Soumya Scribbles...

On a day like today when an abrupt monsoon meets A delighted Sun, I think of you, like the dew drops on the petals - the freshness, eternal. On a day like today When my Neruda can sip coffee with your Joyce, you come to me as if memories were more real than now. They always were, are. On a day like today, When the translucent streets of my home gets wet and hears a tram go by, your thoughts occur. I feel you beyond those concretes and raindrops kamikaze. On a day like today, When my words seek no grammar and chases no metaphor, I think of poetry and I think of you. With or without, I wrote for. On a day like today, When I am diseased and all burnt, I want you to forget me as a season. We will meet again in summers, in our little ways, before Sunrise. SoUmY@

Two nude people are gazing. The picture is on the orange wall in A frame made of Mahogany wood, One that smells of a burnished past. They are discussing paintings. Oil paintings they are. Colors are abrupt, sudden and strong as the saddest nights, Soothing and polite as promised whispers Or whispered promises of colors, that have faded. Art in its essential, is pure; So they wish to be the same, nude. Of Adam and Eve, Of Prometheus; art is fire. Pictures come and go. They sit on wrought irons - sophisticated, minimalist, sharp and nude, like them. And here it is, a face under a veil. Dark black it is, tanned skin, eyes speak of a thousand pain and a single humor, or vice-versa. Interpretation is an artist's pride, deciphering is his patience. So they are visibly restless. Apparently immovable two souls stand and try gazing what is under its veils. Desperate, nine straight lines on their foreheads, each. In this artistic liberty, they don't understand that nudity collides with n...

In that 4' * 4' glass house, Colored fishes roam about alien trees, look at this side of the world where living doesn't create bubbles, Neither do they burst. Two souls live in a bigger cage and take care of the 4' * 4', Happily taking pride in sheltering orphaned dreams, that come so close to the glass house and go back nudging the belgian wall. They pity, they laugh. Fishes can't cry. On some other days, Satin hopes rejuvenates with candled romance. The two shadows become one. Their souls lie on the white carpet where conjugal stains used to frequent. Cleanliness is so unworthy at times. Around the time, that ticks-tocks and ticks-tocks, upon hourly insecurities of a clock that mumbles and counts the path it has traversed, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong - they keep track of absence and quarrel. Presence instigates bitterness of the two. The clock stops at times, or whispers low. It has two helping hands. In the bed they sleep, distant. But dreams are not meas...

Uncountable battles you have won behind the back, Prudent, shrewd the soldier you are, the anarchist - as some will say. And the others who spit on your name for the deities you have maligned. The armour, embarrassed it reflects hundreds of bodies stampeded by Mughal rampage, where brave rajput souls still lie in dreamy eyes, and their women - long been fed to satisfy. The person you were, a predator who never believed in his own blood, could not have asked history to redeem you of the fatwa s that you once made, oh so coldly. But tell me Aurangzeb, today as you see the gallant successors of yours, ominously lurking, possessing whatever or whoever is affront, Do you feel you were never a history? Or it was just foolish of us to blame you. Blood never bore the Mughal descendance. It was always a stoic asset. And so, in the name of uttaradhikar , We have inherited what was already inside, ... history that we, ourselves despise of, but possess, nevertheless. SoUmY@