The Yellow Leaf

My little cousin sister came visiting. She isn't so little anymore. But I feel as protective as ever. These photos are from my trip to the Niligiri Hills. It was really beautiful and I will post more photos soon.

For now I leave you with this slightly melancholic poem ...

A sheepish wind,
Blows a yellow leaf,
From her tenuous bindings,
With an unsuitable tree.

Twirl, twirl,
Like treacherous time,
Unwinds the screw,
That fixed my hopes and wantings.

Captured by my longing gaze,
She duly waits,
For turbid time,
To take its course.

Something Missing

Something is missing,
In the blueness of the sky,
It isn’t blue enough,
In the reflection of my eye.

It doesn’t seem right,
The silent tranquility,
Of my lazy afternoon slumber.
Is it the sluggish apathy,
Of my half-closed eyes?
I’d dare not look,
Nor try to know,
The truth outside.

Something missing in that,
Well-known smile,
That filled so many coffee cups.
Tell me, is it really a smile?

Some eerie feeling,
Haunts my lovely home,
Stolid curtains,
And vacant windows,
Look outside.
Even the wind,
Blows in gasps,
Of frigid apprehension.

Lines

Straight lines and curved lines,
Twist and Turn,
And circumnavigate,
Some curvilinear space.
Sometimes the lines meet,
Sometimes they separate.

They live in an unliving maze,
Of random events.
A spark of chance,
Renders a smile,
A voice,
Even a face.

A turn of events,
Like an expression in a face,
Is a moment of joy,
And long lasting pain,
An undying hope,
That it’s not in vain.

The Trifling Trinidadian

The man from Trinidad appeared one night, out of thin air, and knocked on my door one morning at four. I squinted my sleepy eyes as I opened the door and made out a silhouette amidst all the dogs barking in the darkness somewhere. He wore a grin and brought with himself some good humor and a memory of the good old days. The sun, orange with delight, promptly rose from slumber and spread across my city a shower of golden eagerness.

Couple of omelets later, we realized breakfast wasn’t quite complete without a sip of good old rock music. Of late, my man from Trinidad has been spoilt rotten on Soca and local rum. Bring on the Van Halen, bring on sweet Led Zeppelin. As music played and the guitar wailed, the day began to slip away. I clasped at it with my fist but it still slipped away through my fingers.

Later that night, old friends came to life straight from the pages of my photo album. Laughter rang through the walls of my home, like from a ticklish baby. Conversation flowed at the speed of sound. Before it was too late the friends disappeared into their respective photo albums.

Drowsy eyed I stared at his book of a face and read every line of what had happened since he had sailed away to Trinidad. I thought of telling him that he had left heavy luggage behind. He showed me his picture book. Little images of Trinidadian life. Ah, the decadence, the sunshine and the sultry beaches. He showed me her photo, the one he had ‘limed’ with. She was very pretty. He told me stories and incidents and wove a web of images that are still so fresh in my mind.

Another night, another morning, another lunch, a few words and moments later, the man from Trinidad showed me the last trick in his bag of tricks. He turned around and vanished into thin air.

The Clock - Part 2

There goes the sun,
And here it comes again.
The tiny hand of my clock,
Will tick all day,
And I will stare at it, all day,
And watch the sun go down again.

Then, on a brand new day,
Someday,
When I look to the west,
I will see the sun rise,
And that will be the day,
That the tiny hand,
So bored of routine,
Will actually turn otherwise.

May be that day,
I will go home early,
Come back to work,
And go home,
To have breakfast and wake up.
May be that day,
I will wake up to my sleep,
And sleep off to awakedness,
On a dark drowsy last night.

Then, some other day,
I will rise up in the east,
And the sun can go to work,
Instead of me.
May be he will set,
A few things right for me.
That day,
You will all feel very hot,
And I will make sure,
You soak in sweat.

That day,
I will travel the whole world,
And say “Hi” to many friends,
Spread around the world.
Some of them feel neglected, you know.
The rest,
Mired in their busy schedules,
Have no time to spare.
But they can always,
Look up to the sky,
And find me there.
May be that day,
I will tell them,
All that I have never,
Been able to say.

Later in the evening,
I will promptly fade away,
Into the night,
And never come back.

I wonder,
Will anybody miss me the next day?



(Update: Found time and added to my short story)

The Clock - Part 1

Does your clock tick faster,
Than mine?
Mine ticks very slow.
It doesn’t move at all, sometimes.

See it’s stuck right now,
Won’t budge. Lazy clock.
Yours must be faster,
I’m sure.

Whoa! Look at yours…
Racing past!
Never mind,
We'll talk someother time.

Lord Bruno

Mighty Bruno,
Lets out a growl so low.
He is lord of his alley,
And wont let anybody pass by,
Without the close scrutiny,
Of his condescending eye.

His only weakness,
A momentary glimpse of meekness,
Is a bowl of milk,
Or a delicious mutton bone.
No sharing with his ilk,
His lordship will have it alone.

The neighbor’s new dog,
Would rather sleep like a log,
For each time he slyly,
Tries to step out,
Lord Bruno quite emphatically,
Barks, “You lout!”

At night is when,
In Bruno’s majestic den,
A primal calling,
Nudges his lordship from slumber,
He starts his incredible yelling,
Rending precious sleep asunder.

(Photos - His lordship, My Beautiful Granny)