I'll find you

In the vapours rising from the hot cup of tea,

And the ring it leaves behind on the table,

I'll find you.

In the smokes arising from the vehicles,

And in the long wait at traffic signals on a sultry summer day,

I'll find you.

In the colourful jars of pickle laid out in the afternoon sun,

And in the laughter of children from stolen joy,

I'll find you.

In the mingled call of the cuckoo at dawn,

And the red lit sky of my dusk,

I'll find you.

In the unfinished books of tales untold,

And inbetween monotony of daily chores,

I'll find you.

In the thunder of the French revolution,

And in the raindrops falling on the warzone countries,

I'll find you.

In the grocery list of daily needs,

And the unsend letters hidden under the mattresses,

I'll find you.

I'll find you, I'll find you,

In the years to come with every greying hair,

And poetry left unfinished for the lack of muse,

And children that I have to take to school.

But tell me, in all your broken dreams

And dusty corners,

Do you find me too?

Do I?

Neon lights outline your collarbone on strange nights,
Marking the map of the city I love the most.
Do you still walk along the shoreline,
With the sand and shells jingling in your pockets,
And the wind in your hair?
Was it the dusk or dawn that we watched together,
I cannot remember well...
Is it all far gone?
Do I still play in the strings of your violin
Or in the sonnets you say you love?
Stole kisses like we stole pickels,
Laid out in jars in winter afternoon sun.
Fantasies paved the road,
But for our bare feet it was a long way.
Grey and old, turned to dust
We'll meet another day,
Maybe some constellations away.
Till then, tell me,
Do I reside in your poetry,

As you do in mine every single day?

'Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.'

The remnants of love

The remnants of love remained
Like the colour-washed streets of Holi,
Subtly fading each day.
Will crossroads that made us choose different ways,

Serve as souvenirs still?

White hair glistening and matching white waves.
What if you cut your feet on broken sea-shells

Will you remember me then?

Walking side by side through crowded streets,
The cacophony serves as Karaoke still.
The city smells of old love and lost melody,

Colours, Colours that fade away...

Sunlight falls on broken glass pieces,
A show of light decorates your dark room.
Come find me among wilted flowers in broken vases,

And dusty book ends when your memory fades.

On being average and middle class.

At times it is a matter of personal pride to have been born in a middle class family – blame the authors who have idealized the social setup – showing us that the only power at our disposal is Ray’s ‘Mogojashtra’. You grow up hearing some golden advice, that only education can bring about a change in social status and much glory. Hence charge ahead in that direction! But hey, are you a girl? Wait then, we need to catch up on the current scenario...

Now, if you happen to be past twenty, marriage proposals coming your way seems inevitable. No matter how old the groom is, the younger the bride the better. Whenever you visit a social gathering, you are constantly under scanner eyes of someone trying to fix you up with a possible match. No, we’re not talking about the Victorian era (And people still question me why I don’t like visiting social gatherings!). Though a different attitude may be noted regarding their approach to the males and the females. If you happen to be a male, it is of utmost importance that you complete your education, get a job and only then think about marriage. For females, education or jobs are important but comes only after marriage. Oh no, they won’t put a stop to your educational process, but sure they would keep nagging you to get married -- whether you like it or not, whether you want it or not doesn’t matter. I repeat, DOES NOT MATTER. But the words won’t be put before you so plainly, but rather camouflaged and interspersed with wise words such as – ‘you won’t get a better groom than this’ or ‘ ...time’s running. Who would like to marry an old lady?’ or ‘there is a right age for everything’!

I have heard my grandmother say that her daughters were given the minimum education (read graduate) so as to qualify them in the marriage market. She claims times have now changed for us, the current generation. Has it? If so, I wonder how. Well maybe yes, you now need to be a post- graduate in order to qualify in the marriage market, as graduates are all too common these days! While any problem regarding the ‘love-lives’ of my male cousins would simply be shunned with the wonderful suggestion of better focusing on studies than whiling away time in such stupid matters. But with that of the female ones, their behaviour would undergo a sea change – education is important but comes only after marriage-- you don’t want to die an old maid, do you? The same bunch of parents that once advised her to study hard, often drawing examples of other girls or boys of her age who were doing better, now wants her to think otherwise. What they don’t realize is that once you’ve made her taste the fruit of knowledge, she cannot regain her former state of innocence and ignorance. Call her Satan’s companion if you will, but why has choosing to lead your life according to your own terms got to be such a hard concept for the society to accept without being prejudiced?

While being brought up in between the ebb and tide of such people, corroding your coast-line daily and inflicting pain with broken shells that hit you with the waves, sometimes you are lucky to find an island of solace in some – your own personal ‘Sidhu jetha’. The duality amazes you as you sit there with your cup of black tea and one of your favourite novels in hand, while your mind constantly tosses between Milton’s ‘heaven’ and ‘hell’.

Estranged

You are not flesh of my flesh, and this no paradise

Love's far supreme.

Memories stir the fire in my heart,

And a ripple of light breaks from the disturbed coal

How to escape the light?

First gasp of air I breathed were you,

Saved from drowning in daily mediocre life.

Images flood like moonlit sky

You can count the stars in it.

The blind man sits at the corner of the busy road,

His violin still plays your favourite tune

While you take your children to school.

Feelings that grew on shadowy orchards, fled through the dusty window panes.

I can see the future in dark chimney smokes

Rising up again.

Will only death in the order of Dionysus

Help Orpheus reunite with his Eurydice again?

Loser

                               The morning was beautiful. It had rained last night. The raindrops hanging from the leaves sparkled like diamonds in the sunlit morning. Trisha had just sat down to have her morning coffee when her phone rang. It was Sudhir.

‘Okay, I’ll be there at five in the evening’, she said as she kept down the phone.

                             Sudhir had been Trisha’s friend for a long time. He had felt a certain interest in Trisha from the very first day he had seen her, his new neighbour. Crushes at such young ages were nothing new. Trisha and her family had shifted to Bangalore when she was in class six. Trisha was admitted in the same school that Sudhir attended and now, they were now in the same college too. Though Sudhir was shy in nature, yet they had bonded well.

Sudhir had been pacing up and down the room when Randhir arrived.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Just a little nervous’, answered Sudhir.

‘About what?’

‘I was thinking about confessing my love for Trisha to her.’

Randhir reminded him that she already had a boyfriend.

‘I know. It’s just that he is not the right choice for her’, said Sudhir.

                            Sudhir came back home early that night. As he opened the door, he was surprised to find Randhir seated on the couch. He was skipping through the pages of his favourite magazine, as the light from the lamp fell across his face.

‘How did you get in here?’ asked Sudhir surprised.

‘That is not important. Tell me how did it go, what did she say?’

‘She did not turn up’, said Sudhir rather sadly, trying to force a smile.

                           Sudhir had been waiting for Trisha at the Café for an hour. Seeing that she was late, he had tried calling her. Trilok, Trisha’s boyfriend had picked up his call. Sensing something fishy, Trilok had warned Sudhir and had made it clear that he did not want ‘losers’ like Sudhir to be around Trisha.

‘I can help you with it, if you want’ said Randhir. Sudhir hesitated but later agreed on Randhir’s repeated pestering. From then on, various tricks had been applied to lure Trisha, right from sending flowers and gifts to sending letters, in which he promised his love for her. But nothing helped. Trisha chose Trilok over Sudhir every time and Sudhir had thus almost resigned to the thought of considering himself as a loser. ‘Loser’ - such an abusing term for a boy of his age. He felt ashamed, anger seething in his veins.

                           It was the evening of their farewell party. Sudhir sat in a corner, watching Trisha, dressed in a red gown, enjoying a dance with Trilok. Her hair fell loose over her shoulder, making her look even prettier. Sudhir felt angry. What if Trisha had never met Trilok, he thought. It would have been Sudhir dancing with Trisha today then.

‘You’ve got to do something about it, haven’t you?’ asked Randhir. Sudhir was taken aback by surprise. He had not noticed Randhir’s presence.

‘Come on, follow me’, ordered Randhir.

Sudhir did not quite understand what was happening but nevertheless he followed Randhir, who led him to the backyard of the college. They were following Trilok, who had gone to dig out the hidden bottles of alcohol from underneath the piles of hay and dead leaves.

‘Go on, kill him’, suggested Randhir catching Trilok off guard.

Sudhir did not agree.

‘Come on, do it and show him that you’re not a loser’, insisted Randhir.

‘I can’t’, said Sudhir nervously.

‘Okay, fine. I’ll do it for you.’

Even before Sudhir could say something, Randhir walked straight to Trilok, grabbed a bottle of alcohol from his hands and broke it on Trilok’s head. He fell on the ground unconscious.

‘Stop it!’ cried Sudhir, as he watched Randhir stab Trilok to death with the broken glass bottle.

‘We’ll get caught’ panicked Sudhir.

‘No, we won’t. Just act normal.’ Randhir sounded quite calm. Sudhir was terrified. He ran back to his room. Images of the gruesome crime committed flashed in his mind as he stood staring helplessly at his reflection in the mirror. Just then he noticed blood stains on his T-shirt. It was Randhir who had killed Trilok, yet there were blood stains on his T-shirt. Sudhir was puzzled. Sudhir could not go off to sleep that night. He kept tossing and turning in his bed restlessly. He called up Randhir to tell him that he thought it wise to surrender before the police. But Randhir warned him not to do so.

With the dawn of the next morning, Sudhir went to the police station to confess about the crime committed. Guilt had kept him awake the whole night. He gave the police all details about Randhir and the murder committed.

Next morning, he was called to the police station.

‘Whose phone number is this?’ asked the police inspector.

‘Randhir’s, Sir. I have got his number saved in my phone’, answered Sudhir.

The inspector dialed the number. Sudhir’s phone started to ring. Before Sudhir could say a word, the inspector slapped him across his face and threw him into the prison cell.

The cell was dark, with a dim bulb hanging loose from the ceiling. Sudhir sat in a corner, with folded legs, staring into the ceiling, still confused and unable to figure out what was happening.

‘Were you trying to get me caught by the police? I warned you not to’ said a familiar voice from the dark corner, ‘You’ll always be a loser. Yes, that’s what you are’. It was Randhir.

‘How did you get in here?’ asked puzzled Sudhir. He was supposed to be the only inmate of that cell. ‘You’ll now be hanged for the crime you committed’, said Sudhir nervously as he saw Randhir advance towards him.

‘I’ll kill you before that happens’, said Randhir fiercely, as he leapt upon Sudhir, whom he had caught by the neck and was trying to throttle him to death.

‘Help! He is trying to kill me’, begged Sudhir.

The police stood helplessly and watched Sudhir. They seemed confused as they could not understand why Sudir was trying to throttle himself to death!