Two Worlds

I kept walking though I knew,
I had lost my way a while ago,
But the crowd moved so heavily,
And in such vast numbers they walked,
That even if I wanted,
It was too late to turn back.
But then I suddenly saw your hair,
And though you were quite far,
I thought I might make it to you,
If I cut through the people,
And purge towards you,
But then you disappeared.
The sun was right over my head,
I, too tired to walk any further,
But were I to stand I would be,
Stamped and trampled by others,
So never stopping or missing a beat,
I walked the path everyone took.
No one seemed to care where it was going,
As long as there were others on it,
They had a belief in each other,
But looked at me with wary eyes.

Suddenly there was a fire,
And everyone started running in all directions,
I was lost,
The people I held faith in were all gone,
Every time I followed a path,
It divided into two and there were,
People on both the paths.
There was no road less taken,
And not one not taken,
All were stuffed, like raisins in a cake,
Finally we reached a river,
And some of us rowed a boat to the other side,
We will start a new world now,
And though now you aren’t there,
Though I can’t see you anymore,
I know somewhere,
You’ll start a new world too,
And maybe one day,
Our worlds would meet.

A Romantic Poem

I want to write a romantic poem,
One which has princes and princesses,
Write about a lot of love between them,
Which finally culminates into their marriage.
Or maybe about the romance of two,
Simple ordinary people from the streets,
How they met as strangers and fell in love,
And how happy they are today.

Or, how about the romance, the unkindled love,
Between two first-time lovers,
The inexperience, and the excitement,
The feeling of having loved the first time.
But no, I won’t write of all this,
Far too many poems already speak of that,
Maybe I’ll talk of other kinds of romance,
Those that are less spoken about.

I want to write a romantic poem,
But this isn’t quite turning out to be one,
Other than the romance between mind and words,
Which no one seems to care about.
So I’ll probably stop writing now,
Unromantic that I already am,
Leaving romantic poems to better poets,
And maybe go and have a nap.

Sunshine on Her Forehead

Through the tiny slit between the curtains,
That blocks her from the outside for most of the day,
Two tiny rays of sunshine slither through,
And fall on her forehead, making a tiny yellow moon.
She knows when the rains come pouring,
A pitter-patter on the windows,
She cannot smell the wet mud outside,
Nor see the birds fly back to their nests.

Sunshine on her forehead, she smiles,
A face of glee forever overshadowing,
Her life of plight that she has carefully masked,
Against day, against night, and against herself.
She dreams of a day when she’d go outside,
She sees her father, his hands wide apart,
She runs to him, and embraces him dearly,
But alas! Then she wakes up.

She doesn’t know how her story will end,
Whether her hero would rescue her,
She dreams of people who are blind like her,
And tells them to be patient, in her thoughts.
She walks up to the door sometimes,
But there are no latches on the inside,
She wonders who locked her up here,
But alas! Then she wakes up.

Sometimes when she sees the slit,
Between the curtains turn to a shade of black,
She knows it is night, and that she must sleep,
Yet never her eyes close, endlessly she stares.
She doesn’t remember the last time she cried,
She wants to wail, tears betray her,
She covers her face with the pillow she has,
It smells of her, she hasn’t known any other.

Yet next morning, when the sunshine,
Draws a tiny moon on her forehead again,
She feels a wetness in her eyes,
And tries hard to cover it with her smile.
She knows this could go on forever,
And wishes she had been dead long ago,
But she promises to herself she’d live through it,
And show to the day another black night.

A Sultry Afternoon

I sat in the main hall, flicking through the channels on the television to see if there was anything worth watching at that time of the day. It was unusual for me to stay awake in the afternoon, most of my family prefers a short nap in the afternoon so that they can continue with their work in the evening more efficiently, and so the house was always usually silent, except for the persistent sound that the tap water made on the base of the sink, “Tip, tip, tip.” But after years of hearing that, I had kind of become immune to that sound, just like the chirps of the sparrows who came thirsty, quenching their thirst from the small bowl kept in the balcony during summers.

After a while I switched off the television, went to the kitchen, scanned the refrigerator for food, scanned all the cupboards for anything that would take more than five minutes to eat, then realized that I was not hungry at all, and came back, sat down and switched on the television again. I had to keep it at a low volume, not wanting anyone to wake up from their deep slumbers on some stupid songs or probably a wrestling match, neither of which was on television then though. I looked through the window and there was a mynah near the bowl of water. I tried to open the balcony door ever so slowly so that it wouldn’t fly away, but the screech of the door gave way to its suspicions that I would grab it and probably eat it right there and then, and it fluttered away almost instantaneously. I stood in the balcony for a while, the sun on my face, causing small drops of sweat to trickle down my spine, but I had to be there. The plants needed water, or they would die.

When I looked up at the sky, the clouds were turning black. It would rain soon, it seemed. The bear cloud was gnarling at the mouse cloud, and the dragon cloud stood still where it was. Then in a moment, the bear turned into a woman looking down on the earth, whilst the mouse turned its face towards the dragon. A dragon that would breathe out water, I thought, muffling my hair clumsily as a girl walked by on the street opposite. And then the wind started to blow, swaying the thinner trees so that they almost kissed the ground, many of their leaves falling on the ground and swirling up into the sky like a tornado. The smell of wet mud arose from the garden beside and the dogs ran inside the buildings, whilst the pigeons started flocking into the big tree opposite. I turned back and went inside, closing the door so that the dust wouldn’t turn in. I have always been fascinated by the dust, they seem to me a way nature teaches us the value of memories, and how we sweep both of them out at some point in our lives.

Slowly, the dust settled down, back to the ground from where it rose. The rain helped it cool down, get down to where it was, and taught us that we cannot fly for more than was intended for us. At some point, we need to go back to where we started, and restart the process, over and over again. The sky had no dragons anymore, the black being replaced by white, and the grey with a blue, which would soon turn red and then black. I had always been intrigued by the various colors that the skies could assume, depending on other factors. It taught me how we should sometimes succumb to the circumstances around us, and become a little more complaisant, without bearing any grudges. For come morning, the blackness would wither out again, giving way to fresh dew, the chirps of birds, and a light to guide us through the rest of the day. And depend on it we must.

Quick – Chapter 5

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why the hell are you staring at me?”

“I am not staring at you.”

“Yes, you are.”

Silence.

“What about her?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Should I care?”

“I really think you should. Couldn’t you pretend this to be more of an accident?”

“I did. I am drunk. Isn’t that sufficient?”

“Do you think it is?”

Silence.

“What next?” she said.

“Nothing. We wait. Thanks to your foolishness, we’re done with one. Now we will have another.”

“You sure of that?”

“Oh yes. I have a feeling there are another thousand Juliett Macber’s in this deal.”

“So killing her was a waste of time?”

“No, just hope the next one who they send tell me more about what we are in. And maybe they’d open up a bit more this time. I don’t know. You had to injure her so that we could get things out. You freaking killed her.”

“We? You are into something. I am not. They don’t know me.”

“You sure?”

Silence.

“Anyways, you ought to leave now. It’s best that they think I am working alone,” I said.

“Yeah probably. I fear the consequences won’t be good though.”

“Yeah we will see that. They wouldn’t be good anyways.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, bye.”

Hot Winds

Hot winds blow today. Fiercely. Ever more than before.

As I sit inside my room, a copy of “A Storm of Swords” in hand, which does not seem to end, I wonder of the future. I have been trying to finish the books of late, so that I may overtake the series on television, but to fail. Yet the summer outside presses it in, chaining me to my room, leaving me with no more options than to read and write. I sit in an unknown city, and through the verandah peer at unknown faces. They don’t bear smiles for me, neither glares. Absent emotions, they move about robotically. I go back inside the house. The roof presses its entire heat into the room, so much that the air conditioner doesn’t succeed in cooling it. That was one town where I lived ago. Now I live here, trying to make this as much of a home as the former.

Delhi, the capital of my country. I was not so excited coming here, for pain of loss of friends stings deep to those who have but a few. Yet now I confine myself to the city of Westeros and its problems, forgetting mostly the issues and problems dwelling around me, pressing ever as a box full of books does to the thinnest book at the bottom. Time has much changed since the last time I wrote of home. My notes date that as 17th December 2011, seems a lifetime before. Jamshedpur remains but a fond memory, longing to visit it, in dreams as well as in reality. Soon I will be there though.

College has but ended. I can call myself a graduate now. Yet leaving the city where I spent three and a half years of plentiful life, seems to burden me with more grief than I can partake in. The last goodbyes, knowing I would never meet them again. It seems so queer now that they were people from all parts of the country, heck, from all parts of the world, and that when they return to their homes almost a universe away, the only solace I would find is by pinging them on Whatsapp or looking up their new profile pictures on Facebook, glimpsing at how much their lives have changed since we last met.

I should be happier, I know that, deep inside somewhere. I did not fare that bad after all. Finished off with a decent score in college, made quite a number of good friends, but alas, I had thought the same four years ago, and where are those friends now? Remnants of them remain, like the left over crumbs of the bread a crow ate up, slowly yet fully. I have a job now, I am employed. It’s a big company and their work is big too, affects a lot of people. I should be happy my work will affect so many people, but alas, they’ll never know I have changed their lives for the better, or for the worse, I don’t know; thinking about it now makes me both happy and sad, like two faces of the same coin, fallen on the street amidst dust, never to be looked at again, unless perchance someone kicks it, and then lifts it up, dusts it down and keeps it in his wallet.

I want to tell people I will miss them. There are those who I’ve talked to and known for four years now, but still refrain from bidding goodbyes. Why do I do that? Just to keep people stood up to the notion that I am not sentimental, and forever a stoic, when in reality, I am but nothing of that sort? I don’t know. Questions forever bewilder me. What will I do now? What my future holds for me, I have no idea. Am I supposed to make one of my own, or only embrace whatever comes my way?

Hot winds blow. They remind me of summer now. Summer days in school, when we would rush to the kiosk at recess, buying Coke and clanking bottles. And then go back to class. So many promises we did make on the last day of school. This one friend, just stopped talking, and never told me why she was upset. I still need an answer, one that I will never get. I have been but long forgotten. Summer. Reminds me of the long vacations, and trips to relatives. How small I was then, with nothing much of import to take part in. Only if I could go back there, and sit, like an idle guy, just sit. Reminds me of the coaching classes too, ones I took in order to get into a good university. Wouldn’t comment on that; I am happy with what I got out of it. No complaints, yet, sometimes, I wish I could complain a little more.

The rains will come in soon. And with that, everything would turn better, as it always has.

How It Changed Entirely

This is a sequel to Nothing Has Changed.

It is true that you change,
When people around you do,
Or else I wouldn’t be writing this today.
It is true that you change,
When I am absent,
Or else I wouldn’t be writing this today.
For coming back and starting,
From the point you left off,
Is never the same as not leaving at all.

You understood my eyes,
What they meant without speaking,
Now you can’t hear me,
Tell me, who changed?
You smiled at silly jokes,
Now you mock me with others,
Say I am stupid,
Why, who changed?

Goodbyes were meant to be happy,
Yet this time it isn’t,
I am sad and I’m upset,
But you wouldn’t know,
You are busy there, out with new ones,
And like old newspapers I’m trashed in a can,
Know that I’m sad to see,
How it changed entirely.