A name on Sand

He wrote down the name on sands.
But the winds swept it away.
He tried to save it with his hands.
But the waves had their way.

He wrote it down again.
though he knew he had nothing to gain,
he thought it would ease his pain,
But alas! It was all for vain.

Brinish water kissed his feet.
Salty tears touched his lips.
Emotions he has, which he cannot beat.
Alright outside, inside he bleeds.

Deep inside his lifeless heart,
lies a tomb of pensee.
The reach of it is so vast,
that others cannot see.

In agony he upped his chin,
he knew not what was his sin,
sorrow was his only kin,
he wished for, what could have been.

Long hard sun beat down on him,
that hurt his reastless eyes.
The pair is in so need of vim,
but all it had was sighs.

He let the winds blow.
He let the waves kiss.
He let the thoughts flow.
They know not of his bliss.

Picked himself up;started to walk,
Wind and wave closely stalked.
Etched in his heart is a holy phrase,
the name in a place, that none can erase.

Keep Walking

From the day I go,
Into the night I walk,
Leaving behind the crimson row,
Trying to kill the prey I stalk.

The winds are a mighty blow,
And nights are dark and cold,
starry night a hazy flow,
and I immitate a very old.

The full moon a distant dream,
So blackness makes it difficult to stare,
No silver shining on the stream,
I know not I go where.

It is the pain I guess,
That presses me to trod,
Makes me forget the stress,
Into a horizon, which is broad.

Footprints on the sand

I was walking on the sand. At a moment, I decided to look behind, my not so usual self. I tried to see my footprints on the sand as far back as I can see. I tried to find that day when I started measuring the footprints. A long boring sets of footprints vanishes somewhere in the haze of past. Almost a decade of footprints! We, human beings, love the word ‘if’.  “If only.. If only I could change.. If only I could turn back time…” and so on. A point of repenting, excuse and ponder. But, whatever is gone, is forever gone. Time waits for no one. Each letter that I am typing now is history in moments. One day, all these moments in life, will flash back before our eyes. I am not sure whether it will be worth watching. But there will be clips, inevitably, which we would like to change. Yes, sometimes we waste so much time with this word “if”.

So, if I trace back my footprints to the day, it feels like a distant hazy dream. My ever cloudy mind tries to find the details. Sometimes I amaze myself. And probably I did that day. I realized it a lot later. I was cold, emotionless and thoughtless empty soul, working mechanically to face what was in front of him. A bitter soul on what he has lost and what he could have done. And an empty soul, ready to be filled with what is next. There was no time to even repent.

Standing in front of what seemed a draconic desert, there was no clue on the sand as to where was the right direction. Every direction seemed right, or was it wrong? All I knew I had to start walking. There was no sun. There was no moon. Neither there was any stars. Just a hazy halo light uniformly enveloping the sky and the earth. I started walking towards what it seemed an anomaly in this hazy halo uniform. Feet dug deep in loose and listless sand. As if stopping me from taking the next step. Tried to make castles of loose sand. Only to see it vanishing out of my palms. There was nothing on the sand but my foot prints pulling me back to the day. Deeds cannot be undone. I kept walking with an inkling thought of the “if”.

Rain Man

It is an unusual season for rain. But he was happy. He darted out of the house to his backyard garden and started tending the flower beds. He loved rainy season. Though now it was almost summer. As he did gardening, his two little daughters watched him from the balcony.

It has been two years since he lost his wife. This garden is all that is left of her. Douglas never re-married again, fearing that it would divide the love for his daughters. He was mom and dad to them. He loves walking in the rain now. Specially around the house where the garden lies. This thing he never did when she was around. Neither did he do the gardening even after countless requests by her.

Thinking about it made his blue eyes to water and he looked at his daughters in balcony. But they cannot see his tears. It was raining.

Uncle Ben

He stood at the end of the driveway speechless like a statue. An angel little girl was running towards him with her arms wide open. She was just four. Her mom Emily, was transfixed on him with teary eyes. She could hardly speak.

Ruby threw her arms around Josh and welcomed her daddy back with a well-planted kiss. "Where is uncle Ben?". She was curious because uncle Ben loved her the most. He hugged her and told Ruby that her beloved uncle Ben will be a little late.

Rest of the evening went by with Ruby doing the most of the talking. The adults were unusually quite. They were not expecting this. After Ruby went to bed, Josh turned to unusually strong Emily, who now was almost in tears. They said nothing more and bid goodbye to each other. She has to break the news to Ruby as soon as possible. Probably the next morning.

As he stood at the end of the driveway, he turned around to see the now quite little house. His heart ached with pain. It was a long hard eighteen months at Afghanistan, and the war has taken its toll. With this thought, Ben's eyes were wet with tears. How he misses Josh! His twin brother.

The Promise

      Soup was simmering on the stove just like the last two days. Bread was just out of the oven. The room was filled with their smell. She paced the dinning room with her son's letter in hand. Reading it occasionally and glancing outside through the window. She once again read through the brief letter from her son:

"Dear mother,

Life has been tough. We have badly beaten the Nazi's on this front. I do not know what will happen to Moscow. But mother I have been very brave. I have been just like father. They have granted me a week's leave. I will be coming home to you soon. I might be a little late, but I will come to you I promise.

Your Loving Son,
Yaroslav."

   Tears trickled down Milyena's cheeks. How proud her husband would have been. Her son was little late. But he promised he will be home.


Soviet counter-offensive: Winter 1941

    Yaroslav watched the panzer tank closely as it approached. This was the 8^th one which was coming down straight to his trap. He and his unit was ready with his antitank rifle. Suddenly the panzer stopped. It spotted them. They started firing. But it was too late. He ran towards the panzer with a RPG-43 Grenade. There was a blast and a blackness.
   It was a long way home, but just the thought of his mother’s hug made Yaroslav happy. He had survived the ordeal and now he was granted leave.
   She was almost asleep when there was a knock at the door. She did not know how long she has been asleep or how late it was. Milyena sprang to her feet and opened the door. There was Yaroslav, her son, with a smiling face. She hugged her and brought him inside. The journey made him pale and cold and it was snowing outside. After he got fresh, she served him dinner and they talked about so many things. War has made her son quieter and his eyes were speaking of pain. She knew that they had just this night because he was already late. With morning sun Yaroslav will be back to the Eastern front. As they went on chatting, it was suddenly dawn and time for him to go. Yaroslav slowly picked and packed up his things and hugged Milyena. She still felt his coldness and tears ran down her cheeks. They did not talk much and neither did say bye. As she watched him go in the snowy morning, his footsteps slowly disappeared in the snow. How well the son has followed his father’s footsteps.
   She did not know how long she had been asleep. It was almost afternoon when she was awoken by a car in front of her house. She opened the door. The herald gave the letter to her without any emotion. She opened the letter with trembling hands.

“Dear Madame,

With great regret and sorrow we inform you that your Son, Yaroslav Alexandrov, was martyred three days back, on 15 January 1942, while returning home, on a train raid by German air force. Yaroslav was a gallant soldier and his name will always be mentioned in Russian history in golden words.

Yours Truly,

Joseph Stalin.”

Yaroslav never kept a promise he could not keep.

The Maestro

     As the maestro tapped his flute, his three students watched him eagerly. They patiently waited for his daily lessons and the tune of his simple flute that soothed them to oblivion. And thus the maestro began playing his flute. The first tune out of it made the three to attention. Maestro played with his eyes closed, stopping at each important note to explain its significance. He tapped one of the three on his head to bring him to attention. Slowly the magical sound began to pick up its tempo. Years of experience and love for the flute made him a master of the art. As the sweet sound filled the ears of the mesmerised students, they got lost in a trance. This is what they wait for everyday. They closed their eyes and dropped their chin and rested it on their limbs. As if in a prayer, worshipping their guru. They forget everything when the maestro plays his flute. He is God to them. He is the shepherd. It helps them to forget all the pain in the world. Maestro taps again on their heads to bring them to attention. They have been his students for a long time now. He rates them the best he has got. He just wishes that one day they will play like him, and he will sleep to the end of his life listening to them. But that will need years of work. He looked at their droopy eyes. Their love for him was obvious in their sad eyes. He smiles, and continues to play his flute. The sweetness of sound envelopes the four into cocoon,sheltering them from all the vagaries of life and all that is going around them.
         It was not until someone passing by, heard the maestro's flute. He threw some coins at his feet and went on to his daily work. Maestro hates that. He let the coins lie there on the footpath and picked up his things and a bitter mind. He needs to find a quieter place where he will be left alone with his students. The vagabond left the busy intersection with the students closely following him, wagging their tails.