Skip to main content

Inconspicuous

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.



SoUmY@



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


Comments

BirdBrain said…
No conclusions.. nothing called closure..!!!I sell to each of ur ideas so convincingly and each tym in a unique way..
Exceptional write... Sparrows shall hum this in the morning over their teeny weeny tea dawn.. I ensure..

For the sake of posterity...plz keep writing.

God Bless.
BirdBrain said…
This comment has been removed by the author.
Deepika said…
Resonance, yes it is. Reminding of the unstoppable time that is slipping out of hand so rapidly. I like the writing style- no conclusions, all is just left open for us to make out what we want to understand. Good one.
No Conclusion?good conclusion
Aayushi Mehta said…
Still resonating.
This was a beautiful post.

Popular posts from this blog

Untitled

You travel - Through unknown stations, passing empty paddy fields. over quiet rivers that rest beneath you. You bring a lot of earth along, And smell of mud, fish scales and trains.  You whisper and scream, Put your nails in me, occasionally call it love. Other nights, we make peace. Strangely at dawn, When the Sun rises and you see me sleeping,  I hear your whisper,  you travel ...   ... Deep inside me.

Untitled

Wish I could be a cloud one day I will love to be grey if its you To whom, through whom I traverse. Transparency is optimum; For I know you are unattainable like the sand escaping from the fist like the meaning assumed from the gist. look, oh yes, I can rhyme too. If you wish I can artify our world. Inspiration never needs a permit. You had asked, Why do I vomit blood. Interruptions in dreamy un-realism doesn't suit me. I know. So I write. So that I can breathe you in and breathe dreams out. Live long, you had wished. (Wished), did you? honestly? I will let it pass like just another Failed attempt to face reality Finds itself en-route to contamination. Oh! then what is pure? you may ask. Purity is not you, not me, but us. Purity is the way verses traverse. I will vomit to death one day. Do not pray for me. Pray for my poems who are quiet. Let them borrow my breaths. Let the poetry for us live. (And the footnotes conclude:) You - a miser in love Me - a happy lender. SoUmy@

Together

I sit here to write An epic of love But words don't pay heed To my flowing senses. But what I write is about you. Who held the rain at her footsteps, Who could love the way Gothics shy And who can heal my scars Like I never had. And what I write is about me. Who drenched in the rain Like the raindrops, Who was loved the way He dreamt never. And who cried in the happiness beyond. So if ever the rain stops I would stand near you. If ever the scars anew I would feel your healing touch. If ever I don't sleep I would breathe you to sanity. On that rain soaked sands of Seashore And above the presence of lonesome moon, You would murmur the gentle song That I would echo in silence. And would pray, Somewhere,tiptoeing my wishes Dreams will rush up To another moment of blissful song offerings... SoUmY@