The pen pauses, the paper still blank.
A scribble, a shake of the head
a hasty tear of the page,
In the bin it goes, its resting place.
Is that you above, is that your life?
Pause, think, ponder,
are you still scribbling
and tearing away pages as the days go by?
Time, my dear friend, is passing by
the dreams have been patient,
waiting for you to make them come true.
Time, my dear friend, is sometimes a foe.
So do not hesitate, do not doubt,
start writing the story of your life.
Go on, in fine ink, with a steady hand,
pen down the best story you can tell.
I remember the exact moment I fell out of love. Squeezed by the day, I had come home and had cooked dinner-his favourite pasta. Huh, I always wanted to please him.
He gobbled up the food. Some monosyllables as conversation, a few grunts as answers. I was getting used to the silence. It was more of a companion than him. Love had been seeping out slowly anyway.
I had had no time to freshen up. He looked at me and said, “You look unkempt and ugly.”
Not because he had called me ugly. But for I knew, he had said that out of spite.
How can we love a person who chooses to spew hurt instead of kindness. How can I love a person who sees not why I am unkempt, but chooses to remind me that I am.
At that moment, pasta hanging from the fork, halfway to my mouth, I froze.
I could feel the little love draining out of me.
Can you feel empty inside, yet cleansed? I did. In that tiny turn in time, I knew that love had died but I felt at peace.
Today, I am tired. I am cooking dinner. My favourite curry. I pass the mirror in the hall and look at myself.
I am unkempt. I am beautiful.
A kite I am, stuck in a tree,
Waiting for a gust to set me free.
I wish to soar in the blue skies,
I wish to feel the whish of my wings.
The branch of the tree grips me hard. Struggling, despairing, praying,
I wriggle to set myself free.
A battle of wills we are in,
That tree and me, the flimsy kite.
Strong I am, faith I have,
For as I struggle, I know
That gust of wind is nearing.
The one that will gently free me,
nudging me out of that iron grip.
So give up, I don’t, flimsy as I am.
Stronger is my will, I am braver,
The tree that is life,
the kite that is me.
A battle of wills we are in,
a battle that is nearing its end.
For I can hear the wind become louder,
And I whisper, Life, I have won.
Life, I am free.
A day mundane as ever,
suddenly stops with a visit.
from an old love, a forgotten dream.
Closing my eyes, I let it,
Take me back in time.
To some memories buried,
of days smeared with love,
of nights dark perfumed by dreams.
of a young and restless heart.
Life, then, hadn’t taken over,
the heart was yet intact.
Long afternoons, sweet nothings,
whispered promises, that,
were not yet broken.
Now, on days like these,
when the heart rakes up memories.
Life stands still, and I rejoice,
and lament, seeing me.
Young and full of love.
Time took away everything,
it was just that love that stayed.
A buried love that still whispers,
on a day like this, mundane as ever.
He is gone, leaving me in pieces. For days, I have lain broken now.
No sense of time or place.
Curtains drawn, in darkness, in grief.
Falling in love was a mistake. A bigger one was to marry him.
I tell myself.
But my heart whispers, “You are doing a bad job at convincing yourself.”
And today, I look at the two pink lines, and something stirs in my heart.
A tiny hope. A little bit of faith.
Even a raging fire, destroying everything in its path, always leaves at least one thing intact in its ashes.
His death was the fire.
The tiny life inside of me is what it has left behind.
The world is being washed,
by clouds that burst,
a calm is descending,
upon my restless heart.
A view jagged by racing drops,
a cup of tea, a window sill,
I soak in a moment so rare,
that life is at stand still.
The world, dry and dusty,
a while ago, now smug,
for all its shine and gloss.
Mere rain, for the parched earth.
Manna for my shrivelled heart.
A moment to ponder, to reflect
of who I have become,
and who I want to be.
Now is the moment to whisper,
some courage to my own ears.
The gloss seeps into my soul,
the cleansing that it needed,
has come in the drops that ,
I now hold in my palms.
Faith is this rain,
A promise is this rain.
Today, a new hope surges in her,
Life’s blows from yesterday buried.
she shakes off the sorrow,
some happiness she rubs on,
and ahead she moves on.
Some remnants of the past cling on,
but them, she fears not,
after all, from those ashes,
did the new her rise.
A funny thing is life, she muses,
when the rocks of the bottom,
melt and below there lies,
a dazzling new world.
Of hope and happiness.
The shroud of clouds have now gone,
giving way to a new moon,
and a million new stars,
who reflect the twinkling
of those tiny hopes
budding in her heart.
Her new heart.
The frail man, ravaged by time, duped by life, lies in the makeshift bed of tattered clothes, staring at the roof.
Today it is studded with just the tiny little dots, trying their best to cast a glow on the earth below, soldiers trying hard to hold the fort in the absence of their leader.
He finally shuts his eyes.
In the darkest of nights, the deepest of wounds open up. With no moon to shine its light,the pain creeps out of the recesses.
And it forces him to open up the path to his past.
Homeless. Thats what they call him now. But not long ago, he was what society called a ‘respectable man’. His mind conjures up the image of his home, his business, and the wife who left him. A woman he still pines for.
One day, life was good. The next day all went wrong.
A wrong decision, a failed business, bankruptcy- blow after blow life had handed him and before he could recover, he had lost everything.
The wife left, friends disappeared, family turned their backs.
He opens his eyes again. The pain is relentless.
He stares at lights going out in the houses on the street, imagining goodnight kisses, prayers for a better tomorrow and a naive belief that life will remain the same.
He wipes away a lone tear. And smiles. A knowing smile.
Who knows who is next.
As the sun slices the darkness,
they kiss goodbye, yet again.
Light is a bitter truth
the dew drop and the rose face each day.
She is not afraid,
she is not meek,
to pave her own path,
to accept challenges,
She is all woman,
she is power
Tears do not control her,
threats do not dwarf her,
head held high, she fights back.
She is all woman,
she is power.
Win she will as she always has,
she never has given up.
Life can serve her as many
bad deals as it can,
she does not care.
For has learnt to play the game.
She is all woman,
She is power.
Each year, just a turn in time,
a change of calendars,
Same me, same you,
Yet, carry the hopes over,
Bid goodbye to the ones shattered.
Nurse those broken dreams back to health,
build some new ones as you go.
There are things to learn, and unlearn.
To let go and to hold on,
To give up and to not.
A horizon of myriad colours beckons,
tempts with sweet unknowns,
promises to be a good one, hand to heart,
whispers, you will win, no matter what,
Sometimes she is afraid, very afraid. Of the shadows that fall across the room after the happy sun goes down. She sits, huddled in a corner, listening to the noise of silence. A distant roar of a car, a baby wailing in the apartment below her, the blare of music across the street where those young people live.
She is young too, she knows. But inside she is ancient. Hammered by life, twisted by fate, she grew old and afraid before she knew what was happening.
She glances at the mantelpiece, two faces in a cracked picture frame smile down at her. Two faces. A handsome rugged man holding a young dark haired boy. Her two little pieces of sunshine. She smiles back tenderly at them. She misses them. She wonders what they would have been doing now if they were still with her.
She would be cooking dinner, the TV would be playing Ellen, their favourite show. The house would be lit up, bright and dazzling. The air would be saturated with love and happiness, warm and cozy.
But it is just darkness now.
She is afraid of the darkness, because it mirrors the emptiness of her soul, makes her realise that life is now just this – a darkness filled with memories of what was and fantasies of what could have been.
As the photo keeps on their smile, hers slowly fades.