Sometimes, its hard to let go. Yet that seems to be the only recourse

...Life, Death and Pain

It's not the right time
It's not the time in which one lives
but fear does
Fear about life, death and pain

I do not fear, says the little girl
perhaps she does not know
what life can teach you
just like death teaches you to be brave

It's not heaven that I am hopeful for
the moments spent in tears and prayers
are not for any one god
they just are moments of silence
where I think about well being
of a self, a family and the universe

Perhaps prayers about the universe
fades and is feeble
and so bodies die in pain
souls splatter
like grains on a marble floor

I do not fear says, the little girl
perhaps she knows about life deep within
she is ready to splatter her soul
into infinite pieces
at-least if it answers the prayers of one

The frozen masses join the dance
frenzy
a wild frenzy of splattered souls
plastered in red
sometimes, I lose the color
and the vision gets blurred
anyways its going to be heads, toes and faces
I know, so I let the focus go
blurred visions of the dead, the living
the brave and the unknown
a brother reckons the loss
a mother is broken
a sister listlessly consoles her own grief
a father prepares for the rituals
a pyre is formed
of life, death and pain...

Stories are attemts to write something good, you might end with millions of pages of bad writing...

Stories for me never started with a king and a queen who had a lovely princess. ‘Once upon a time,’ this phrase lost its meaning, when kids started to spend more time in their living rooms, watching intently the extremely simple, yet so convoluted stories of the soap operas. With this, I guess it was the end to the stories that grandmothers tried to keep fresh in their memories, for those sunny afternoons, when schools were shut, and the scorching sun, did not allow us to step out of our houses.

Minu, never had imagined, that the carefully woven urban life would tear apart like this. Being the only child of the Pathak’s, she had the luxury to think of relationships, and master the art of urban living. When, her friends like Shibu, had to work hard to scrape some food to her plate. Minu, had spent a lot of her time, trying to re-conceptualize what the small town, with its un-smitten smell of rotten, thatched roof had taught her. She had managed to manipulate, all that she associated with her bare foot childhood. She thought she eventually had fit in, to this whole plethora of junk that people guiltily called ‘Urban.’

The crowded streets, with its sleek cars, ready to knock any one, in an outrage of heavy traffic, had intrigued her. The bright neon lights at the costly malls, with people flaunting the luxuries, she never had seen, amused and attracted her. The fancy eateries, the avenues that presented itself at every other corner, tempted her to reach out to her long locked, famished capitalist self. She was overwhelmed, how people could be so distant from each others lives, while back at home, shead explain, to not just her family or her neighborhood, but to that of her mothers, about anything she did. She for once had started to feel like the woman, the free bird she had wanted to be. She often dreamt of herself, wearing the red, flimsy gown, standing on the car, like Marlin Monroe. Since, the first glances of the city from Madan uncle’s, cramped car, she had wished hard to try and adopt all that a city had to offer. She practiced hard for an year or two, picking up every bit and piece she could, while her city-bred friend made fun of her naïve and endearing trials.

Amidst the giant buildings, which intimidated the village girl that she once was, she was now happy to be a part of the top floor office, and loved the exorbitant atmosphere, with keyboard keys beating like hear-beats, coffee machines replacing all it could and there she learnt to loose the innocence amidst contorted faces and illuminated screens.

About Nothingness

hmm...sigh...

It is funny when you want to write but have no clue at all about what to write. On second thoughts I feel like scrubbing off the whole plan of writing. But then writing something is always better than nothing. A poem is always an easy and elusive way out. That ways I write something for the satisfaction of the half a reader audience that I have for my blog and always escape the torturous guilt of not writing something for long.

That being an explanation for a shitty post, I think now I can get away with anything worthless.

the only moon that shines
chisels its silhouette with the darkest coal
beneath I stand happy yet sad
to be alone
I do not sigh for the summer night
and try to feel
the crescent that evades
the balmy cool breeze
or perhaps not
yet childhood summer smells
all that is gone by
friends long forgotten
faces never drawn
call me by my kittens name
the mewing grows
and rekindles a spark
I let it smother away painlessly
yet the choking noise suffocates
the summer breeze
I try to think of my favorite river
and remember
it's been long I visited my mothers grave
the grass must have taken her in its lap
sung lullabies till she is asleep
and the moon must be shining as bright over her
as it is over me...

so it is a poem again :(

Shamuka...the only kid I relate to as a daughter

My Girl,
the world you live in
will not be as bad as mine

You will not've to
scream your lungs out
to let people know
pains, a lot of them
and fights, your mother fought
just to give you the Life
you deserve.

By then, I would have lost my voice
making them learn to listen.

You would not've to
beg and plead in delirium
to make people understand
you as a woman
who suffers at every crossroad.

By then, I would have trained
a mile of people who understand a woman.

But, still I cannot promise you
My Girl,
that I 'll be able to reduce your woman-pain,
Yet I promise you this much sweet love
YOU, would not've to
bare your body stark naked
up for a public display,
to satisfy them of the age-old scars
that only this body has suffered.

Till then, I bleed
every drop in me,
like drops of dew from the early winter morning
and I will try to make the world
a much better place for you to live in...

P.S. - I know this poem isn't aesthetically good, rather it can't be called a poem perhaps, still it serves some of my purpose.

About to crash…

Hold the waking up

Let it not announce

A new day

A new way

I live like a pale leaf

And I want to die the same way

Silent

Lonely

And withered

I repeat the images

I repeat my words

I repeat my life

To live it from the beginning

This time promising

To love you better

Love you more

I make a clean start

Fresh like the red wound

And as I start to heel ahead

I fall into a pattern

I think for this hundredth time

The pattern is new

At least the colors

And I believe in the difference

I try to tenderly cultivate it

But I never was like you

And so I forget the beginning

And get lost in the whirlpool

Of thoughts, lives, and loves

I discover towards the end

That I have unwontedly

Lived the very same life

With the very same lies

So I sleep never to wake up

Into a new beginning

Into a new rehearsal

And try to keep company

The remembrances that

I left on the lonely sea shore

And a red rose dipped in acid…