Soumya Scribbles...

I Between you and me There is this sea of space. Even the warmth of your blood is not on the floors where my feet are. And in between there is a plastic that burns quietly, without flames, Obnoxious! Between me and you, there is ash. II Three course of meal, and in between, we make love. Morning - I excite. After lunch its you. And before its night, we try. On other days, we sleep, Strangers and hungry. III Between you and me We share ghazals. In a serene night With you around, talking of moon, I play. Life is so good between two songs. We live the moments in pauses. IV You surprise me with bright sunflowers at times, The other day you come and embrace when I am still sleeping. Simple Sun enters my room, finds an excuse and lies beside me. You drop the curtains. I smile in dreams. - Thus, Tilting an usual square, we make a story of our own, in a rhombus. SoUmY@

In a suave Indian lounge some people gather to party. Posh as they are, and as is the word, they show all of it and much more than you may wish to see. With some Peter Colonial Country shirt and with a perfume that arrogantly bosses over the air of a third world country, they laugh and fall over each other, 'unnecessarily' is a word so true to its own existence. Beyond their attire, they are conscious of keeping their feet on the ground and so bring plastic flags which feebly depict a tri-color a third world country should. They take positions, one after another, finding their partners as only a neon light glows inquisitive of the emotions, pride or lust. There starts the National Anthem. Importing independence and democracy onto themselves, some fold their legs, some lean back, some talk over a boring lyric and the others, if left, sing along. After that, all clap, more as a relief than of a passion. Even the big cotton flag, despite the artificial wind around, embarrassingl...

There are people for whom A does not precede B. May be I am one. At times beneath the banyan tree you have touched my hand in one moment that we can not recreate. I was to take yours and press a bit, shelter your cold palm in mine. I have only smiled. At times inside a lonely tram, along the roots of our heritage city and with an ageing conductor, you have wished I will cuddle and plant a kiss, perhaps. Spring has come, but I have sat like a tree where winter still hails. Stoic, willing, wishing and still desperately, wishing. At times while argumenting You have tried to fight, jostle. Anger is the flame of love's impurity. You have tried to burn us together. I have kept silent Having hundred questions to ask you but never could, even one. I have let you win, always. I have let you lose, thus. In high fever, one night, Trembling you have murmured, " Come unto me". 'Passionate' the lover I am, have stood still. Gently touching your forehead I have let you sleep. In...

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@