Perhaps Song.

‘Perhaps’ is the heart

Of Love,

They say

So love me with a ‘Perhaps’

Today?

And then Perhaps

The day might

Stick to dawn

And the earth will

Go on and on...

And then Perhaps

We shall

Forever grow..

And dance and love

In an empty
snow?

Beautiful Mind.

‘Hey look isn’t it beautiful?’ she asked

‘It’s dead, dear’, he muttered grimly.

‘Who said dead things can’t be beautiful….’ Her beautiful mind replied, but she chose to remain silent.  

Acceptance always came from agreeing with the self-righteous, to whom contradictions were just another word in the dictionary, those who had understood life in their own methodical way, who had imagined it to be the same for everyone else, and had no reservations imposing it on others- Ah how she envied them at times, how stupid and lucky they were she thought, and even miles away from home she was reminded again what her life was-a decaying carcass.

But she still chose to go on, ignoring the inert words of ordered human beings, because life is precious, a precious aberration- And perhaps that’s where the enchantment of a beautiful mind lies-they could even sprout a rose from a decaying carcass.

Winter. Calcutta.

The poor people in the mean streets and the footpaths would vehemently hold on to anything that's warm,yes, that was the sign of a true winter in my hometown, not the plethora of ebullient youths braving sweat shirts and skull caps, not the retired schoolmaster and his out of fashion monkey cap, not the Gregorian calendar pointing out the month of December- if you wanted to know whether it was winter in Calcutta, you should look at the poor people.
They won't lie.

How a story should begin?

I moved from left to right, I tilted my head from this side to that side but still the words didn’t come like they often used to. I wanted to write something true, you know, like Hemingway said, one true sentence, but I couldn’t get anything.
So I decided upon talking to a stranger, pouring my heart out, telling the stranger about my hollowness, oh yes not the stranger you meet in the road, but the stranger you lost in time, the stranger whom you once knew like the palm of your left hand.
Suddenly it struck to me, something true perhaps, about the stranger, that strangeness, and that little latent familiarity-

It is kind a sad what we forget, even sadder what we remember.

Perhaps that’s how a story should begin, you know, with a sentence like that.

The voice of the morning.

And he would speak, sometimes at night, sometimes at noon, sometimes when the birds were returning home, sometimes when he should have said nothing, always with a sense of urgency radiating every sphere of his life, traversing the circumference of the clocks existence, like a garrulous being. 

She would patiently listen.

But it was the morning, and only the morning when she would softly speak, in her slumber, in that beautiful transient state and slur, slur, slur, like a new born learning to speak, and as she would drag each and every word like a viscous fluid invigorating his auditory atmosphere, like a sick bee humming for love, he would actually discover how life should be lead - slowness was perhaps the key to happiness.

Facebook Love

She changes her profile picture.

My heart skips a beat. Every time.

It certainly belongs to the category of one of those weird events, where technology synchronizes physiology without the help of a Doctor, or so I think.
Thus I philosophize this cyclic occurrence, suspecting mortal desires- or love they say. In a way I intellectualize the situation, forgetting to ‘like’ the picture, thus undoing a little stroke of her happiness.

I slowly stray away from her virtual world, waiting to be forgotten.

She changes her profile picture again.
I deactivate my account.

My Dark Friend.

The harbinger of the morning

 Dwell in the darkness

 Afraid to be noticed

 Afraid like you; 

And that’s why I hate the morning

The insolent light

That makes me forget about you.