The first meeting

”Look around. Do you see the Blur? Its a book-eh of a million hues. The colorful crowd around. The people around you now, this very second; look at them. Each one, they have a hue. No matter what they are wearing, their age, color or attractive or un attractiveness, they have a hue. They shine that way. They radiate their unique energy of their own story. The story that only they know. behind their eyes which try to screen their vulnerability. Beyond their wrinkles, each one for every crease in their story; a hurdle that they crossed. Your story, the one that no one wants to hear. Yes, that one. Yes, it is important. I want to hear it, do you? Do you want to hear yourself say the story?”

”Where do I start? Should I start from the past? A blinding flashes of memories. Rain. Mango tree. My Grandparents. Lonesomeness.”

”No, not there.”

”Okay I want to be independent. Successful-”

”who are you? What have you studied? Physics?

Do you remember the principle of reversibility of light?”

”Yeah; relevance? ”

”Your story is a ray of light. the results being unchanged by the reversibility of the point of origin or the destination. The hero or villain is subjective. You being correct or incorrect is subjective to your point of reference. So stories of the past are frail as they are but fallen leaves. your future is volatile. You are -”

”Sweetheart no not the white light please..”He wound his strong arms around me, enveloping me. All the protection that I though I needed once. The one I felt was enough to keep me going. I didn’t realize who I actually needed..

“Sorry babe. Gotta make the model. why don’t you..”

I got up and walked into the bathroom. The large mirror with droplets of salt. the continuous vortex of travertine. There I saw her again. I hadn’t seen her this way before, like it was the very first time. Her eyes, they weren’t beautiful, but they had an air of defiance. A sarcasm. I liked that. Her nose innocent like a deer’s. Her lips, plush, anyone would want to kiss them. They spoke of her sensuality, her passion, her femininity. Her jaw framed it all, razor sharp, confident by the angle it made with the horizon. Her chin held up high. This person, in her black razer back and waist length beautiful mess of waves was talking to me.

” You are now. The form you take this moment. The emotions that runs through your blood this second. Tell me about that. how do you feel?”

That’s how I met her, after months of ignorance. That’s how I met myself.

 

Unsurety and Abyss

pangs-ofpassion

My heart skips a beat just the way it first did

surprised me indeed.

Never thought the scars you left,

still sore and creased,

would allow my soul to dance.

Dance,

Waltz

the way it did once,

In your arms.

Enveloped by your presence.

That rainy night, under the dim lantern,

above the dwindling city lights.

Dwindling.

dwindling like the truth i thought you spoke;

mere imposters.

ruthless enough to fool,

my childlike innocence.

Crush my world of magic

under your icy riveted wings.

 

Making sense of another you,

I had fought the world,

Despite a false pretense,

so simple to believe.

Lie by lie,

word by word

I justified.

Painting, my own dream out of you.

Time discouraged my growing vows.

And I dismissed Time.

Fate Destiny .

for me it was all about that moment of warmth.

Smiles

Ratios and proportions of you and me.

 

Me?

Yes I had fallen.

Into an abyss of my own emptiness.

For I was filling a well

with dandelions,

my fall was sealed.

 

I hear you call from up there,

barely a stranger.

Do I stop myself from your warmth?

Do I forgive the thorn?

Or hope for the bud?

The dew is late,

and death is sure.

 

Do I ask you the questions

or tell you the answers?

Do I not say a word

and embrace it all?

Do I accept the silence,

the one you have left me in;

submerged,

gasping for sense?

Do you know

what lies between us;

the questions and answers,

stories and laughter.

do you know we have in our ties

every paradox existent?

should we see the burns of the pangs of passion set afire?

should I tell you to everything i have rehearsed?

or just nothing at all?

I am still unsure

still unsure

unsure of now

unsure,

like the very first time I spoke,

after countless lingering smiles.

 

 

 

identifying conflict

i am that blank space

waiting to be written on

i am also all expanding volume of knowledge

i am the pain in your eyes

the one you cant seem to place

i am also the relief as you close them

i am yearning lips

waiting to be kissed

i am also the invisible binding passion

burning with rage

i am all your memories

all good and bad

i am also the future which exists frozen for you to discover

i am your intuition

which you hesitantly evaluate

i am also your evil fate, hiding in your darkest shadow

i am your every power

i am also the smallest weakness makes you fall apart

i am all that you wanted

i am also everything i ever wanted to be

i am every passion that was starved for so long

i am also the most serene pleasure

i am the balance of a dew drop on the tender leaflet

also the sly eye of the cyclone

 

i am everything

and also

nothing

My silence

I don’t need wordporn or something else to speak for me, only I can voice my thoughts. My thoughts, about my silence.
s i l e n c e
The only way you can hear the sound of your life. The harmony, the cacophony and sometimes, a chaotic mix of both..It is the absence of speech, to some, even the absence of my living. No, not to me.

My silence is my statement of clarity.It starts when my speech has fulfilled it capabilities and another word is a word, unnecessary, spilt, wasted. My silence is not defiance, it is respectful yet self assertive. Hear closely, and you will discover that the absence you speak of, is full to the brim.

Full with every word I have spoken. Full with presence, My presence.

pics

Untitled

Seeing the strength of the rain, one would think the sky may wither.
Seeing the trees sway violently, one would think they were possessed.
The marshy ground, soaked for ages,
shows signs of giving way to insensitive bashful footprints.
Enveloped by a miserable musty smell,
lies a book with yellowed pages, torn with age
and scarred with stains.
The pages of her heart, with her story written on them.
Untouched for so long,
with only illusions of the touch and hope of the real.
Locked away,
so that not a drop of rain trickles from within,
as vulnerability through her eyes.
She holds it all together with the invisible, yet invincible
string of determination and grit.
And does so, seemingly effortlessly,
with a pleasant smile,
radiating beyond her lips, through her beautiful body,
all around her,
like petrichor, filling even an outraged tramp with hope.

She walks in dignity,
she walks with pride;
only death is better than accepting defeat.

You see her everyday,
and yet,
you would never know its her,
because she gives nothing away, but a smile.
The most enchanting smile,
that will linger alongside your soul
till the end of time…

The strongest people are those who fight their battles silently
and spread hope at the same time.

A tribute to those people of strength.

The Sky Lantern

It has been said too many times that experiences change us. When I moved to Gujarat for my undergrad, I experienced so much that were only dreams and fantasies before. One such experience that held me spell bound was during Uttarayan, the much loved kite festival of the state.

My friends and I were sitting on the aging roof of a water tank, in the midst of terraces and people. Around us was excitement and above us were a million kites, of many sizes and colours. And of course, the calls ‘ Kai poche’, occasional, yet never compromising in its vigor. But the magic began just after that.

As the daylight dimmed and a pink purple hue inched upwards from the horizon, someone released a sky lantern. Then another rose skyward. Soon it became a rhythmic dance, seemingly coordinated by  faces that never looked into each other and souls that never met from across the city.

All wanting to release, set free, let go of that lantern that they held alight; like their own soul. Soon the lanterns rose higher and looked like little fireflies as they got to the upper ‘end’ of the deep purple sky. My surroundings gradually faded away like an old scent, voices dumbed, all that there was, was that magic of the moment.

Somewhere, you and I are among those lanterns; coming from a different house, with a past, with stories and tears, of both joys and grief. We drift apart, we come closer, sometimes we meet others, get pushed, and sometimes, get left behind. Yet when we look down at the city lights, we feel the same awe and we both are striving to reach somewhere at the upper ‘end’ of the purple night. In times of aloneness, I feel a voice that grows stronger in me, something like that fire that seems to brighten aggressively and dim down with equal intensity.

This is the voice of that lantern, in the midst of the million other lanterns; each with their own stories of grief, gain, ambitions, hopes and dreams. And here, we begin…