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...

The Song of Frank Enstien

Oh run! RUN! For the monster has come!

He doesn't eat, plunder, rape or vandalise;

He just TALKS to people for fun!

(Ignore... No, RUN... Back door!)

Has he a bad breath, or does his body stink?

Did he whistle, pass lewd comments?

Did he touch-grab or did he wink?

No, hate him, for he is lonely, and wants to hear and to be heard.

But you "KNOW", he's a rogue,

A beast, and yes, he's absurd!

So what, if he HATES his kind for their savage deed?

So what if he innocently walks, smiles and stares at people?

He's one of them, hence no one pays any heed.

He doesn't want to be tagged, he just wants to tag along.

He doesn't want to be judged, and this is his song.

(But he's wrong! It's wrong! He's WRONG!)

Smudging Nostalgia

Why do you tend to forget things of the Past?
For instance you have forgotten my childhood...
Some, which have faded in your mind with time,
And some, which you have purposefully suppressed.

Why don't you remind me of the accident,
Where my stomach acted as a speedbreaker to a scooter,
When I was three?
Or that time, when I recorded my broken nursery rhymes,
Over your Favourite artist's cassette...

They are there in my mind like a buried seed lying dormant,
in a desert.
They resurface, but I don't ask you Dad...
I fear, tears would water that seed, about all the memories, and about Her.
For she was a lady who was the sense of our being, for all of us, all three of us.

Why do you see, the past, as a sad collection of memories?
Why is there a word for sad memories, but none for the happy ones?
Can't you see, that the happy ones were worth living for? Worth cherishing?
And even though the sad ones were painful, and sometimes overwhelming
To the extent I cried like a kid, but then, I WAS a kid.

You have lived through them, and I have lived through them.
Can't you see, sometimes, we both laugh at an instance
where all four of us were together,
Dining at the restaurant...
Have you forgotten? You haven't, a bit. I know.
Or would you smudge the memories too, when I'm gone?    

Impressions of an Impostor

When you seat yourself on that seat of the train, I seat over you,
When cunningly you want to hide and peek, I put deceit over you.
When you want to hide with shame and fear, I put a sheet over you,
But still you remain exposed, you do not know, you deceive only few;
But not you, its not new, still you do...

Slopping on, the rainbow mud won’t hide your pained face,
Sticking your cheek with the scarlet lips, won’t provide you, feigned grace.
Growing a beard or lashing your eyes, won’t make you look mature;
They’re just those things, those bleeding things, which a small kid wishes for.

The carefree style, “the chilled-out” profile, they are disguises too,
The lame excuse, the tame recluse, the fear of loss, it grew.
The old trauma, you think won’t repeat, so now you run for new;
You don’t realize, it never repeats, the bitter winds, they blew.

D’you remember what’s still cobwebbed, there’s still your real face,
Hidden somewhere, by the pretense, the fear, by the change which you chase.
I, the impostor have hidden it under layers, hiding you from every side;
And exhibiting myself, just myself, The Impostor, smirking with pride.

You know I will kill your identity, with the passing of time,
You will be a mere structure, under me, imitating as a mime.
There’s still time, but you won’t, I know, hence you’re mine and I, your refuge;
I love you because you’re a coward, and for you, being yourself is huge.


I humour you. I mock you. I dare you, if you can rise from my work of illusion,
And then I’ll part with you, and find someone, for my work here will be done.

The Painting

Its lying there, hidden somewhere in the vast space,
The tattered painting with the faded face;
The one, painted with intense emotions,
The hinted care, the expected notions.

Gone were the days, when I was a-lone,
Quietly shrieking, unbeknown;
Sad? Cynic? Hater or a maniac?
People assumed and smiled back.

Desolate days and vacant nights, 
Drowning blacks and fading sights;
Met her during those cold days,
When solitude had filled up the empty space.

I began to use primaries, which had dried log ago,
The blacks and the whites were pushed far below;
She had no clue, for how intense my feelings were,
She lived in one, I, in a world far from her. 

The only solace was the place, where we first met,
Where I usually went carrying my canvas and my boxed set.
I pictured her from the time,
when she sat and gazed at the trees in line.

Those deep searching eyes and the hint of a smile,
The flickering gaze beyond, while sitting on the isle.
The falling of the leaves, the simple, deep talks,
The chill of the winter, the icy blocks of rocks.

                               ***

Before I knew, it was complete,
The moments were perfect, but the painting looked obsolete.
It was months after the day came,
Months of longing, for I just had memories and her name.

The day, it came when I would meet her again,
The day when we'll again meet, outside the memory lane.
I thought of telling her how I felt,
but I couldn't let my thoughts melt.

When we met, words ditched the sentiments and embraced triviality,
I wasn't ready to lose the dreams and face reality.
Then something came up; a love much more intense than mine,
I was in denial, a romantic, a dreamer, but all wasn't fine.

The next day, I come to the same place,
And leave the painting between the rocks;
I see a lone parrot, who looks, fixes his gaze.
It toots. Oh, he toots! The way he mocks!
                         
                              ***

Weeks pass and a girl sits on the ledge,
Her pondering eyes flickering through the hedge;
Out of curiosity, she gets down the place.
Walks up to the rock with a fixed gaze.

She pulls up the painting, and exclaims in surprise,
The real ones meet the painted eyes.
The trees stand still, the waters calm, the place so quiet...
Suddenly a parrot toots, whistling with all his might.