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Baby Gap

 

My mother says I have a habit of erasing memories,
She does not know they explode inside me like black holes in empty spaces.
Like there is more space inside me,
left unattended,
left bruised and bended,
left just left
like a puncture in the chest.
Has your home ever broken your heart? A space where comfort was like hot chocolate, tulsi tea or homemade snacks and one drawing room T.V. It seems so far now, home, 10km, 40km, 8000km, just distance, just a lot of distance to cover.
You start a new day. Wake up. Brush along. Bathe afresh. Coffee stains kissing white table hues.
You walk your way, It’s a new day. You walk along and the energy fades away.
The sun is burning your spine, you have a lot of weight on your shoulders. There is distance left to cover but you stand still, the clock is ticking seconds away, minutes, hours, moments, frozen, time, memories. The light becomes its own devil, your shadow awaits your sight. You look how singular and grey and lone it feels and now you cannot trace your own heartbeat. Just a stuttering tongue, a trembling hand, your heart beats like closing doors- bang and bang and bang
like a careless roommate enters the room while you’re sleeping, closing the door, bang!
Has sudden rain ever saddened you in summer season? When clouds were whiplashed mightily, when sounds groaned hard up there and rain dropped unexpected, unwanted, unwelcomed, uncherished, uninvited, unsolicited, everything there is of beauty with a non-detachable ‘un.’
Undo
Undo
Undo
I wish we could attach un with do and erase those distances, spaces, time…
I do not know how having a baby feels like. My mother says,
‘You can never fill a baby gap with anything.’
That I know how feels like. Do you, too?

 

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Chasing Rainbows

 

My eyes reach as far as they can, I find two rainbows outside my concrete windows.
One solemnly spills its colors in the sky space and the other glitters in the smiles, in the free smiles of the kids playing in the mud after rain.
The colors up there are supple and quaint. I wish I could clutch a part of it, spill it unstrung and repaint!
But the colors down there are raw and unconstrained.
They jump like monkeys with vivacity and in bounty.
The mud litters ingloriously, they dance however undaunted.
I stand behind my window, I view two rainbows together.
The sky reaches out to my eyes, my vision dilates and I chase and I chase in the merriment of capturing it- bare, untouched, picturesque!
But the park holds me still.
My heart chases it.
I do not want to capture it for once.
I want to live it.
But I stand there and just look. I watch two rainbows together.
One, a clear stream of resplendent colors,
other, too far, too distant with muddy pinafores and dirty collars.

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Unicorns

 

The twinklings linger in my sleep, I dream of chocolate rivers.
I leave the Christmas night unbolted and believe that Santa would meet me. That Santa would come.
That there is Santa.
My eyes would burn with sleep and I’ll wait anxiously for Santa to come.
The deep blue sky will walk with me wherever I go. In the night time the moon will follow me wherever I go.
I dream of the rain whispering to me, leaving me with messages of wet lands- green, deep and misty.
I leave messages of my own, in the outer space via my inner space, and hope and hope and I sincerely hope that they would conjoin with their bearers- wholly, fully, completely.
I have carved these places inside myself where beauty is ever evolving and hope immensely freeing;
where warmth forever dwells and love never eludes, never sourly swells.
I sit drinking from chocolate rivers, I wait for Santa too.
I seek the rain to talk to me and I hope my self-talk reaches places, people too.
The child in me still dreams of unicorns, it is bored of mathematical classrooms.
It peeps outside the transparent window, it dances with the clouds,
it chuckles in its imaginations with unicorns prancing about.
An angry voice curtly shouts,
“What are you dreaming about?”
I turn my eyes to the blackboard unwillingly, secretly still dreaming aloud.
I do not know what happened to that child, where he went all this time. He’s gone I feel,
away from me,
away from chocolate rivers,
away from Santa dreams.
I think of unicorns very rarely now. I’m so sure they’re not there.
Yet looking up into the deep, blue, cloudy sky makes me feel
what if they are?

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Tired and Cold

 

I walked so much that day; my feet are cold and tired.
I pick up the exhausted fruits from my table; my hands are cold and tired.
The body is weary and would only want to curl in the warm, blue, ocean like sheets; the heart will remain cold and tired.
So much of what is essentially cold and tired remains that way till the time it is all okay. But is it, ever, all okay?
I cover the body and warp it with exhaustion,
the heart, all naïve and childlike, wishes to burn in exultation, in the exultation of what is not there, in the exultation of the million comets that passed, remained untouched, unseen and yet they were so there.
The body tries to sleep. It is so tired and so cold.
It washes away its shivers under the ocean like sheets, it washes away its sanity thinking it is warm hands, deep hands, lovely hands that bake its shiver into sleep; the sleep is so tired and so cold.
The sleep twitches the weary body and it trembles partially aware, the dream shudders do not leave the bed and the night never seems to end;
the conscience dances all night for it remembers it had hoped to not sit but dance,
and so it dances
and so it dances
and so it dances
in the gaiety of false hope.
It is so tired and it feels so cold.
It sees the naked mountains in distance and it never fears and walks with least resistance, though it is so cold and it feels very old,
it feels like the walk never ends
and on the path the heart bends,
its knees are bleeding tired woes,
the toes are stretching their aching sores,
the shoes do not expand in any way, it feels like this walk will only stay.
The unconscious glances convulsed in their singularity and the body blinked in its cubical surrounding. It is still so tired and so cold. The alarm is yet to knock at sleeping doors. And so it passes its every mechanical day, where it gets consciously exhausted and the heart misleadingly exulted.

I walked so much that day; my feet are cold and tired.
I pick up the exhausted fruits from my table; my hands are cold and tired.