Monthly Archives: March 2015

Friendship not forever lasts

On the crossroads of life,
With an affinity did friends meet.

But time betrayed in such a way,
One went this way, other went that.

A ship was there, that drowned;
Though its planks kept floating.

A flock was there, that scattered.
One went this way, other went that.

– Translated from Sindhi

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State of denial

Do you know what is worse than losing someone you love or excruciatingly more painful than living in piercing pain?

It’s the state of denial. It’s convincing yourself to shut up every time you feel like you must speak up. It’s the fear of losing a bigger war, losing something of someone that you already have in hand in pursuit of what you may never have, and trying is all but in vain.

It’s actually all that “may not/might not” which is for sure worse than anything else.

It takes months and years to try and create someone like you out of the words like dreams and desires and magic and prayers and lights and fire.

And it takes seconds to seeing it all soaring away disappearing into dust and vanishing like vapor and dispersing into mist.

You put me in some real fix. I want to secretly admire you staying like a distant dream from afar while simultaneously yelling every single thing I love about you right into your face.

I want to perch on your mind and flow in your veins running with your blood and web on your nerves leaving no space for anybody else and stay in your eyes for good but at the same time aspire and choose to be an insignificant bystander; one you may never know if ever existed at all. Fighting a battle of should or should not.

My condition is no different from the man who believes to have started world war four with his feet because they can’t take him to his loved one and because he already had the third with his head.

I am fighting many battles in my head already, and losing; from nobody but myself. And I don’t want to lose on a bigger front. Hence, choosing to shut up every time I feel like, I must speak up.


And I write and erase and…

I do have to start writing about you. And I do write and erase, and write and erase and write and erase or throw it away into trash and dump it away in a quagmire of nothingness.

That’s where it all including the scribe, that matters not, belongs – an absolute oblivion and hollowness.

Before it all meets its ironic fate, I have written innumerable blogs, scores of broken poems, beautiful little stanzas, dirty half a dozen passages, cents of dreamy essays, fairy-tallish stories and spell-binding prose.

Magnificently bewitching, maddening, marvelously magical, magnetic and mesmerizing.

Self-praise may not be a recommendation in the world of sanity. But my dearest one… all that is about you, and all that is about me thinking about you, is majestic beyond bounds. And I need no judge, not at all, without any doubt.

I have to have a means of expression, for the best of intentions, in all your admiration that to you again matters not. All that I do is all I have to do and I do it for myself and nothing more.

I write and annihilate a big assembly of phrases, crush a crowd of courteous clauses and sentence to death an emotional mob of sentences, and I know what I am doing.

At least, it makes me realize where I am heading. What keeps my existence where it belongs is dumping it all away. And I know what I am doing.

Singing an invitation of insanity with the flames I find at your door, I write and erase.

The door that gets farther the closer I move while the flame gets nearer than ever. And the warmth do I savor. But I am not a moth meant to burn and blaze. And cast the flames of your door any blame.

In a losing race as the scribe would put it, the writings and scribe keep draining, dripping through the ink, streaming, flowing before eventually getting sunk, numb and lifeless.

That’s how it works; self-annihilation to be precise.

And it hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts. But still, I write and erase and I write and erase… everything that I am supposed to say… and nothing that I am supposed to say… nothing.


Rain – a symphony of life

That thunderous roaring beat,
of rain playing a life’s symphony.
All but dead is dancing to its beats,
plants, winds, roads, and me.

In the very moment when
a sip of strong, hot doodhpatti [tea]
floods through your veins
acting as a potion of ecstasy.

Taking you to a sweet sojourn,
drowning you in an ocean of fantasy.
Penetrating through the clouds,
to savor the crescent moon’s intimacy.

Sigh! The cursed moment making you realize
of the last sip getting consumed.

Of rain subsiding,
the symphony dying, and
the life resumed.

That…

Winds cease the singing,
plants postpone the dancing,
the roads sleeping.

All but me relishing,
the eternal euphoria,
that is everlasting.