Pens and Pages

I cannot stress on the fact enough that life has changed after working. Well, it should because what good is stagnancy anyway. After a year of working, I find myself tired by the second half of the day. No wonder, every time I take a flight I doze off even before the flight takes off. I remember, I was traveling on New Year ’s Day and the flight was delayed by multiple hours. That was the first time when I woke up from a nap on a flight and didn’t find myself on air or on a different city. I woke up and we were still at the take-off area. But I had a good nap anyway. It was last week when I took an afternoon flight but couldn’t fall asleep for some reason. Like most journeys I was seated near the window, but unlike my previous journeys, this time I looked out of the window. We were just a couple of metres above of the clouds but the view was great. A blue horizon on a sea of clouds. I was lucky enough to spot a rainbow amidst the cirrus; the hues getting clearer with ...

Dedicated to Partha Deka, a friend I had known since I was a child, a friend fate had brought to me back this year, only to be taken away again  Remnants of a smile on a stone-cold face And maybe you can fool everyone again That death isn't as painful as we make it to be... Some tears bottled up from months gone by- You'd say judge not how one deals with loss... Dying dreams like drops of dew under a rising sun, You'd laugh they don't chain your ankles anymore... We'd cry for we wouldn't know any better And make stories of your new whereabouts, Playing MJ songs and laughing at your own jokes... Or in a make-believe world of hope, Somewhere in peace in a dreamless sleep...

How nonchalantly we made promises of a love eternal And in the quest for eternity We forgot how to not forget each other, I had forgotten how it felt like To be in his presence, How he would talk of the faraway stars As we sit under the moonlit sky... I had forgotten his perfume And he had forgotten How my cheeks turn red Every time I caught a glance of him. In the quest for eternity I wrote a million poems, Letters I would not share... We had forgotten how it felt like To live in the "reality" people created. We left things unsaid Like we see in the movies written on ideas created by Shakespeare... I would cut my wrists, Drink wine to remember And recite Bukowski and Plath In the quest for the eternity they derived... But most of the pages life did unfold, Were nothing like the books he read, Or the poems I wrote... Life moved on, One memory after another... We kept forgetting Each moment we thought we'd cherish. Yesterday, I saw him again His picture on my ...

A second of eternity Pouring into a frail heart, Mouthful of love And handful of trust. Wounds that lasted But only for a moment, Have turned to rotten flesh, And used-to-be-lips-and-a-face. Then love comes again Like a rainbow on a clear-sky-day. The dark clouds must have Withered away in pain. A new skin appears now, Fresh and unsullied To be wounded again But this time, with memories.

On some nights When no one else is awake She sits on my chest. She walks in and out of the door Till I recognize her face. And when he falls asleep In my arms, She gently cuts his throat And lets him bleed till dawn. She is named As she should be - The ugliness of glee. And the corpse That lie beside me now Was no one but a memory...

When he made that charming cup of tea, And when he smiled, so lovingly, You knew you were changing, Your stone cold heart was now melting, One pebble at a time. And when he touched you, gently, You just smiled. Oh, did it hurt then? When you knew he was leaving? Or, were you just embracing The moment, without grieving? His presence, His perfume, Did that make you forget About someone you left Long before he came? And when he talked about his love, Did you reminisce yours? Or is it him you thought about, And his lost love of yore? When he asked about you, You knew you were ready to tell, To tell him about all you know, And all that has bothered you, ever so. Did you tell him then that you were broken? Or did you just shed a drop of tear? Tell me, did you just smile, And pretended to be just fine? Did your heart want to cry? Did you feel like running away to hide? When he caressed your hands, You knew you wanted him to stay. You knew if he just stay...

I have seen fresh flowers decay; I have seen them rot and die. So, I know things end And I could just sulk and cry. Tears slosh within me like waves. No, don't look at me in the eye. For even if your eyes touch mine I'll just run away, hide and cry. Things will never be the same Now that you're leaving my side. Who knows if we'll meet again Or if it indeed is our last Goodbye. Goodbye.

The hopeful, loyal girl Waited as she promised She would. He has forgotten her face now. She doesn't remember anything More than his name, anyway. There were days when they both Wailed in the pain of separation. "I'll come back," he said. "I'll wait". Promises are mere words. Words were forgotten. "He is probably dead by now," She declares, Clutching the collar of her cane. They are no longer young. She doesn't remember much Of even the previous day, anyway. She chants his name As she claims her deathbed. She remembers how he used to smell. "Probably he just passed by," she sighs at the familiar smell. Traces of tears on her wrinkled face. How would he know? He has forgotten her face. She is dead now. Did it matter, anyway?

Writers don't move on. They make love with solitude, They take sorrow in their arms. They run their fingers down grief's spine. They touch words gently And force themselves on a river of tears. They let masochism win; so when they bleed, It's Utopia for them. Writers don't move on. They stumble on memories. They recall something that was eons ago. They embrace regrets And make love with retrospection. And when they do, They make memories their concubine, And then they sleep on past's lap, Because they're writers And writers don't move on...

I bleed blue, I bleed it all out; A single gun-shot, And a deep wound. Like a broken ferry on a vast, vast sea; I tremble, I shiver, Drenched in the cold memories. They still know your name; They ask where are you. For I was you then- Complete, Unsullied. For they still are there In the old battlefield, Fighting another war. I've changed; I've been soiled. I've bled all hues; I've seen it all. My sore wound rots; I await no war. Sullied, Smeared, I collapse, I shiver. Broken and twisted - I am you now.

I wrote your name in a million letters, On the pillars of love, On the walls of heart, But as each day passes by, I love you a little less, And that might be the thing about love, That today you remember my name and I forgot yours...

I lived for the solitude for the quiet at three in the morning for the calm at midnight for the peace near a noisy fountain for the company at a lonely garden I lived when you left and if you come back Darling! It will be too crowded Let me embrace the melancholy for I live when I am free for I am free when I am me left alone but not lonely Oh ! Don't come back! This wait is happiness This grief is bliss Sleepless nights console Monotonic mornings comfort Living in memories, I am not I live in the space between the two worlds you left where you departed and where we first met, where dreams were lived yet I was bereft...

There were traces remaining, like footsteps on wet sand. They could be wiped off by his slightest touch, a slightly stronger wind, but he chose not to, and no such wind blew. Those traces, they remained, exposed, sullied, as if they awaited her; her homecoming. But she, she was nowhere near, unseen, unheard of, like the tiniest pieces of broken glass dissolved in the dusty air... Eons, then, passed, the wet sand coagulated, telling stories they once bore, as traces waiting to be effaced...

I was brought up in a different house, not the one I currently live in. The new house, I know it from only a couple of years ago. The old one, it was what I called home. Even when I dream now I see myself in the old house. It was cozy and it gave a comfort my new house could never give. The Sundays were perfect there. My home used to smell of marigolds when I would go by the room where the idols of Lord Krishna was kept adorned with flowers and a censer containing a burning incense spreading its fragrance in the entire room. Mother would be in the kitchen cooking my favourite dal and the smell of the chicken curry being stirred would make me hungry and eager for lunch. The parlour would have the TV on being watched by Dad sipping a cup of Darjeeling tea just before lunch, a peculiar habit. The smell of the tea would somehow remind me of a beautiful sunrise on a faraway field sans people but birds and cattle. And my room would smell of nothing else but books; there were five bookshel...

Let's play with fire tonight set our dreams on flight relive all the memories all that's gone out of sight Lets play with fire tonight ditch the lull of the night make new memories let the lost love ignite Let's play with fire tonight do all the things that incite mess about in those memories memories of that amorous night Let's play with fire tonight for we know it will burn bright pieces of the torn memories and nothing will ever be alright