everyone’s away somewhere, doing something.
You would have loved to look at those newly sprout leaves of spring.
Even amidst this concrete jungle you would have smelled the innocence of your childhood, those dusty roads and misty mornings.
You would have heard the bird of dawn and dusk singing your own melodies.
There’s a sense of belonging everywhere and you would have felt it after all these years.
You would have loved to be here by my side.

And just like old times,
I would have written poetry for you.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Who are you?


 It's funny when I watch you from a distance.
I like watching you.
You look so beautiful.
But that's not why I like watching you.
When you sit there all by yourself I see you.
You never look around.
You are all by yourself
Probably wandering in your own thoughts.
You seem so perfect.
Your solitude comforts me
And I watch you with my two eyes
Like I watch the stars in that serene night sky
Like I watch that blue bird from my window
But they never look back at me.

But you did. Yes.
Your eyes.
I looked at them.
Those brown hazel eyes. They looked at me.
And you smiled.
I could not smile.
I felt
Like a cold stone.
Those eyes.
That look. I couldn't move.
You made me a stone.
Who are you?
Medusa?

No, you are too beautiful.

I guess I will never know.