Moonlight..

Commanding silence, and hushing the trembling wind

Oh! Moonlight, stealthily as a camouflaged fiend,

you descend the bars of what shows the other side

With playful grace and almost wounded pride.

You do dare to grace the consuming space

Attempting to enlighten it into some haloing place

Failing tirelessly, tumbling in bounds;

Don't you know? Both of you stand accused on similar grounds!

Drawn curtains, haven't I?

Exhaled blinded hopes and concluding sighs?

Why the tickle of light into darkness then?

Why breathing life in dreams again?

Shedding a different light on things,

Heaped they were, heaped as inanimate beings!

With flaring eyes and luring scent there they stand,

Like a dangerous drug, even sight of which is banned!

A busy road.. or not really?

A busy road.. or not really? The weight of various people that tread on it everyday somehow imbibed along the crevices of the tram lines that traversed it horizontally. A long day it has been, the north eastern corner of the sky almost seemed flush by heat, almost weary of it. Dark crimson giving into more of darkness. A light breeze attempted to soothe the sky, leaves trembled, a witness to its passion. He stood enraptured by the turbulent stillness around him, enjoying the reverberations below his feet in sync with the drained out tram.. yet he registered none of it, a crumpled piece of paper caught at the edge of one of the tracks caught his eye. He lowered himself, picking it up.


He could not help but be at awe of the neat cursive yet pacy handwriting on the paper, despite it being covered by mud and even shoe-prints. Verses. A few verses on this trampled and forlorn piece of thing immediately had his attention. He started reading it, a conscious effort to take in words, register them, to not let his concentration waver.

A chanced morning, in an unknown road

That triggered notes, which tune my soul old..

Is it the warmth of the winter sun,

or the tireless river amalgamating into the mist?

Or is it the forgotten face from childhood,

That had sought refuge in lines and their gist?

It might even be an evening nestled in the hustle of the city,

or the reminder of time, the watch on  his wrist?

A chanced morning, in an unknown road
That triggered notes, which tune my soul old..

He sighed deeply, looking up, his eyes glistened in the moonlight. Too overwhelmed he was, hit was he, by the past. Words capture time, they had they said. Never had they said, that they could keep us under the illusion that we could travel back in time too. A moment in these words, one which the tram-line was a part too, now he was sucked into it too. A moment that was lost, he got to live again. He got to live two moments though, one that someone else painted for him, and the one that his fate did. A shiver ran down his spine, leaving him weak at the edges. He folded the paper neatly and put it in his pocket. His eyes trying to search the dark, a trapdoor to his past. With unsure steps forward he started dwindling from sight, as if lost in the embrace of an old friend, away from harm. The road was empty again.

A busy road.. or not really?

I shall rest?

I shall rest against the dancing brine,
The moonlight and the winds that chime;
I shall rest against the stars old and new,
That reflect tales false and true.

Nestled deep in the crests of turbulent times,
The heaviness in me melts into waves sublime;
My breath lost while crashing against the shore
As of a tired traveller knocking against a jammed door.

Oh! Drops of rain, they consider me their foe,
Lashing out at me, compelling me to let go;
How dare am I one with The One?
Their existence from which did begun!

Amidst the wrath of the greying sky,
the roaring tempest looked me in the eye;
One that can never subside to my delight
Alas because it’s Me! From Me I can never have respite!

Rest I shall against the dancing brine?
But to what avail if my soul in tumult cannot reside?
What good would resting against the stars do?
If they haunt me with memories old and new?

The Bracelet

Beads of her bracelet with 

rifts of a paused heartbeat;

Caress did she their edges,

lost in memories obsolete.

Outside the cold rain did soothe,

the parched left out window sill;

So did the trickling tear drop

scurrying across her cheeks downhill.

Will there be a day

as bright as a stack of flaming hay?

with ardent winds pulling at the clouds

shaking the heavy grey away?

Then will the stream giggle again,

with the rainbow seeping colors form the sun;

Then will the nascent stalks raise their heads

To be called forest, to be among them one.

Till then the fingers will fail to sense

everything else but the cold it feels,

Till then will the eyes strain across

eagerly anticipating a trace of wheels.

Oh! Calcutta!

Heavy with the first ray of the mellow sun,

Mist settles against the walls of a lone glass

Slides along the crevices of a jogger's foot

To melt into the arms of a trampled grass.

Witness to the headlines of the day

As the cup of tea exhales a deep sigh,

The directionless traffic on streets

Promise presence at towers high.

The sultry day beating down,

Against the collar of a white shirt;

As the drudgery continues 

 for the dreams of a solemn heart.

Mauve dusk settles against houses,

The winds soothing the scorched flyover;

As tired steps walk towards homes, envying,

the fresh legs that around a football do hover.

Flickering lights and bleak dreams

Stretched across the other side of the river;

The grey road submitting into the horizon

Its raw pulse throbbing forever.

There exists a World..

Her dress rustled along the flight of stairs. She scurried down, glancing at both her sides for brief moments, and then looking down again. Her heart thudding violently against her ribs, her breath caught in her throat. She looked back to the wide expanse of the high-way that she was climbing down from, the lights seemed to be dwindling with each step, the clock ticking with the pace of vehicles, some time lost with their exhaust fumes. The familiar tinge of river breeze hit her face, she was almost there. She looked down and continued to climb down the forlorn stairs that lead to the river bed.


She took off her heels before stepping down from the last pair of stairs. Her feet dug into the cool sand, they left smudged impressions as unsure as her steps were. She could see his silhouette, his frame quite prominent against the dark moonless sky, the simmering water beyond blurring his edges. He was one with the horizon,

where the charcoal sky met the blue waters, where her eyes edged to peek into beyond, which steps away with every step forward of her. She stood there still, wishing to melt away into the still night that fell upon them.


He turned around, his dark eye-lashes mirroring the sky behind him, his eyes almost the shade of the water, he looked away again but waiting for her to join him at the edge of the water. As if being summoned by a beckoning halo, as strong a tug as some magnetic pull, she felt herself walking towards him. She stopped shortly behind him. This was the best part of her day. It's been like this for a while. After sprinting with the revolving world around her everyday, she runs away from it every night, abandoning it, to take a breath, to stand and stare. To look at her world, to live in it.


It was astonishing how it all bewitched her, transfixed her but never touched her. It was like she was in this bubble. The ripple of the water, it caressing the boulders, the dull roar of vehicles somewhere far off, the stifled moan of the winds and him. All of it she could see and hear. But muffled. Like there were forces that worked towards keeping her away from all of it. A veil that she could never shake off. Not voluntarily. It happened when it had to. She stood there like always, inhaling deep, closing her eyes.


A sudden chill caught her. It was too sharp, not like everything else she felt, subdued. She opened her eyes to close them again. This was happening again. The part which she did not like at all. The sight before her was too brilliant for her eyes to take them. She opened them again. Everything around her illuminated with a new light, every color intensified, all sounds distinct. The bubble had burst again. Everything was the same as it felt from inside, everything but him. He was not there. He was gone.


She stood there. Her shoulders drooping. Suddenly all the weight tumbling around her, crashing against her. She took a deep breath and started walking towards the stairs again. Time to embrace the world again. She reached the stairs and looked back at the edge of the water again. Was he there? Or was it the horizon, where both the worlds meet?

A dip 'in' colors

She stepped on the puddle, a bit more so intentionally. The colored water splashed, leaving a few stains at the end of her once white frock, almost like a well-thought design against all the colors, she grinned at it and broke into a wild run around the field. The pungent smell of spring hit her, the morning sun was too mellow to dry away the mist at the tips of grass. Her almost green hair beat mercilessly against her back, her breath now a tumbling effort. A familiar rush sweeping through her.

The doorbell rang incessantly. It infuriated her. Why can't people wait for a few minutes after they have announced their presence outside the door. They know that one can't really apparate to the main door. The brief gap that follows the first ring and the time till the latch is opened, is almost inevitably filled by impatient pressing of the bell, giving off urgency even if one has all the time in the world and has nothing else to do than to just ask for a cup of cream.

The house threatened to explode with the ringing, she stomped her way to the front door. She opened the door, prepared to say off her neighbor in full throttle, instead she creased her brow at the sight in front of her. There stood her neighbor's boy, the end of his pants dripping green water on her porch, his hair yellow. She could not have recognized him if not for the shirt that he was wearing, she had been dropping snide remarks every now and then to her neighbor to throw it away, all in good humor but her idea was to implant it in his mother's head that her boy is too tall for his shirt now, no matter how adorable he looked in it.

He had a sprayer in his right hand and had his left hand behind him. He looked scared. She was worried now. She asked him what the matter was, he did not say anything but looked down. He pulled out his left hand reluctantly, it was smeared with blood. She gasped. He pulled it right back. She kneeled before him, with her hand on his shoulders urging him to show his hand once again. It was a deep cut, she observed.

Apparently he was chased across the park by his friends who were threatening to lift him and throw him into the big plastic tub filled with water looking similar to the high drain that was set in the park for the occasion. He was sporting for anything but anything to do with water. He despised getting wet somehow. Evidently he could not outrun them, was thrown into the tub, the broken corner of which made a deep cut against his wrist. She felt her heart go out to the young boy.

She lifted him up and carried him inside the house. Placing him on the dining table, she ran for first aid. It has always been like this, a look at him and she knew he was in trouble. It was like this since he was this little toddler. The first time he had stumbled while attempting to walk, he had landed on his face, had looked up at her and had burst into tears while lifting his arms, pleading to be picked up. She had been amused then, she was amused still.

She closed her door, heaving a sigh. He was out to play again. Quite happy after the cup of hot chocolate that he licked off a while back. The cut was after all harmless. She had dressed it efficiently while teaching him more pranks that he should play on others this Holi. She smiled as she saw his eyes grow in wonder and realization settle down them and then the tinge of naughtiness that lit them up.

She looked outside, settling on a chair, cupping a mug of coffee. The splash of colors, the bright day, the raw mirth-all failed to touch her. The girl in the white frock was resentful, she has cocooned herself deep inside her. Nothing reached her there anymore.