Hands on My Eyes

And now I think you have realized,
That we are destined to meet somehow,
For you’ve understood without my telling you,
I don’t know why, I don’t know how,
Hands on my eyes, and I still recognized,
The warmth of it, I knew was yours,
The scent which lingers through my mind,
Told me it’s you, it couldn’t be false,
I now remember how you had hissed,
Into my ears saying I was wrong,
To bring things up when they were least needed to,
Now you know I’m not wrong.
‘Cause I have waited, my lips are tight,
And no one can make me confess anymore,
I know deep within you still have a fright,
But don’t be frightened, I don’t feel so anymore.
Ah, don’t be mistaken, I still love you,
Only now that I don’t expect it back,
For I know if I were you and you me,
I wouldn’t expect you to expect anything back.


Will the shores keep me with them,
Or the water carry me along,
To dump me at another shore,
When I crumble down into sand?
Will the child make a castle,
Or throw me into her eyes,
Angry that she was fake,
When I crumble down into sand?
A house of me, where crabs would stay,
Or one which is kicked by the dog,
Will the sun cool me at noon,
When I crumble down into sand?
When at night the cold wind blows,
Will it take me to the cloud with it,
Or mix me with itself and confuse my paths,
When I crumble down into sand?
Will I have my money with me,
Or my car and the house I live,
Will my love still hate me,
When I crumble down into sand?
Will I speak then for myself,
And for others who have turned down,
Will a stir in me frighten the rich,
When I crumble down into sand?
Nothing is forever, all’s fake,
I will rise tomorrow if I fall today,
And to a newer height I will reach in my next life,
After I crumble down into sand.

Shaena – Chapter 8

“Life and love are often on the same side of the coin, but sometimes they turn out to be two sides of the same coin. You can flip it and have the other.” The weirdest and the most nonsensical message which I had received on my phone in the last few months. It was from an unknown number, and at first I thought it would be Saeeka. It had been a month now since we first met, after which we met quite regularly. She was doing a project on graphs she said. The aim was to find the shortest path between two points. Once this was done, she would fit it in nanoparticles which would follow its prey using the fastest route possible and collect pictures and send them to her. I would have sarcastically said, “Yeah sure, you would certainly beat Crichton in his writing”, had I not known that she was genuinely serious about it. I knew I was of absolutely no help in this novel idea of hers, but her company kept me happy, and I did not want to lose a chance of being around her.

The same evening I thought it was long time we exchanged numbers. She wrote down her number on my hand; usually she wrote my name, or hers, or any random word on my hand, today was better because it made sense. As we hugged, I tried to remember the number the text had come from, and realized it was not Saeeka. A bolt from the blue. No, it should not be her. I had tried hard, tried desperately to forget Shaena; I broke the hug. Saeeka was not dismayed, we did not expect anything better from each other. She talked of graph theory, glancing through the novel which I carried along, “Eleven Minutes” by Paulo Coelho.
“So you are interested in prostitutes?” she asked mockingly.
“No,” I said, having no clue of answering why I was reading that book.
“You should read Jurassic Park by Crichton”, she said. Why was she always into scientific things, i thought, though Crichton reminded me of comparing her to him.
“Yes, I think I will”, I replied, almost sure I had no intention of reading it.
“Or better, read up the book on Graphs by Peter Brass. May be you could help me then in my project as well.”
“No,” I said firmly.

It would all have been fine, I realised, if I had the brains to see through it. In fact when I finally realised what happened, I was surprised a fool had been made of me so smoothly. And it was all because of that evening of March, when I, having no work to do, went down for a stroll.

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Between the Two of Us

Making friends with darkness wasn’t as easy as I thought,
Night after night I spent helplessly with it,
And though loneliness supported me all throughout,
Darkness didn’t consider me quite for her fit,
Reminded me of all the times when I’d left it,
Alone in a corner and stayed with things bright,
For then I was different, quite different from today,
For then what I did, it was always right.
Between the two of us, I have said this,
To a thousand others and they’ve felt the same,
They’ve told me how right I was and how wrong I am,
To think loving darkness was an easy game.
But I know you want me, embraced in your shawl,
A shawl under which darker things do smile,
And I know with you I can be what I am,
For all’s a game, this world’s a wile.
Brightness, you’ve been good to me,
Like a friend in need, a friend indeed,
But now we’d better separate our ways,
For your eyes must be closed to each of my deed,
And I promise once I return, I’ll be better than before,
The dark would make me stronger I know,
Wait for me outside this door where you are,
And we’ll travel soon through high and low.

Shaena – Chapter 7

The next evening we met at the tuition again. I first thought I’d clear it out then and there, but a lot many of our friends were around, so I decided to postpone it until the tuition ended. I texted her once in between, “Talk to you after the class.” She checked her phone, saw my message, and did not respond. The least I expected was to make an eye contact with her in the next one hour that followed. It turned out she didn’t want it to happen. As soon as the tuition ended, she picked up her bag and made her move to leave. I called her, I was three people behind, and the doorway wasn’t wide enough to overtake the others. She went downstairs and before I could speak, I saw her mother waiting for her. Both left, and I left shortly, wondering what I’d do next. I was lost.

I realized it would be possible for me to talk to her when she was on her way to school. I started leaving for school early from the next day, detouring each day towards her school, waiting for her until I felt I was getting late for school, and then leaving for school. I did this every morning, and every evening, I waited on the road which led her back from school to home. Unfortunately, and rather to my surprise, I never crossed her path. It wasn’t possible this way, for there were only three routes back towards her house, and she definitely wouldn’t take the other routes, she was too lazy to take the other path which was longer.


An evening of November, cold and dry, when most of us feel too lazy to leave our quilts and step on to the floor, I was standing on the way from her school back to her home. I was pretty sure she had changed her routes, I hadn’t seen her for the past few months; I never met eyes with her parents, and they reciprocated similarly. But today was different. The air around me was lighter. Perhaps it meant something was in store for me. As I waited on my bike, a scooty suddenly came to a halt a few inches away. She was pretty, in a white dress, open hair, a white hairband,  and it seemed her vehicle had broken down. I went up to her, offering to give her vehicle a push to her house or the mechanic, whichever was closer. She smiled and forwarded a hand. I held it and said, “Hi, I’m …”. She smiled back and said, “Hi, I’m Saeeka.”

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A Father-Son Story

An auburn coat, polished shoes, a cotton pant, and a beaming face,
The father embarked on his daily walk to the tea-stall by his house,
The white in his moustache had taken a toll over the black,
It had been the same with men, now it’s for the hair, he told his spouse.

Neatly parted hair, the few left on his head, and a wizened face,
He bid his everyday adios to his wife at the gate,
Both smiled yearning it was his last day he would visit the stall,
And that their craving would equate his fate.

As he gazed into his wristwatch he’d bought years ago,
He read the letter which he’d carry in his pouch,
“I’ll come to see you at the tea-stall one day”,
Today was the thousandth day he read that he’d vouch.

He told the seller about his son, that he’d left when he was six,
Said he’d come back only when he had earned,
And when he was twenty, he sent him a letter,
Saying he’d meet him at the tea-stall one day.

“My son must be busy with his work,
I think he’ll reach here by tomorrow,
He never broke his promise when he was younger,
Either in joy or in sorrow.”

The shopkeeper smiled as he poured him his last drink,
For the past twenty years they’d known each other,
And when a tear rolled down their cheeks,
None of them thought the other would bother.

The sun then set behind the knolls, whilst they shut the little booth,
And one day he told him, “You treat me as if I was your father”,
The tea-seller’s heart skipped a beat, as he spoke to himself,
“I’ve kept my promise and continue to keep it every day, father”.