That time in life

That time in life
When in the heat of smoldering summer
Wild blush of spring roses
Bloom on your dimple cheeks,
When dead daisies from last season
Flower fragrant in your breeze.

It is that time in life
When life  itself
Swings to fluttering rhythms
Of a beautiful butterfly wing.
When wild flowers burst forth
A parched desert dune
And hope that lay dormant
From long years of arid ennui
Springs and bursts forth
Shoots of living green.

Live on, I say
For these are not moments that you lose
To thoughts of yesterday
Or hopes of a tomorrow
That may never come.

Crazy Poets

Who is your best friend?
I
What do you mean I? Indu?
No. Just I .
Don't be crazy. Everyone has a best friend. Someone with whom you can share all your secrets, all your pains. Someone with whom you would love to walk into the sunset. Someone with whom you can share a giggle, be yourself.

I do all that with myself.
I have no secrets,
I write.

Good Byes

The silences that fall over oceans
Once the Ships that set sail
Reach their shores.

The darkness that fall over walls
And curtains of a theatre
Once the play is done.

The feeling of that full stop
Which placed right at the end foretells
The End.

Twisted

Every time I am with her, I am reminded of a Neruda: "I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me too."

Every now and then, from the random chaos of everyday living rises a warped relationship that is funny and entropic. I love her, and sometimes, she loves me too. Every time I hold her close to me, she melts into herself, rarely have I felt her melt into me. Those proud threaded brows, with their perfumed winged lashes flutter in random anticipation of a kiss, but those eyes don't talk to my eyes, they seem to be in deep conversation, with themselves. I know her favorite dress, I know her special days, I know her fears, her dreams, most of her desires. She knows where I live, she knows what I do, not sure if she knows my middle name. She knows I have a niece, not sure if she knows about the nephew.

Many years ago when I was frantically searching for a copy of Dr. Zhivago, I remember what our librarian Thomas sir told me, R, where these books go and hide, is a mystery. When it is time for you to make friends with a Pasternak, Dr. Zhivago will come in search of you. Until then, there are so many other yarns to weave.

I loved her. Sometime she loved me too.

Old Things

Raj?
Yes Princess?
This rice cooker is not working!
I know baby. Will repair it this weekend.
How much do you earn Raj?
Baby, I don't like where this conversation is going.

Why have you not bought a new one? It's always the same, the burner of this ancient stove, the rice cooker, that ramshackle apology of a washing machine that you have... Why? Why don't you just get some new ones?

Baby, we have discussed this before. You know I won't.

Shall I gift them for you?

No Princess, these don't leave my house. I can't accept new ones.

Will you always always be so difficult?
Yes baby, always.

Why?
Cause that rice cooker has been with me for 12 years.
So?
So I can't just chuck it.
What does that mean?
It means that as long as it is amenable to repairs, I will repair and use it. I will use it even if it costs me twice the cost in repairing it. I won't give up on it, until it gives up one me.

Do you know how crazy that sounds?
I know baby.
And you are OK with it?
That's the way I am baby.

How long have we been together?
22 years baby.
Love you Raj.
Love the cooker too baby.
Dog you are!!!
Bhou Bhou Princess.