Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya

Smelling Salt

>> Feb 10, 2011

I dream colours.
They come and create collage
while I sleep.

There is a nausea
in not seeing black.

You won't miss it
until it is not there.
It's almost as people who stand there
in our lives, as shadows;
And we forget them at nights.

The mosaic in my floor teaches me
the philosophy of life.
In all this shine, I see
my opaque face and feet,
together in one square.

I keep coloured scraps, glitter pens
and emotional hues.

On a rainy afternoon,
when sadness is a guest
To old bricks' house,
I will paint on the roof.

Mix oil pastel to rain waters then.
It smells a lot like life.




>> Feb 3, 2011

There will be rings, and more. Perfectly formed, puffed with meticulous crime, they will burn out eventually. There will be the filters, blackened, hesitatingly finding newly made relatives inside the ashtray. And they will be washed off with detergents someday. Smokers won't care. They never did. There will be newer brands, colored filters, mild nicotine and taller specimens. They will walk away.

No you and me in this piece. No 'I's, no 'WE's. Togetherness is something that pulls the strings in wrong places, or in wronged places. The times are never right. The most hated and used member at home is the clock in the living room. It reminds the four walls of screws that pierced through and are feeble now. It reminds others of the time they are always short of. It remembers that his engine is weak now and needs replacing. And starts getting slow, slowly.

There will be old flowers. Sometimes adjectives sound strange. Never associate flowers with age. They die of shyness. Even if you find them in the garden,embarrassed, naked with petals betrayed, mellowed with losing fragrance, still, smile. With precision one has to grant euthanasia to the hopeful lot. Until they leave, there will not be a bright morning next. What goes around never comes around. Its just that, we are used to see-offs.

Then sparrows. They are like those tenants who make a family whole, fonding. At times their sense of understanding surpasses the boundaries of human flexes. They chirp according to the mood of the house. They will feed their children when the family sit around the dining table. One day, when someone breaks a sad news and all cry, they fly away. They sense the unwelcoming eyes, annoyed fists. Communist sympathies never reached the aves. Ventilators flow North and south wind again. Not that anyone ever cared.

Should there be a conclusion? There are no such words called Closure. But there is a word, resonance - The ticks, the chirps, the puffs and the colors.


[Note: Dedicate this to someone who has always inspired me to write on, no matter what. Has insisted, persisted, succeeded.]


The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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