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.
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.