Wait Your Return

Around the turn of the sleepy obscure lane
The last memoirs of a love insane,
Rest in solitude the letters haphazard,
You murmured ‘I love you’ and all souls heard,
The pensive chimes bring back moments in turn,
Even for leaving me again, I will wait your return.

Writing my lines aside a smoky window pane
My world soaked in the first clatter of rain,
The unsung bushy violet peeps in vain,
Its presence the world forgets in utter disdain,
The endless way from my doorstep to oblivion,
Even for the grief of it, I will wait your return.

The trail of moments that ticks your presence
Yours own, ours own love in essence,
I feel you around me in the air so thin,
Barely holding me in your arms within,
The fading lights in an evening so worn.
My window panes against the crimson sun,
Even for the sake of it, I will wait your return.

Sarah Loses Her Fairytales

The day she arrived in Smith household covered in an infant wrap in the lap of her mother, Mr. Smith could not resist his fatherly enthusiasm in coining her a name – ‘ I will call her Sarah’ he proclaimed - little caring about another opinion which his better half might possess about names. And that’s how Sarah was born. Mrs. Elbe who was in Sarah’s care in the hospital could feel tad moistness in her eyes as she dressed up Sarah to the lap of Mrs. Smith on her way back home from the hospital. Sarah was born underweight and so she had to be under special care in the hospital. Mrs. Elbe was a seasoned nurse in childcare and was thus entrusted with taking care of little Sarah which she initially addressed with the efficiency of her long nursing experience but soon found that she has build a bond with the blooming innocence. Her tears finally broke the bond the day Sarah left the hospital, although it paved the way for the smile in the Smith household with little Sarah adoring it. When Sarah entered her home which Mr. and Mrs. Smith bought some weeks back, the home décor was still midway and the couple was all very careful in setting the minutest attention to Sarah’s room so that it is complete way ahead of others. They could feel that with the advent of Sarah, the lights in their lives have just lit up and the shine of happiness is announcing its presence. As Sarah went ahead in life, she became extremely expressive and started befriending even the most grim-jawed of individuals with the spontaneity of her lively innocence. Her parents wanted to make the occasion of her fifth birthday a very special one and was flooded with a multitude of little steps in their home – so encompassing was the friend list of little Sarah. As the queen of the day took center stage behind the birthday cake with the beaming parents on either side of her, the little voices joined in chorus to wish a happy birthday to Sarah. That night Sarah wanted a special gift from her mom when she moved out to say goodnight to her. Mom, I wish you tell me a fairy tale tonight as my birthday gift. Mrs. Smith could only join her husband in the bedroom after an hour or so when a mesmerized Sarah could allow no other fairy except the dream fairies overtake her in senses. And from that night, the fairies started entering little Sarah’s life. So much so, that as a precondition to an imminent sleep, Mrs. Smith had to tell Sarah a new fairytale every night. And as she slowly moved in her fairy dreams, Mrs. Smith would put the blanket on her before she softly closed the doors of Sarah’s bedroom. Although circumstantially, it was quite natural of Mrs. Smith to exhaust her stock of fairies at this frequency of story-telling. Consequently, to catch up to Sarah’s demands she started her little innovations but soon found she is horrible at that. Therefore her only alternative was to look out for latest fairy tale books on the Oxford street bookstore which she started visiting on alternate weekends. And there one day she bumped on Alan. He was just a casual onlooker at the bookstore but played a Good Samaritan in paying for the book Mrs. Smith bought that day as she stood in the counter in desperation of locating her purse without any success. An overcrowded London tube due to the Rugby Derby may have created the mess for her, she thought as she thanked Alan with a smile. She could, therefore, not say ‘no’ when Alan invited her to join him for a coffee in the shop right across the street emanating a strong aroma of cappuccino which easily invades the bookstore they stood ground. All through her stay with Alan in the coffee shop she was thinking the next train to home although she could not ignore the eyes of the person sitting opposite in that table on occasional exchange of glance with Alan. Finishing up the coffee in haste, she asked the favor of Alan’s presence the next day so that she could repay him for the book and left for the train. That night Sarah had a fragmented and shabbily knit fairy tale which was reason enough for a delay in sleep to arrive, although Mrs. Smith was not too eager to move out from Sarah’s bedroom quickly as that would mean sleeping beside a drawn off, recluse person while she would restlessly sway in the bed as a lump of flesh. She could feel that a split, a divide is palpable and storm is already in the horizon. The next morning she went to repay Alan and was paid back in the strong coffee aroma. As the aroma became stronger the frequency of her meeting Alan increased and she could feel that she is attracted to the bewildering madness and desperation of the brazen way he carries with himself – which is so unlike of the suave, corporate demeanor of Mr. Smith. That night when Mrs. Smith returned home late from Alan’s apartment, little Sarah lost her first fairytale as her mom fell asleep barely a first few lines in the story. She was utterly confused by the turn of events, but could see the smile in the face of her sleeping mom which is so much alike to the smile she gets in her dreams from the happiest fairy. And then she started missing her fairytales with each night when her mom came home late. Mr. Smith with his cultured ways of always being decent and courteous did not ask her anything but could decipher a clear writing on the wall. And it was reinforced when on occasions he answered an unknown but identical voice on the telephone enquiring about her wife. ‘There was a call for you, if possible answer it from the caller id list ‘– were the only few lines he could say to her wife. But as the pains in him mounded up day after day, he went into a shell and finally beyond reach of all mortal pains one day when the remembrance of him only meant a cenotaph and a well versed obituary for the man he was. She was just past her ninth birthday this time, little Sarah lost a fairytale she shared with her father – the one who would almost meet her little demands of life when she asked for. A ‘sad’ Mrs. Smith went numb for a few days and the nearest man in her life to fall back on was the shoulders of Alan, her love in life, albeit the missing link in a complete life. Alan started staying with her and the fairytales of Sarah became again deserving and colorful as her preconditions of a quick sleep returned again and were met again. And her welcome eyes wanted to befriend the new man in her scheme of things but scare was the dominant feeling in her with Alan as he would take her in his lap, toss her up and just on the verge of hitting the ground would hold her again. On other occasions he would hold her hands and make swirls of her in the air and when she is scared would hold her close to him with the reassurance of his mature protection. In the meantime Mrs. Smith got herself a job in the morning so that she can return in the afternoon just in time for Alan to go out for a part-time job in a store. So when Sarah returned from school with Alan, he would often ask her to crawl on his back as he held her and walked the streets. Sometimes it was pain for Sarah with her feeble legs in the strong grip of Alan, but it was fun not to walk the streets. She crawled her way back on Alan that day and was able to just pick up the ringing phone before it faded out in the shrilly call. It was Mom the other side telling her that she had to continue with the afternoon shift to back up her ailing colleague and when talking to Alan requested him to drop work for the day to be with Sarah. Sarah had dinner the same time she had for most days and couldn’t wait for a change in the voice that tells her fairytales every day. Alan’s style of storytelling was far different as Sarah could soon found out. It was so pushy, so forcible and heavy that little Sarah was utterly confused. Alan’s whisper of fairies in her ears soon instilled pain and fear in her little heart as she never imagined that her fairies would be ever so heavy and lurking at every aspect of her being. As she wreathed in intense pain, she could only remember an uncanny sound hitting her ears as she slowly passed in the obscurity of senses. By the time Mrs. Smith’s hurried press of the doorbell could express her eagerness to be back where her heart is, Sarah has already lost her fairytale again. The night sky above her was the only other witness to the fairies lost, as it could do precious little except cast the look of agony at the world below. The world where many Sarah s lose their fairytales everyday and still fresh fairytales are written, the world which sees mornings every overnight a fairytale is lost, the flowers still bloom, people get into their daily groove ever so nonchalant of a lost tale that has little or no consequence in their lives. The raconteurs of these losing tales throng the streets scot free in millions - sometimes as close family friends of Sarah s around the world, sometimes as family members who enjoy the cover of an amicable hush up with family prestige being the top priority. And some other times they are people who enjoy the slackness of the system throttled by legal hawks, for a few pounds more. If and when Sarah wake up the next morning, she will ever resist a new fairytale the night to follow and the stigma of a biting fairy would reframe her life in the days to come.

ALL CHARACTERS IMAGINARY

All Characters Imaginary
In your life stage show,
Leaving you in an one-act play,
Thronging behind the curtains,
The Stage, the Lights, the People, the Glow
And a very stoic you in your life stage show.


All Characters Imaginary
In your life stage show,
Prompting your moves,
Scripting your monologues,
The Crescendo, the Crisis, the Core so hollow
With a very stoic you in your life stage show.

Their vicious smiles so mesmerizing,
From the depths of darkness keep arising,
Your Space, your World, your Highs, your Low,
And the Moments of truth that let you know
All characters imaginary
In your life stage show.

Dazzling stage-lights fading with time,
Playing hide and seek with your stage regime,
The people standing for you exit with cheer,
As curtains roll down with you in the rear,
Standing you face to face,
Peeling their coats off their surface,
In your life stage show,
All characters imaginary,
Following you in your eternal stage journey.

Questions to None

How much distance you cover in your steps, before they say you can walk,
How much silence you speak to them, before they say you never talk,
How much pain you whisk in a smile, before they say you are happy,
How much blood you shed of your soul, before they say you are beyond therapy?

The lone solitude wanderer you are, walking your life sojourn,
The highs, the lows, the crescendo, the crisis and the moments you mourn,
They are all yours, near and dear ones, your friends close to the heart,
How much trivia you pose to your life, the moments that tore you apart?

As the daylight fades away, the evening descends through your window panes,
The asteroids blink at you in a silent approval of your thoughts in the wane
The spirits of your being embraces you with cold arms of pain,
How many times you have to die, before they say you must live again?

Ode - To My Dearest Life

Not that I am upset with you, my dearest life
I am just a little tired.
Not that I wish to part our ways, my dearest life
I am just a little lost.
We have weatherd so many storms together, you remember
I smiled at you at every pain that came our way.
You told me always, look ahead at the bright sunny day
We stopped, we thought a while and again started our way.

Not that you have always been hard to me, my dearest life
I am left just a little bruised.
Not that I cannot answer your innocent inquests, my dearest life
I tend to be just a little shy.
To live a life with you, I have always given and cannot give any more
And now I am left alone in my own world, does anyone adore?
You taught me to be resolute yet human with a heart to forgive
I did that, little knowing one day i will only have tears to give.

I dont want to look back counting the gains and loses i shared with you
Neither I can be so naive to leave our smile aside our ways through
We have walked long enough in our journey to be soulfully in oneness
Which no power can take away however mighty its greatness
As I say, not that I am upset with you in all fairness
I am just a little candid of myself and this blankness.

Take It Easy Damsel

Do you hear the woody clatter of her busy stilletoes making you conscious of her presence? She is the quintessential young damsel of today walking a very tortuous professional path. Take it easy, is the line i usually murmur when I come across her in the street with spring under her toes. Why do i do that? I will tell you in the next few lines. For the time being, let me paint a picture of the person as I see her. She is fast, confident, city bred (think so), raring to go in life. She is lured by the gliterrati, the call of a prospective career, the shine of excellence and obviously the power of money. But the greatest enemy in her pursuit is almost invincible – the earth-dwellers call it 'time'. She fights with time constantly since she always has a benchmark when to achieve the things she aspires after. The blueprint of this is a small internal arithmetic she fixes for her. With a bit of my imagination i could make out what would that arithmetic look like. Well, something like this - Compromise at 26, A Leadership Position by 28, Enough Money to Go On World Tour by 30, Few men in and out of life by 32, A Sprawling bungalow by 34, A Man Friday Husband by 36, Few other men in 38, On the top of the world at 40. Her arithmetic stops here since beyond that it refuses to bring out any answer. She has to be, whatever she wants to, in this span of 26 to 40 and that’s why her constant element of fear is time. To some, the arithmetic works out well but what it takes away with it- is her smile and the music of life. Time is harsh on her, leaves her an indelible mark of fatigue, wear out symptoms and the injuries of a whirlwind lifestyle. So, beyond forty when they say, 'life starts' - she has already run a weary race and is recluse to make a start again.
Now this is the story when the arithmetic has just worked out perfectly. What happens if it doesn't? Well to start with -Compromises at 26, but Leadership eluding till 30, So more compromises at 30, then Leader at 32, More men out of life than into at 34, World Tour just not happening at 36, Panic and Disillusionment, Going into shells at 38, Recluse at 40 and then suddenly realizing the arithmetic has no more answer. And then she looks back and tries to find out the things she has missed during all such times. Till one day when she opens her window its all deserted and forlorn outside. I wish my murmur reaches their ears and they stop, think a while and start walking again.
Take it easy Damsel.

Portrait Of An Unseen Woman

She belongs. She stays with me. She goes with me when i go with her. She is unique, she is gorgeous - she is my unseen woman. I have never seen her, i would never wish to see her but i care for her and adore her. I wish she remain unseen and stay in my unseen thoughts. And you know that, she is now with me too, as I am writing down a few lines about her- whispering in my ears and reasoning me not to write about her. But this is one of the many little pranks that i would play with her - i will write about her, even if she is all mad with me. I have resisted many temptations so far and somehow throttled my thoughts to the death of expressions - but no more. Well the first time i saw her was when the first time I learnt that I was feeling better - not in company of my childhood pal with a faint but growing mustache, but with her very presence in my little world of thoughts. Ever since, she has seen me grow, she has seen me fragment, she has seen me rise in love , she has seen me fall in pathos. When I wanted her, she was always there. When i took her close to me and touched her eyes, she gave me a glitter of her smile which i savored with the sauce of life. When the sounds of life did not compose a melody , she took my hand and we went along talking to distant horizons absorbed in each other. When the first clatter of rains on the rooftop wanted me smell her, she tweaked my naughty nose and allowed me to succumb in indulgence. In the middle of a busy day, when everything goes wrong - she holds me with her reassuring embrace. I am madly in love with her, as she is with me. She is my unseen woman who will stay with me- till my thoughts hit the vile dust and we sleep there in each others arms in the solace of an unseen serenity.

Just For You

You told me to wait there for you
Listen to your footsteps as you come
See, I still stand on the crossroads
As i hear the far away chimes higroad
Just For You.

You told me to hold my eyes one night
And we smile till the last night star fades
See, My nights never let my eyes down
As the last star fades without a sound
Just For You.

You told me to paint my canvas
With Life that your eyes hold
See, My canvas worn out but throbs still
And paints my dreams in at will
Just For You.

You told me to walk our path
With your hands in mine as we move
See, I still walk the distant horizon
Look for you hands in the colours crimson
Just For You.

Ageless I stand, I paint, I walk
In your thoughts my words get stuck
See, I still live my world so cold
Torn, broken yet standing hold
Just For You.

Call It Quits

I can easily call it quits, but why should I
I can easily decide to end this four letter word called life
But why should I.
The lure of the senile darkness which seemingly finds my answers
Calls me every night as i return to my weary nest
Battered, Bruised, Tired and Lost
I get an inch closer to its embrace
But why should I.
Why should I when I still shine with some juvenile smile
And some nascent thoughts still provoke me to write
And your eyes full of life gets me think awhile
I can easily call it quits, but why should I.

Me and My Solitude

Me and My Solitude Keeps Wondering Each Other
What Would Life Be, If Either Of Us Part The Other
Think, Would Have Longed The Languid Absence In Reminiscience
When In Some Unknown Far, The Day Loses Its Credence
And The Shadowy Evening Tipotoes Its Presence
We Keep Asking The Other, For Replies In Consonance
Little Hesitant Though
As We Face The Other - Pouring Thoughts Multitude
Thats What We Draft Today - Me And My Solitude


We Do Not Know Which Far We Have Come Together
Where Are We, And Who Stays There
Inseparable Souls, Travelling A Life Sojourn
Neither Do We Know Which Far That Say Adjourn
We Keep Asking The Other, For Replies In Consonance
Little Hesitant Though
As We Face The Other - Pouring Thoughts Multitude
Thats What We Mourn Today - Me And My Solitude

I Light Up A Candle, My Solitude Shine
In The Dim Fragrance Of The Darkness Divine
And In Our Eyes We See The Pathos
Of An Unseen Pain That A Way Such Pose
How Would We Exist Since The Day We Part
We Have Never Done That And We Would Never Start
As We Face The Other - Pouring Thoughts Multitude
We Hold And Kiss Each Other The Moment Interlude
And Thats What We Draft Today - Me And My Solitude