Soumya Scribbles...

Castles and dreams are a lot alike. They have unwanted air of decorations, You build brick by brick, red faced, for years; one day, they wake up to reality. Love is a what-if. Try your blood and water may it be. In the end, they wake up to dreams. In absence of a quarrel, there is no peace. Silence it is, one that speaks too much. It is more like pulling the chair while you were sitting right in the heart of the ocean. It's a slow, slow fall. Soumya

Boutique words on white page, Invited or strangers Noisy or chimed, Ruffled or rhymed, (of) novels they are - trespassing, travelling, trolling. Poems are virgins, men. Useless in its property, read and loved in shy lights by humble eyes. Silence is an amazon - Deep, masculine, unsaid. Like a woman it touches. Poets die - They depart on their four-legged sabbatical cot as autumns come and winters stay. Let frail leaves and dried ink count unwritten poems. -- (For Shakti and Sunil)

On one of those days when the clear sky brings about a lot of storm, I sit down writing for my own rebirth. Lovers die every day, on every inch that remains between an embrace, on every moment that retains itself in pauses. A poetry never starts with ink, it starts with a lot of blood. To whom, for whom I write is as faceless as the cloud, as silent as it traverses by, as fascinating as the full moon and as wholesome as nights. Do incoherent pictures make a collage? Sometimes they do, the very hand that picks them up and settles them in a frame. Such frames find life in carelessly taking a nap on someone's shoulder in a day train, losing someone momentarily and that growing lump in throat as you run and irrationally scream, while you hold hands and roam around aimlessly in the bazaar and bargain under dim lampshades, when you travel to a virgin beach before sunrise and dreams come true, when you sit on rocks to see the night sea alluring you to d...

Getting up early on a cloudy morning, knowing that the feeble light that enters your room had divorced the boring, punctual time long back, is agonizing. It brings about waves of feelings rushing unto your mind. The outstation boy starts missing his home, the scent of his mother that only mothers have. The city girl is caught indecisive between the immediate and the moment later - she chooses to stay at bed convincing her of an illusion of the alarm. And the writers wait for the sound of rain. Cloudy morning dullness is pandemic. It touches all, paused to let each one of us have a philosophical view of life that has been and that is to be on a balance sheet. Rain blushes with poetry from an old window view, the same gushes with disgust in an water-logged street. Most of the Cities in tropical India are a pampered child along the south while the northern parts of them are still parental - they are orthodox, troubling and still warm. People excuse themselves in the name of rains f...

Snowflakes are patient. They fall obliging to but not submitting to the gravity. Like autumn leaves, they are wise. Their purposes are served once they rest. Hundreds and thousands of them lie down on gray earth knowing they would coalesce with it one day. They die beautiful. The bricks who burn and the glasses who are cut, are not opulent with such subtlety. They know they were born ugly. It is a terrible feeling when there are fewer eyes deep enough to look through the apparent. So bricks build civilization and glasses hide them - conveniently in squares, rectangles and circles. They believe they were pretty twins before the fire came in the wrong hands of Prometheus. Then there are sands. They don't die, they don't mould. Futility allures them still. With every rushing wave they wish to go inside, somewhere deep, but proud as the Ocean is. Neither helps the little toes nor curious palms who try to keep them tightly. Sands are not meant to belong. They lie...

It is not so much for the inglorious past than the uninhabited future. Curious a child looks at the West every evening and wonders if the Sun will rise at all. On a chalked territory where the name starts selfishly with 'I' women wear iron-guards over breasts and men helmets, painted with ancient Gods Or assuring palms. Blessed be the Curls and marks on history as they are still practised in sharing gendered foetus, farmers' credits and votes. But there is hope, Of a determined future with darker truths, Of acquiring lands, women and innocent brains. So the predators wait. One day a bald with a stick heard wolves whisper - If they were giraffes they would have changed the colour of their flag.

I want to build a dream. A dream where you smile. Moon and the sea can wait, so may the flowers. There are snowflakes of sweet-littles, a cyclone of swings, Crests and troughs many and colors all in pastel boxes. There are golden sands and milkish hills and happy, aspiring grasses. You can be a boatman on a dried river, a grasshopper in a desert, a lovebird in turbulent time or silken rush on brick red earth. You care the other side, as you say. Traveling though uncountable storms, and floods and nightmares and strangers when you sleep, Let me play a dream for you. A dream where you can sleep. SoUmY@

Holding a pen after a long time, when your hand shakes and fingers betray to keep a symmetry of similar letters, is a pleasure. You feel like coming back home from a far-away place and finding that old scent that you had left it with. But now you are new. Coming back is always like that. It makes us feel new to our old places. How old is our past? Does it start with the moment before and end with your paperboats of childhood? For some it is like the backward journey of a night train. The stations are known by the whistles, sudden brakes and old station-master's familiar voice. The green flag looks black then. But you can still take a deep breath and just know. There is no past in an arrival. We all search for patterns in our life, in others' lives. When we find one, we rest; when we don't we call it consequence. Sentiments, deepest of them, are a lot like glue. They can not let go. They stick to one's heart and hurt the most when you try to detach...

Transition is not a phase but a wise regulation. It is what we hate and the same we love. Likewise, our life. We revolve - around a few people, a few objects and a few thoughts. They are not moon to us, we are. They are as silent as the respiration of flowers, but essential to the tree. In between, the cohesion spreads its arms and knots a few doubts to welcome the new. There is no glory, no ambition in it. It has deep sleep and a calm. As unassuming the sea is, the desert is and the hills are at night - yours and mine, the lives of others' are too. There the ink dries and thoughts flow as it has nowhere to reach. It runs. Poetries and novels become seismographs. They bend down on all the memories that were and will never be wise but neighbours all along. Somtimes we write because we would want the story to end in a certain way, abruptly. Certainty is blasphameous for a lost soul. It is that when the old frog jumps from the sea to the well and feels nothing h...