A shirt worn as promised

There's a place where I've hidden from Them All all of what you've given me.

In the closet, under the stacks of many cards and photo albums, is a more precious pile of memory. Safely locked in the treasure chest.

Your many kindnesses.

I started cynically. Too many pebbles were needed to bring water up. Water-That seemed to not exist.
For one thirsty summer morning, at the unfortunate hour of 9, it had all been mercilessly pumped out and thrown into a barren desert for the sun to drink up while the naked Marasmus children watched.

The irnoy. For water to be thrown when it was needed most. The sun is p'haps just like a star. Thoughtless and self centered.
But the world still revolves around stars. Atleast- ours does.

But I threw them in. In a well kept under lock and key. Discreetly.

Revolutions later, water has risen upto where light shines and I'm astonished.

There's enough kindness to see - it's almost all you see.
And I've saved enough.

Enough to purchase happiness.

Again.

An Obscure One on One Wednesday

Here.
Take some water paints and colour me a wish.
Bring alive tufts of mossy leaves. And then step aside as I part.
Part these soft fragile bursts of summer. To let the mists pour through.
And sink right into them, lost from where you are.

And whence you wish-spill a bottle of oceans.
And I'll rise yet again from canvas.

But oh look!
Look above.
Sneak a peek at the clouds.
Today, these shifting mists?
Are mine.

Don't make me tap the impatient foot. Grab your skirts for we must run.
To catch the castle of 12'0 clock.
3 wouldn't and nor would 4, 12 it must be and 12'o clock it is so.

So for today, for now.... this?
Is enough.

Contract freedom is enough.

A Cheat hits Replay

Maybe you wouldn't believe me if I were to tell you so but my insides stretch within as they fit in a smile too big for my lips.

There's a laugh that's low and deep. It's silent and yet joyous in it's amused delight.

And I strain to hear it- this unusual wave that I want to see before it crashes down again and melts into the sea.

I don't want to know who you are stranger. But I wish I could tell you just how you sound. I'd capture it in a glass jar and show you. Then I'd immerse myself in it as the silent waves of your laugh zoom by me.

And I'll close my eyes and sigh and hit repeat.

On Independence Day

Not too long ago, on an Independence Day, a white sequined salwar kurta was worn.
How many ironies, you will not know.

P'haps the thronging crowds and countless netas with their even more countless chelas may have been a nuisance. In public spaces that didn't need more dirt or paan stains- their commemoration for our svatantrata. Freedom to be a pain.

P'haps the squished, the torn, the held, the adorned, marigold garlands may have been pathetic to look at. For flowers to be plucked for such futility.

And p'haps the cliched North Indian heat was unbearable and oppressive. Smothering its heavy hand over our mouth and noses. Nary a breath be taken.

But a white sequined salwar kurta was put on.
Sequined. White. New.

Too many ironies for one to count.

Incense clung to it as chhaunk stings your nose. It was used and then thrown.
Like a widow put aside from one's eyes for the misfortune to the family she has shown. To wither but away from your sight. To lament and cry but away from your eyes.

For someone ought to have said,

A white salwar kurta must never be owned

For if it's been made, it must be worn.

Arz kiya hai

kaid aise rahen kyun,ki chaabi humari jeb mein

kaid aise rahen kyun, ki chaabi humari jeb mein

ghuma diya woh baksa, theen jismein tumhari yaadein

A pot of red

Let me show

This tree of red brick

It oozes slowly
But layers thick

It was Maple

In a summer green

Now of this expanse

It's the Bandit Queen

I seek a time

when it wasn't so

Will these bangles show me

I must know

Pick and hunt 'em

Wipe to see

Will they bring

What I threw carelessly

These bangles

Once of colour

Remain red
Despite the rubbing fervour

But you must believe

So come let's see

There's a red

Covering a mighty tree

Stand where I stand

And tell me if it isn't true

The tree in August

Is only of a red hue

Poetry Poem

I've written 3 incomplete posts today and have maybe 5-6 other from the past week.

Somehow my Ghostwriter has disappeared and suddenly all I can write is for my eyes only.

Another new post

Another new post on the other blog

For regular posts please scroll down.

As you can all see, there has [finally!] been a change in template [after may hours phew].

I was told that my previous template was tricky on the eyes - so I hope this one reads better T!

Many thanks to Isha of Achromatic Perspective for her help in photoshop.

Hope you all like this new look.