Love in Thoughts.

I seldom say what I feel,
The thoughts swivel in my head.
But that doesn’t make them real,
Don’t know what they are instead.

I remember times and people past,
They make it hard for me to forget.
At times I’m amused, at times aghast,
That all I see are silhouettes.

I’ve grown between now and then,
And put things in perspective since.
About love, the question is when,
Do I fall and evince.

It will always start with a thought,
It will always start with you.
I can say, for it, I have fought,
And I will never say adieu.

Of this, you will never hear,
And that wasn’t my plan.
But it’s never been more clear,
To love in thoughts, is the only way I can.

Brown, black and white...

I was born brown and you were white,
The world was dark but we were the light.

We only felt love and never taught hate,
Why didn't we realize the world's fate.

This world in which your color defines you,
Judged and affronted, as I grew.

Grew up to be a man in this world of fools,
Never to abide by their system of rules.

You can still judge me and make declarations,
Based on my color and my nation.

Never in the past or now do I care,
If I'm dark or someone fair.

That is not something which defines your worth,
The mere idea is one of mirth.

If you have to judge, don't by color,
As a human being it makes you smaller.

We're all born equal, this you should know,
Whether it's now or a century ago.

Now that you're here, make love the movement,
This god forsaken world could do with some improvement.

An evening in a small town. (Continued)

It was ironic that she knew she was a forgetful woman and he thought of himself as a forgettable man. Sometimes he asked her, in all seriousness, if he even existed. He would frown and reason that nothing he ever did seemed to have happened. At first she found it amusing to qualm such thoughts but in the end she was left frustrated as to not being able to see and live in the world in which he seemed to be existing.

She drags the couple of bags she's managed to fill and walks out the door trying her best to be cold and unemotional. Five steps later she's bawling on the floor. Taking another step away from him seems to be the hardest thing to do. But she forces herself up and continues on, then stops again for one last look, only because it seems to be the right thing to do. She hails a cab outside and asks to be taken to the train station.

He has never experienced pain such as this. It was impossible to even open his eyes. Physical torture was no match for this mental anguish, and, anguish it most undoubtedly was. He, who had handled with dignity almost everything life threw at him with utmost carelessness, was not prepared for this sucker punch it dealt him. He thought it was unfair on life's part that because it couldn't defeat him fairly, it had to stoop down to this. With an effort that seemed to him almost superhuman he gets out of bed only to throw himself out of the window. As he gets nearer to death and closer to the ground, he sees a most unusual sight.

An evening in a small town.

It seems like she left in a hurry. There are things strewn around everywhere and most of her belongings are missing. He's in shock. Where did she go? Who with? Is she ever coming back? Again he's left to pick up the pieces of a broken down life which seems to have lost it's only purpose. Sorting through the mess he finds something. A diary. That's not like her. She hates to write. He remembers her laughing at his weak efforts to give his life an identity through a story. Should he go look for her? In the end he decides it's best to let the things, which you're not sure belong to you, go. If it was yours, it would come back. But he knows no one is coming back. It's not with sadness or regret that he realizes this but with a final acceptance. In a gesture of ironic defiance he decides not to read it. He pulls the curtain and drags himself to bed to try and forget about this cataclysmic joke his life seems to have become. He's a defeated man, he doesn't know any other course of action.

A couple of hours earlier she is packing anything of hers she can get a hand on. He is, again, in a meeting with a publisher to try and get another of his disastrous work read. She pauses for a second in reminiscence then resumes packing rapidly, angry at herself for that momentary lapse. For giving him another second in her thoughts. She knows he deserves better from her. It's not his fault how things turned out. But she still blames him because if she doesn't then she can't go on hating him. For his attitude, for his helplessness, for his failures and most importantly for his unconditional love. She quickens her pace further knowing he might be back any second, considering the fact that none of the publishers he meets gives him more than a few minutes of their time.

Finally she's through with packing. She takes out her diary. He knows nothing about it. She's always pretended she has a disdain for writing and writers. She writes a few lines in it, adding to the ones she's written before and throws it carelessly among her many possessions scattered on the floor, to give it a pretension of being forgotten, not very unlike the man she's walking out on.

(To be continued...)

Aap jo gaye...

Aap jo gaye, humne sadiyon intezaar kiya,
Wafa samajh kar, bewafa pe aitbaar kiya.

Aap ki jagah sar aankhon par, waha rah kya kiya,
Zakhm hazar dil pe chode, rooh ko ruswa kiya.

Chaand ka wada kar, chaandni ke saath kya kiya,
Aap hamare na sahi, apne saaye ke saath kya kiya.

Ab jo na rahen humsaaya, umr bhar kya kiya,
Jab tak janaaza utha, sirf aapse pyaar kiya.

Murrauwat jaisi mohabbat.

Apne jo hum se ishq farmaya,
Aisa zulm kisi ne kiya na hoga.

Pyaar jab nazar aaya to galat samjhe,
Ki wo khushnasib apna bhi kabhi hoga.

Aap kuch faslon pe dikhte hain,
Nikal pade umeed pe ki samna hoga.

Aapse kabhi na hoti mulaqat to acha hota,
Agar dekh sakte ki haal dil ka kya hoga.

Zindagi aapne hamein kyon nahi samjhaya,
Ki umr bhar sirf gham se rishta hoga.

To not remember.

William Shakespeare once said " So dear I love him that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life". I felt that way once. A very long time ago or so it seems. There was laughter and happiness and much rejoicing. Back then it was easy to play the fool. I was willing. I loved but not at any cost. So it ended. The taste was still fresh, the feeling still there, the smell lingering. But I wouldn't give everything to be so close again, to be across the street or maybe a breath away. I learnt that the hard way. It was not like I didn't fight, to make it work, to understand, to forgive. Yes I did fight, but only with myself. Maybe I should have fought harder or been stronger. I see little pieces strewn across everywhere. But I don't want to look. I don't want to remember. Because to remember is to suffer. To see what was and now what is. The pain will eventually stop but the wound will never heal. It needs to be there. As a constant reminder that love and patience never go unpunished. This mistake, of falling in love, comes at a cost of regret. The only unbearable thing to live with. But the irony is that the regret would still be there if I hadn't made this mistake...

A trip.

When I was younger I used to go with my family in the summer holidays to a hill station. We had a house there, still do but I haven't been back there for nearly ten years now. I used to love the mountains, the pine trees, the fresh air, the cold, the waterfall, the tea gardens...it was an amazing place. Nothing can make you feel as free as the mountains. They give you a different view and I sucked as much as I could in.

Sometimes I feel I need to go back there, to feel that naive again, to reconnect with my childhood. What wouldn't I give to take that walk from snow view to china peak again. There's no better place to run to. To give you the peace, quiet and satisfaction of the loss of responsibilities after accepting the growing need to be away. There are people there too but they are not like us.

I want to take four pairs of clothes and twenty one books. To slide down the ravines and walk the muddy paths again to reach the place no one knows about. To feel the wind crashing into the pines, lying in the dew and keep sucking it in because I don't know when I'll be back here again...

Loss of privilege.

I don't think many people realize that when times get bad, as much as we're running away from something, we are also running towards something else. In this mess of supposed cataclysmic events in our heads, we just concentrate on running away not seeing what we're running towards. It can lead us to something better or something worse. But if you don't know where you want to go, how can you ever get there. I don't know where to go, it doesn't come to me. Sometimes I start walking but the road gives up. What do I look for, where are the signs, even my shadow gives way sometimes and I end up right where I started from, to what I left behind. I couldn't be more grateful.

I'm not afraid of pain or sorrow because I've seen them up close and if that was the lightning then I can smile at the thunder. I built a life based on promises and fell at every step but still learnt to help the fallen. But I've lost the privilege of being sad. If I do, it makes me ungrateful. How dare I be after all that I have. I can feel hurt or bad but not sad. I was once told, long ago, that crying will not help change destiny, that one monologue has kept me from crying since. At least on the outside. Because sometimes we love with nothing more than hope and cry with everything but tears.

He remembers...

He remembers. Everything. Sometimes he hopes he'll forget. That he's felt things that never were. Been to places that don't exist. Imagined a life that never was. But it's alright. Because there are some things he wants to remember. He's hurting but he's not sad. He's not in denial and doesn't blame anyone. He realizes that he can't change what's meant to be. But he tried and that's all anyone can ask of him and he of himself.

He doesn't want to tell anyone about endings. Not where they are now. Maybe drifting along is the best thing that could have happened. To end up somewhere safe. He still feels the same though. He knows about your loss. Just be alright. Being there to make sure is not his choice any longer. Neither is it yours alone. He can't cry on the outside, only on the inside, but even that's selfish because isin't he then not crying for the person that's gone but for himself. If you don't understand that now, you never will. So let him be selfish and cry...and remember...everything.

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or woman
But who is that on the other side of you?