Tuesday, February 21, 2017

||Some times you go invisible. Camouflaged. 
Blended in so well, you go unnoticed. 
Perhaps, that's when you've become the obvious. 
As they say, just another face; 
For those who have their sights high 
and raging ahead in the race. 
You're just a fleeting glance 
who never gets looked at a second time. 
A shadow leaving behind shallow footprints. 
Discoloured, lacklustre fragment 
that's there as  an object of obligation. 
Until, there comes someone who gives 
you that undivided attention that's rightly due. 
And then, the shade you had clad makes sense. 
The dots connect in hind sight. 
You were grey all the while 
to be found by someone colour-blind.||
Isn’t it weird that there was a time
when you would fearlessly go sock skating;
Undeterred by the possibility of smashing
your face and breaking your teeth
on the glassy yet hard mosaic floor.

And then, there were those days
when you would balance on a chair’s hind legs;
Oblivious to the fact that you could
fall behind or the chair could give way
for you to flip back over and crack your skull.

This, followed by the reckless phase
when you would cycle downhill, hands free;
Ignorant of what could await you around
the bend; Or how some gravel on the tarmac
could skin you while you skid down the road.

Now, in an unsure age
when a pink slip could be the next mail;
Unconfidently, you gait between the water dispenser and corner cubicle.
Sit upright on an ergonomic chair with wheels, immobile; How ironical?!
And how cautiously you ride; slacklining the employment lifecycle.

Friday, February 17, 2017

A Curiosity Shop of Sorts

Fragile, elusive, wrapped in corrugated paper
and placed in apple boxes on the floor.
Fluid, mercurial, bottled carefully,
corked and placed in the top most shelf.
Noxious, dense, barreled
and shelved in the basement.
Brittle, bubble wrapped, cellophane taped
with an extra layer of shrink wrap, tucked into corners.
All these and more, stored in shelves
line up the walls from beneath the floor
up to the ceiling. More so, like an old curiosity shop.
The difference: nothing on display;
No tales, no labels, attested.
And all are password locked.
Passwords being not the usual combination
of a minimum of eight characters in length
with at least one in upper case,
a digit, a symbol and the rest in lower case.
But these, a notch above, the cryptexes
unlock to hints of scents wafting in the breeze,
cues of tunes echoing at a distance
and images chanced upon during second glances.
Tucked away safely in your mind’s warehouse
these Pandora’s containers, in different sizes,
stock curses, charms, benedictions
disguised as memories, which when unlocked
cloud your vision from seeing to tomorrow.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

growing old together

To know what she also wants
as opposed to what she merely needs.
Keeping in mind what’s negligible, necessarily.
 
When to say yes,
and when not to say no.
Knowing how to tell them both seemingly, differently.

When she’s called on you that she’s in a fix,
and when she fixed things all by herself.
Either way, she only wants to be heard, apparently.

When she says she wants to come over,
and when she wants you to be there.
That’s right. That’s all you need to do. Be there, essentially.

Above all, it is an ongoing endeavor
with ample room for trials and errors;
Growing old together is when you try TO GET HER, persistently.

Conundrum



||Convoluted customs,
Confused creed.

Commercialism's curse:
Cuddlies, candies;

Convenient choices
Courtesy - China.

Cultural custodians,
Clueless chaotic.

Cupid's coiled
Cribbing, cringing.||

Monday, February 13, 2017

A class beneath the clouds - To Mr. Santiago

"This way, everybody! Follow me.
And just carry a pencil and notebook along”
spoke the tall gentleman with a partly visible smile
beneath a frowning zodiac mustache.
Leading them to the open playground beneath the cottony sky;
In a group, and not in a long winding line.
He left the kids wondering if that period was for PT or Geography.


“Look up, now. Take out the pencil
and sketch what you see up there in your book”
Echoed his voice. Someone sketched a toupee. Another, sheets of linen.
While one drew a wincing whale, the other a drowsy dragon;
While the curious started that very instant.
The sceptics and the conformists followed suit
watching others, they herded, after a few squandered minutes.


“Now, one by one show me your sketches.
Let’s unmask those creations and creatures”
he said. Thus, began the lesson on different forms of clouds.
From cirrus, cumulus and stratus; and their combinations
like cirrostratus, stratocumulus and nimbus, they were totally ten.
The class was now on cloud number nine, to be precise, cumulonimbus
as they all knew every cloud by their name.


“We’ll meet again tomorrow, same time; At the park near the Chapel.
Come empty handed. And be prepared to get those hands soiled”
he said and dismissed the class. Since then to this very day;
Perhaps, those kids dwelling within still look up, to find the cirrus
disguised as a toupee, or stratus as linen sheets. Fondly remembering the days
when lessons were taught within walls, across desks and amid chalk dust;
There was one who shared his classroom with a wide blue ceiling and horizon bound floor.

Tuesday, February 07, 2017

Christmas Eve

At the foot of the chimney
by the furnace;
milk and cookies
awaited a saint.
But, not one soul,
sound asleep, could hear
the Saviour
knocking on the door. 

faith

For some, a puddle.
And some, across oceans.
To each their own.
A feat, nonetheless.
A mustard or a mountain.
He gauges not your faith.
But strengthens you
to take that leap. 
During her sleepless nights
she kept him too wide awake.
He tossed, shimmered
and played along,
till daylight.
Only to submerge her
into a blinding deep slumber.
Placid, he rested all day long.
Reeling and regaining the lost
vigor.
Lucid, well rested, she rose from
beyond
and returned for another
all-nighter.
Polaroids,
paintings,
prose & poetry.
All attempts
to picture
her perfectly
turned paltry,
persistently.
Perhaps, she was
perpetually mercurial
to be prisoned
in a portrait.

parched

The beeswax
with a tinge of
peppermint oil
soothed his lips.
Yet the soul
was left parched
till he met her again. 

code name: Mo Mo

And then there are those
reclined on the window seat
with the blinds down
and the blindfold on.
Unperturbed until there's turbulence;
In other words, Monday Mornings.


kutcha road chronicle

Riding homewards
on a still noon,
kutcha road.
Sun hid, an inch,
behind the brows.
Ahead,
an overfull water tanker's
lugged by a tractor.
A chance encounter
with petrichor.
On a scale of
honey from the rock
to
peanut butter stuck
to the roof of the mouth.
She wall all that
he alone relished
before scribbling
them into words.

regrets

Curled, foetal
Floater, log
Sideways, yearner
Stiff, soldier
Sprawled, starfish
Facedown, free falling
Alive, awake
Dead, raging
6 feet under, or above
Regrets, bed-of-nails

Between a "happily ever after." and "The End."

A few millimeters.
An inch.
A span.
Maybe, from the foot
of a page to another’s heart.
Well, this could be
the ideal distance between
a “happily ever after” and “The End.”
That said, what’s unseen,
in between,
at this space.
The meandering universe
flanked by these two clich├ęs
comprise: events, uneventful;
moments, uncertain;
and hours, unforeseen.
This minuscule void
that lies amid is what goes amiss.
In the perpetual haste
to reach a happy ending;
This lapse of reason
towards the end of a season
is what stocks the hidden pursuit;
In volumes of untold tales.

Friday, January 20, 2017

#

#Wavy or #straight,
#Airblown or #just-out-of-shower-fresh. 
There’s no clue 
on what’s brewing within
on deceptively #goodhairdays.
#messy or #tied-up,
#unwell or #stressed
you’ll sparingly catch a glimpse
of these #justnotmydays. 
Copiously sprinkled 
with #everythingunderthesun hashtags; 
The windows offer an illusive preview; 
Hinting not on what awaits
behind those password locked doors.
Comment cautiously 
Or tap in your fade in and out hearts.
Unlike what Banksy’s Flower Thrower clutches;
She’s the real deal. She’s bottled-up rage. 
A Molotov cocktail.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Puttu finds his purpose

Leaned over the balcony’s grill 
He gently blew into the wand’s circle; 
As he dipped into the tiny soap water bottle. 
Serially, out came soap water bubbles;
Tiny ones followed the big ones, bearing rainbows, brittle.


Some, gigantic; Burst before they descended.
The tiny ones would disappear just after they landed.
The ones that would delight the passersby by were all mid-sized.
With kids on the street, leaping up and clasping, the bubbles unarmed.
While grownups, popped them with their fingertips, once spotted. 


What joy he could spread with a little breath and some soap water?!
That moment was when he paused and his mind began to wander. 
He knew what he’d do when he grew up to be taller and stronger. 
A light bulb flashed over his head, and a neon sign appeared around with a glimmer. 
“Puttu’s Soap Water Bubble Bottle Factory” read the sign as he looked up in wonder.