30 November 2013
30 September 2013
The rains lashed - sudden and unpredictable. Erratic and unsolemn. Ibrahim's fragile and fresh one and a half month old seedling of basil has been braving the unannounced changes in the weather with much aplomb. Such is life for everyone - to struggle incessantly against unpredicted odds. He laughs off the accidental irony of his circular thoughts. After eons, he sat down to think aloud. Reflecting on the changes that his life meanwhile underwent. Effusive changes just like the ones which his favourite company of the moment, the basil, endured. How short-lived the months that had gone by felt like! After that day among the bougainvillea, the direction of his wayward life had taken further surprising turns. Which ultimately resulted him in moving into three different living spaces, adjusting to diverse environments and situations and succumbing to various sets of routines.
The incondite sentences that he was pouring generously into his invisible journal failed to keep up with his prolificness. They finally evaporated into tittling nothingness.
.... to be contd.
15 March 2012
The lanes were getting narrow, the shadows starting to loom.
Bougainvillea never had it so good. Ibrahim did not know what to expect, nor was he trying to expect any. He kept on walking. The tunes changed with every turn. Now, this was getting bizarre. How come this was so abrupt yet ever ending! So assured was he of the conclusion that he was no longer concerned with the closure anymore. It was the journey he was geared up for. The wilderness and the wantonness with which the bougainvillea grew, flanking him on both end, made him feel secure, though strangely. May be it was because he was out of doors, in the open land, after a relatively long time. He was getting tired of lurking you see. But from whom? We are yet to see, of course. But yes, all this naturaleza was doing him good, or so he liked to believe. But, he knew that the journey has not begun yet, not in real. No, not yet. Only he was out, finally.
.... to be continued.
.... to be continued.
23 August 2011
And the comedy assumes magnified proportion, so much so that the noises outside get a physical presence - suffocating and soiled.
While some long lost music plays in the background, you only try not to fall into the well of crust nostalgia, faded to inglorious paleness.
The birds chirp in the early morning sky, sitting on the stairs leading to the terrace, talking of faraway lands you realise you can never visit while the concrete present and everyday life suck you inside a whirlpool - inescapable, deep and ceaseless.
Where are you stuck?
The pied-piper left way back.
3 February 2011
On randomly opening the newly gifted Gitanjali, verse no XLVII flashes across, thus becoming my first song out of the hundred and three.
The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the morning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him - forbid him not.
If the sound of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me sleep undisturbed even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door.
Ah, my sleep, my precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish. Ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his smile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from the darkness of sleep.
Let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all forms. The first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance. And let my return to myself be immediate return to him.
The things, situation, people that inspire a poet to write is manifold.