A Midnight Story

Tender nights and stormy skies
A quiet breath, so soft a sigh
Tales unknown, lures the mind
But heavy lids refuse to pry.

One of a distant memory
Another, a forbidden dream
Somewhere, a few foggy faces
Lucid eyes and voices honeyed.

Rain tickles the air lightly
Weaving my thoughts into sweet agony
Webbed and fuzzy, muffled and messy
Losing their warmth, the sheets around me.

A cool void laces my fingers
As familiar as a time worn lover
Tracing the curves of moonlit smiles
Are the iris depths of our gentle eyes.

I can feel the stirrings
Of a timeless yearning, when
That loyal shift of my well-versed heart
Draws me in as an artist to his art.

We play this game often enough
The dark our witness, silence its charm
Until a flash mars the scene
With thunder rising to its feet.

"I thought you wouldn't come tonight,"
We talk in whispers, thunder and I,
That I waited, it rumbles in delight
I shush it gently, caressing its might.

Outside the window, a torrent rages
The chill's gone, nestled in an embrace
Soon they come, so quietly uttered,
I smile when I hear my favorite words-

"Will you play tonight?" Thunder sighs
Coaxing me from bed, the request in disguise
I look over my shoulder, willing it to stay
And with the purest love, I begin to play.


(Images are my own)

Let’s Talk

A gift, I call it
The beauty of words
For whoever can weave
Magic like a bard.

It's a gift that belongs
To many amongst us
But few hear its call
And bare to it their souls.

And those who do
Do they know the true
Ways in which they now hold the glue
To make or break a bond or two?

If only one knew how words cut deep
If only they knew how silence doesn't heal,
Not every time, that's not what I mean
But perhaps when a kind word is all you need?

If speaking our minds made a fool of us
I'd rather look one than carry a farce;
If the burden of pretense only keeps you apart
Isn't it just easier to speak our hearts?

(Landscape captured in Laitlum, Meghalaya, India.)

Loving Me

What would you do
If you were asked to choose
Between loving me
And loving you?

Will you be okay
If you hear me say
I'm not for loving, not in the
One-in-a-million way.

(I used to be
Or so they say,
I still could be
If I just let myself stay.)

Would it be too much
That I found my own tune
To dance to and make love
To the freedom I feel anew.

I'll still want you
But need I shall not
I'll still hold you
And give you my all.

I'll still keep you warm
On nights dark and cold
I'll sing for you too
That song you say is gold.

Will I make it harder
To hold back on your love
If I do a little more
Than what I mentioned above?

I know I'll love you
More than what you have for you
But I know I won't let you
Love me like I want you to.

Maybe you should find
A soul that'd be kind
To your love, unwalled
A heart unlike mine.

Maybe you should, my love,
Give up on me, and
Pick yourself this time
Like I'd choose me.

(Image: Yet another travel capture of a favourite flower)

Winter

Mornings like these
Take me back
To autumn nights
In quilts of patch.

Wrapped in you
With the breeze wrapping us
Humming along to your thoughts
Merrily under the stars.

Happy was I, naively so,
Watching the sun brighten the shore
Tea in hand, coffee in yours
Scented by the land,
I couldn't have asked for more.

There's the mist, here comes the chill
Reminding me I have spaces to fill
As I swing alone on our porch today
Sweet melancholy no longer at bay.

Mornings like these, take me home
To another life, another norm.

Colourful was my palette how,
Leaving it with only now
A little grey, a little blue
And a lot more lonely,
Without you.

(The frozen Shungetsar Lake captured, in Arunachal Pradesh, India.)

The Fine Art of Reading

How are we as readers?

How much of it is enough and what if it never is?


Where does your mind take you whenever you hear any variation of the word ‘read’? Perhaps, to a classroom speaking aloud words from a textbook, or memorizing stanzas for an exam, or silently absorbing news headlines on television, or to lazy afternoons, curled up on the couch, nose-deep in a gripping novel.

For me, as for many, it is all of the above and more. Observing the way my mother’s lips moved around hundreds of words while she read me bedtime stories, I call that reading, too. I read through her long before I learnt how to read and discern sentences for myself. Soon, I found myself reading any text I could get my hands on regardless of my mind not having developed yet to comprehend most of it. My favourite part of this good habit was reading out loud. I loved the sound of the words coming from my mouth, serving the purpose of dual learning – reading correctly and improved diction. Back then, I didn’t realise how the practice of it would shape my childhood pastime into a delightfully rewarding hobby. And I have never looked back since. Why should I? I wouldn’t be the way I am today if not for that singlemost gratifying proclivity for reading.

Image credit : Google

I am a voracious reader. Not only of novels or poetry but everything ranging from print media / online articles, instruction manuals A to Z (in multiple languages, if available), dictionaries, billboards, picture captions, public comments, fanfiction to tiny indecipherable letters on tags, labels, warnings on toiletries even! And not just a casual glance or skim-through-the-words either, even when I know exactly what’s written on some. I feel this desperate need to read them letter-by-letter, a few times, at least. Kinda obsessive, don’t you think? (Please, don’t tell me there’s a word for it.) If something available audio-visually happens to have a written representation too, you know which one I’d pick. I don’t want to cure myself of this, should I say, mania, because it has brought to me the next best thing, in my opinion.

Writing. I love to write because I have a lot to say. I also cannot speak in brief when I am passionate about something (evidently) so when I’m conversing with a friend or simply writing something for a future read, the words flow endlessly. The most startling discovery, however, has been my poetry-writing skill. I am still very much a nouveau in that aspect but it has come to be the sweetest fruit of my cultivation above. Never in my short life did I imagine I’d one day be able to write poems, not even childish ones. I’ve always enjoyed reading poetry tremendously, as I am sure most of you do. Moving, heartwarming, humorous, reverence-educing poetry has been a dream I never dared to dream. I still don’t know how it came to me but the extensive yet limited vocabulary I have been gifted with (I have a dictionary and thesaurus on me at all times), the imagination required, the stability of thoughts, their convergence to a point where I can set the first dot on paper, the stream of words from heart and mind to the tip of my pen, the uncertainty of the direction my words take, to the final bursting of the dam causing an outpour of all I want to say – I attribute it all to my good old reading custom.

“Words are our most inexhaustible source of magic.”

J.K. Rowling

I have achieved a lot, in more ways than one, ever since I was introduced into this world, I persisted, kept it up, made it a part of my other worlds and vice-versa, with unfailing interest and a zeal as vigorous as it was in those early days. You don’t have to read famous books or elaborate articles or sophisticated words to identify yourself as a reader. Every little read matters. Though it is recommended to enhance the standard of our reads once we are well past the point of developing this habit (and delve into the deeper realms of it), any kind of read helps us in unexpected ways. Everything from our reading abilities to communicating successfully is vastly improved.

I urge people to read whenever I get the opportunity, supplying them with ideas to begin with, books to give a chance to, childhood classics perhaps, which are pretty much timeless and not barred by age, etc. With the advent of electronic books (and other electronic distractions, unfortunately) and thereby their easy availability, I hope this dwindling tradition revives and survives through generations to come. I personally am a hardcore paperback/hardbound reader trying to preserve an over half-a-century old collection of books and letters as long as I have the means to. I feel extremely lucky to belong to a family where every last member is an ardent rapacious reader. Call it a long-standing tradition.

The thought, or better yet, the realisation, that one lifetime isn’t enough to read all that I want to and need to, paralyzes me sometimes. But, until then, it’s an understatedly wonderful life. Keep reading!

Sunny afternoon reads at the home library.

A Dusky Dream

 

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It was dusk before I knew it,
Fading lights and scenes around me
A crick in the neck brought me back
To earth from the sky well above me.

I had only gone to the terrace
To be soothed by the afternoon caress
Of mellowed sunlight and balmy breeze
When the swing gently swayed, the lure of a knowing tease.

The sky beckoned next
Or was it the whisper of the trees?
Could’ve been the birds singing overhead
Or the clouds that were turning pink.

I knew not where to look
It was everywhere my eyes wanted to be,
Thought it wiser to fall into a dream
Where my mind could see all as it ran free.

The lull didn’t last long, for my heart woke me up
“Watch,” I was told, “It’s the moon”, for it had also woken up.
One half of silvery beauty, other still asleep
Never has it been so radiant, with the sun still vivid.

The luminescence haunted me
As did the bottomless vault it lit
I couldn’t fathom the reverence it educed
Yet I was snug in the comfort of it.

Tomorrow I shall bring my brushes and paint
My canvas with the canvas of nature as my muse
Brilliant greens kindling a changing sky
While I wait on the swing for the stars to arrive.

(Photograph captured in Leh, Ladakh, India, a place abound with surreal landscapes.)

How the Coronavirus pandemic has changed the way we look at Nature

Cotton tree (Ximolu in Assamese) captured in Manas National Park, Assam, India.

Recently, I had asked my friends for ideas to get on with some light writing. This prompt was one that I wouldn’t call ‘light’ in terms of a write-up but it’s definitely a delicate materialisation that has lightened my heart over the course of the past few months.

I hope I can say this on behalf of everyone I know, love, and people, in general, around the world, that the view we hold of nature today – during this apocalyptic pandemic – is from a few steady rungs higher than where it used to be. Reverent, for lack of a better word. Or renewed reverence, should I say, for those who had long ago embraced nature and live in tandem with it.

The way nature has come to flourish since the world came to a halt some months ago, has been astounding, to say the least. It’s sad that a tragedy of such magnitude had to take place for nature to play before us in its full glory, when such resplendence should never have stopped being a part of our daily, ignorant lives. Scenes of wild animals wandering public streets, exotic birds seemingly appearing from paradise, and extinct species of creatures being spotted again after decades, have rendered us speechless. On the marine front, crystal clear water showcasing a brilliant ocean bottom and the mesmerising aquatic life thriving on it, has left us all gaping. Much like those fish savouring an unusual kind of freedom in their oceanic world. Why are we surprised, though? Is it because we, humans, have always considered ourselves superior to all other forms and creations of nature that we failed to see how our claims of self-sufficiency have only left us thoroughly deprived of a life that could’ve been heavily enriched by the various elements of nature? Were we (or are we still) too proud to admit that we would be nothing as a species (including our ‘supremacy’) if not for nature being an indispensable part of us? Nature gives and nature takes. The sooner we apprehend the balance between these two broad exercises, the less contentious and entitled our lives shall be. Doesn’t that sound like peace? It does, to me.

An unprecedented number of flamingos migrated to Mumbai, Maharashtra, India, amidst lockdown, turning the city pink. (Image credit : Google)

As we are progressing through this pandemic, nature, in spite of all its trials and tribulations, has kept us enraptured. Our admiration, empathy, respect and a sense of belongingness has only grown with it. We spend our evenings watching sunsets and come back to the night sky which is limpid enough for a starry show. We go to bed, happy and sated, only to wake up eagerly in the mornings to the chirping of birds most of us weren’t fortunate enough to hear until now. We soak in the fresh air a little bit more while remembering the rainbow we saw a day before. That’s an imagery we only used to find in poetry. Living vicariously through a poet’s eyes is minuscule compared to what we are witness to on a regular basis, at present. It is rewarding. Breathing air free of pollutants is a luxury urban-dwellers never thought they’ll have. Beholding an unobstructed panorama of snow-capped mountain ranges, so far into the distance and so deplorably and eternally hidden by city life and all that’s an inescapable part of it, from the terrace of our urban homes, is a marvel that has dumbfounded many. Such unimaginable pictures painted by nature has evoked unexplainable emotions and thoughts in all of us. We’ve been blinded for so long by our own actions and inactions that ‘privilege’ has taken a new meaning today.

Doubtless, our lives have been affected adversely through a series of natural calamities, of late. But it has only served to reinstate the belief that nature always balances itself. Even the pandemic feels like a balancing act, at times. Perhaps not of nature directly, but the Universe? We’ll never know. I’m often reminded of how the ocean washes ashore litter and debris from its waters onto its beaches from time to time, as if saying “Here, take back what’s yours. Let’s keep our belongings to ourselves, shall we?”

A zoomed-in photograph of the majestic Dhauladhar range of the Himalayan Peaks, as seen from Jalandhar, Punjab, India. (Image credits : Google)

Quite noticeably, the flip side paints a dismal picture. The situation is rather different in rural areas particularly, where a major section of people rely solely on nature for livelihood, thereby, survival. Concurrent to the persistent issue of exhaustible natural resources, reports of wildlife poaching, illegal mining, deforestation and land-grabbing have threatened conservation in no small way. Our failure to protect nature in one regard while luxuriating in all that it offers in another, will be a sad paradox.

~ When we see ourselves as part of nature, we’ll understand that saving nature is really about saving ourselves ~ are some of the most poignant words I’ve come across in my short life. It’s pretty much the synopsis of everything we must understand about our planet and its invincible naturalis mundi. It’s unshakeable, beautiful, generous, terrifying and all-pervasive. It’s heartening to see how far we’ve arrived in acknowledging, accepting, befriending and kneeling before these facets of nature, in recent times. The hope – and the actions towards realising it – that this refreshing, newly forged connection and compassion between us and the natural world enveloping us, remains and roots itself deeply in generations to come, must be alive in each of us, long after this pandemic has passed. After all, nature is the only dauntless force that has not only bridged our differences as a species, but also effectively humbled us over and over again. And it’s here to stay.

The Girl by the Window

I discovered windows one afternoon and after that, nothing was ever the same. – Anne Spollen, The Shape of Water.

The one spot in the house where you’ll always find me.

The site of every greeting and farewell I’ve been a part of. Strangers forego the bell and come straight to my window, friends forget the doors and start conversations right here. From the exuberant waves to some who just turned the corner into our lane to subtle glances exchanged with those uncertain, I’ve probably spent ninety percent of my life at home by these windows. Watching, breathing, questioning, welcoming – and at necessary times, ignoring – the world outside. While, more often than not, inviting the assumption that I study the entire time I’m sat here. Not completely untrue if said study involves reading, writing, creating, thinking, planning, conversing, being.

Even way back, living for some years as a paying guest in a new city, I picked the bed by the window to ensure that the first thing to grace me in the mornings is the brilliant green canopy of leaves on the tall tree outside that gently filtered the sunlight to nudge my sleepy eyes.

Why am I always looking at life through a window? I don’t know.
But if I ever write a piece on me, the apt title shall simply be “The Girl by the Window”.

#sigh #blessedlife

Do you also love to look at life through a window?

The Lost Passage

Kissed by the rains
I close my eyes
Seeking out my childhood
With a bittersweet sigh.

Sweetest is my smile
As I’m lost in a time
When I gave myself over
To the world that was mine.

The blithe cool warmth
The fuzzy warm chill
Offered me a home where
My heart couldn’t be still.

Tap, tap, tap
As I slowly began a dance
A pause here, a look there
Oh, who cares if I’m in a trance!

A cute little sneeze
Only made me happier
As I burst into giggles
And life couldn’t be prettier.

Eyes had a twinkle
Nose delightfully in a crinkle
Alas, is it my face now
Or the mirror that is wrinkled?

The wings have been cut
My reach confined
But the soul sits restless
The heart still beats wild.

The gleam is gone
From eyes made to lower
So let me close them today
To shelter this moment forever.

(Photograph captured in Shantiniketan, West Bengal, India)

Age vs. Time

It’s no secret amongst my people
How birthdays lurch me into a muddle
Beneath the thrill and anticipation of the day,
A sense of unease churns my way.

The knots in my stomach, the tightness of my heart
Together with joy, has come to play a part.

It feels silly to even put into words
The fear that creeps in with the advent of the day,
Hard to wrap my head around the fact that
Coming of age cannot be kept at bay.

It’s irrational, the anxiety of growing ‘old’
Since I’ve been wiser, watching life unfold
Often told “It’ll only get better, you see,
Life happens now, why aren’t you ready?”

Am i not? Maybe not yet.
Lost innocence tugs at me with delicate threads
A simple time, of carefree days
Lures me back from life’s erratic ways.

I’d love for a birthday to just be that again
One to celebrate and thank for all I’ve gained
To weave my past with the blessings of the new
Without the tethers of anxiety in age.

Is it just me who feels this way?
Absurd as it may be, I hope someone relates
Does a gain of age mean a loss of time?
Oh hush, sweet child, in my heart you’re still alive.

(Throwback to a gleeful birthday on a certain May 24th)