Why do I Write?

Writing yet another poem I realized, 
I don’t truly know why I write;
for I’m not really someone to whom words 
come naturally, nor do I come from 
a family of great poets or writers.

Every poem I write requires a fair amount of 
time and efforts. My poems at best
are work in progress. In spite of all,
if I still write, there must be a reason.
I ponder for a while, but I’m still unanswered.

Poetry is not a tool to vent my feelings
or to escape the worldly affairs.
It isn’t a medium to satisfy my deep creative urge.
I do not seek any appreciation
nor do I want to send any message.

Then, why do I write?

Later I realized I write because 
My writes are my stories; 
my memories to revisit the past. 
They’re tales of my interactions
with nature, language, and society. 

Maneuver

Her flawless midriff reflects the stare 
like snow does sunlight. 

A slight round depression in the middle is like 
an oasis in the uncovered barren land.
A spring of joy it is to the lust 
filled eyes; an invitation to labyrinths of lunacy. 

Take a sip of her nectar, but 
not too much. For it is just a beginning 
of a world unimagined. Beyond 
this, lie treacherous mountains and unravelled basins
Hiding uncountably many blisses. 

Be reminded that the path is untrodden and well-guarded.
The journey, nevertheless, is worth 
every challenge for it will 
reveal the preciosities she withholds.

It is a journey she too
will enjoy- you and her together.

First draft. Lots of polishing to 

A Strange Country Called India

A country which claims to exist for centuries; 
But only got her act together after a series of invasions. 

A country which claims to be a socialist;
But has the highest number of people below the poverty line.

A country which boasts missile and satellite technology;
But ranks very low in HDI and infant mortality rate.

A country which has hundreds of languages of her own;
But uses English as her official language. 

A country which worships goddesses;
But does not treat women as equals.

Those Sundays in Winter

It is another Sunday in the winter.
I am properly tucked in my quilt.
I browse through the top headlines of the hour.
It says the temperature outside is two-degree centigrade and I quit
all ideas of leaving my quilt.

Sundays in winter were my favourite days
and letting me play on Sundays my cookies
for reading properly for six days.
Those Sundays, which seem to be distant memories,
are some of my best memories.

Saturdays were the days of preparation.
Arranging bats, balls, and bicycles, at least four,
deciding time and venue for the action,
making strategies to sail us ashore-
were some important tasks to be completed before.

I used to sleep a bit early after setting
up a thousand alarms, in case I missed a few,
to ensure I woke up in the morning.
and then I would make a few
calls to wake up the crew.

Though while gearing up,
I would move as little as possible
my Mom would always wake up
and then I’d to wear all the clothes ‘cause cold air made you susceptible
to sick and sick made you feeble.

Before I could leave home, I had
to close the door as slowly as possible
because I didn’t want to wake up Dad
for he was predictably unpredictable
and it was too risky a gamble.

We dared not look into uncles ‘n aunties’
eyes while asking our friends to come to play
for their looks could terrorize
anyone. We’d then go to the decided play-
ground on the shared bicycles without delay.

Quarrels to bat at the top,
the endless running around to save a few runs,
‘barking’ on fellow players lest catches they drop,
heated discussions on run-outs-
these memories still give me goose bumps.

The celebrations after winning the matches and
blaming each other after losing were
the customs of the day and
mom made ‘chicken’ and a good after-
noon nap – a perfect finish for a day to remember.

A lifetime has gone by
since we last played together
and bade each other goodbye
but those memories still lurking somewhere
inside our brains adhere us together.

To the World of Dreams

As the relentless sun sets, a rich velvet of black engulfs the sky.
Under it, hang the twinkling stars with the strings of yearning.  
The night’s tranquil silence and the impending darkness announce, it is time go home. 

The long way to home is glistening with the soothing light of the waning moon. 
The cosy bed awaits you to pack off your fatigue. 
Swooping puffs of grey clouds play hide-and-seek on your way. 

After the day’s tumult and exhaustion, it is time to lie down. 
The shimmering stars welcome you to the hours of solace and unwinding. 
The whispering of the leaves and the splashing water from a nearby waterfall make the perfect lullaby. 

Go tenderly into the night. 
Let the soft wind caress you the world of dreams.

The Moon

As the mighty sun sets and the copper sky turns dark 
the lovely moon rises, 
along with thousands of twinkling stars
amidst the chirping of birds returning to their homes. 

In the darkness, she brightens up
with the light she’s borrowed from the sun,
giving hope that the sun will again rise and 
with it, this darkness will vanish.  

She seems to admire the sun
for his ability to light up on his own. 
Circling around the earth is just an excuse to gaze upon him.  
But the sun has been ignorant of her for long. 

There are thousands of stars to keep her company. 
Still, she feels lonely
waiting for him to come along and
fill all the voids she has.

She may not be perfect
but beautiful she is, in her own right 
for she does not shy away from her flaws. 
Those flaws make her ‘her’.  

She waxes and wanes like ups and downs, I go through in my career,
Telling not to get fixated on the worldly ways
For one rises only to fall
And the fall is to be soon followed by a rise.  

She looks calm and assured. 
But do not mistake her calmness for lack of strength
as she tames the entire ocean, creating mountains of tides 
to destroy everything which comes in her way  and challenges her strength. 

Nectar of Youth

In the lusty green background, 
There stands a flower,
Painted in the colour of love,
Flaunting her curvy petals, 
Adorned with crystals of water.    
She brightens up, 
As the mighty sun compliments her. 
The gentle wind caresses her beauty 
And spreads her intoxicating fragrance.    
The vibrant leaves dance around her, 
Desperately trying to woo her. 
She smiles at those poor leaves. 
But a little insect wins her over, 
And drinks her nectar of youth.

A Letter To My Beloved (Letter #1)

Hey Hi,

I am taking this opportunity to write to you, Love. I am a bit old-fashioned, you know. In this fast moving world of jets and satellite phones, I am still writing to you. To be fair, I will be using the internet for sending it to you. Still, it is different than sending texts.

Anyway, I am doing fine, if you are wondering. And I sincerely hope you are good too. You must be wondering why I am writing to you if I have not yet figured out who you are. I am in a very important phase of my life. I will be taking very important decisions which will affect both of us. I know you are going through the same. But I want you to know that whatever decisions you take and no matter where these lead to, we are going to find each other and fall in love with each other. There will be a few things we won’t be proud of. Those things don’t make us who we are. We are better than our mistakes.

Sometimes, we don’t know where we headed to. We hold no clue what’s special about us. What makes us different from others? Believe me, I understand that predicament. I have been through that too. Actually, I am still in that phase. It is okay if we don’t know what we are meant for. Yes, it is important to figure it out eventually. But there is no point of putting extra pressure on yourselves for that. Explore your options. Exploring is fun. You get to know about lots of things. Somethings interest you and some don’t. But the tough part is leaving something behind. You put so many efforts to learn and at the end when you have to leave, you feel kind of bad about it. It is alright. You don’t have to say goodbye to anything. They will be with you always, the memories.

I know you miss me. I miss you more than you can imagine. I do long for your company. The desire for holding you in my arms keeps me awake at nights. Listening to my favourite songs in your sweet caramel voice and watching movies and reading books together will be my favourite pastime. The slow wild, passionate kisses……. (Breathe in…………. Breathe out). But I will wait for these things. I will wait for you. And I know you will do the same because we are meant for each other. I have grown to realize that it is not just about the destination. It is about the journey. The long wait, finding you and falling in love with each other- everything will be part of our love story. It is worth the wait.

I know you too have lots of things to say to me. Write to me, if you please. It is said when you love someone truly, the world conspires you to bring the two together.

Yours

The ‘To Do List’

Sitting on the edge of the bed,
He was looking over the ‘to do list’. 
This ‘to do list’ seemed to end never. 
He’d to prepare a speech for Thursday. 
He was to be presented with Director’s medal for his brilliant academic performance. 
Everyone admired him. 
But there was something missing in his life,
That made him think 
Whether the things he had achieved would be enough
Whether they would make up for the lost time and people. 
The crescent moon from the window of the room seemed to laugh at him 
For it had got the company for stars. 
The stranger in the mirror, as always, agreed with the moon. 
As an ice-cold gust of wind filled the room, 
He shivered making him feel a bit alive. 
But when it subsidized the room became darker and quieter.
A moment later, his gaze shifted to the pictures hanging on the wall. 
These pictures were the testimony to his achievements.
But the alien people in them reminded him of the big void in his life. 
As the bright moon in the silver knife drifted away from him, he felt lonelier. 
He stood up to make it stay. 
And stay it did, till he found it moving away again in the dark red liquid
Leaving behind the fluttering ‘to do list.’