Serendipitous Rendezvous With Poetry

The ink,

this untainted emotion of yours,

appeases as it flows within.

The pen,

this perplexed idiom of mine,

purifying undone sins.

 

The words,

anthology of the unsaid

in the muddled continuation. 

The rhyme,

a huddled companionship,

an emotional predation.

 

The manuscript,

disoriented chunks of life

scribbled on paper. 

The verse,

callousness uncomplicated

as love and desire taper.

 

The poet,

a lost voyager, unperturbed

with his craving for the end. 

The reader, (YOU)

the essence of the art, where

eternity and dreams blend.

Pretentious Spotlessness

Please allow me to introduce myself.

I am a blogger who seeks the self within

in an ensemble of humble emotions,

in the realities and the pretentions, akin.

 I sing of the rain when the earth is dry

and bring the fragrance of the wet soil.

I talk of the efforts when close to quitting.

I summon the power wrapped in the golden toil.

Creating an aura in codicil to the truth

I present a world of charming verses.

Austerity in the reflection, yet soothingly I paint

with colors of hope as our heart converses.

In your polite presence I seek completion.

I shower gratitude to the divine soul in thee.

Sometimes it is about you, as ardently

I chase a dream to be the ME I want to be.

Abstemious Spirit of Mine

This life, all life,

seditious courage for lust

emerges from the abyss.

A passion, perhaps not just

 

The cravings of past.

Unsure future in sight.

I seized you closer

with all my might.

 

I beam of you

in my hushed existence.

Holding onto your love

in a dying persistence.

With kisses on my soul; and

an abstemious spirit drawn.

You made me worth

of being a mortal man.

Loved You…Always Have…Always Would…Forever

“Lonely nights…

whispering moon…

gazing stars…

haunting wind…

hurting thoughts…

waiting souls…

desperate love…

eternal life…

the same me…

in YOU…wishing…praying”

A Perfect Life…With You

Nothing I can hold onto
everything just passess through me.
without your gentle touch
I am not the man I wanna be.
Can’t see  shining or dark
things in front of me.
I live to feel your breath,
closer to you, I am free.

I don’t wanna live forever
but I wanna live it with you.
I don’t know what my God looks like,
but I know he lives in you.

 

I know what forever means.

I lived it,
when I loved you.

The Little Zunaid

 

12 year old Zunaid was wearing new clothes today.

In the crowded market place, which was also referred to as “The Heart” of the city, he felt as if time never stopped. Some years back when he had come with his Abbu (father) to meet a distant relative, his juvenile mind simply found it difficult to release itself from the awe of this vivacious fête. The trams and the cars seemed as if bulldozing against each other on a busy track which, so magically, went serene at nights. The skyscrapers were astonishing and the old buildings were humbled in time. He had seen toys which could speak, jump and fly. He had seen so many people who just seemed to be in hurry of reaching somewhere.

This time, it was all different.

As he slowly walked past the bustling cloth market, he looked at the new clothes he was wearing. His uncle had given him those. He remembered what his uncle had told him, “Wearing new clothes gives you an opportunity to introspect and clean your soul. Wearing a clean soul gives you an opportunity to be close to the almighty.”

His naive mind could hardly grasp the depth of those words but he knew that the almighty was the most powerful yet humble soul who writes our destinies and is even to all.

His mother used to tell him about how a life of hardship would test the heart of a man and bring out the gold in him. She was not a literate woman but she had the knowledge of religion, culture and traditions to the purest. She never criticized anyone or anything. She would tell Zunaid that anger is always the cause of a man’s peril and one must inculcate self control and must always appreciate even those who hurt him as it would help his perseverance to grow.

He loved his mother very much.

He had left her about three months ago.

Since then, he had not spoken to her even once. In his pursuit to become a man his mother would have been proud of, he had left his home to walk the path leading to ceaseless glory and redemption. He chose to purify his heart and let his conscience decide his destiny. The terms of his happiness had been modified from being short termed to eternal.

…and happiness for his mother was all he desired for.

Zunaid had reached the place where he was to start his journey. He had been reading verses, said to be spoken by the people touched by God himself, since three months. He had concentrated all of his confidence and will to prepare himself in standing out today. If successful, he knew that he would be initiating an association in the hearts of so many like him back at home, who remain in awe of things which everyone here, in this city, just can’t find time to admire.

The time had come. This was his time.

Zunaid closed his eyes.

He thought of the warm hug of his mother. He felt her gentle voice calling his name. He smiled.

………

………………

………………………

News At The Hour :

An unidentified suicide bomber kills 47 in “The Heart” of the city. A nation mourns.

Zunaid’s mother never got to know what happened to his son.

But she was proud of him – forever.

Love To Be Proud Of

The strength a “wife“ gives comes with a lot of courage, perseverance and love.

It requires more guts than anything else in this world to decide in your heart that come what may, I am going to stand next to my man!

We men do get bogged down a lot. Behind that male ego lies a continuous need for someone to pick us up and carry us through. These few lines are to thank my dearest wife “Suhani“ for being the better half of me – the only half worth being proud of !

 

Wandering in the darkness of the deepest alleys 

and yet to find someone who believes I exist. 

My faith is tied and my dreams all gagged up. 

I stretch my soul in ache. To die, I firmly resist.

There is a chill in my spine. I can barely pick myself up. 

Surrounded by emptiness and sounds of trembling breaths. 

I remind myself of the life you spoke of. 

I bleed of hope, still, as my consciousness shreds. 

I gather myself with the last speck of might. 

Let the bones break, but I must stand. 

You taught be to bear this pain and more. 

I must weave back every broken strand.

You are the courage that ignites me

and the comfort to sleep un-dead.

From my ashes, I’ll bring back the man you loved.

YOU conquer my every single dread.

 

Loving You…For Not Who You Are

She woke up to a perfect bright day. Her room was illuminated with the beads of golden sunshine filtering down from the translucent window glass. The wind chimes had never been out of their symphony as they were gently swayed by the humming wind. This was another perfect day.

She could hardly concentrate on her work as the thoughts of meeting him later on were too captivating. There was a certain evident restlessness in her which she tried her best to hide. She would smile just by thinking of him and try to conceal it at the same time. She was cautious enough not to let anyone know the reason behind her new found anticipation.

The weather had taken a change of emotions suddenly. Dark clouds had arrived uninvited and the slight breeze had taken the twist of nuisance. Her trepidations became louder and she could hear her palpitations as she approached the corner of the street where she had been meeting him since the last one month.

It was already raining heavily when she noticed him standing with his back against the wall. He had arrived early as always and was drenched in the drowning downfall – dripping wet as he waited for her to come.

They could meet only here everyday and this moment was something none of them wanted to miss. After these 10 minutes or so together, they had to go their ways apart with the killing uncertainty of tomorrow.

The best part about being in love is that you would never know when it happened, how it happened and what made it happen. It just happens.

She hugged his shivering frame tightly as they met. He tried to show that it was not a big deal getting drenched. But he also knew that he cannot fake it in front of her. So, he didn’t try too hard to either. She took her scarf and gently wiped his hands.

He was just in awe of her being so beautiful and innocently true.

Suddenly, she saw her father standing on the other side of the road watching them both. Worried about his daughter, he had come to pick her up. She could see the lack of expression on her father’s face which spoke of only one thing – discomfort.

Frightened, she let his hands go. Taking small heavy steps she started walking towards her father.

Heartbroken, he could just watch her go.

She sat inside the car, avoiding any eye contact with her father. Her father gave a stern look at him. Surprised that her daughter could sacrifice her comfort and gentleness for someone like him.

He sat next to her and closed the car door. One look at her beloved princess and he could feel her heartbreak. Something he never wished her to know.

Her father gave a look at the wet and grimy frame of his. Then turned slowly towards her daughter and said, “You can get that puppy home, if you wish.”

A large smile conquered the face of his 10 year old daughter.

He, unknowingly, just celebrated her first love !

A Heartbreak Called Blogging

“Please, I beg you. Don’t do this to me,” she was in tears as she clutched her phone. The blood seemed to have drained out of her fingers into the red nail-paint. The black kajal in her eyes had exhausted itself, diluted with the strong flush of emotions.

“You have to understand me. It’s not easy for me either. But I have to do it,” he spoke in a noticeable manner to hide his hurt. “You know, I would never do anything to hurt you. I do know what I am doing and you have to believe me.”

“How can you decide about us all by yourself, without even letting me know? Who gave you the right to take decisions on my behalf? You have no right to make me believe in life again and then just tell me that everything had been to make me feel good?” her voice still had more soreness than she could hide.

“I never tried to help you out. Believe me; I can hardly help myself up. You had always been so strong and wonderful. You gave me strength. You showed me what life offers us in the struggles and the endeavors.” He wanted to tell everything she meant to him, but chose not to.

“What about all the talks we had about keeping hope and keeping faith? You want to say that the blogs we wrote celebrating our relationship and maturing as companions were all fake? I sought myself in your words, in your comments and when I am this close to holding on to you, you want us to back out?” she almost screamed in anger. And then broke down, again.

He chose not to speak and let her bring every bit of hurt from inside. He just wanted her to be free.

“I thought you were different. But you are also one of those pretentious bastards who just want to play with words and don’t even care if it hurts anyone later. You created your space in my life. You inspired me to change my perspective about it,” her voice more in control now. “Or you did of pity on me?”

“No. I did not do anything so demeaning to you,” he immediately objected. “I needed you. I had been selfish. I’m nobody to hurt you. The words I said were mine and they were true. But yes, I am a pretentious bastard. I pretended to be strong, which I am not.”

“Everything seems so staged up right now. You think I need you to survive?” the anger in her voice more evident. “I have begged enough in front of you. Live your lies.”

She hung up the phone.

He held onto the phone for about a minute. She was not coming back. His hand moved slowly on the dimly lit computer mouse and he pressed the delete button on his blog.

He once again went on to her blog and cried as he read the last post she wrote:

“I was on the verge of a failed life when I found you. It has been two years of you giving me all the might, the will to sustain and the love to cherish myself. You have inspired me to be who I am today. I am happy that we would be meeting tomorrow. But before that, I just want to tell you one thing – I love you and no matter what happens – I am spending the rest of my life with you.”

He did not resist his soul from drenching in the rain of ache. He let them free. He knew he had set her free too.

He slowly felt his existence below his waist. The young Captain wondered if things could have been different had he not been amputated.

 

This is my entry for the HarperCollins–IndiBlogger Get Published contest, which is run with inputs from Yashodhara Lal and HarperCollins India.

As I Follow You ( Confessions Of Your Follower )

 

An apprentice

in the world of fragrant verses

and nourishing thoughts.

I wandered with a sting

of a mystifying drought.

 

Interpreting the conclusion

or to just look in awe

with your words around.

I felt content and nobility

in my juvenile astound.

 

You – diffidently aware

of the people dropping by

and cherishing the aglow.

I – with a diminutive significance

still craved to FOLLOW.

 

In the ensemble of

your soul defining maxims

and gutsy veracities.

Admiring the courage you found

in the poignant audacities.

 

Every morsel of pain and glee

that you renewed into a hymn

of your precious opus.

I stood by your magical aura

as your lexis fused us.

 

FOLLOWING you

is life unprecedented

in these frenzied belongings.

The chimes of your spotlessness and splendor

creating the soul of my longings.

 

As you write

with your burning desire

and words of intimate obsessions.

I promise to FOLLOW and leave my soul

In your paradise – In your creations.