Once again, for the last time

Another moment
Another time
His boundary
Is just a line

Another meeting
Another glance
She said
It was romance

Another instant
Another journey
They set off
On a new discovery

The thread in this yarn

Sometimes, change comforts you and is deliberate.

But this time, the change that came about in her life was not deliberate. It was fortuitous. Fortuitous that she had to move on; that she felt that she needed to move on.

But it was so good. It was meant to be forever.

The strangeness of the word ‘forever’ struck her as she penned down her thoughts. Was it a possibility? Was anything ‘forever’? The moments played back in her mind again and again; since the day the magic started. But each time it played, the reel changed ever so slightly. The story took that small little by lane and twisted itself through a new path. Each time, it landed up at the same place but the route it took changed over time.

And time was all that was left between them.

The past was altered in every memory and every moment. Nothing lasted ‘forever’. Because every time you turned on the memories, they were altered. There was another new version, another chain. And this time, when it all came together to the same point, she wondered whether it would have been any different if things were changed. If people were different. If she were not around, and the story unfolded on its own in someone else’s life. If there were another.

Probably.

But this was the story that had taken place. Or at least the version which existed today. The blasphemy of questioning it. How could he? Why did he? Distrust was the basest of emotions that could destroy this story. Or this version of it.

That is why it changed. Even if it was not deliberate.

Deafening tranquility

Hush.

Do not speak to me in this lone moment of observation of deafening tranquility. It has been a long journey for me to reach this point. This point that will come and go, and not be noticed by anyone but me.

For this is the moment when everything is still. For an instant. And in this instant the decision that changes the world is taken. Because it could have gone another way. On another path. A path that we can only think and speculate about but will never get to see. What is done is done.



I am right here. Like I have been. Observing this din merge into harmony. Of everything seeming that it was supposed to be exactly this way. When it was not. It was not.

In another world, in another parallel universe this moment went the other way. On another path. On the path that we can only think and speculate about and will never get to see. But I can see it now. I can notice this point in time, which no one else can.

I can be in two places at the same time. It is in this moment of stillness that I travel from one universe to the other, to observe the paths fork and diverge into different directions. Into different lands. Into different worlds. I can see both of them at the same time, but only to a point. After which, I must choose. I must choose whether I am going to get carried away by seeing what could have been or float back to what is.

Hush. Let me decide.

Being with her

She whispers to me
Ever so softly
Her tinkling
Adding music
To the wind



She sways towards me
Ever so boldly
Her chimes
A rhapsody
To the night



She flutters away from me
Ever so playfully
Her pealing
Adding festivity
To the moment



She rises over me
Ever so quietly
Her silence
A testament
To her exquisiteness

Shine

I am the light
I am the one

Can you see my shadow
In your shadow
Can you see what I see
Through my blindness

The diamond in a teardrop
The sparkle in her eyes
The flare behind moment
The fire in his soul

The colour
In black and white

A momentary lapse of reason

The smell of the crumpled paper came first. Then the sound. But only moments later. By then, my consciousness had been invaded. A mosquito made its way to my bare arm. My unforgiving palm came down on it. It died and was reborn a white hair. The white hair stood out, shining. Its reflection in the mirror was blinding. The entire room lit up and all you could see was the light. A doorway opened to darkness. I ran towards it and slipped in just as it was closing. The darkness melted into a river. I was carried by it as it gushed through the mountains. I landed in a lake in the middle of a volcano. Or what used to be a volcano. All the fishes were red, and hot. They glowed like embers of coal. There was a small fire by the river. The flames told me stories of the previous births of the offerings that roasted on it. As we bit into each of our offerings, we were transported into their future lives. We were friends in that life. All of us. Except for one. The one who had pretended to eat, but did not chew. He was an enemy in this life. He hid behind the ever changing forest. The trees turned to stone while he slept. He lay frozen in one of those stones. That way we could never get to him. There was no other way. We cut down the trees. The whole forest. For every tree we cut, another three grew. We were exhausted. We went back to the village and got drunk. This time the trees did not turn into stone. But the leaves vanished. Into thin air. They never came back. But he was gone. We thought that was the end. But it was not. It was only the beginning. We drifted. Each to his own. As I wandered many lands and created many stories for myself, I came upon a boy. He was blind in one eye. He led me to the wooden house. He called it the house of dreams. I went in through the back door. There was a long corridor with doors on both sides. The light was blue and green. It looked dangerous. At the end of the corridor there was a fat lady. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of her. She pushed me into a room. It opened up to the snow capped mountains. I tried to go back but there was a wall instead of a door. It was very cold. I started freezing. So I started running. As I ran I could feel the snow melting around me. But it was not melting. It was freezing. Into sheets of ice. I jumped onto one that was passing me by. And landed up in your room. Right behind you. Looking at you looking at the computer and reading this story. You wondered if I was really there. You looked back.

Piercing through

Barbed wire
A broken relationship
Thorns pricking
Blemished shortcomings
Glimmering desires
Piercing through
And through

Glory

I am in this country again.

This dream among a million dreams. This day among a thousand and one nights. This feeling among all these emotions. This poem among story tellers.

I meet her again.

This time among the overgrown weeds coated with morning dew. Spider webs hidden among flowers. Nectar dripping off thorns. The cracked and crumbling earth bearing the burden of my every movement. The choreographed birds appearing out of nowhere and disappearing into nothingness. The golden reflection of dawn in a puddle of water.

She greets me as if we were meeting for the first time.

Very soon, you reach the edge. It is not as far as you think it is. Often, it is just round the bend. And then, here you are. At the precipice. And nothing in front of you but a free fall. All the way down. All the way back. All the way.

It’s probably for the best anyway.

Genesis, again

It starts now

A moment ago
We were here

A moment later
They were gone
Again

Two perspectives
Coming together
In a new
Light

The dawn
Whispering through
Towards us
And our
Dreams

The genesis
Of a moment
Born untaught
And captured
For eternity
And a second

And so it is

The morning light was about to stream through the swaying branches.

As she closed her eyes, she remembered the same wind fluttering about her hair and stroking her face. The gentle moments of those mornings came back to her. The light softly playing on her eyes, till they got too harsh. The harshness bringing back to her how everything was not always what it seemed at first.

The morning mist was about to start clearing away for everyday life to take over.

As she opened her eyes, she felt the biting wind ruffling her hair and nipping at her face. The icy moments of those mornings came back to her. The light now clearing away the mist, till the ugliness showed. The ugliness bringing back to her how there were always two sides to everything.

The morning moments were about to become history once again.

As she turned around, the wind was flowing and moving to her movements. This was the moment and the morning was here. The light flooded her world, till everything was familiar. The familiarity was the same but the feeling was different.

The morning was here now. To stay.

Recline

As the music dissolved into the muffled lights, I lay back. The curtain fluttered, creating psychedelic patterns against the yellow glow.



I was back again. Same place, same position. Things repeat themselves. But this wasn’t a déjà vu. It was a conscious choice. Sometimes, we want things to repeat themselves. To relive old memories. To taste a moment of the past again.

Another inexperienced latest spanking novel

There is only a sheet of glass between me and the raging city. I am motionless, a part of this great skyline.

The silence inside brings out the paradoxes of the outside.

I can see what I hear.
I can hear what I touch.
I can touch what I feel.
I can feel what I smell.
I can smell when she speaks.
When she speaks to me.

She speaks to me in the most fragile of whispers. Whispers meant only for me. The wind crackling them up, as every syllable caresses my ears. She tells me of how she has waited for our union. How it has been so many years since we both saw the dream of this moment.

All this as I move through her, soaking up the experience of being in her. Life moves in a swirl around me, as I see everything that I had dreamt of. The sights and sounds of her, just as I had imagined.

Imagination is such a wonderful thing, when it comes to life.

Too much colour

It’s too much to take in, in one go. The brilliant colours. The dazzling smiles. The expected unexpected.

But what stands out the most is the colour. The vibrancy of everything that you look at. Every tone, hue and texture. It even comes out the way I see it. In black and white. I can catch sight of the colours even though I can’t see them.

This is just one of the many contradictions that come to me today. In so many ways.

But then the moment overtakes me. It brings to me the feeling of being here now. Of not knowing what to do. Of not knowing why I am here. Of not knowing.

This is interesting. But I never expected it to be so.

Frozen in time

We are all frozen in time.

This time before time. Where memories flash by, picture by picture. The puzzle comes together to form now. And now is when we go back. In a flash. We are back in time. Frozen once again. But in a different time. A different universe.



The greatest drama unfolds its arms to welcome you. To reel you in. Slowly at first, then all of a sudden. And you are there. You are frozen. You are here.

Everything else melts.

The dreaming tree

Early morning, misty sunrise that can’t be seen. I am but a shadow, in your vision beyond. As you look for something more beautiful. The fields of gold lie beyond my soul. You won’t remember me tomorrow. I wouldn’t remember me, if I was not stuck with me. But I am.



Thousands drive past this rubble day by day. There is no place to stop. Even if there was, what would happen differently? Nothing.

But there is a boy. Who stares at me as he passes by. In his eyes, I see a story. Not his story, but the one he is going to write. I see his eyes frozen by the landscape, looking, not hearing a thing. Not even the traffic. He is not thinking of the story. He is dreaming of it. But he doesn’t know it.

So he captures what he sees, freezing it with a quick open-close of the shutter and carries on. Dreaming.

Drama (a 55 word poem)

The plot thickens
After
The stage
Is set

The players improvise
When
They forget
Their lines

The backstage romance
Lingers
In characters
Who don’t

The makeup girl
Hides
Everything except
The eyes

The demanding director
Surveys
Always disappointed
With something

The critics
Gasp
Not understanding
The drama

The drama
Isn’t
In the script
You see

Note: Ever since the '55 word story' started, I have wondered what it would be like to attempt a '55 word poem'. I thought that 55 words in a poem have the potential to convey so much more than 55 words in a piece of prose. This is my first conscious attempt at a '55 word poem', and I don’t recall seeing any other attempt till now (maybe I haven’t looked enough). While I would like to see others take this on, I know it may not appeal to many. In case you plan to give it a go, do drop a link here and/or add the technorati tag below at the bottom of your attempt.


Tag: 55 word poem

Other 55 Word Poems
(will keep updating)
Abhishek Mehrotra
Aristocrat 1
Aristocrat 2
Ash 1
Ash 2
Ash 3
Billy
Brood Mode
Casablanca 1
Casablanca 2
Daniel
Deep
Erin Monahan 1
Erin Monahan 2
Extempore
Falstaff 1, 2 & 3
Garnet
Gilbert Koh
Gulnaz 1, 2 & 3
Humorix 1
Humorix 2
Humorix 3
Humorix 4
Humorix 5
Humorix 6
Martin
Mrudula
MysteryGal
Nasra
Pincushion
Prerona
Ram
Rama
Renee
Russell Ragsdale 1
Russell Ragsdale 2
Russell Ragsdale 3
Russell Ragsdale 4
Shubhodeep Pal
Sue Hardy-Dawson
The One
Wandering Dervish

Written About At (Thanks!)
DesiPundit
Poetisphere
The Blogging Poet
Tomorrow

Doomsday, overheard

“It’s coming.” He could see the fear in the old man’s eyes as he said this to him.

“What’s coming?” He enquired.

“It. Is. Coming. IT.” The old man gritted his teeth and stressed on every word so that he would get it.

“Huh?” But he didn’t.

“This, this!” The old man said pointing to the sign he was carrying with him.

It read “Doomsday is HERE!”

He smiled, “Oh that.” And carried on.

As he walked away, he could hear the old man trying to call him back and tell him again and again about it. But he was spinning away. Back towards her with the coffee he was carrying for their usual weekend rendezvous.

She immediately started telling him, “This is the world’s way of warning us. The earth is angry with us.”

He looked at the newspaper article that she was pointing out. He shrugged and said, “They just cover more of this stuff in a more spectacular way than before, that’s all.”

“No, more of this has been happening of late.”

“Come on. It always used to happen. Read your history books.”

“I am telling you more of it has been happening in the last few years, months. More than I have seen before.”

“You have not seen it. You are only reading it. They are just writing more about it.”

“That is what you think. But more of it is happening. Here see this article.”

Curious, he looked at it. It outlined just that. How more of it was happening lately.

“Is this their idea of interesting weekend reading?”

He smiled. And picked up his coffee.

Wires at dawn

The first thing that struck me that morning, was the dramatic sky with its hues of crimson and yellow. I had never seen anything like it before.

There was something in the air. There was magic in the sky.

But that was not what gripped me. The play of the silhouettes of the wires against the sky was what struck me the most. The sky was just a background today. A prop. The show stealer was the story that the wires had to tell. The way they were interwoven. How they delicately balanced each other. Their majestic and imposing presence.

The small buildings below looked on in awe at them.

Everything was still, like it was supposed to be.

Click.

Two lights

A moment later, there will be no light. But you don’t know that.

At first, you can only see the light. Then, you can see a little bit around it. The warm glow of the reflections filter in, muffled. You remember home. And the lights. The memories stream in, in rays. You run your hand over the frosted glass and create patterns that let you look back into your past. The residue clings to your fingers, but you let it pass. What is more important, is getting a clear picture and seeing where the light is coming from.

But you can’t.

Your side has been wiped clean. The burden is on your hands. But glass has two sides. And you don’t have control of the other facade. You can only see what she wants you to see. For now.

A moment later, there will be no light. And she too, doesn’t know that.

Familiarity

The first thing that strikes me as I enter this city is the familiarity of it. But I don’t live here. I just pass through from time to time. Yet, it is so familiar. Like some sort of a home coming. In a strange land. Where I don’t understand the language. But I feel the soul. I feel the beat. I feel it all – the roads, the neon signs, the street lights, the traffic. Till I can’t take it anymore.

Contrast that to not so long ago. Sleepless dawn in a strange room. Ruffling sheets. A blinking alarm clock that won’t go off. All the makings of insomnia. Makeshift dressing. Ready to discover what this new city has in store, with an early morning walk. Seeing beauty in the mundane. Watching the city wake up and get ready for the day. Till I can’t take it anymore.

Road signs

“This way …” she said to me, as the gentle sounds of 2 am breezed by.

Was I being taken for a ride again? Was this another version of the past that I would have to relive? Maybe it was. But I didn’t know that now. So, I went ahead and followed her.

We were lost. But directions had ceased to matter. We were in a strange country. In a strange land. For the first time. Looking for a way. A way to see more. To discover the city. Through a travelers eyes.

“So, this is what they call the thrill of the unknown?” I subconsciously said to her.

She looked back and smiled, “Stop philosophizing, and take in the place.”

A lone car zoomed by. The redness in its tail lights lingered in the horizon, before reducing itself to nothing. The amber lamps cast our shadows. They looked like someone else’s. The shadows were playing tricks. They were plotting.

“Isn’t this where we came in the morning?”

“Yes. But it is different now.”

“Different? It is the same place.”

“Yes. But there were hundreds of people in the morning here. Now there is only us.”

“Now you’re philosophizing.”

Smiles. The small bag is opened. Styrofoam cups are freed off each other. The hip flask comes out. Gentle pouring. Backsides resting on the footpath. Drinks are sipped. The night is lovely.

The gentle sounds of 2 am breeze by. Along with the conversation.

Years later

It was time.

Years had gone by. They had passed in instants. In little pieces. Bit by bit.

He stared outside. Through the translucent white material, that was cloaked in hues of gold, from the rays of the sun. The rays that were struggling to get in. But getting muffled. By the cloth lapping them up in fluid dance movements.

The years did not come back. The moments did not come back. But the feelings did. Because they were deep. They went beyond memories.

He thought back to those first moments. But they were also cloaked. In halos. Bright lights coming in the way of detailed memories. Just faces and smiles. The rest struggled. It was muffled by the light and the moments. It was the same moment played over and over again.

Bit by bit. The little pieces had their own meaning. The instants did not always have to add up to a whole. The years did not have to connect to each other.

It was time.

A photograph (and fifty five words)

The flickering light danced and created shadows along the wall.

These five pieces had disappeared years ago. Each one carried a secret. Carefully etched, in the patterns that they held, on their surface.

One clue, led to another.

But, they were only clues.

The answer, lay in the lantern.

But, no one cared to look.

Fifty five words (and a photograph)

Click.

Back then. She saw him photographing the beautiful sky. It was an orange dusk.

Click.

He saw her from the corner of his eye looking at him.

Click.

They smiled at each other. A moment was born.

Click.

A sea of memories raged through.

Click.

Cut to today. Another orange dusk. Coffee. Conversations. More.

Close

And then you come to terms with it. That it has all been one, big, elaborate lie. The beginning was a lie, as was the ending.

Beautiful, isn’t it? It started with a lie and ended with a lie. Everything in between was a whirlwind. Everything in between was the truth. Everything in between was every moment that he wanted to live and relive. Everything in between will now be forgotten. Because of this moment. Because of this last lie.

They move closer to each other. Shifting perspectives. Making compromises. Feeling feelings.

As he looks on, he recalls those first moments. How they came about. And as he recalls it bit by bit, the story begins to blur, to edit itself into its own story. Into beginnings and endings. Everything in between is forgotten. Everything in between is frozen in another time. A parallel universe.

He remembers the contradiction of that final delicate harsh moment. How it defined them. Everything that meant anything all rolled into one.

His footsteps squelched of the rain that stopped five minutes ago. There was a feeling of mist in the air, but there was no mist. Just pregnant moments. The coffee had a drying effect as it swirled in his mouth. Something was about to happen.

Thousands of miles away a sad feeling crept in. It was not as easy as it had seemed. One lie had not led to another. It led to the truth. The only way to end it was another lie. Strange. That is not what they warn you about lying. But then, life is ironical.

You are back where you started. But not exactly.

Running through

You run through the motions of everyday life, and let everything pass you by.

You don’t look into the details of the smaller things that are going on. The beauty that passes you by, every instant. The times when you wish you had your camera with you, because you saw something that you wanted to capture forever and look at it again and again. These are the times when you create memories.

You don’t need to capture every moment for later, she says. I think about it. No, I don’t need to capture every moment. But I want to capture this moment. For this is the moment that I not only want to remember, but I want to see. I sometimes want to see and then remember the moment. A memory is not always enough, you see.

How can I remember the clouds that embraced the mountain today? Will I remember it tomorrow? Yes. One week later? Maybe. A month later? Maybe not. A year later? I don’t think so. Will I remember it if I see it? Of course. Pity I didn’t have my camera with me though. This will be another lost moment that will fade away.



What does this picture mean to you? Nothing. Just a pretty play of colours and maybe some technical accomplishment with the lens. What does it mean to me? Much more. It captures the moment. It has nothing to do with the moment though. It just happened to be there and I happened to have my camera and I happened to see it so I happened to click it and not think anything about it till I saw it now, again.

Sometimes, pictures make memories for me.

Capacious

The birth of an idea.
The beginning of creation.
An empty canvass.
That is all it takes.
To start a work of art.
In the simplest of ways.
In the most complicated of forms.
It comes out.
Because the mind is capacious.
So it creates.

Quartet

You cross the moment, looking for that fleeting second chance. You catch his eyes and look to see if he feels the same way. They smile at you and move on, across the room. The room is a blur, the noises are muffled. He mingles. One by one. Till he reaches you. But he doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything. But you know, this is the moment. You are looking for that second chance. But there are no second chances honey. Not when you don’t take the first one. You blew it.

You miss the instant, because you were drowning in memories amiss. You see her searching you out in the crowd, drawing you. Your eyes twinkle, seeing her across the room. The path is clear, there is a sudden silence. She disconnects. Here and there. Till you reach her. But you don’t know what to say. She is waiting. Now you feel, maybe this is not the time. How can this be the time? It was never meant to be. Not before. Not now.

You catch it happening, when you were looking for something else. You see them connect, like they did before. No acknowledgement, just a connection, perfect and unpretentious. They move towards each other. Meeting others. On the way. Till they are together. It looks like they are silent. But there is so much going on beneath. You can see it, they were meant to be. You wonder if it was all a lie. About nothing having happened. Of course it did. It’s obvious.

You almost didn’t see it, because you could never see it happen. You see them notice each other for the first time. They linger, taking the moment in slowly. Meanwhile, the room is bustling with activity. They struggle to get to the other. But manage, eventually. Till they face each other. There is an awkward moment. They both try to speak but stop, waiting for the other. So, this is how they meet. This is how things happen. It comes out of nowhere. Just like that. Anytime.

The fire inside

Early morning, or that is what the watch says. I am up a few hours earlier than usual. As my eyes try to focus on the outside of the window, I realise that it is still dark. Pitch dark. Traces of amber from outside stream into my eyesight. And the outside starts to form. It slowly takes shape into the familiar. Into what I saw last night, before I went to sleep. There is nothing new about it. As usual.

I go through my daily rituals with mechanical preciseness. The razor is sharp and unforgiving. One miss, and the blood appears and slowly spreads. The sting of a good after shave. Not numbing, no pleasure-in-the-pain. But a sting. A plain, simple, bee sting. Eyes close tight to make the pain disappear. Creating crow feet that tug at the ears. The pressure builds up and fades into the sting. It lingers for a few minutes.

One flick and the newspaper is in my hands. Forgotten heroes in the middle, the nouveau don the outside covers. The words eat into each other. Some headlines expected, some not. Some shocking, some trying to be but can't. Each one evaluated, before giving the rest of the story a miss. One headline passes by the other, like small towns on a long drive. The details are the rest of the journey. Like signposts waiting to be read, the rest to be experienced. It all sinks in.

Pitter patter. It's drizzling outside. The rain falls in slow motion before dawn. Have you ever noticed that? Drops hit the puddles on the ground, and then dissolve into them. Shoes make their way across the puddle. Giving them a new shape with each step. Spread contract spread contract. Ripples follow. But too small to be noticed. What is left behind, stays behind.

Droplets on the window play tricks with the night lights, as they prism their way through. Towards me. Greens, ambers and reds whizz by. Everydays are coming back to me. Slowly. Some drops trace their way towards what they are leaving behind, as the pace gets too much for them. Others hold their ground with resolve. The patterns created by this dance and movement mesmerize into a recipe for perfectly pointless philosophy.

The battered remains of yesterday have dissolved. Today is a new day. A new drama. And it starts unfolding this precise moment.

I feel it burn inside of me, sometimes. Sometimes it is mellow, sometimes it rages.

Real life approaches.

Renaissance

Soggy memories
Soaked
In the rain

Seemingly simple
Secrets shared
Between us



Connections instantly
Created
When we met

Complete communion
Coming closer
After you left

Rife

The shadows stretched across the grass like a warm liquid running through. As the clouds moved over the skies, the liquid of the shadows spread and turned the light to darkness. A gusty wind blew across the leaves that were lying about, untended. The air was rife with a feeling of contemplated casualness.

The skin on her bare shoulders glistened as the light came back on to it. It enveloped her in its embrace of shadows and reflections. The light played tricks on her skin and hair, making her look larger than life. Making her the foreground and the world her background. The air was rife with a feeling of sensual sentiments.

Then, she turned. In slow motion. As she turned, the rest of the clouds seemed to make way for her. They moved over, making the liquid of the shadows recede back into their original self. Light permeated through the grass. The leaves settled down as the wind moved away to another destination. The air was rife with a feeling of parallel possibilities.

In Sepia

Blinded by the light, you move on, back towards where you begun your journey. The tunnel bursts into the world that you know and have seen before. Just barely. You are back to the familiar. The light.



The past few days flash back in sepia memories. A mélange of photographs that run through your brain in its own slide show culminating in now. And now, you look out and suddenly realise that there is no more colour. The past has blended into the present and you are looking out at the world in sepia. It hits you, how you see the world. In your own light. In your own sepia tones that blend the present with the past. Memories being created the very moment you live them. In sepia.

Message in a bottle

Every road is not a path ...

... but a path is the road you have chosen.



Sometimes you need to change your path and move on to a different road. A more exciting road. A more dangerous road. That is when you cut yourself loose. But you always want to take a little piece of today with you. A piece of now. So you hide it in between, hoping that it is your little secret. And no one will know the better. Except you.

Crazy Diamond

There is a magic
In the air
That permeates
Through the very soul
Of your existence

There is a stillness
In the night
That floods
Your senses
Beyond your imagination

There is a madness
Inside of you
That overflows
In everything
That you create

There is a past
Behind you
That is overcrowded
With memories
That drain you out

The One

The waves are not kind tonight. They crash against the rocks on the shore in desperate anger of the past that surrounds them. They want to crush everything that gets in their way. They lap up the night with the sounds of their embrace cloaking every bit of the shore. He can feel it as he stands on the edge, looking, staring, hearing, feeling the moment the sea meets the shore.

The night is calm tonight. It watches over the waves and the rocks and softly wraps itself around their world. It is the dam that holds these feelings together. Every caress against its walls makes it stronger. For it feeds on love. He can feel it come closer to him as he looks up into it and waits for the moon to appear from behind the clouds.

He leans on the edge of the precipice of the rocks and looks down at the waves and up at the night. His time has come. He has walked to the edge and there is no looking back. There are two roads. One to the left and the other to the right. They both lead to places he has not known or seen. They both tempt him with the unknown.

He looks back at the road he has created, shaped. Not taken. For this road was not taken, for it was not there before. He looks back at the road and hesitatingly takes one step towards it. It is the longing that pulls him back towards it. His hand reaches out and feels the dampness of the waft in the air. There is magic in this night.

He remembers. Bits of the journey come back to him. Flashbacks. Colour. Then black and white. They move faster and faster till they come to now. He is here. And this is now.

Two roads wait for him. He has to take one. He closes his eyes and the world revolves around him. It stops with the one road in front of him. He takes the first step towards it. And sees the emptiness that lies ahead. Smiling, he starts shaping the new road.

City Of Reflections

You don’t see eye to eye in the city. Everything is a reflection. But not an ordinary reflection. A distorted one. And you need to look at these reflections to figure out what’s going on, going through and where it is going to take you.



No one looks you in the eye. They just pass by and go on. With their lives. Their own lives. And you should go on with yours. But a poet pauses. A poet creates that awkward moment to see more. That little bit more. Through the glass beyond the reflection.

And that is when the city bares her soul.



For her soul lies beyond her reflection. Beyond the mirrors, behind the glass. Her soul breathes and stirs the emotions that run through. Millions come and go through her. Whether they leave intoxicated or abstemious, they leave with an experience they will remember. Because in her they see their reflections. Their distorted reflections. But sometimes what may seem distorted, is the truth here.

No one really comes here to find the truth, but they are surprised when they do. Right next to the buzz, is the calm of the oceans and the mountains. The oasis of thought. The taste of fusion. Have you ever looked down into a volcano? And then turned around to look behind?



The clatter and chaos thrives on the tranquility of the reflections that her soul creates.

And as you walk by looking up and marveling, you don’t see yourself in the reflections but something else. Something deeper. Something with more meaning. But you can’t put your finger on it. But you can feel it. It’s there.



You don’t see it eye to eye. It is a reflection. Just like the city. That is the way you have to experience it. There is no other way.

Their Little Clichés: Scene 40

After Work

[Indoors. A small study. Camera comes in from the door, as if you are walking into a conversation which is midway. He is sitting at a table near the entrance on His laptop. Camera focuses on Him in a side view. He is listening and typing at the same time. You can hear background noises of the TV set.]

Her
(coming off her narration)
... And then, after I finished work, I went out for a coffee before I came home.

Him
(pre-occupied)
Hhmmm.

[Camera pans towards Her, sitting on the sofa. Watching TV and talking at the same time.]

Her
(speaking slowly and deliberately)
Did you even listen to what I said?

Him
(immediately replying)
Of course I did. After you finished work you went out for a coffee and then came home.
(smiles)

[Camera pans out to show us the full room. The TV is on his left and He has His back to Her. As they talk the camera focuses on Her from the back of His head and on Him from the side of the laptop.]

Her
(sighing)
Why can't you leave that laptop and talk to me?

Him
(smugly)
Why can't you turn off the TV when you talk to me?

Her
(mildly irritated)
I knew you would say that. Just as I started asking you to leave the laptop, I knew you were going to say that.

Him
(turns around and smiles at her)
Then why did you say it?

Her
(smiling back)
Because that is how I feel.

Him
(naughty)
And, do you know how I feel?

Her
(raising her eyebrows)
No. Show me.

[Camera focuses on Her. She reaches for the remote, and turns off the TV. Drops the remote on the sofa and starts getting up. Camera moves to the back of His head. He is quickly trying to finish something. He moves his chair back and gets up from the table and turns around to greet her. Soft music starts playing from the laptop as soon as He gets up.]

Him
(taking her hand)
I feel like dancing.

Her
(laughing)
So do I!

[They both dance slowly. Camera pans out from the other side of the room. Camera moves out of the window. They are framed together in their dance right in the center of the window. The music mixes with the traffic and the camera pans out and fades to black.]

Unnoticed

I hide
Behind my eyes
Visions
Of magnificence

I hide
Behind my thoughts
Feelings
Of freedom

I hide
Behind my dreams
An imagination
Of decadence

My visions, feelings and imagination
Make
The magnificence of freedom almost decadent
That they need to hide
Behind my
Eyes, thoughts and dreams

Another August

Au•gust (ô'g∂st)
n. Abbr. Aug.
The eighth month of the year in the Gregorian calendar.

And
Another August
Has come
Carried in by time

au•gust (ô-gǔst')
adj.
Inspiring awe or admiration; majestic.

And
Another august
Has come
To carry me away

au•gust (ô-gǔst')
adj.
Venerable for reasons of age or high rank.

And
Another august
Has come
Carrying away my thoughts

Illustrated Firmament

I turned
To see
What the sky
Had become
For me



I stared
And wished
That that minute
Would become
Infinite

Book 4, Chapter 13, Doggerel 22

Dancing figures
Don the night
Demarcating domains
Through their dance

Momentary movements
Mix and match
Making meaning
Out of nothing

Vixens weave
Vivid versions
Vague and vast
Like vineyards

Their Little Clichés: Scene 41

After The Night Out

[Night time. Inside of an SUV. Camera is out of focus. Slowly starts focusing on Him sitting on the passenger side. As it comes into focus, the first focus falls on the window by his side. Droplets of rain. It stopped raining a while ago. Blurred red and blue lights mark the background. Camera focuses on His face. He is looking towards the camera but not at it. Camera cuts from Him to Her at similar angles as they speak.]

Him
(smiling, almost in delight)
Quite an evening!

Her
(trying to concentrate on her driving)
Yes, a bit too much. I don’t like late nights on weekdays.

Him
But this was a one time exception.

Her
I understand, but I am just saying we should not do this too often.

Him
Of course not!

[Camera cuts to view of the road in the front from Her perspective. Starts drizzling again. Windshield wipers come on. Accompanied by sound of wipers but not of rain. Camera cuts back to alternating between them.]

Her
(pauses and looks at him)

Him
(puzzled)
What?

Her
You haven’t noticed my dress all evening.

Him
Of course I have noticed it.

Her
No you have not. You have not said anything about it.

Him
(smug)
I said I noticed it. I don’t have to say something about it to have noticed it.

Her
Argh!

Him
Come on. You look beautiful and you know that.

Her
You should say it more often.

Him
Okay.

[Camera pans out to back of SUV on road and keeps moving upwards. SUV keeps driving off into the drizzle. Light music plays. Camera goes out of focus again]

Lingua franca

Complex nightmares
With innuendos
Running through

Haunting metaphors
In sinuous dreams
Run anew

Primordial beliefs
Illogical paradigms
Ran yore

Creating communes
Of vernacular origin
Through scuttling syndromes

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

Sometimes
All that we have
In common
Is death

Sometimes
It comes
Sometimes
It goes

Sometimes
We think about it
Sometimes
We try not to think about it

Sometimes
It happens close to us
Sometimes
It happens to those close to us

Sometimes
We forget about it
Sometimes
We can't stop thinking about it

Sometimes
It's here
Sometimes
It's not

Sometimes
It brings
Us together
Forever

Shining through

The clouds
Form across
The blue sky
Creating patterns
Into the horizon

They leave
The sun
Lonely
Trapped
Behind

Its light
Crashes through
The trees
Sharp and
Shining through

One night, inside out

When the outside is about nothing and the inside is about everything. That is when you lose your senses. And as you get permeated with the moment and the feeling. It all comes to you. The meaning of the moment and living it. And I am living this moment. And I am breathing this feeling. And it comes to me again. The beat breathes through my soul. And I am seeing this city in a different light tonight than I ever did before.

When the outside
Is about nothing
And the inside
Is about everything
That
Is when
You lose
Your senses

And
As you get permeated
With the moment
And the feeling
It all comes to you
The meaning
Of the moment
And living it

And
I am living
This moment
And
I am breathing
This feeling
And it comes
To me again

The beat
Breathes
Through my soul
And
I am seeing
This city
In a different light tonight
Than I ever did before

And I am seeing this city in a different light tonight than I ever did before. The beat breathes through my soul. And it comes to me again. And I am breathing this feeling. And I am living this moment. The meaning of the moment and living it. It all comes to you. And as you get permeated with the moment and the feeling. That is when you lose your senses. When the outside is about nothing and the inside is about everything.

Scribble

At first
He scribbled
His thoughts
On the pages
Before him

The pages
Grew more and more
Complicated
Immersed
In his thoughts

Then
She overwrote
His thoughts
With the way
She saw things

The pages
Got a life
Of their own
That streaked
Through

In the end
A child
Came along
And scribbled
And tore

The pages
Were now
What you see
They call it
Scribble art

Captured, captivated, complete ...

Captured ... by the light
Captivated ... by the moment
Complete ... by the feeling

Their Little Clichés: Scene 42

The Decision

[Evening time. A path in a park, sloping and coming upwards towards the top of a small hill. Camera pans from the gravel and moves upwards giving a side view of the path. Camera then pulls out and traces the path upwards while capturing the greenery around. You can see the leaves fluttering from the blowing wind. On the top of the hill there is a round stone table and two figures are sitting around it. Camera cuts to showing half of the back of His head and the other half is focused on Her face.]

Her
So this is it?

Him
Why does it have to be it?

Her
We need to decide.

Him
Okay, then decide.

Her
I said ‘we’ need to decide, not ‘I’ need to decide.

Him
(sighs)

Her
Don’t do that. You know I hate it when you do that.

[Camera slowly rotates to the back of her head, revealing him. He looks different from what we have seen of him earlier. A disheveled look and a stubble mark his face. But he does not look tired.]

Him
(smiles)

Her
What?

Him
(playfully) And I love it when you do that.

[Light music plays. Camera pans upwards showing an aerial view of the round table and the two figures seated around. Fade to black.]



This is an attempt to ‘continue’ and ‘borrow’ a style from Wandering Dervish of Loud Thinking. You can read Parts 1-6 here and Part 7 here.

The creation of music

To witness the creation of music is an event that happens once in a lifetime.

The sounds echoed longer than they should have when they were created. The lights lingered longer than they would have when they passed by your vision. The moment lasted longer than it does when you are enjoying yourself so much.



Some say that there is no taste and smell to music. I tell them to witness its creation.

Don't

Don't stop yourself
From writing this
It has to be written

My two voices spoke to me today, and I melted as I listened to them. They told me things that I didn't want to hear but I needed to hear. It was a realization of sorts. Actually, it wasn't. It was just a story. A story of how this was all going to come together. It was a story of the future. So it was something that may or may not come true. It was something that was in my own hands. The two voices spoke of two different directions. One that was to be taken in the knowledge of what I had heard and the other was to ignore it and to carry on. Sometimes, you have more information than you need to make a decision. Then how do you go about it? This was part of the problem that I was facing at this stage. But this was just the easy part. The difficult part was actually the decision to take it forward. Whatever I decided I needed to take it forward. It was one way or the other. There was no middle path. There could be no middle path. The two voices were drowning out each other to be heard. And neither could be heard now. All I could hear was the oncoming of silence. The silence that meant that it was time to decide. The silence that meant it was time to write this down. The silence that meant it was time to read this again for what it was. The silence.

Don't stop yourself
From reading this
It has to be read

Fourth

This is the fourth time I am writing this.

So what is ‘this’? ‘This’ is actually nothing. It is an imaginary thought, a vision, a dream. Could it happen? I am not sure. But I want it to. I don’t know what I would do if it happened, but I think I would want to see what I would do. It would be the fourth time it will happen. But not the fourth time for me. For me, it will be a first. And first times are scary. Think about all your ‘first times’. Not as in looking back, but as in that very moment when it was happening or about to happen and you did not know what would happen after it. How things would turn out.

This is the fourth time I am thinking about this.

Reminisces

I collect
Little fragments
Of memories
When I travel

These fragments
Which I
Look at again
When I want to remember

I create
Imaginary fragments
For the memories
I have not collected

These memories
Are the ones
Which are more
Interesting than reality

I destroy
Other fragments
From my memories
To make them perfect

These fragments and memories
Are more often
Than not
Unrequited

Clairvoyant

“Things are not always completely clear the way you would like them to be. That is why everything cannot be as predictable as you would like it to be. That is why you are not so sure what is going to happen next. That is why you don’t know what your reaction is going to be to something. That is why you have to take it as it comes. That is why life is full of surprises and disappointments. That is why it is so wonderful.”

“Then why are you a fortuneteller?”

“Because I know.”

“What do you know?”

“I know what I need to know, and no more.”

“Then you tell people what they want to hear?”

“I tell people what they need to hear.”

But, there is no rain

The music plays in the background.

All she can see is the storm coming.

The dark clouds settle over the horizon and lay in wait for their signal.

The thunder.

To mark the beginning of the onslaught.

The storm.

A flash of what could have been and what has been.

The lightning.

The music plays for her.

The storm is because of her.

But, there is no rain.

Mélange

Airports can be so lonely sometimes. Not the fullofpeoplebutyoustillfeellonely kind of lonely. But the itissoemptybecausenooneelseisthere kind of lonely.



The picture above is a blend of some of those moments.

Walk on water

. The shimmering
. . Highlights on water
. . . Envelope a pathway



. My mortal self
. . Obliged
. . . Once again to be
. . . . Next to immortality

Mesh of memories

Travel is a starting and ending point of memories. Memories created, recreated and realised. Similarly, memories completed, destroyed and desecrated.

And while this mesh is being woven, you live those moments and take thousands of pictures in your head, reels and reels of movies in you mind. All, so that you can go back and relive them, or hide them, as may be the case.



Sometimes, you capture moments that may not have any meaning to you at the time, but when you look back, they define the trip, the journey. Can one lone picture capture the mesh of memories of a single journey?

Learning to fly

This is my life
And everything else
Revolves around it
And as it revolves
I live it

This is his life
And everything else
Is absolutely still
And as it is still
He moves it

This is her life
And everything else
Is happening now
And as it happens
She creates it

This is our life
And everything else
Falls into place
And as it falls
We enjoy it

This is their life
And everything else
Ceases to exist
And as it ceases
They drown in it

This is life
And everything else
Builds it up
And as it builds
It is lived

In a moment

The gentle sounds of rain trickled down the window pane behind her. It was a strange sound from inside her glass cage and made her look back to assess what was happening. A storm was brewing. Brewing but not yet started. Like her day, which was brewing. Unfortunately, the horrible taste of instant coffee lingered in her mouth. As did the music that she soaked into this morning. As the echoes of the soaked music mixed with the sharp bitterness of the instant coffee, she paused to reflect. In a moment, she could see the flashes of lightning run across her glass cage. It seemed to fragile now. Life seemed so fragile. An instant, and everything could be gone. And she got caught within that moment and those thoughts as everything moved around her.

A view from the clouds

. Again
. . New clouds
. . . Greet me when
. . . . Returning home to
. . . . . You



. Could
. . Love be the answer
. . . Of your
. . . . Understanding
. . . . . Despite the anger
. . . . . . Shown

Uprooted?

The city dissolved into the night before my very own eyes. It was twilight when I saw it. The touch of crimson in the sky, the sky line eating its way into the night, the bright lights yearning to be in the middle, tilting the balance of the city along with the last light. This sinking feeling as I am writing this. This sinking feeling in a sinking city. Moving down. Slowly. Going down. Slowly. Down from the neck, down the spine, pinning you to the floor. A crucifixion of your roots.

Not about rain

A yellow leaf floats by
Followed by a few more
A drop caresses my forehead
And trickles down as more leaves pass

Suddenly the rain is here
Not unexpected but welcome
One by one the drops cover the earth
Causing helter skelter here and there

Ugly fat noisy raindrops
Spear their way through
Rattling at anything and everything
Showing their unforgiving nature

Lightning crashes and thunder roars
Dreams and demons get washed away
Her breathing is constant through this
Like her presence always there