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A Traveler's Saga

Photo taken at Plitvice National Park, Croatia by Vibhor Dhote Oh! What are these days I have found myself in! The bagpacks I carry n...

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Nothing Lasts

The star that burned
Into ashes today
Was once the star
Of his mother's death.

And the same ball of fire,
She had seen
When he was born,
She'd made a wish.

And now that you pick
The stardust lying
On the cold hard ground,
You call it special,
You call it lucky.

But he picks the same
And calls it dirt.

So, what's its name,
In this ephemeral world,
Where identity changes
And names don't last?

Monday, June 15, 2015

When She Comes

On some nights
When no one else is awake
She sits on my chest.
She walks in and out of the door
Till I recognize her face.
And when he falls asleep
In my arms,
She gently cuts his throat
And lets him bleed till dawn.
She is named
As she should be -
The ugliness of glee.
And the corpse
That lie beside me now
Was no one but a memory...

Saturday, June 13, 2015

Excerpts from the Pages of my Diary

I was just going through my diary to find out what happened the same time last year. Here's what I found worth sharing. Food for thought for me. What about you?

*

"It doesn't seem like you're living a life, it's almost like you're travelling on a train with a destination unknown.

You're sitting on a seat near the window looking outside, imagining how things are there outside, how is it like to live in the houses that you pass by. And when you’re busy noticing the outside, you at times do not pay heed to your surroundings inside the coach.

And thus some passengers who got down at a station midway fail to capture your interest, or maybe it is because of your deviation of interest towards the outside. While at other stops new people get up, and you like their company, you share and you laugh.

But sooner or later they get down.

Because it's your journey, you're the traveler and they just accompany you for some distances.

And then, maybe when you reach your destination there will still be passengers in the train, passengers you've mingled with or passengers you hate, people who were there since the train had started or people who got in just before the last stoppage, and like it or not, they will get off the train with you, at your destination which also proved to be there destination."

*

And one fine day everything seems to be simply wrong. Why is it so hard to be happy? Why is it so hard to genuinely laugh even for a single second?

Why is it that we spend our entire lives learning to grow up but always miss our old innocent selves? We claim to be happier now for we make more "practical" decisions. But maybe life was better in those times when decisions weren't supposed to be made, they just happened when we were busy living instead of juggling time between merely surviving and living some moments.

I don't expect to achieve all the stars of the Universe. I think I expect very little from life - I just want everyone to be happy, but including myself.

*

You know you're living your life right when you check the pages of your one-year-old diary and find that you have ticked off all the items of the checklist you made- your short term goals.

Now, that I smile thinking about this little achievement, I wonder if I should really call it living if I had to make a checklist at the first place.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Men like You

I tried to save him
From the demon I knew I'd be.

He came a little closer,
Claiming his love for me.

But all the men
Who've ever loved me
Have loved but only
For a short time of Spring.

Now in the middle of this storm
When he still hasn't left,
I wonder if he's real
If he isn't a daydream.

For I've heard of men like him
But never really seen one.
I've met men like him before
But only
In my poem.

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

All Lies

She rewrites history,
Everyday,
She says.
I see lies.
And when he smiles,
And claims he is fine.
I see lies.
More lies.
And when I look at you,
And you make me feel good
I see you through,
I read your book.
I see lies.
More lies.
All lies.

Yesterday,
When you said
Things will be alright.
I knew at an instant,
That feeling,
That vibe.
You're going
To lie,
again.

Shackles of lies,
In everything I say.
And when I write
Our story today,
I see lies,
I see them, everywhere.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Who is She?

Who is she,
That ugly old woman?
She says she grew up
Facing the vagaries of life.
Oh, didn't I do the same?
I would tell her
Had she not been so vain.
I looked at her eyes,
Puffed up as if she just cried.
I've spent sleepless nights crying,
I could tell her,
Had she been my friend.

Who is she,
That woman who looks nothing like me?
She is dressed up in black,
Mourning the death of someone akin.
Haven't I mourned deaths?
I have mourned them
Till there were no tears left.
I would let her know
But she seemed tearless herself.

Who is she,
The lady I couldn't like?
She runs her fingers
Through her long grey hair
And sings songs of despair.

'Who are you?'
I asked her, at last.
The answer I couldn't bear
As I kept looking
At the image in the mirror.