The moonlight haze...

The moon somehow looked pristine,

As if it just said that for the moment you are mine...

It's the kind of moon that I  want to  send back to my past,

And exactly the one I wish to forever last...

It's been a tiring route -

Treading though cities and many a crowd,

The goals achieved, the riches earned

The brownie points that made even my shadows proud....

There's no mistletoe in my life,

So there's nowhere I can kiss you my dear…

My sky is hazy with no shining stars,

And so the embrace is nowhere near...

They talk of many hearts and many loves

And of kinship forged and lived,

Bonds where tears are veiled in smiles

Where dreams are framed and the truth sieved...

You were with me in the twilight moon

When I saw the eyes that smiled,

The heady fragrance in the moonlight

Of some flower, untamed...wild...

There's no wish for a starry night,

Or for a journey with no end;

Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight and a touch-

Before I leave you again in the bend...

I was a child of the romantic era

“Memories of childhood were the dreams that stayed with you after you woke.”

I was a child of the romantic era..

Yes, such are childhood memories…Like the colourful Luxor sketch pens we used to draw ‘landscapes’ – a brown mountain with a blue stream and an oblong hut with square windows and a rectangular door.

We woke up early, and tied our hair in two tight braids with red ribbons. A rush to the bus – stop was not because of our eagerness to attend school; rather, it was a mad rush to grab the window seat in the school bus. School work was a heavy burden to carry and our accomplishments included being the first one to copy the contents from the blackboard. Yes, I hid answers from the more studious ones, and was not labeled selfish for it; after all, everyone hid their work! Our parents did not have WhatsApp groups to discuss daily school works, and going to PTM was a unwelcome break in their daily routine.

Our birthdays were not ‘theme based’ and neither were fancy cakes available. Gifts were not expensive transformers, but a toffee from a friend made my birthday special. Our treasures were numbered - a few marbles, one toy (usually gifted by a relative) or a bicycle for the luckier ones.

Post lunch time was Ma’s siesta time, which meant we had enough time and the opportunity to sneak into the kitchen and put spoonfuls of Amulspray Milk Powder in our mouths – and savoured the sweet mass had stuck to our hard palates.

Evenings were not for trips to watch the latest animation movie but to sit in the study table whether we felt like studying or not. It was something our parents desired and all elders were ideal. We had little or no knowledge of lecherous uncles and peeking neighbours. Traveling in the buses meant looking out of the window and watching the moon following us. Playing "chor police" indoors on rainy afternoons, watching the elder siblings play "FLAMES" and whispering about their "crushes", making paper boats and watching them swim in the muddy puddle near the gate - I see those moments floating in front of my eyes...

Now I am on the threshold of the fourth decade of my life and sometimes I return back to the state of mind I had as a child when I believed nothing was impossible. When I stand in front of the burner in my kitchen everyday cooking dinner for my family, my mind travels back in time to those evenings when drinking milk with dollops of Maltova or Bournvita was compulsory. There are mysteries buried in the recesses of my kitchen – every berry seed kicked under the dining table is a hidden memory. Many times I ache to be ten again…ten was before relationships or heartbreaks or calculations. Ten was just ten. Tiffin with bread and generous amounts of butter, mosquito bites and home-made cough remedies, bicycles and snake-and -ladders. Tangled hair, sunburned shoulders, Enid Blyton, in bed by nine thirty…..

Life...

तुम मुझे वक़्त समझकर गुज़ार लो,
मैं तुम्हे ज़िंदगी समझकर जी लूँगी......

A letter to you..

I’m doing something, being somebody..

All the while wanting to sit somewhere quiet

And talk to you the whole night…

The wish comes and it steals my thoughts and makes me think of you…..

But there’s no you….

I wonder about the place by the side of the railway tracks

Where I walked, lost in the nadir of my heart’s darkness;

Where I grew up, and where I used to go to bury things,
I used to go there to say goodbye.
And I witnessed all the years passing by…

In silence I tried to kill the voices that haunted me,
One way or the other,
Leaving sin on my body;
Scrubbing tears off with salt-
I built my rituals in farewells…
And there were the endings I still cling to.

I saw the waves that die before they reach the shore

And I see the waves as ‘time’ –

It takes some things away, but it brings other things….

I take out the blue pen and start writing to you again..

Asking you to meet me where the sky touches the sea

And to wait for me where the world begins….

For in those rusted rails I realized –

Love isn’t found – it’s built..