Skip to main content

At Dusk


At dusk, the tale starts,
Light recedes from around,
I feel ajar.

 Pour out of me an invisible dream,
A verse too old, a melody;
I lose all flesh, radiate;
Whatever remains, escapes,
Along a river stream, I stroll.

 The moon emerges,
Proves again its showmanship
Upon the row of boats

 And the water below;
I float, sink and float.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Keep Gratitude

We often wonder how life and its things begin, how love is found, how joys are treasured. On this lookout we often forget how it all will end. How life would cease to be. That last day is the hardest thought to cope with, to let go of all that these moments hold for us. Even our incomplete fate, even our unfulfilled wishes. Even this imperfect story is too dear to let go. And in this retrospect our gratitude magnifies. This is where true happiness lies. This where the mind meets clarity, and the voice learns modesty.
Post a Comment
Read more

I will remember

This day metro isn’t so crowded and I get a seat toward the end of the coach. Two stoppages later a family boards the train. They have a couple of luggage bags. I vacate the seat for them. The woman reluctantly contemplates taking the seat as I insist. Men around focus on the opportunity if she refuses. She sits. The three children, who all seem 3-6 years old, slowly sit over the berth constructed of the bags. All these three sit with their backs to each other, all facing opposite directions. The man stands near the steel bar about a foot from the children, observing them. I take another look at the family - the man’s shirt is torn from places. Sensing my own unease, I hastily look at his feet. The shoes are okay, not worn out. I strangely feel as if this discovery is a consolation to my own blessings. I shift my sight. The kids are well-dressed in the clothes the parents could afford them, the woman seems to be wearing a new saree . I feel relieved that I have overcome the bout of s...
Post a Comment
Read more

Grow a heart

For the last few years, the only question that has visited me day and night with an intensity no candela can measure is how to be a writer. The answer eludes me even now. I know it is not in the books. I know it is not in the writing programs; neither in workshops, discussions, interviews, or biographies. You see, it is a personal thing. When you decide to be a writer, it is not a choice at all. As they say, choice is a luxury. We don’t have that luxury when it comes to two things – writing and love. They both are absolute. Do not mistake this for the love for writing, though. The love for writing is another luxury. I don’t think I, or anyone who has to be a writer, can own this, either. Writing cannot be an emotion for someone who seeks to be a writer. It has to be their whole existence. And how? A writer is that crack in the old floorboard. For someone else it is just a slight wreck, but to him it is an abyss and the abyss is him. It hides a story, a fragment of...
Post a Comment
Read more