a picture

a picture
nothing more
blue lifts my mood
I wish to hug that child
his father is lost to him
crown is a burden for the baby too
he is unaware of it as yet
he wants his father to love him, 

"king holds his child, 
but his heart is as dead as his queen"

yet another one for you, dad

quite clearly I hear my father
climbing up the stairs

with a inviting smile
I open the door wide
in that expanse of landing
I see empty nothingness
yet feel his righteous presence
while my heart soars
my lucid mind tells me otherwise
he has been gone for few years now
and can not be salvaged
I close the door
lean against it

quite clearly I hear my father
climbing down the stairs

memories jive tirelessly

metallic blues jangles in the background
reckless me, jives tirelessly
dad, your words
move in and out
after countless years
silhouette within the walls
of memories jiggles
my heartache is contained
because you reinforced it that way
that speck of paper in my pocket
scented with your love
drives away my blues
metallic sheen of jangling bangles
makes me heart whole yet again

scotch-taped

flipping through that old album-
which you had scotch-taped
so crudely after I tore it up in anger once-
I see the photographs haphazardly placed
a few taped so badly that it doesn't seem
quite so right to be there

yet I find a order in there
I learned early your way of working
and in someway or the other
I have followed the same path
with thoughts running faster than light
there never was any other way

when like you, my anger gets in midst
I stop, blanking out everything
closing myself in, listening to the
sane voices inside my head
and yours too, which never fail
to comfort me in my anguish

another torn photo stares up at me
you holding me, you rebel daughter
looking morosely at nothing
yet you beseechingly smile at the camera
your hand absently soothing me
I close the album, calmed as of now

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lately I have been thinking of my father. He has been gone for almost seven years and I still miss him.

yellowed piece of paper

This I wrote for my mom. A very rough draft.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
yellowed and tattered
that piece of paper holds her heart
not a single days passes
without her taking it out
almost devouring it
her name, only a few words in the middle
and his signed name at the end
she knows the words
yet can't resist taking it out every morning
dull purple behind her eyes
can't take away the love only she can see
her first and last love letter from him
he never wrote another
in the forty five years they spent together
they never even said they loved each other

transcending time and space,
love can be never be a folly
he is gone but lives forever for her

she hoards trash

And also come ride the Monday Poetry Train...


"those mud smeared boots,
expired medications;
chipped spectacles;
some loose change;
that tattered journal
a much thumbed photo album,
you know what, she hoards trash."

these words, I overheard
for being spoken about me, to my mom.
without confrontation,
I heard my mother defending me,

"she seldom hoards the bitter words;
your somewhat sarcastic smile;
your cutting remarks,
your hurtful ways.
she forgives and forgets,
moving on forward,
always being affectionate to you."

Pausing she went on,

"so why do you grudge her holding a bit of trash?
all these are stuff which belonged to her dad."

stoicism----Read Write Poetry/Monday Poetry Train

And come ride the Monday Poetry Train...

that child as still as a unmoved rock,
with a stoic befitting a saint-
sat on the temple steps.
in the shadows of the night
he could be taken for a stone God
taken out of the sanctum
left there by some thief
in his haste to run.

only his eyes moved rapidly
like blinking lights-
when hunger pangs danced
wild in his belly-
he howled like a distressed dog,
waking the whole neighbourhood
from its lazy stupor.
pademonium broke loose

whose child was he?
he had been left on the temple steps
by his mother, and told to be quiet
so he had sat there for the past two days
as still as a unmoved rock
with a stoic befitting a saint,
until hunger pangs corroded his guts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lately I have been thinking of homeless children. I can't get them out of my mind. Hence my last few posts are somewhat about those children.

punished for indolence?!----Sunday Scribblings

In summer days of '02
I chose to stay home
with my books and sheets-
life at my fingertips;
doing what I wanted
even silence if I please.
lying down; daydreaming
or staring at the blue sky.
probing for nothing much
uncluttered by screams,
television switched off.

ringing of that telephone
woke me up from my reverie.
holding the receiver
listening to my brother speak,
a silent scream formed in my throat
by the time I reached the hospital,
dad, you had lost consciousness-
never to wake up again.

Constant split into two

I thought that I will talk about myself every tuesday. I might even set myself prompts or introduce memes! I truly do not know what road this may lead me. This time, I start a bit early. On a Monday night. And why not?

A while back, I was in a confused state of mind. I forgot right from the wrong. I am not saying I am above all this. I am as human as the next person. Nonetheless, I let this madness rule over me for a long period of time. I was in a trance like state where you act like a zombie. You do all the normal things but your mind is not in it. You want to let go but something stops. You fully well know you should break away but you are tied. You want to resist but cannot. One way to get out of it is to snap out of it. Somehow I simply woke up one morning and snapped out of it. I think physical illness helped me in a way.

Looking at it, in terms of life, there is no gain or loss. You are what you make of it. Chasing Eldorado never led anyone anywhere. One just needs to remember the constants. Can we change those? Bigger question is, should we change that? How do we decide what path to take? Can any path be wrong? Or right? On the pitch-fork of road, our mind splits into two. Does liberty mean we can do anything we want? No, if it is going to affect others. That too, in major ways.

My dad taught me that whatever decision I make, I should sleep over it. That sometimes gives us a better perspective. This time, I was awake for a long time . When I finally slept over it, I knew what my dad meant. My dad never imposed his will on me {if he had, I would have got married before 20. Almost every Indian parent plans the marriage of his son or daughter even before they are born. Even now! (That was an aside!)}. He was always there for me. No matter what. So is my mom, now. Only parents can love you unconditionally. I have been the major beneficiary of that, being at home most of the times.

This time, I am not going to let anything influence me, my mind. I will go by my gut feeling. It tells me to forge ahead. I am making changes in my life by moving to a new house, changing my school and in many other trivial ways. On the personal front, life looks bright, now that the dark clouds are gone. I am going to keep it that way. I am no longer going to look like that girl in the photo..

Let's all raise a toast over that!

Continuing Traditions---Sunday Scribblings/Cafe Writing

For me, Diwali holds beautiful memories. It is the festival of lights. We celebrate it by lighting up the surroundings. Tiny Earthen lamps are used for this purpose. More of a ritual, I think. Gifts and sweets exchanged and of course, it is never complete without bursting crackers.

However, it is not same since my dad passed away. I remember he was the most enthusiastic of us all. He was not much into gift –giving. He left it for my mom. Nevertheless, he used to get us the best of crackers. He taught me about wiring, holders and bulbs when I was barely 7 years old. I was always tagging along and he had no other option. He and I used to put up the lights together until he was gone.

After him, I did not feel like continuing the tradition. Somehow, on the eve of Diwali in the year, he was gone; I got out all the lights and sat down to check each one before putting those up. My brothers and their families were due to arrive at anytime. My mom looked at what I was doing. Without a word, she sat down with me. I checked the holders, wiring and bulbs. Mechanically repairing where there was a disconnection.

I put those lights, switched those on after plugging it. When the whole place lit up, I felt that my dad was there and as usual, I was helping him putting those up. All was done before my brothers arrived. I need not tell you their reaction other than that they hugged me!

My dad is gone. Not his memories. When I put up those lights each Diwali, I feel so much closer to him. I know he would have been proud of me. I did not let what he had taught me die away. I kept right on. I even give out money to all my nephews and nieces along with the gifts I get for them. My dad used to give them cash not knowing what to buy for them. I have to carry on what he used to do.

What I write here are not holiday memories or traditions. They are part of our lives, our living. I have to keep the memories alive for the kids. I do it as best I can.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Option Five: Timed writing for Cafe Writing for December Project.

aromatic pleasure---read write poem/Monday Poetry Train

Writing about three pieces is not as easy as I had thought. I took three different ones- a cup, my dad and newspaper. In fact, I have taken few more and tried to connect all those here. I wrote a very simple verse. I post this for Monday Poetry Train too.

designed with complexity,
cup sits there on a coaster-
frothy coffee grows cold
aroma infuses environs.

my dad reaches towards it,
inhaling with enjoyment
sips, his expression akin
to deep ecstatic pleasure.

glasses perched on his nose,
glances through newspaper-
is lost in sports, coffee now
forgotten, nearly discarded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

** When I am engrossed in reading, be it newspaper or a book, after a few sips my cup of tea is forgotten and is always poured down the drain. However, I do prepare a cuppa before I sit down to read. The only difference is, my dad loved coffee, I like tea.