Republic Day

"Sapne rang de,
apne rang de.
Khushiyan rang de,
Gham bhi rang de...
Mohe mohe tu
rang de basanti"

Jai Hind.

It's my mommys birthday too. It's a friends mommys birthday too. Happy Happy Birthday.

The Weaver

He looks like a weaver.
From Benaras maybe.
From Kashmir maybe.
He walks into the room.
Slowly.
Each step,
like he were weaving
magic into the room.
Stitch by stitch.

Like Bangles

Yellow bangles slip into brown hands. Streaks of yellow on brown skin. Some would say it's an ugly sight, too flashy. I think it's beautiful. The bangles slip in and out so easily. Just like the magic in the soul. My soul. There for a moment, overwhelming me, taking me flying, and gone another moment leaving me bare.

For Me

Make me a potion.

Start with water from the Ganga, flowing in Uttaranchal. Put in the rain from mexico. A leaf from the Amazon. Some tattoo ink. Earth from the field, where I ran in school. Some rain from the city of joy.
Put in some glue that's used for making kites. My countrys earth. Cut and put a piece of my Grandmothers saree lying in her trunk, stir her smell and the look in her eyes. Earth from my mothers garden.Earth from a cricket field beneath the little masters feet. Put in a guitar string. Stir it with a flute for a while. Put some water from a well in Ireland.
Put in the brick dust from a gully in benaras. Put a bit of "him", a strand of his hair. Put a bit 'him' too, let his smile reflect in the bowl, mix it with everything that's inside. Put in a crows feather.
Pass the bowl through the cities and towns where my friends live, let them see it. Let my father look into it. Let my mother hold it for sometime.

Make me drink it.
And take me running.
Forever.

Ciggarete & Sunshine

Cold cold mornings. She wakes up at eight. Her eyes still lined with khol. She goes out of the room, looks for a patch of sunshine in the corridor outside. Sits there, lights her ciggarete and smokes.
Ay, it's a very poetic sight I get to see in the mornings, at the cost of her lungs or whatever ofcourse.

On my way back

The train

I sit with my knees folded up parallel to my chest. I've turned off the light so that the gentleman on the seat opposite to me can get some sleep. He gets down in a few hours. It's pretty dark, except the white sheet of paper on which I'm writing which reflects the light that comes through the glass window.

***

I lie on my stomach and see the lights of a strange town pass me by. No, no, I pass by. Sambalpur.

Vizag Ahoy

I'm in this place called Kailashgiri hills. From up here you can see the sea - ay, the Bay of Bengal, miles of the coastline and the whole town. You can see the waves hit the shore, but theres no noise that you can hear, and the waves seem to be moving so slowly. I don't know how far I can look into the sea because after a point it seems like I'm looking at the sky, but the tiny little things, I assume them to be sails of boats tell me I'm still looking at the sea. I sit on a bench, once in a while getting burps of the Idli I ate at the station. A while ago few kids were blowing soap bubbles near me. There are a lot of dragon flies flying around. I'll leave in sometime and go to the beach. On my way here I saw a sole horse/mare on the beach. I'm hoping to get a ride. How I envy those who live by the sea.

***

The train

I'm lying down, still, except for my hand. I've taken off my glasses, I do that when I'm very tired but somehow at ease. That way I can't see clearly, and I make no effort to see, I just look into nothing, with my eyes open. And the mind goes wandering.

I don't want to go back, I really don't want to go back. Damn. I don't want to go back.

Saved

And the words came again.
Three days of war and I
thought I was going to die.
Again.
But the words came.
I was sitting by the window
and they came,
just like that.
And I knew I was
going to live.
I had been saved.
Saved by words.

The phrase And the words came again is similar to "And the minions came today", Kamila Shamsies Broken verses. Though the content is entirely different. By minions she means servants in the book, though in the begining i.e. before the story I think she does mean typed words. This isn't inspired from her, but I just thought the phrase may have been subconsicously borrowed.

And all is black

Black is not her colour in clothing,
unlike most of the world that fancies it.
But she's all black today.
Black salwar kameez.
Black bangles too.
She wishes to wear some kohl,
but damn she's four eyed.

She'll sit on the terrace tonight,
with bats flying nearby.
She's of the night.
She is the night.
The beautiful one.

Couldn't help echoing Kamila Shamsie.