Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya


>> Oct 30, 2010

Two autumns. My blue pen has dried off as has been many of the thoughts. They have come and gone and no one has cared. Just like that quiet station in the village where the train itself is a curiosity first, necessity later. There is a human who signals with a green flag. Station master. I wish I would get that job in the farthest corner of human existence. But. But you all have made Earth round. In all these human rights and democracy, a person cries for a quiet corner on the busiest road. He is wearing a torn red shirt. Someone please help. I assure. He is not a communist. I am not a humanist too.

One spring. I have felt a lot. I don't know if there is any capacity of emotions just like our address-books in mobile phones. We delete 'old' contacts. We bring in new. Tennyson should be happy. He would not be. At some cloudy nights I have gone through some of my such 'old' friends. Our savoured moments are called logs there.

2009/02/28 22:00:00 PM 45:00 minutes. 09830527***

I recollect. I had paupered myself that night. Let's assume that I was talking about balance. Those three stars are to show my faithfulness to that person. How convenient. I have to delete her tonight. Erasing one kind of memory is easier thus. I will keep a new contact. My new boss. My confirmatory appraisal is just around the corner. Am I an opportunist? No. My phone book is as impotent. Blame her. or it.

One Summer. I have created a balance sheet for life. In one such afternoon, I have calculated my Sunburns to my dried clothes. Did I benefit? I always like to think I am at loss. Just like you. Perspectives has perspired. At the end of the day, the dying Sun has made me feel victorious, happy, contented. No one knows, how defeated I was, you were. I hate summers.

Five rains. I like rainyday holidays, paperboats, black boots, unscheduled laziness and windchimes. Do you feel that you can sit in front a half eaten wooden window and watch its raining? I can. I am slow, unicoloured, purposeless as this write, unfortunate as the ink that flows without knowing it will concentrate and go deep just when its dying. Poetry is synthetic. It slips from one season to the other until it settles to a stable curve. Rain is that.

I pity those who use umbrella. One afternoon, someone told me to drench in rain. I couldn't say no. That is what has made me say yes forever. Or to you. Consequences never mattered. Clouds never had answers, nor they had certainities. But they are like the deepest emotions, when heavy, they will Pour down, and again, and again, and...

No winters. In my story, this year, there are no winters. If you had waited for a few frail leaves, I had them. I have them. Deranged like the Kaleidoscope that randomly creates patterns of images just to split in the next moment. Winters to me, is also that. I will tell you their story some other day.

For now, let us think of that lost migratory bird who is waiting a year to meet its family, the summer winds in the evening which can make you love summers again, your first emotion that morphs itself as a silk irrespective of a season and if you can, think of the ashtrays where you have crushed a lot of you, recently.

With all that and a morning newspaper, tell me which season are you?



The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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