Window

There are two wooden chairs

One on each side of the table

That is set beside the window

Which overlooks the forest

Of dreams and aspirations

That had been woven

Together

As we sat and sipped our tea

Our impressions are still there

Little prints of fingers

Not very apart

The stain of the spilt tea

That greased my dress

Exists as a reminder

Of the days that have gone by

Days that won’t return, ever

Of conversations that breezed out

Of the framed orifice in the wall

I now see you living

In that forest of dreams

Happier than you were

On other side of the table

I still sit here

Staining the table

Hoping you will return

But you have met more people

Beyond our framed wall

You might not have erased me

I might flicker in your mind

When you hold that hot glass

And wince before burning your tongue

I remain sipping the tea

With memories to hold on to

Which I won’t let go of

Ever

It keeps me alive.   

Inspired by a photo taken by a friend. 

Dil-li

A smoked journey to dream land

Fresh breath of nostalgic air

Warm hugs of comfort

Lazy morning of laughter and cheese

A long drawn lunch

Walk to the alley of guitars and buckets

Clouds of smoke, hot tea and singing

Foursome gallivanting on treaded paths

Jokes of bathing styles and masala fries

Metro-ed to the heaven of food

The cozy posters and benches

Chocolat fancies and sinners of gluttony

We are lost and found

Till we dream of the next day.

Egged breakfasts, drowsy and disoriented

Move to the peacock-garden

Big toothed smiles of reunion

A lunch made for three days

Knocked everyone down

Movie motive lost to language and seating

An endless adventure for Burqous*

Practiced Zen at Tao

Night of Mata, her bawling and sweat.

An early dawn of bread and packed lunch

The dreaded squash on the station

An unexpected parting

Walls of love beckoned

Arrival with summer mangoes

Eternal quest for the a/c

Coffees shared and a wallet lost

The wait for the bathed beauty

Un-censored talks and cooler

Carmensita to going Gaga

A walk to the Centre with gallons of nimbu pani

Chai Chat with old buddies

A friend who dresses for Sabarmati. Phew

Keicha, Quereshi and the three musketeers

Midnight mayhem, eating and editing.

Jaaneman and Jan Path

Coloured beads, popping eyes, bargains, bhaiyas

Pre-calculated lunch order and kazoo’s prettiness

Mapping the way back home

Rocky chatter and pizzas

An auto ride to remember for life

Hugs and promises

Sleep.

Day of departure

Locking and unlocking doors practiced

A visit of a grumpy friend

Another goodbye

Lunch over Mongolia and theatre

Dreams of scaling mountains

More promises and adieu

Final calls at the long station halt

Bye

The train hoots

I’ll be back. Soon. 

.

Chipped graphite rolls in between the finger tips

It has a wooden cloak

It nudges the white under to let it move

Allow it to dance on it

But it is repelled

By the brain that is lying beside

For it has gone through 300 emotions in the past second

The graphite mulls

Not knowing what piece to perform

Its confused

The wooden cloak it wears is getting sullied

It looks ancient

But has no proof of experience

It is still long but not drawn

It has not been written with

Danced with

It is handled by nail-bitten appendages

Anxious and trembling

Scared of what might be said or heard

It needs to let go

Of the brain

Of the fingers

Of the cloak

Of the white

All of it

A Minute

Give me a minute

Let me rewind

To a time long gone

To a wind blown away

A morsel chewed

Trickled bead of sweat

A morning tea

Rustling crisp leaflets

Fogged spectacles

Kohl smudged eyes

Tired jubilant smiles

The stretch on the bus

Heavy backs of bags

The setting sun

Starry night walks

Familiarity of populace

Touch of books

The lost letter

Seventh birthday card

A crumpled photograph

Snippets of my Coloured Compartmentalised Life.

Canvas

There lies the white

In a room cluttered

There is a smell of damp wood

Wet by the moisture of paints and sweat

It stings the air

Creates a vacuum in the lungs

In the darkness, it sparkles

With a dull antiquated sheen

Newness is stark and sharp

This has a soothing warmth to it

Ironic, as the room is still cold

There is no inspiration

Eyes are glued to the pristine board

Not knowing what to do

Not knowing where to begin

Not knowing how to end

There builds a bond between the two

Speechless, yet heavy in meaning

The wood echoes the muted voices

There are no more in the room

But it feels claustrophobic

The white must go

The echoes around need to be inked

Only then will there be a breath

Respiration for life

Perspiration of desire

The paints drip

The canvas is weeping

With joy or sorrow is unknown

What lies in front is a motley of strokes

Is the air lighter?

The lungs expand

The chilled musty air rushes in

Discomfort persists

There is something wrong

I forgot to add my heart

Desiderata

I want to sit on a cushion of plush green grass

Let the cold dew drops wet my clothes and skin in patches

Allow the breeze to whisper sweet nothings into my ear

Bring a message from a dear old friend who lives afar

I want to creak on a wooden floor again

Let the dust from the past scrub my feet

Allow the words to echo and get absorbed into the walls

Bring a dialogue into the emptiness

I want to grease my hands with paint

Let the water and not tears dampen the canvas

Allow the brush to make its strokes of affection

Bring some colour into the lifeless

I want to run on that winding road

Let the yellow flowers shower my head and soul

Allow the scent of the trees to warm my insides

Bring out the shawl for a tight embrace

I want to laugh with you in that room

Let the door ajar for the cheer to spread

Allow the gang to join the communion

Bring out the tuck and tea

Its going to be a long night companions