MEMORIES OF YORE

On most sunny Sunday mornings, I would wake up and lay in bed, dreaming for what seemed like hours. But today, the morning was peculiar in comparison to the other days. The warm rays of late morning sun fell slanting through the oval window, lying on the floor like sweet honey. I blinked a few times, in an attempt to help my eyes adjust to the illumination directed right at my defenseless body. So, I turned around as the dust particles in the sunlight flitted between the beams when I felt the brisk cold air brush against my unclad skin.
 
With the sun streaming in like a flamboyant guest not waiting for an invitation, I slowly, drowsily, opened my sleep-blurred eyes with a hint of hesitation, and lopsidedly smiled at the slivers of light peeping through the drawn blinds, casting thin golden stripes across my face and neck, little did I mind. I liked how the sunlight bathed the lonely corners of my room, making it glow, perhaps the sun-bleaching of the floors should concern me, but it doesn’t, just so you know. And I think to myself, how mesmerizing is this iridescent affair of mellows, a treasure in a normally grey bleak world.

I stepped out of my bed, walked up to the tinted window pane, and gazed into the clear blue sky, getting lost in a sea of ever-changing thoughts again. The smell of crimson bloom filled the air, and the fragrance like a time machine, granted me a fleeting visit to my grandmother’s backyard. Oh, how I wish I could return to those meadows, hiding in the shrubberies, running among the trees, which had been planted in the days of yore; my hair flopping backward as my face felt the warm sunlight; I yearn for the extra hours of June solstice, where I frolicked about the vast plains of the open country, and then hurtled back to my home before the moon shed its light on me. All my happy memories unfolded as the pages of my beloved childhood storybook.

There is this funny, wildly strange thing about reminiscences and recollections. They come in bits and pieces. Short, split-second flashes born out of the one that precedes it, in quick succession. A film-roll reeling its tapes recklessly. Haphazardly. With no heed to the timestamps. With no heed to reason. No heed to sense. One after the other. One after the other. Without a pause. That’s the thing about recollections, they do not need to wait a while and catch their breath. Reminiscence soaks our cheeks with salty tears of memories and makes us smile, by letting us relive the long-gone days and stories. And even though all we have are skeletons of July and rain-soaked memories of June, a little birdsong, blossom, and sunshine, can warm our cold hearts like a summer afternoon.

MORNING INTOXICATION

Warm mellow rays wafting through the curtain walls,
Waking me up every morning, before the young birds’ calls.
The swift balmy breeze fluttering into my heart’s chateau,
And the April sun burning away the smoky remnants of my dreams of you.

Every morning, I wake up craving your warmth in between my sheets,
I miss the aftertaste on my tongue, of stolen sweets.
I crave you, your touch, your smell, on my tee,
Unwillingly I get off the bed to put a brake on my sleep.

Draped in sheets, I limp towards the table, feeling mundane,
To perk my weary soul, so soft and unstable, with shots of caffeine.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee, running through the room,
Waking up my senses, from the land of doom.

Newly bloomed lilies fringing the narrow lane,
And the sweet fragrance of them, running through my veins.
Holding the cup, melting my cares away, I slowly laid on the bed,
I close my eyes to realize, the thought of you is stuck in my head.

I lay my emotions on the altar of feelings,
Confessing the truth, there’s no concealing.
For loving isn’t just about the bodies eloping of sobriety,
It’s about dealing with the sinuous minds in their entirety.

Love is more than just a physical connection,
It’s about building an incomparable and enigmatic relation.
Where intimacy lies in undressed thoughts,
Somewhere you expose your insecure spots.

A place where vulnerabilities meet your strengths,
Where you share the stories embedded in your souls, at length.
Where secrets are unfolded under the blankets,
Where you make love like you always wanted.

A place to see beyond each other’s perceptions,
Learning to live and love without limitations.
A place to seal your heart’s abyss,
A place where memories reminisce.

The solemn silence and the endless shining of the sun on my thighs,
Accompanied by the beautiful interference of you on my mind.
I gulp the leftover coffee, yawn, and stretch my arms,
Looking at the serene climes, and mild sky, glowing with golden charms.

AN ODE TO ALL WOMEN

I think it’s brave to get up each morning,
Even when your soul is weary, and your bones ache for rest.
I believe your tiredness makes you more adorning,
When you hustle to achieve your best.
I think it’s brave how your bones were forged with fire,
How else does one explain the inconceivable strength that you possess?
I can’t help but admire,
The way you make your place among the noblesse.
I think it’s brave how fiercely your eyes shine,
Like the indigo ocean, pools of iridescent blue.
The way you wear your smile is so divine,
Even after all the struggles that you’ve been through.
I think it’s brave to be born as a woman,
Born with pain built-in.
It only makes you more of a human,
To see you make your way through thick and thin.
I think it’s brave to go to war,
To look into danger’s mouth.
And defeat it even though you end up with scars,
Something to be proud of.
I think it’s brave how you never settle for anything lesser,
The way you chase your dreams with wild lust and fiery passion.
You’re no less than a chunk of coal under pressure,
The way you put into everything your mad devotion.
I think it’s brave how you never let your doubters stop you,
Instead, let your obstacles strengthen your core.
Overcome all barriers, and start anew,
You are the thing that terrifies them more and more.
I think it’s brave how you’re both calm and chaotic,
Both certainty and illusion,
All of these crazy things,
And at the same time human.
I think it’s brave how you manage all your roles,
A daughter, a lover, a wife, a mother, a woman, above all.
How do you help your people achieve their goals,
You, woman, are the foundation of everyone’s walls.
So, when your doubters tell you about all the things you cannot do,
And all the things you cannot be.
You throw your head back and laugh, and tell them,
“I am a woman, more than just a human and you cannot stop me.”

OCTOBER’20

Autumnal bloom

My frosted lips kissed the autumn breeze,
October has arrived, told me the susurrating trees.
I can feel the nip in the air, the chill,
My heart began once more to thrill.
Happiness settles in when October arrives,
When the cool lungs of fall envelope everything that thrives.
The autumn sunshine spills through the colors of burnt crimson and auburn leaves,
Streaks of brilliance breakthrough, as newly chilled air, moves the clouds, and oaken sheaves.
I let my eyes rest for a moment, feeling the ambiance of the Feuille Morte street,
Hearing the sounds, taking in the aroma of the crushed foliage under my feet.
I looked up in the sky, the golden sun melting me down,
It was the magic hour, when the sun dyed everything in warm tones of gold and brown.
My hair whipped into my eyes by the cold crisp air,
Tousling it into buoyant curls, and silky layers.
I could feel the zephyr running through my veins,
Filling my heart with nostalgia, reminiscing memories in my brain.
I am bathing in the kind of weather that inspires long walks and poetry,
The neighborhood has turned into a riot of gold, amber, gamboge, a colorful symmetry.
The season stretches forthwith fingers of every hue,
Painting the world in shades ombre, scarlet, crimson, with a touch of dew.
This season has my sprits soaring beyond the colorful boughs above,
Looking ahead for the brilliant shafts of sunlight caress my soul with autumnal love.

OCTOBER ’19

Road Covered in Mist

I woke up to a morning covered in October mist,
And decided to head out, as I couldn’t resist.
I languidly walked on the street, with sleep clung to my eyes,
With my hands tucked in my pocket, I looked up in the sky.
I fed on the cold that wrapped around my ribs,
Also felt a film of moisture settle on my crimson lips.
Fingers of mist combed my hair and they spangled too,
Like leaves in autumn that are laden with trembling dew.
I walked past a cover of breeding green,
As the golden butter sun gleamed on my bare skin.
Then I diverted from the usual path, took a road I’d never walked upon,
And followed the ever-present symphony of zealous birdsongs.
As I walked, I came across buildings, both dilapidated and new,
The path covered with trees on both sides, a view so picturesque!
This place smelt of nostalgia, as if I’d been here, when or how I cannot tell,
So, I walked further down the road, in the direction of Shiuli’s sweet keen smell.

A Shiuli Tree

I traipsed through a stretch of irises and poincianas across,
And gently walked over the splendorous carpet of softened moss.
I finally found the Shiuli tree which was ten feet high,
With beautiful white flowers and orange tips, that bloom at night.
The intensely sweet fragrance floated in the cold breeze,
And when the dawn struck, the flowers dropped down the branches of the trees.
The yellow foliage shrouded the black roots of the tree,
And the dry crunch of dead leaves crushed underfoot filled the eerie.
The sun now shone over my pink nose and I smiled like a summer sunrise,
And the apricity in the air hugged me, this was my paradise.
Then I looked at the soiled ground covered with orange excitements and white bliss,
And stood, let the tranquillity sink in and for a moment, everything else ceased to exist.

A Bed of Flowers

TRAIN, TRAVEL AND TEA

The Crowded Platform

“Kharaab se kharaab chai. Manoharpur ki kharaab se kharaab chai.”

As the train slowly pulled into the station, a shrill and high pitched voice, woke me up from my sleep. It is not every day that you wake up to such a hubbub of activities. Among the yelps of numerous vendors and hawkers, trying to outdo one another to attract customers, this chaiwala seemed to have effortlessly caught everyone’s attention with his distinctive voice. And just like everyone else, I peeped outside the window, half asleep, rubbing my eyes, trying to spot the chaiwala in the crowded platform but I couldn’t. It had been 5 minutes since I last heard his voice. My urge to have a steaming hot cup of tea seemed to have died a thousand deaths by then but I hadn’t stopped looking. I heard the train honk twice before it started to pull out of the station and suddenly, a tumult of shouting and screaming broke out. People, mostly hawkers started hopping on to the steps of the moving train. Among them emerged a man of short stature, with a skinny built, precariously holding onto the metal handle while balancing the aluminium kettle and a bucket stashed with reddish brown clay cups. His face looked hot, rather flushed because of the fear of not being able to catch the train but a part of him believed if he ran a little faster, he might just catch it. Without considering the baggage he was carrying, or the sweat that was pouring down his face, making his eyes sting, he threw caution to the wind and took a chance and hopped into the train. The next thing I saw was him wiping the sweat off his forehead, taking a moment to catch his breath before starting his usual business.

“Kharaab se kharaab chai. Manoharpur ki kharaab se kharaab chai.”

Tea Served In A Clay Cup

His voice echoed in the compartment as he briskly walked down the aisle, with his aluminium kettle and a bucket stashed with clay cups, to get a first shot at the thirsty lovers. It took me only a few seconds to recognize his voice because it was the same voice which woke me up in the morning. He was the same chaiwala, who everyone was looking for on the crowded platform. I watched him push his way through the crowd, advancing towards my seat and I couldn’t wait any longer so I asked him to pour me a cup of tea. He bent down to remove the cover from the spout, picked up a kullhad and poured some tea in it. He handed me over the steaming hot cup in exchange for money. Then he moved forward, squeezing through the narrow aisle, rubbing shoulders with constantly moving passengers, chanting his distinctive calling song, serving tea to the other passengers and soon, his voice faded out in the hustle bustle.

View From The Train

In the meanwhile, I was enjoying the petrichor smell emanated by the kullhad, which filled the air spaces inside the train with complete bliss. Also the warmth of the hot beverage comforted my cold hands and as I took a sip from the kullhad, I felt an earthy and organic rush in my mouth and then, I thought to myself, “Should have gotten two cups of tea instead of just one.” Then after finishing my tea, I sat by the window looking outside, to catch a glimpse of an early morning. I could see the vast stretches of lush green fields covered in mist, and mellow flowers, in hues of orange and pink, too hard to resist. The cool wind that blew over my face filled my nostrils with the smell of dew and the kaash phool that swayed beautifully on the banks of rivers, looked like a view, too good to be true. I remember the intensely sweet floral aroma of the shiuli tree on the way and how its flowers bloom at night and drop down from the branches, at the first rays of sunlight. Also the murky pond filled with lotus blooms, that calmed my senses with their exotic perfume. And when the crisp yet damp air blew through my hair, it reminded me of nothing, but what a wild yet exquisite melange of emotions is the autumn!

COMFORT

#writer #summers #evenings #peace #comfort #love

And no matter how much you’ve outgrown, there’s something inexplicably comfortable about spending a lazy summer evening lying on your terrace in your old boyfriend t-shirt paired with a pyjama under the orange hue sky, sipping tea, munching on a biscotti and reading a book and the most comfortable thing being your breathable old clothing.

These old clothes fit you in the most coziest way possible, after all, they know you inside out, all your soft curves and all your sharp edges. They are aware of everything that you hide from the rest of the world, those scars, those fights, those dreams curled up under your collarbones’ might.

And sometimes, in the most strangest of ways and circumstances, when you least expect it, you meet someone, who comforts you like an old piece of clothing.

Someone who wants to walk with you on every path of your life, to see you fail, fall and flourish. To be a shoulder to lean on when you’re tired and stand with open arms to hold you when you fall back. They fill you with an urge to be a better version of yourself, one moment at a time.

They aren’t about the fancy things rather they are the ones who make the ordinary feel special. They understand your chaos and choose to help you compose yourself in the most beautiful way.

When you’re with them, you’re your most authentic and passionate self, such a raw version of you, that even you didn’t know that this version of you existed. You unmask yourself, show them your vulnerable self, and lay down all your demons in front of them and ask them to look inside of you. You let them unravel the mysterious layers of yourself.
They crawl under your skin and wrap your insecurities as if they’re their own. They push you to face those insecurities, but this time, together.

They set fire to your self doubts and make you accept them, face them, and get done with them for once and all. They go through all your phases, and still find magic in your crisis. It is with them that you live each moment in vivid colours, tucking all the struggles and anxieties in the back pocket of your tattered jeans with sunshine gleaming from the corner of your smiles, every time that you kissed.

This person invigorates you to grow and catch you when you fall, every time. They send chills and thrills down your spine and every time that they trace their fingertips on your skin, it feels home. Home, a place where you are wanted, a place where you are needed, a place where you are safe and snug, just like your old t-shirt. This person fits your soul in the same ways that your body fits in your old clothes, and sometimes, you want to cling on to such people for a lifetime.

HAPPINESS

It was a late summer evening and my maa sat on one of the chairs in the patio, listening to soft music, adjusting her reading glasses and reading Gurudev’s book; eagerly waiting for my papa to come and join her for hi-tea. I had been swinging on the swing for quite a long time now. I could feel the cool breeze on my face and my bare skin; seems like it rained somewhere. Along with the breeze, came the sweet fragrance of the marigold plants that maa had planted in the balcony. By now, maa had already asked me thrice to get up and make chai for her and papa, as he might be arriving from office any minute now. Regardless of what maa asked me to do, I lay like a dead body on the swing. The thought of leaving home after the vacations and going back to the usual routine killed me. My heart sank a little with every passing minute. Even though I was sulking, I was aware of everything going on around me. No sooner did I hear papa’s voice from downstairs, I got up and rushed into the kitchen.

Though I was making chai, my attention was on reminiscing the beautiful days that I spent at my home in the vacation. The flashbacks of my hectic life made me sadder. I was obviously not very happy with the amount of pressure that my college had been putting on its students. It bothered me how dull my life had become. However, when chai was ready, I poured it in the new ceramic cups that maa had got from the departmental store the other day. I also took out some biscuits from the jar and placed it on a saucer. Then I put them on the tray and walked down very gingerly.

As I was pacing towards the patio, I overheard maa talking to papa about me and my brother and how she’s going to miss us. I somehow managed to not break and put the tray on the table and left. On my way back to my swing, I heard maa telling papa how she likes the tinkling of my anklet and how that makes her happy and this tinkling is something that she’s going to miss the most.

And I felt once again how simple and minimal a thing is happiness.

सुबह सुबह #sunrise #hindipoetry

'A picturesque view of the heart-warming sun from the window of my room that not only woke me up but made me write so beautifully.'

फकत एक खयाल से तेरे,

मैंने शब-ए-महताब को आफ्ताब में बदलते देखा है।

शामें ढलती देखीं हैं, दिन पिघलते देखा है।

Faqat ek khayal se tere,

Maine shab-e-mahtaab ko aaftaab mein badalte dekha hai.

Shaamein dhalti dekhi hain, din pighalte dekha hai.

फकत- Mere

शब-ए-महताब- Moonlit night

आफ्ताब- Sunshine

Waking up early is a daunting task, no doubt in that but losing an extra hour of sleep to write something beautifully is what I live for. This picture was taken at 6:41AM and I spent the next 2 hours writing about it. I feel contended. Well, now I am sorted for the day.