Soumya Scribbles...

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...

Trees lean against the wind, brunches clasping, they wait like mothers. There is no taking in chlorophylls.They are givers. So is the sea that goes blue till your eyes meet and then a shade of green. Like in relentless motion, colours are traded on dawns n dusks (with sky). Life travels through the veins of those trees at night, through the leaves, the weak hands, feeble vocal chords of plants. And it places itself in the loud resonance of seas - the authority in which it is calming, traversing a thousand sparkling salinity and reaches the shore - quick-feet, silent as the sand crabs. Dazzled the day is and restless the night, it moves, prays, grows and hums. That is, what is, we see and there is - as irrelevant and essential to name - us. We hang . .. [Life doesn't need a stanza, it flows. The last time I read it in a poetry, it was nude]

The sun rose with introvert rays. It is a different dawn - One that comes deep and wise, saying you to look within yourself. At that moment, as you bathe in its purity, there is a song. A song of life, of its fragility, its beauty and the nothingness. With a coffee cup in my hand and standing on a terrace where one is fortunate to see the horizon from a city, I gaze in awe. Pure, ambivalent in its intention the nature teaches me an important lesson then. The fisherman on the farthest corner of the Ganges, where She just travels quitely, is to be envied. When it is dawn for us, its a night over. There are tired fishes, yesterday's oyesters, excited snails and assured hyacinths in his net. From childhood, he has always wondered if tracing the Sunray to the distance will lead him to heaven. Someday, somewhere that journey will start.  There is her. Beautiful in frailty she lives through the better half of moon. She knows nights are like mothers - calm, restrained, q...