Soumya Scribbles...

Bricks and mortars aside, Our separate doors And combined windows Apart, Can I talk to you tonight? Can we bring two shovels And dig through our floors, D .I ...G deep? Till we find the river We once shared between us.

We met at a rainpark. What is it anyway? We could have met in the middle of a desert, a fountain, a mountain, a monument maybe. We met and it did not rain that day. Did it matter? Seasons passed by us And beheld the same old me, but the flavour of you in six. Today, Namelessly as we scratch our names on the shores, I realize what I am thankful for. When I was building our castle from mediocrity, You stayed.

I will trade my dreams with you. The way you fly high and dive deep, the moment you catch your breath and let go of, the next. The sunsets you soak in and the nights you lie ( to yourself ). I will trade my dreams with you. The way I wait for you and wait I do. -- Soumya

It's been pragmatic for long. The cobwebs and the dusts have made their fragile colony. The first letter is always special. Sabbatical has ended after countless summers. Shaky hand holds the pen, writes and strikes. Cigarettes burn. Wasted smokes dance around dim lit lights. White papers are to poets, what love is to a tree. It secretly wishes, someday it would bend its arms and hold the one she loves. It would confess for forgotten springs. But winters come and wrinkled papers stack. Night trespasses and leaves. The dawn comes, What was the yield? A poet wrote about how poets fall.

Dear love, Highways and boulevards aside, there have been sunshine and thunderstorms to remind me of your ruffled hairs and my unheld palms. The sea has been calm, it hasn't seen your footsteps on the sands. The sea has been rough - your absence, my abstinence, therefore. Light drizzle on night glass, whispering to my left, humming to my own I had what leisure asked for and pleasant offered. But, as I write this letter and the candle burns, I know how silly we are, how blunt! And that when the lightening strikes, it rains somewhere.

I have your letters - The ones we wrote, sitting together. and few that travelled miles. I read them on winters as they remind me of falling leaves. In Summers, I sun bathe them. Blue parchments, yellow postcards, hurried white - Inks have been blotted in places. And they have your touch, ridge skins, printed. (They talk about) The broken table lamp we had, Constructive madness, correctional grammars and faded restraints - You have it all (here)  said, unsaid, implied, avoided. I have your letters - The ones we burned together and few that burned hundreds of miles.

The Blind: When it rains, I see a little boy, in torn pajama and with no shirt, running out of his small room. He stretches his hands to capture the drops -  all of them. When it becomes dense, unsolved puzzles play on his face - one for the success of the ones he could hold, one for the misses. He looks at the burial of each of them as the drops fade away on earth. He mourns as if it's his responsibility. His mother comes out, consoles, scolds. But the dutiful doesn't stop, can not stop. A few more, saline this time, fall and fade. There is none to pray. The Deaf: There is an old woman, a pianist. She still plays the piano on weekends and creates new tunes for herself. She looks at her little audience, looks at their eyes - when they are becoming indifferent, showing a little reluctance, feeling engrossed, catching tears - she plays on -  for all. She knows the reeds by heart. What she doesn't know is how she sounds when she plays. At the end when ...