The warm hearth of my home
the cocoon that was my mom’s hug
the small joys that made me laugh
the hearty soups,the muddy puddles,
all beckon, take me back, life.
Oh, the games we played ,
Raindrops racing against the pane,
Cricket in the front yards and
on starry nights, fingers our pen,
shimmering sky our board,
constellations we traced.
Those were the times when
the sun glowed a bit more
smiles formed easier
The heart sang more in tune
rain had more gloss.
Alas, I am now grown up,
Alas, the world has now lost its shine
A rainbow peeps through my window
scattering colour in the dark room
struggling to sneak into my being
determined, stubborn, steady.
My head and I, push back,
So accustomed to darkness,
that blinding are the slivers
Of red blue, violet and indigo.
Feel some light, some colour,
urges my heart, weak and soft.
Live, breathe, sense, caress,
the kaleidoscope of colours,
their warmth , their brightness.
I give in, I sigh, I smile.
The blinds I open, of my window,
of my heart, of my soul.
It is not a mere rainbow in my window,
it is a promise of this universe
that all is not lost, or gone.
There are still breaths left and some joy,
There are still myriad hues to colour life.
Ah time, you are closing in on me,
I hear the screech as you come closer.
The incessant ringing becomes louder,
Life has passed me by.
You, time, have won, by far.
Dream stay dreams, hopes still hopes,
I had so much to do, so much to see
Lands far, oceans across,
the world was waiting for me,
But you, time, have come for me too soon.
Don’t give up, they say,
Hope on, believe, they say.
How can I, when what I walk on
are the broken pieces of my life?
The past reel of my life constantly whirrs,
glimpses of the moments I lost prick.
When there was still time, I heeded not.
Now, when all is lost, when all is gone,
I wish, time, you take me back to start again.
The ocean whispers to me sometimes,
sweet nothings that lift my heart.
With a whoosh of the waves,
with a sea shell left behind, it says,
I will be all right, after all.
The azure sky sometimes smiles,
as a message from the heavens,
that my wishes will come true,
to that, the golden ball nods,
sending rays of hope my way.
My heart flutters on tall mountains,
but they pull me to their bosoms,
passing on their power to me.
You can do so much more, say they,
touch the skies, like we do.
At nights, as I gaze out the window,
the stars twinkle a little brighter
the moon shyly peeps outs,
and reminds me, that I too,
can shine through darkness if I try.
Oh, reassuring, soothing Nature,
you shower me with hope,
with love and with faith.
If you can be powerful, you tell me,
in my own little world, so can I.
My dad’s rickety old car I now wish to ride
The one that would break down always,
too lazy to carry its passengers
to places in one single smooth ride.
A tyre puncture, overheating, an oil change
would always punctuate a road trip.
Stranded at the side of the road,
The orange earth and the dead trees
not an oasis we would want.
We would take in unwillingly
an entirely unfetching concoction
of heat, wind and dust.
Dad would try to fix his beloved car,
As under our breaths we would pray,
He learns his lesson this time.
Alas, not a lesson he or his car learnt,
Both blindly in love with each other,
blaming the bumpy roads for breakdowns,
Cursing the rains and earth below.
Now, the roads are sleeker,
so is my car, but then, sometimes,
all I want is a ride in my dad’s car.
Those were the good ol’ nineties
when nothing was as shiny as now.
A tiny bit of extra effort for everything,
yet each moment a memory in making.
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.