Lost

Treading on a strange road, 

Whom a dark forest engulfs. 

Passing through the prickly goad, 

know not what enthralls. 

A thinking man with a long shadow, 

With my back to the sun. 

Reaching for the elusive rainbow, 

All I know I have to run.

I know not where the road leads,

I know not where I am.

Rustling leaves the breeze reads,

Path below my feet feels a sham.

Oh my nonchalant parched heart,

What is it that you seek?

In the deep forest, like a hart,

A dreamy land you keek.

A stream that plays its music,

Surrounds the wonder land.

Nothing of amuse, it’s so tragic,

For it longs for the Neverland.

The soul knows the secret deep,

Though the mind lies in a frost.

A promise it strives to keep,

The promise to be always lost.

The Coming of the Ship

   So, on the 2^nd day of the year, down with a bad cough and cold, I confine myself to my bed.  A balmy northern breeze, unexpectedly warmer, is caressing my face. And a warmer sun is playing hide and seek with my feet. Through the leafy branches of a tree, I can see tufts of gloomy clouds trying to cover up a lazy sun. Just like empty thoughts jostling for space in my mind.

                It feels nice. Nice for finding some time for yourself and not getting bogged down by the monotonous monochrome maladies of life. Often I have wondered about all the efforts we put in our daily lives. To what does it round-up to? Another year passes by and getting older by another year. But are we getting any wiser? It’s incommodious as too many antagonistic thoughts queue up the thinking wagon. Pages of a national geographic magazine adds fuels to the thought fire and my heart clings to its deepest proclivity.  

                Someone somewhere starts playing a mouth organ. These kind of tunes can make you nostalgic instantly and for a moment you stop and turn back to glance at the road you tread. A montage of memories fill up your thoughts. What you dig up from these reminiscences is not under your control. But just like the tune of the mouth organ, let it fill your soul. Life is not always about doing things the right way. If you always try to measure up things and fret about them, it is actually that very moment when life passes by and you fail to notice it.

                Random, chaotic thoughts embezzle my senses and I seem to drift away into a faraway land where one’s life is like a utopian dream. But sometimes, such a feeling of a chaotic mind helps. One must spend time alone for introspection. It is the time when your soul opens up and you begin to comprehend the essence of your life and how it should be. You begin to recognize yourself. It is the time when you allow the mind to meet the heart and you begin to unravel your yearnings. 

For a moment the sun hides behind the clouds and I come back to my senses. Now the sun, through the leaves, creates crisscrossing shadows on my face. Somehow it reflects the state of my mind. I remember a fragment from the chapter ‘The Coming of the Ship’, in the book ‘The Prophet’ by Kahlil Gibran:

“A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.

And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun”.

Letters to Anita : Letter 4

           Rain lapped at the cheeks but the shadowy figure continued to brisk down the street.  The sharp-edged moon is long gone and dreams can wait for a while. Puddles danced in sinewy strides. Tucked under the arm was a semblance of hope.

            A single street light fought the darkness in lynching rain as winds whistled in pain. A silhouette began to appear.  The other end of the street couldn’t be seen at all. An old tune hummed between the lips. Razor like blades were cutting through the body. Wobbly legs carried the dark figure. At the catacomb of its mind, thoughts were running wild. In its heart was a strange desire. As always. But the reality is far from wishes of a whimsical mind.

            As the figure reached the end of the street, a ghost like house stood in front of it. Tucked arm revealed a trembling hand with an envelope. A little red letter box creaked in dismay. Red paint was peeling off its body. But this time it was not a quick delivery. For a moment the eyes were transfixed on a neatly sealed envelope inside the box. It was for the deliverer.  It quickly picked up the envelope and replaced it with its own.  

            A single street light fought the darkness in lynching rain as winds whistled in pain. A silhouette began to disappear.  Too many thoughts crossed its mind. Somewhere there was a hope. The creaking letter box woken up a pair of soggy eyes. It peered through the sheet of rain and saw the figure. It was nothing unusual. It does not even bark herald anymore.

Paper Boats

Life was a lot better in simpler times; when we were children. Our wants and outlook towards life was a lot simpler. The cradle of life went on rocking by hands of time and we grew up to be wiser, essentially. No matter how strange or obtuse it seems. I live in a place where I have grown up. So I have seen the changes a town or city metamorphose over all these years. Same are the roads, same corners and sometimes the same shop which stood the test of time. I never pay attention to how ferociously time has or is passing by. But sometimes, when I find some time for myself, a lazy Sunday evening with music rolling, playing some old songs which I have heard in my growing years, I happen to ponder back. Time actually slows down. And all those memories buried deep inside my mind crawls up to the surface.

As if just yesterday, I remember, it was customary for my dad to take me to the ‘bazar’ every Sunday. I learnt to recognize the fish, the meat, the bread, the milk and many other things. The infusion of various sights, smells and sounds still lingers fresh on my mind.  That was since at a very young age.  My dad held my hand and traversed the busy ‘bazar’. Intrigued and mesmerized by all that happened around me. I always looked forward to those Sundays because I knew after the busy ‘bazar’ lessons, I would get some toy from a local shop. Those kinds of Sundays are not there anymore, neither is dad. The milkman is still there but the ‘bazar’ itself has changed a lot and the toy shop is not there anymore.

First day of school! Suddenly listening to a different language and praying to another unknown God. I often wondered how I or any other child understood the language from first day itself. I started praying to a different God and they told me it was not something different. He was just another of God. Missionary Catholic schools have their own charms. Those who have not been to one will always find the strict rules and disciplines a bit too much. But trust me, it’s not that much different from any other types. It’s just a tad disciplined. You meet and make new friends and suddenly you find someone of your same size to share your thoughts and opinion on what’s happening in and around your small world. His pencil box is larger but you have more number of pencils. Her eraser is better but yours smell nicer.  These kinds of important things, which hardly matters to the rest of the universe, were of paramount importance. Forget pencil, I don’t even use a pen today.

As the small fingers leant to hold pencils, erasers, crayons, a whole lot of new world opened up. Where are those coloring books and drawing sheets? Or the double ruled copy books to write in cursive? The red football and a porch to play on; or my snowy dog, or the slip at the local park; they are not there anymore. When heavy rains meant just small paper boats with my name on it slowly floating to places unknown.

I had this small closet where I used to keep all my toys. It was my small world of Pandora’s box. The content of that box was mostly toy cars. So when my dad bought an attaché, it came along with a sheet of alphabet stickers to imprint one’s initials on it. When I grew up a little older and still in kindergarten, I happen to use those alphabets to form the word ‘CARS’. And I pasted it on the door of that closet. All by myself! It was quite an achievement in those simple times. That closet is not there anymore. It was with us for quite a while until few years back. It had become a tad too old. When it was broken down, it still had traces of those alphabets. That kingdom of mine is long gone.

I always loved nature and playing with mud was one of my favorite pass times. I used to dig up small holes to mimic a small pond and fill it up with water. An imaginary miniature village would come up beside it. An imaginary story line would run on my mind as if it was a different world altogether. Simple were the wants. When was the last time you played in mud?

It rained today quite heavily. As water drops trickled down the leaves of trees, I happen to ponder back to those times. Maybe, you have too. Maybe a drop or two have escaped your earnest heart through your eyes remembering those times. May be you will be nostalgic reading this once you remember your childhood. Maybe!

Today I thought about that paper boat of mine. If it could return to me, I will find it crumpled, soggy and my name all gone from its side. It is too small now to carry all the heart’s desires.  But I can bet, hidden in its small folds are the sights, smells and sounds of the garden I used to play.