Dreamversal

And we would meet again in meaninglessness and futility.

Our brains crumbling due to sun-damage and moon-carnage.

And then there is the place.

The distorted fort.

Tattered and in shambles.

Like my childhood slippers.

Who hated my screaming pair of shoes.

Immortalised in a dark, gothic wall-hanger.

I could see the two blue horizons meet from different directions.

I see you.

Through the corners of my eyes.

The sun hurt.

The beer helped.

And the quaint afternoon shack in the corner of the Church Lane in Morjim.

The siesta was sort of, short, wasn't it?

It's funny how I saw the place in dreams, my whole life.

And how I imagined you there, with me, when you never existed.

We'll revisit when you're real again.

I also have the stone from the fort, tucked in the battery compartment of my camera case.

But hey, I came back.

With pictures, without you.

Have I ever told you?

And I have made cream of all the roses that I have received in the past.

Of different shades.

They have nourished my lips enough to fill the cracks from the salty brines, bloodless clenches, and sandy smoke.

Even your papery kisses at times.

And now I have begun to not mind them.

What a way to use wither from stopping one.

This is all wrong.

Life, like these words, should have started in reverse.

Between Meals

This is the first time I am trying to speak without braces. I always needed a support for my teeth to speak. This is the first time I am speaking on my own. My braces have been like parents to me. They supported me, helped me when I needed to chew. They also made sure, I find love. 

I was in High school. People often thought I was a shy kid, when in fact; I was embarrassed because of my braces, which stuck with me, not unlike clingy parents. She was a transfer student from a neighbouring city and it seemed like the whole class had fallen in love with her; including me. I just wished she never talks to me or notices my braces.

14^th  March 1999

It was raining that day and most of the students hadn't come because of the waterlogged streets. I came in hope that I’ll see her. I was not disappointed. She was soaked, in spite of the umbrella; yet she made it. I sat down with my lunch near my secret haunt; the dilapidated mulberry tree, near the primary section where seniors rarely came. I saw her feeding a kid; perhaps her sister. I thought of leaving, in case she sees me. The next thing I know, she was walking towards me. She sat down near me and without speaking, tore a piece of French-toast and dipped it in the ketchup and started eating. I had no idea till that point that she had realized, I existed. Clearly she had. I was short of words, and she was in no hurry to speak. In fact we didn't speak at all.


15^th  March 1999

Today, she came again and after feeding her sister, came and sat beside me and kept her lunch-box in between. She was looking straight at the swings at the front. We never even made eye contact. In retrospect, I am glad we didn't, because many things, including eye-contact is overrated when you are in love.

Love is not meant to make sense. Nor does it have a set of set symptoms like O.C.D. where everyone follows a pre-diagnosed pattern of washing hands, keeping things in symmetry and checking locks. No. She was looking at the front and I kept on taking bites off my vegetable wrap. At one point I kept the wrap inside the lunch-box to take a sip of water. She simply extended her slender hands and picked the wrap up; took a bite and kept it back. She waited till I finished my lunch and as I was packing, she left. She never opened her lunch-box, the whole time. Perhaps she hoped I will do the same, but I didn't and her lunch-box was left untouched.


16^th  March 1999

I got two sandwiches today; one for her and one for me (I had lied to my mother about one sandwich being too less for me). Of course I loved when she ate from my share, but I wanted her to eat well. She didn't touch the other sandwich till I had started with it. She never looked at me, this whole time.

***

12^th  February 2011

It was seven oh clock and I made some fried eggs with toast. I came up to the table and took the first bite and pushed the plate. She took the toast and took a bite and resumed with her crossword. After finishing with our breakfast, I stood up to take the plate to the sink. She stood up. Looked at my eyes and landed a hard kiss on my forehead, holding both of my ears with her aquiline hands. I took my keys, she, hers.

13^th  February 2011

It was yesterday. Today I sat beside her, while she was having her cereal with milk reading the daily comic-strips. I was thinking about the meeting I had with the publisher who lived in the neighbouring town. Suddenly the bell rang and she went to open the door. She saw the wooden box where I was lying, still. I could see her stumble and holding on to the door. She came and sat where she was sitting before, and noticed, that I had finished all the cereal, save the two that were floating on the milk.


“You could never finish your food, could you?” She said.

The Hiding Place

Rodney would never have realised that the gun was with me all this time. I know that it was driving him mad. He had looked everywhere except the place where I had hidden it.

The phone rang and Rodney went towards it, but then decided against it and started searching for the gun again. After 8 rings, Frank finally picked up the phone.

“What is it?” he hissed.

“I told you not to call here.”- “If they catch me I will be in trouble. I don’t care if it was urgent and he is dead. If I were you I would throw him in the toilet for a swirlie.”-

“Listen, bosses are about to come and I can’t betray their trust. I need the cash, okay?”- “I’ll see you”.

He kept the phone with a loud clank. I was listening to their conversation from under the bed. It was then I realised, why Rodney was looking for his gun.

What he didn’t know... that I had hidden it.
It had been with me for the past 3 hours... hidden in my diaper.

(P.S. It was sad how Frank, our babysitter, was rude to his girlfriend even after knowing that her fish, Gubble, had died).

Placebo

When you settle for something,

Giving excuses as to how amazing this new thing is.

It is a Placebo.
Of course it works.

It should work.

Why wouldn’t it?

Your mind is driven by its effects,

And your body listens to your mind.

Have you thought, that if the pretense of the placebo didn’t exist,

How brilliant it would have been?

You would have been able to give all the credit to your mind.

And not some other element who/which becomes famous,

By your tongue, when it doesn’t deserve it.

It is you.

Everything is in your hands.

If you make it happen,

It is you.

If you couldn’t, you are a peddler,

Of drug-like dreams.

The liquid ones. Salty liquids,

Not the powdered ones.

Powders are still substances when liquids have spilled a long time ago,

And have evaporated without a trace.

The powdered ones stick to your teeth.

And you don’t brush,

Because the powder feels like heaven,

Days after you have taken  it.

Powdered emotions are pounded,

With a pestle, without a mortar.

Without a support.

Without a container.

Just bashed in rhythm which makes you ecstatic.

Rhythms are always good.

They follow patters.

Designs,

Signs.

Shut up!

Signs are just a bunch of hokum.

Everything is random.

All things,

All acts,

All people,

All flowers,

All smells.

Random combinations.

But unlike a placebo, they have effects.

A placebo is just a placebo.

Without a reason,

Without a logic.

Just , like god.

You believe it, because you need it.

You fucking want it.

There is no proof, no logic behind it.

So appreciate the beauty of it, just because it’s there.

The patterns so symmetric are special,

Because they are not created.

They are there.

Nothing special is going to happen, unless, something happens in your life.

You don’t have to feel bad or good about it.

It is special only because it has happened, and you were there.

By chance.

No pattern there.

A pattern is just a placebo.

A placebo on a place, bored to death.

Which is random again.

Out of habit.

Which is not a pattern.

It is a reoccurrence of random occurrences.  

Standing again, because of the random factors.

Again, for the existence of the same factors.

Meaning to appear.

Like a video playing again and again and again.

Because of the chance existence of Electricity,

A Visual Display unit.

And most importantly, a being.

Because without you…

Nothing occurs.

Stored Stories of Silence

Sitting in the garage, she was staring at the puddle which was settling, creating rims in the water. She was wondering, what was it that made the rims of water different from the water itself. The occasional drop in the water from the roof was giving life to the ripples, just when they were almost about to die/fading away/just becoming quiet, depending on the way you look at finality.

This made her think, 14 minutes ago when she was playing penalty shootout, that involved kicking the ball on the wall which had been marked as a goalpost (was more of the size of an ice-hockey goalpost due to the confined space).

Just a few minutes ago she was dodging imaginary players and making her way to the goalpost kicking the ball and now she was sitting still watching the puddle.  The metamorphosis was quite contrasting. Mindless physical exercise at one point and body resting while the mind doing the running, in the next.

As a kid, she didn’t make paper boats. Paper boats can’t be broken, but they can be decimated to pulp by water. As a kid she always felt sad when the paper boats sank. So she started something else. She would put drops of food colouring in the puddle and then put a drop of shampoo and with delight and surprise the puddle would turn into a vivid show of colours. Her personal rainbow.

Rainbows. How convenient was it, to become happy in those times. Her happiness (she chuckled at her childish notion of owning a universal, yet a scantily found sentiment).  Why was it that during her introspective time, everything revolves around her? That brought her to the story that she was writing these days.

 “Why does it happen that the story is always based around the main character/characters and not a neutral, insignificant person in the story?  This also raises another question. Who decides the main characters and why do they decide to choose them specifically.”

“There is another thing. No matter how many characters there are in the book, whoever they are or whatever they did (which is actually the soul of the story and our perception towards those characters, places and incidents) is all singular. But while reading, why don’t we realize that everything or anyone that happens in the story is actually a fragment a small piece of the writers mind."

"Whoever the character is, it is actually the writer himself, who is writing about the thoughts or deeds of a person, whether in first person or in the third person; whether it is a male or a female, old or young… and so on; it is because the writer, who makes a specific character, place or incident has awarded the things that he wants the most detailed and important. So much so, that people get caught up with the story, more than the happenings around them.”

She looked up. There was a swallow sitting on the sill.

“What if we look at one of the most insignificant characters in the book, which the writer doesn't care much about, but mentions in the passing? If we are able to look at that insignificant person, we are looking at the most real point of the story. As the writer includes them subconsciously and so, these insignificant characters remain untouched by the writer’s bias.”

“And I just realized. That real person, who isn't a bit significant to the story, is me and the reason why the most insignificant person in the story is writing this, is because she is in madly in love with one of the most important characters, my dear Watson, the most important character! Only in such cases, a person might (rarely, yet possibly) think with someone else’s brain to write; perhaps borrowing the protagonist/antagonist’s brain.”

So she decided to write about the story of Alex and Brittany. She being the most insignificant character, as she loved Alex and he could never imagine about how much she loved him.

She wouldn't be able to write for long. This might be some of her last works. He would understand, why.

She didn't want him to imagine anything that was related to both of them. Whatever there was to imagine, it was she who held the right to. The fact that kept Alex above her was that Alex had choices. She didn't. It would honestly, make her happy to see Alex happy. That’s all there is. What would happen to her, is another matter altogether, now. The fact is that she doesn't know.

She was sure that this time it was love, because the feeling was different. It didn't involve her jealousy and trust issues that had been prominent in the other relationships, because of betrayals. Yes, in plural. This time, she was just happy, that there was a real impression of a person, as dreamlike as Alex. She was just happy that they came in contact with each other in spite of the chaotic world around them. She was just happy, that Alex knew her. This was her last thought on the first day when they met. And this was the same last thought on the last day.

She got startled, by the breaking china, inside. She ran to see what had broken. It was the earthen goblet with the Bonsai plant inside it. She cursed herself for keeping it near the window. She reached up to the window and looked at the swallow soaring up the sky in silence.

Coloured Stones

Every month I come to Kevin’s grave and put some coloured stones on it. I come the next month on the same date, the 30th to find that the stones are gone. I feel relieved to see that the stones are gone, every month. I dread for the day I see the stones on the same place I had kept, on the grave. The thought itself makes me uneasy, for many reasons.

First, because it would mean, no one cares to come and see him. That no one loves him. Second, I feel ashamed that I’m not able to come to see him every day, and third, that I am getting mad and obsessed. The thought of someone coming and removing them, keeps me sane, as there is someone as obsessed as I am. So I am not the only crazy one around.

I had talked to him the day… I—I’m sorry I can’t revisit it. It tears me apart.

“… that you were loved. You made us so proud…”

I saw his service in a video on Facebook. I wasn't invited on his funeral. She was.

His last girlfriend. She came and gave him a proper send-off. But it didn't matter. They were doing all of this for themselves, not for him. He knew what was, and what wasn't.

I was so scared to go to his grave for the first time. Not because it was dusk, or that, someone would still be there, as it was just the fourth night, but because, I would see the expected, but never imagined future, merge with the present, in form of, mortar and marble.

“…From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust…”

When we remember someone, why do we remember the happy times? It is because, it’s important for our sanity. An excellent marble or beautiful granite as a tombstone is to glorify the emotions. Making it lavish, so that we don’t feel bad, and make ourselves believe that they are in a happy place, metaphorical, as imagined, and literal, as constructed. It is all for us. Our comfort.

I saw her speak as well. I wanted to tell everyone, it was I, not her.

I have a suspicion; she takes all the stones off the tombstones that I put, to make-up for the funeral.

I wish you were alive.

***

I am in love.

I had been in love with this person, for a long time. I was in love, when he was alive.


I have seen things shatter in front of me. I can’t take it. It kills me to see the things which are happening. I wish he was alive. It would have made all the sense there is. I would’ve kept loving, and he would be loved. He is always loved by me, and her. Although I hardly know about him, yet he feels close to me. We are partners in a crime, common crime.


I will see him on the other side.

I remove the stones because I can’t stand the way things have turned out to be. She loves him more, and he loved her more than me.

Yes I remove the stones; for the sake of sanity. For the sake of happiness and sanity, I wish you were alive.

This time, I was late, she was about to come, and I wasn’t done yet.


***

While coming, I realized that it has been a year. No I didn't remember the date, because I just couldn’t. I saw this old man coming out of the graveyard, with this grey bag. He smiled at me, while passing. It was then, it dawned to me that it might not be her, but it could be some of those boys who dwell in the graveyard or this familiar old man too! For who knows, he removes the stones, because he understood my pain?

***


She saw me today. I was late. She saw me picking up the stones, and was surprised to see me. She came to me, we were silent. Then I saw her tears flowing, for the first time, ever.

“Why?” she asked.

It is because I couldn't see her in pain. The first time I met her, I had heard from her about Kevin and her relationship. The next time I met her, she was telling me what had happened. Not how she felt, but what had happened, factually. There was a storm inside her. But she didn’t let it come out.

The only emotions I saw were her big beautiful eyes, welled up with tears, but never coming out. I remember telling her, there are two most beautiful aspects of your face. You smiling lips, which deceive many, save a few, yet the sad eyes, which hinted at a lit up past, but now there is always that shimmer, like wax melting out of the candle.


She often said that she forgets things. I know that she forgets because she wanted to. That she couldn’t keep memories that shattered her to fragments. So in order to escape the pain, she forgets, just like I sleep all the time, when I break-up or when mother had passed away.


The reason I was drawn to her was not because, she was beautiful, well that too, but because, she is exactly like how I am. Well, not physically, but emotionally and mentally. Her thoughts come out exactly like mine do.


***

I did not expect to see him here. I never thought it would be him. I rarely thought about him, yet here he was. It can only mean, he thinks about me, a lot.


I let my emotions out in front of him, because since we had met, he had always had a familiarity about things we talked about. It comes to me now, when I think about it, but he always knew what was going on my mind, yet I failed to see it, because it was natural and came so easily that I didn’t realize, that if there was someone else, in his place, perhaps, things wouldn’t have been so natural.


But he always knew, how I was feeling, just like Kevin did. I now realize, that he behaves, just like me. He feels just like I do, he thinks like I do. How could I not see it?

***

I am in love.

I am in love with her.

I had been in love her, for a long time. I think I have always been in love with her. I was in love with her, when Kevin was alive. I have seen her shatter in front of me; in her poems and in those rare occasions when we met. She never showed it, but I could see. I can’t take it. It kills me to see the things which are happening.

I wish he was alive.

It would have made all the sense there is. I would’ve loved her, and he would have been loved by her.


Kevin is always loved by me, and her. Although I hardly know about him, yet he feels close to me. We are partners in a crime. A crime common to both of us, of loving her, deeply and madly.

When I saw that he was gone, I had cried. I couldn’t sleep for days, because of her, and because of him. I will see him on the other side and tell him about how I failed. I remove the stones because I can’t stand the way things have turned out to be. She is destroying herself. I had made a promise to him that night; that I would take care of her. She loves him more, and he loved her more than me. I my love can’t even begin to compensate, but it can surely make her happy. And him too.

Yes I remove the stones; for the sake of her sanity. For the sake of her happiness and sanity. I know that she won’t be able to bear looking at the stones she places, more than once. I know that it would break her. So I remove them.

I wish you were alive.

But this time, I was late, she came, and I wasn’t done yet.


***

The Beetle that Haunts Me

I can’t see it right now.

But as soon as I switch-off the lights,

It comes to life.

It looks strange in the dark swirls of smoke.

It startles me every time it is visible.

A chill runs up my spine.

Oh it’s nine!

Now it will be dark again.

It was creeping on the walls last night.

Leaving a blur; like a trail of darkness.

There is a colour; or a sign of madness.

I lie on the bed, dreading that it would tread on me.

I hold my breath, and wish for a cold breeze.

What is this sinister creature you ask?

Some call it a Firefly, I call it memories.

It lights up to ignite my thoughts,

And then disappears for a while.

And just when I am used to the darkness...

It lights up again.

The period of the beetle’s extinguished state is

More than its visible.

As if, it knows what I fear when that happens.

Everytime.

It lights up.

Extinguishes.

Ligh-…

  

Literal Abstracts

It’s an abstract.

Like the two random objects,

In the opposite ends,

Of a painting,

On the wall of the gallery.

Two unrelated objects, which look alike.

Let’s say, a Salt Shaker and a pepper shaker.

There are other objects in the painting as well,

But mostly on the right side of the painting.

That side has been painted by brighter colours.

Some, in fluorescent colours. Like neon.

The pepper shaker is on the left.

Just left. 

The pepper shaker wants to be placed with the Salt Shaker.

But, the painter drew them separately.

Perhaps, purposefully, to take out the art out of the pain.

Or perhaps, he didn't realize, he was painting a pair.

The two can never come together, as it is evident.

But I will tell you a secret.

There are times when they are together, or perhaps not.

When the painting goes for maintenance, it is rolled together.

That’s when the two come together.

Or not? For who can see between the folds.

But that is abstract too.

The Pepper shaker knows.

He can feel the Salt shaker ‘s presence above Her.

She is always above Her. That’s another problem.

As he can see Her but She can’t see him, below Her,

Looking at Her, just for the sake of looking, 

Or Love?

But they are separated again,

To enhance the beauty of the painting.

But who knows what happened,

After it is opened,

And left to be observed?

Only the pepper shaker knows,

As he can smell Her spirit.

And can see the whiteness of the Salt,

Of the Salt Shaker.

Only he can see the minute grains of Salt.

Not the objects painted beside Her,

As they fall adjacent to her,

On the flat canvas.

Not even observers, as they are really minute.

It’s just him.

And no one else.

He has been the closest to Her.

But no one knows.

Not even Her.

Things cant be more literal than this.

But it is all abstract.

There is no Salt Shaker,

No pepper shaker,

No Objects,

No Canvas,

No Gallery,

No Painter.

Just me.

Thinking.

And Her.

Who IS.

But is Her?

Is me?

There is nothing.

But is nothing there?

Or perhaps…

***

Colours & Ink

I wish to see You forming letters, more often than You do,
Trace the dissolving colours, with drops of purple and blue.
I see you using white to hide, a spot which you thought didn't fit,
I wish you wrote a bit -a piece and bit your tongue to change it.
The change wouldn't act as a mark you see, for the choice of words you made;
The white would act as the veil to hide, the feelings you just laid.


The reason I want you to sing is to let your feelings flow,
To bring you to, the winters where the chills are born of snow.
I know that its summer, the air is dead the spirit is dormant somewhere;
So, paint your words and sing your dreams and wake the spirit in the air.

Run to the place where you belong and take me with you,
Lets find that soul of winter with the familiar song and hue.
The reason for the wish I made is to see the hues of your mood;
It's a way to stay bit close to you in-spite the bodily interlude.

#1

It has been some time since I wanted to do this. It’s just strange that I chose this night to do so.  There had come a time where I had made up my mind about my first blog-post in prose. I had many things to say. I don’t remember most of them right now. It was a few months ago. 

It has been a while, since some friends of mine have been asking me, why I don’t write in prose? I have never been able to explain them that, prose, sometimes are too saturated and sometimes too inadequate for me to express. I can’t take my liberties.

I’m not saying that it is easy to interpret, all I’m saying is it is too hard to be cryptic in a prose, because often the previous line gives birth to the next one. The thought pushes out another thought which matures into a complete idea.

 It thus creates a chain which one can deduce from one point to the other.  For me it is too chaotic a symmetry. I had been reading a few pieces in prose, recently, which were disguised poetry. I have also seen cases, vice-versa.

When I was in school, I hated reading poems. The first thing that I used to do when my new set of course books used to arrive was to read all the stories and leave all the poems. This habit of mine resembled another habit, where I used to eat all the cashews and leaving out all the raisins. I still do it. In fact the first piece that I had ever written was a short story, which, I’d like to put up in a while. 

The first poem that I had written was I was in the 11^th standard and my English teacher had insisted me to write a poem for the school magazine. I had written the poem quite hastily. But it is still one of my favourite poems.  

I have not been neglecting prose. I just thought that through poetry I can say whatever I feel in a more cryptic manner. Through poetry I can put my thoughts open to interpretations.  

To be honest I was scared of writing in prose.  I AM scared of writing in prose. My hands were shivering when I started writing this post. They are a lot calmer now.  I knew that if I start writing in prose, I will start to mirror my emotions and views quite blatantly. In poetry I could just say something and then hope (read pray) people would interpret it differently. Obviously I failed.

It is hard to present the hidden words literally. It feels naked. But I figured that all of us are always naked. All the time. Wearing cloths and hiding thoughts don’t make us Not-Naked. The others always know it’s hidden out there. Some choose to ignore it. But at times, in spite of the diffidence, you wish they could see you. They do, and they don’t.  

Anyway, I chose to write prose was for a specific reason. With the recent turn of events, I just had to write in prose. It was necessary. The reason would soon be known.

Sense

It gets quite quiet, at times.

Not the quietness which one wants.

The quietness that comes without a choice.

What happens when one gets what they choose?

Then they do the same, taking breaks at their own will.

But will the Will listen?

Listen.




Look, i understand speaking might hurt.

Thinking happens even when you think of not thinking.

Writing might hurt; typing might too.

Painting might need Colours.

Colours.




But, BEING won't.

You just have to exist.

And not just a picture in my mind.

Which is not even sure what is real and what's not.

But it turns out, that its slowly making me wonder.

How wonderfully were You imagined in my mind.

Mind.

That the time became the brushstroke, and the pixels.

And if they wanted to turn a bit more subtle.

Metaphors.

The strangest part is, that every word, painting,

and the answer:-: to the question of something existing,

Becomes real.

With just a Touch.

Touch.

Washing It Down

The anxiety, the silence.
Anxiety wears off with the wait.
Silence remains.
I'm happy that it didn't happen.
Because now i feel good about one thing.
You will never be able to know what might have been.
A moment which was meant to be shared.
But the glutton in me!
i have it all by my self. No one else can ever have it.
Ever.

It is mine.
Because it is just me.
And i take it all.
And savour it portion by portion.
Morsel by morsel.
Drop by Drop.
And vapours.
Blue. Mind You.
Till sunrise, and sunset.
And summers and winters.

i'm really hungry but i'm full.
i am just chewing the cud.
Which i conjured out of nowhere.
Perhaps, from somewhere...
From You.

And i chew...
i realise,
its glue.
and i chew...
and its You...
But You're not true.
Yet i chew.
(May i get the check please?)
and i go out, yet i chew... and i chew...

You and i?

You are not some lost artefact, You are a Phoenix.
What is a Phoenix?
A Phoenix is the metaphor of time.
You, You are time.
You will be born again.
Even when You think you can't.
Its how you are, Majestic, Beautiful, containing a soul which is eternal.
i bow down to You.
Yet, i think you deserve much more.
Something which is beyond words and reason.
Only one comes to my mind.
Love.
That's all i have, and its plenty.
So rise, smile, brush your ashes.
Keep them safe in your pocket though, for they are precious.
They are a part of you.
Let's take a walk.
You and i? 

(You, what a You! Even its i, yet something only Love.
That's all, so Keep them. They let You and i?)

Water Memory

Do You see those drops falling?

Each drop of water that falls on Your skin has tales to tell.

Each swig of the drink You take; taste, or no taste, has moments.
Water retains memories.

  

 Hence each time You see rain falling,

Each time You share a drink,

Each time You drink water, sharing that glass,

You share a part of the memory.

You wouldn't realise.

But it takes a place in Your head.

Memories of Centuries.

Memories of moments.

Memories of the moments past.

Memories of present.

It is absorbing a part of You as we breathe. 
It’s good that You live here, and we've shared a drink.

Perhaps that's the reason, a part of You lives in me,

And You wouldn’t realise, a part of mine in Yours.

It is neutral, it is transparent.

Because it is so opaque, with memories that You won’t be able to see.

They say that a kiss can transfer a bit of You in the other.

Who knows why?

Water memories, watermarks and watercolours.

What are waters?

They are eternal. I swear.

Imagine, water goes up and precipitates, for millennia.

Ancient water.

Water sipped in unison, they speak.
Water fallen on the paper.

Water kissed from the cheeks.

Water absorbed from the other's body.

Watery eyes.

Ever imagined saline water that runs in tears and in oceans.

We are almost water.

So is most of the Earth.

Uncountable memories.

Countable instances.

Memories make Us, most of Us.

Memories lead to love, to procreation and it doesn't end there.

Memories conjure water too and water conjures memories.

Drop by drop.

They fall like drops of You and i.

Drops of us.

Dropped through Us.

On Us.

In Us.

Us.

The Senseless Dream Of Reality: Made To Sense

Its time.
I think its getting nearer, whatever it will be... whatever it is...
closer.
Much closer than we (You and i) think.
I can feel it.
I could always feel it.
But its coming closer and getting clearer now.
Whatever it is... whatever it will be.
I can't seem to see it, but I have always loved to imagine.
I had always imagined.


But if imagination exists, so do the imagined.
I had always known that they could fly.
Or perhaps I had dreamt that they could.
But I had always known.
If we can see something and so can others, we believe it exists.
That's the idea, isn't it?
I could see them even before you said it.
Perhaps that's why I got it the first time you said it.
Perhaps you just said it but didn't know.
Perhaps you didn't know but you could feel it, without thinking you did.
Perhaps you still don't know.
But even if you don't, I DO. Yes I do.


I'm not saying I'm a psychic, nor a superlative of human.
On the contrary, I'm lesser than that.
I'm reduced physically.
I'm slowly being converted into a dream.
A dream that exists in my mind.
But the reason of my whole being, dreams about it.
Hence, I'm nothing but that constant thought, constant speculation, constant wish.. constant vision personified.
A singular. Less than a singular.
(If that is possible.)


Perhaps you will deny.
Perhaps you would try to fail to see it.
Yes, try. Because you could see it if you wanted it.
Or you can.
Like the Dursleys did. Dancing in denial.
Like Peter Pan couldn't see the food in "Hook".
At first he could't, rather he wouldn't.
Both stories are mirrors of each others.
Dursleys knew but wouldn't.
Peter Pan didn't but he would.
I don't know what would you choose.
But I can see it.
I've lived it even before 'the happening' happens.
I'm just trying to match it with the existence.
Not in the dreams, but they are existent out there too.
Very much existent.
I just want to feel it with my sense organs which will record it to my mind.
Rather than recording in my mind before actually using my sense organs.
.

It has been done already though, many times, in my mind, in my dreams
Or in real, perhaps. I can't tell which is which.
But it doesn't quench the speculations.
And the Love, as it feels better if it goes reverse.
Although its all in the mind. Yours and mine.
I just want the minds to combine.
As always, I want us to rhyme.
Our co-incidental matches read out The Sign
But you still can't hear it? See it?
Yes you can.
So I want our clockwork to wind.
And make it work in reverse, for a change.
But you still don't realise. Perhaps.


But I know its coming near.
I have no idea what is.
But it is.
Perhaps I knew and you know now.
Perhaps I know and knew it all along.


(Is it a flower that I see?
But I wouldn't know till its near.
As I can't use my senses to check.
But I think I can already do.
Its perhaps my other sense.
Hope it makes sense.
If it doesn't; I wish, it creates some)

Surrexistal

Yesterday I die. Yes I die.

Wait till yesterday, and you'll see.

But I doubt you would wait till yesterday, as you can't remember what happened tomorrow.

I don't remember it either, but sometimes like a faint picture in a frame, plays in my mind like chocolates taste.

I'm scared of being born. I've been scared of being born since the day I was dead.

I remember, I was looking for my dentures in the graveyard, and I saw a seedling, and I laughed.

I ran away from her, sat in a corner, and laughed as I was brave. Brave to the point I was still.

Like a statue, or was I shaking? Because when you are Brave, you shake, when you are daring, you stay still.

But let's not get into the future. Dwelling in future has done no good.

So yesterday I die, I just wish you don't come and don't laugh.

I hate you SO much I'll forget you, till I take my first breath.

But till I die, I'll still look for the dentures, as I'm still without a tooth.

And you without a body.

Welcome Dream, I bid welcome.

Echoing An Eternal Buzz

For he was a petal, what was he? He was just a part of the flower. For he was just a brick, what was he? Just sandwiched between; for the tower. When he was born, died he know what species was he? Why then he cried, when he came out of the womb, wasn't he free? But then, one petal lost, was rejected by the bouquet maker. One brick, killed a man, was thrown in the mass, by a hater. What changed? Who knew? Who made our thoughts? Who loved? Who lived? Who fed the one who rots? How thoughts come in the brain? Who moves, the trees or the train? How much can be called "some"? How big can be a crumb? Who makes the rules? Who decides we are clever or fools? Who divides ammo from tools? Who. And why? And how could it think? When we don't even realse, when we blink. Its all fickle, you're all insane. Its all a mirage, its just me, and my game. You don't exist, no one does. Its all in my mind, like an eternal buzz...

The End… The Wait…The Beginning. - Memoir Of an Earthen Goblet

There lies an earthen goblet,

By the window-sill.

 Its body cracked and colour tarnished,

With saline water in his fill;

The rain waters and salt has punctured his body

 which was once polished and whole,

But look at him now, colourless…

Pitch black, as if without a soul.

The goblet lies idle , retracing its past,

The end of his life, he thought,

The end, the very last;

In his heart, the depth, there lies a mark,

And he goes back to the day,

The beginning, when it went-all-dark…

The End

It was a blackout that day,

The whole house was tucked in darkness.

Like a prophecy, to warn him,

 of his future starkness.

But there came LIGHT! In the shape of a small flaming candle.

His master has chosen the Goblet for it to handle.

He poured some wax  at the center where the patch now lies;

And sealed the candle to the Goblet, in a bond that ties.

The love then started and he felt the warmth of the candle and her glowing face;

Its flame which was poised and was shimmering, full of grace.

She melted and her flames spread the glow,

And the Goblet thought she was bonding.

But little did he know, she was getting depleted with time, and so was their love.

His body cracked with the heat but he focused what was above.

And then the inevitable came, the flame started flickering…

The fumes blackened his body and the wax started cluttering…

And then the flame vanished all of a sudden.

POOF! It was gone! Leaving a layer of wax which couldn’t ne removed.

Her skeleton, her ashes lay in the form of a burnt wick.

Inside the crack, which left him sick.

His master had then scraped out her torso which he was hugging

And then it  put some salt and started scrubbing.

THE WAIT

But the ashes just won’t go off…

So he left it on the window-sill.

The Goblet remained there, 

earthed and still.

His thoughts came back to the present by the click of the doorknob.

His master had returned from its job.

He saw that master was holding a small bonsai plant in its hand.

Its saplings light green, clustered with sand.

Master picked up the tattered Goblet ,

Put some mud and fixed the fresh sapling it it,

The cracks were soon sealed by the root, it was a perfect fit.

  

Two became none, then two became one.

They grew into a Universe, into  nothingness.

There was everything and there was void.

They wrapped themselves and a touch was shared.

That eternal touch which didn't move… It was there.

(Epilogue)
He fell in love again… and it stayed.
They grew with each other, did not diminish.
Stories don’t need an ending,
Because life, love and infinity has no finish.

काश...

कल, पल सा आया, यूँ आया और गुज़रा,
बज कर अचानक घुँगरू सा बिखरा;
आज तुम अगर, कल देख पाते,
मेरे साथ कुछ दूर तुम भी आते.

अक्सर ये सोचा अजीब हैं ये पल,
वक़्त के साथ हम भी जाते हैं जल;
उन्ही पलों को समेटे हम चलते जाते,
काश कुछ दूर तुम भी आते.

बस रिश्तों का धोका, बिखरती ये यादें,
समेटते कभी हम, वो लम्हें, वो बातें;
अगर समझ आता, तो ना वक़्त यूँ गावते,
अपने साथ हम तुमको ले आते.

आज मैं वो चेहरा सभी को दिखाता,
मेरा वो चेहरा, कभी ना पाता;
उन लम्हों के कारवाँ, कभी ना भुलाते,
अगर मेरे साथ दो कदम चल पाते.

तुम साथ चलते तो शायद सम्हल जाते,
उस सदा से यूँ ठोकर हम शायद ना खाते;
तुम रोक भी लेते तो एक पल रुक जाते,
काश मेरे साथ, तुम चले आते...

An Unfinished Request...

Let me not die tonight,
For I want to live till Sunrise;
Let me see the silver skies,
The empty roads, the fluttering flies.

Its not an excuse to delay my rest...
Or it is, isn't it?
I crave to smell the sweet, mellow Shiwli for the last time.
I want to embrace the night,
Feel the silky smooth air.

Just one more time I want to smoke in the quietness,
The calm, where I can see, clouds forming from my breath.
One last time I want to see the silver flakes fall like snow.
For, the snow in winter, I could never see,
I want this to be my illusionary consolation.

Want to whistle one last time, for it echoes,
As if someone, is replying.
Let me sing one more time,
Where I let myself out of me.

Let the minty fog, pull my spirit,
Away with them, to the land of crispy ice.
I don't want to die tonight...
Or any night.
For night is when I live.

I am dead during daytime anyway.
So kill me with the sun to witness.
Make it noon, but not twilight,
for the hope rises.

When I die, let them know how I Loved them,
But, let the people I hate, be.
For its daytime, they might be busy.
Let me hear, one last song...

Look its coming up, the sun!!!
And...