Travel

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There are different reasons why people travel, and there are different ways in which one can express why travelling means so much to them. This, is just one of the ways.

**


The insatiable need for a
different place.
The ceaseless urge to take a
road unexplored.

To breathe-
a different air.
To gaze-
at a new horizon.

The seductive pleasure in leaving the
familiar behind.
The glorious freedom of being
on your own.

To dance-
to a music unheard.
To drown-
in the silence of the unknown.

The increasing quest for the
stories untold.
The mystifying life of the
people met.

To be lost-
in the wild.
To find-
yourself.


**


The first line of the above is taken from a poem by Anindita Sengupta.This single line set me on writing this one. http://aninditasengupta.wordpress.com/


--

I can't think of a title, WTH

--


I am staring at the phone
waiting for its red screen to blink
I wait an expectant minute,
WTH
I pick it up and type you a message,
I read it again, I re-type, read, re-type
So much to tell you,
So much to write you,
I am going to write it all,
In this moment words don’t fail me.

Wait a minute!
No, I am not sending them,
Minutes of pretended diversion,
And then
Stare, wait, pick, WTH, words, type, End.
Emotions filling up the heart,
(ah! Not so much drama)
Words forming in the head,
Fingers typing them out on the red screen,
the same fingers pressing the red button.
Stare, wait, pick, WTH, words, type, End.

Who wants the words?
Forget the words, erase the words,
Who cares about grammar?
Throw the keyboard out.
We love our silence, don’t we?
between us, it speaks a thousand,
(Avoid clichés! Avoid clichés!)
But we are about them, the words,
We can’t do without them,
We won’t last an hour without them
WTH
I am going out to look for the keyboard,
I am glad I didn’t burn it.

It’s been very long, 16 hours to be precise.
I feel like a carton after someone sucked out the last drop.
(Couldn’t think of anything better?? stop dramatizing, now!)
Actually, I feel like a balloon that can’t take more Helium.
(yeah, that’s heavier than Hydrogen)
Words have been filling since morning,
Words with meanings,
Sentences with meaningless words.
Some said already a thousand times over, (clichéd again!)
Some still craving for their meanings (ah! this is original)
WTH
WTH
WTH
Pick, WTH, words, type, End.
End
End
End.

--

Shared memories

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This one is from a very dear friend...

"On a verdant hill,

endeared,the wind and the waves

a bastion of sweet memories."

--

In the Summer...With Her

--

Sunlight is peering in through the crack
and is throwing patterns on the mud walls.
I am curled up on the mat reminiscing
about the dream from last night.
Outside, I hear everyday chores breaking
the silence of the summer morning.
I lazily get up and go to the kitchen
still holding the ruffled pillow.
I see my grandma
bent over the earthen stove
blowing through the metal pipe.
Her eyes are wet from the smoke
and she is wiping her cheeks with
the red border of her yellow sari.
Her wet hair wound up in a towel
is tucked behind her neck.
Drops from a loose strand is wetting
the sleeve of her cotton blouse.
She shifts a little to adjust her silver anklets
and sees me watching her, smiles.
“You are up?”
She brings my tea in a stainless steel glass,
takes the pillow from my hand
and kisses my forehead.
She dusts the loose strands of thread
from my shirt and smoothens my hair.
I kiss her, her skin soft against my lips
And she runs her hand on my face.
I take my tea outside and sit on the veranda:
the first sun of my vacation is already up.

The goats are on their way to the hills,
the shepherds, with sticks in their hands
are walking behind them, still yawning.
Bare backed men, driving the cows,
are headed to the fields to the south.
Smiling women in colorful saris
stand at the old municipal bore-well.
Their uncombed hair catches the sunlight
and creates a golden maze.
The saris, tucked at their waists
end four inches above the ground
reveal their bare feet and bony ankles.
Sunlight pierces the plastic pot
under the tap and I can see
the level of water rising inside.
Little girls in blue skirts and white blouses
are on there way to the school.
Their red ribbons sit like butterflies
on the white jasmine flirting at their necks.
Old men with walking sticks and thick glasses
are sitting under the panchayat tree.
Two young men, neem sticks in their mouth,
are cycling towards the village stream,
Little naked ones are playing in the street
some of them sucking on their dirty thumbs.
Five summers have passed since the last time
I sat on this veranda and watched a similar morning.

I hear her anklets behind me
and turn to look at her.
The towel is gone and
her hair is pulled back in a bun.
She looks younger.
I notice some unwashed turmeric
on her neck and reach out to wipe it,
she holds my hand and wipes it herself
and again brushes my hair
“Won’t you grow them?”
I smile my answer and reach for a hug
My hand brushes against the jasmine.
I watch as two flowers come loose
And fall next to her feet.
She shyly leaves the embrace, smiles
“Water is ready”.


--

A fulfilled wish

--

The morning breeze
A floating quill
A wish to touch
An outstretched arm
One failed attempt
On the toes
For the second
A moment’s pause
A gentle descent
The tender touch
A frozen second
A fulfilled wish.

--

Hyetal Embrace

--

Its half past twelve,
She locked the rickety door
And stepped out into the rain.
She pulled out her blue umbrella
And looked around for company.
Wet deserted roads.
She walked towards home
A score minutes away.
Every dark corner, every narrow alley,
Screamed at her through its silence.
Merciless night.
The shadow of the lamp post,
Falling on the wall stared at her.
The wind in the trees intimidating.
A looming song.
The drops on her umbrella,
And her shoes against the asphalt,
Break the gloomy silence.
Merciful escape.
The blood is rushing through her
Heart beating faster,
And knees weak.
She tried to distract her mind
From the clutches of the night,
Thinking of things
At home, awaiting her-
Hot-bath, steaming tea, a cozy bed.
She warmed herself
With these thoughts
And ignored the fringing fear.
Desperate pretence.
Her mind wandered a little more
To things missing at home
Someone to
Prepare the hot-bath
Share the steaming tea
Join her on the cozy bed.
Lately, days have been like this;
Just a mundane being.
Returning loneliness.
When was the last time she felt-
The rush in her blood?
The tug in her heart?
Knees weak?
Her steps slow down
Laden by these thoughts.
Sore memories
Now the night feels different-
It’s keeping her company
On these lonely roads,
And is warming her
With its black cloak.
The world has left them alone;
The night and her.
Mysterious lover.
It made her heart race
And her keens weak tonight.
She turned the last corner
And is glad to see her house
She reached for the door
And fiddled with the keys.
A gush of wind
Made her pause.
A hesitant minute.
She folded her umbrella,
Dropped her bag
Turned to look at the rain
And stepped back
Into the dark night.
Hyetal embrace.

--

In the library

--

I see him sitting
At the corner desk,
Reading a thick book, drowned.
He,Though in the corner,
Of my attention, is centre.
I have heard about him
From the other teachers;
Dedicated,
Smart,
And manners pleasing too.

I look at him, captivated.
A smile on his lips,
A glow in his eyes,
And on his face, contentment.
I wonder at his aura,
At his young age, marvel.
Son of a rich father, must be
And a doting mother too,
To be so at peace within
And with the world outside too.

He is writing something,
In his little red book,
As alone I stand, wondering.
He closes his book,
And packs his bag,
As towards him I walk, hesitating.
A crumpled page,
Slides off the desk, unnoticed
And to my feet, glides.
He turns around, unaware
And reaches for something behind.
I pick up the page, uncertain
On it written a single line,
Seven little words stare at me
‘To my Ma n Pa in heaven’.

A shiver runs through me,
As I stand there stunned
My myth about him broken.
I say a silent prayer
And turn to look at him, shaken.
He is walking away
Head held high,
The smile on his face touches.
The silence on me, heavy
Broken only by the echo
Caused by his crutches.

--