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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...

Monday, February 27, 2017

Writing Something New


Words engulf him
The way he gulps his scotch
One glass after another.
He grabs his pen
And writes down his love
Pages after pages.
He passes a smile at me
At times when he isn't bothered
About how he looks
When his teeth is shown,
When his hair is uncombed
And she passes him by.
He writes a note for her
Without reading
The stories I've to tell.
He asks me, sometimes,
As he drops his note
In her old letterbox.
His thick eyelashes flutter,
A gulp in his throat,
Drops of sweat 
On his forehead,
He fumbles as he utters,
"Have you written anything new?"


Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Nostalgia

I am often taken back to the old corridors of our previous house - the one that saw us grow old. Its windows would let the fresh air in that would blow over our text books, those trophies we won in school, the notebook our father kept- the notebook he had kept for future knowing not that the internet would soon take over and maybe obliterate its value.
He would keep newspaper clippings safe of the featured poems written by my sister and by a younger me, unaware that soon we would go so digital we would lost count of the URLs that would hold pieces written by us to be lost forever and maybe, found again someday.
It’s funny how we talk of nostalgia these days when we would still have a lot of photographs capturing our smiles, the places we visited, the fun we had and the people we met. For me nostalgia would sometimes take me back to those days when we used to run around in the house - all four of us, the smiles that were not captured by any camera, the moments untouched by any cellphones, the thoughts uninhibited by any selfish desires of the future.
Oh, how do I say now that I’d miss my college days when there is so much more just for reminiscence?
The science project I could not make myself, for which, mother would’ve to return from work, do her chores and still make the work presentable. The same project a teacher would throw away for she wouldn’t know any better than to crush a child’s dreams for her angst at her own family’s shortcomings. A matter I would not understand until years later when I find myself at the age of 25 and still imperfect. A matter I would probably not understand again when I’d turn wiser or kinder as years of experience would embrace this restless soul.
Probably there would be videos then to look back at these days we’re talking of. “Batch Photo sessions” and Facebook posts, Numerous blogs and maybe this note. But who can bring back those golden days of the people whose lives have so changed, of the days when dawn would break at 6 and the day would end at 20 when midnights were just times scary.
20 years later maybe it would be time to reminisce these days when we sleep at 4 and wake up at 12, when we would talk of the brilliance of a professor long gone, or of a dear friend who had gone so far. As of now, maybe I’d just retain the innocence of those four “children”, make sketches of the past, if I could make any better, of the people I loved but never saw again, of memories I’m not so sure of, if they were stories or thoughts of realities so grave or realities better than my now, of my old house that still waves its hand every time I walk by its lane, the echoes of our laughter still etched on its dying walls. Another coat of a new paint- Nostalgia of this age.

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Dear Death

Come if you have to,
Knock on my door and wait till it's unbolted,
Throw a stone at my window;
If it's really you, let me know.

Come not like you did ten years ago,
Carrying him in a bag of flesh and bones.
If his dying face, his mother cannot see
Come not this way, this year, this week...

Come when it's time
The way you came yesterday,
Sat near his grandfather's bed-
A cup of tea served,
His glasses neatly folded on the little round table
Beside his daily dosage of news and pills,
Leaving when he was asleep.

Come not like the way you came
Some five years ago, in a local train,
He hung himself after he wailed
Or it was you with his roommate
Who pushed him to death.

Come not when he promises of seeing me again.
Come when the goodbyes are not so hard.
Dear Death,
Bring not the friend called fear with you
Bring not regret and grief too.

Come when you have to
But not like the lover who hopes for a future.
Come not like the broken pieces of the lovelorn's heart
That find a new home with each passing cloud.

Come when it's time
But touch not the ones left behind.
Come with the darkness of the night,
Come like another sunset on a desert bright
Where every sunrise is a promise, a hope
Where all we ask for
Is the sun to set a little too late
Where we're gay too
If it sets a little too soon
But never do we ask
For it to set when it's time...