Delicate Things

The 'Always' lingers.

When you fear for its value
When you confide in its tenderness

It is held in butter fingers.

I know it to be perpetual
I know it to be magical

A Palace of priceless worth.

You know it to be true
You know it will go all the way through

The Mute Phonecall

Sleepy eyes heard what you said.
Happy ears saw what I read.

Seconds passed by Minutes.
Minutes passed by Hours.
Hours made those moments,
Moments that are solely ours.

Hate into Love and
Love into Hate,
'Ts all evangelic,
When it's you that says't.

Am I yours, or
Are you mine?
Or does it matter when
The Happiness is yours and mine?

Paralysis or enticement,
It's only you.
Smile or laughter,
It's only you.

No Matter What

Let the blue of the Waters and
The blue of the skies
Mingle and entice!
That love for you won't go away
No matter what you say, it won't go away.

Let the black of Outer Space and
the white of Stars switch places,
Black and White!
That love for you won't go away
No matter what you do, it won't go away.

If Stars fell to become jewels,
That love for you won't go away
No matter what you do, it won't go away

Oncoming

Drums beat
Drums roll

War on the horizon
The Seas roar
The Skies furore
the Ground shatters
the Wind clatters

The walls of the Fort shake
The heart of the Warrior shatters.

The might of the Oncoming,
The courage in Their stride.
The sharpness of Their eye
Their habit to inflict.


Nothing to stop them;
An endless deluge
Nothing to stop them.

Swords and stones
Bows and Bones;
Helpless, they tremble.

The Land taken,
The Waters in turmoil,
The Skies darken,
The Wind, runs away in foil.

Moment by moment,
Closer and closer,
The walk is not for much longer.

The Kid Saved the World!

"Kids are funny little things, eh?"

Indeed, friend of mine, they are!

Who else can be so, so... kidlike?! So, amazingly kidlike!

It was an unusual day, considering how 'outings' had been going; or how they hadn't been going. It was the first outing in weeks! Although, for some reason, which I am absolutely sure of, I did not feel like going out. I ended up going out, anyway.

There was a nagging feeling at the back of my head: a constant worry that I was not able to place my finger on. Three of my best friends were my company and yet, peaceful thought and cheerful smiles seemed to be distant. Not unreachable, just distant!

That evening, there were doughnuts and pasta and Vada Pavs; if you leave the pasta out, the other two should have lessened the distance by a lot! That belief seemed like a mirage. The constant worry persisted, undaunted, unaffected.

We walked to this shop, nearby. It was a tiny shop selling toys, stationary and plastics. While the three of them looked at the things to buy, I walked to a side and looked at all the toys in the basket. I recognized some of them- remade and given a more modern design and effect. There were days when I played with their prototype models. Those were the days when constant worries were about toys, ice-creams and chocolates that would only reach me if the parents nodded their heads up and down. That day, the constant worry was about something I didn't even know. The mysteries of time? The strangeness of foreign lands? The unfamiliarity of new faces? No idea!

The other three had begun to walk out of the shop; they bought a bottle. As I turned, a kid, no more than three or four years ran into the shop and stopped right in front of me. He looked this way and that and it seemed like he had found what he was looking for. The kid was like the glow of a firefly, serene and graceful! He looked right into my eyes and threw his hands up. I understood this gesture, picked him up and held him in my hand. As soon as he got into my arms, he looked away. His eyes turned towards the thing he was looking for: that squeaky ball in a basket he was not able to reach. I took him closer to the basket. He took a ball into his hand and observed it like a miner observing a freshly unearthed gem. The kid had no worries.

His mother came along, seconds later and she saw him in my arms, holding a ball in his hand. She laughed and asked the kid to say thank you. The kid replied "thnkoo" without even bothering to look at me. His eyes were made for the ball. Then, his mother said, "Put him down. There is no other way he is going to get off" and smiled at him. I put him down and walked away, with a smile.

The worries were now distant and the smiles were hugging me. The kid had shown me something I had never observed, before. He showed me innocence in ignorance and arrogance. He told me that the world would end if he did not look at the ball the way he did. I heard what I had to. 

There was innocence in his ignorance and arrogance. The world would have ended, that day, if the kid had not looked at the ball the way he did.    

Inkblot

Poor beginning, poor childhood,
Poor learning, poor adulthood.

This is the life of our Typist. He never had much at any time in his life. His childhood was a car made of plastic bottles and their plastic caps, his teenage was a fictitious movie made from a movie poster and his adulthood was a tiny, dark house and an old typewriter. His earning, on the best of days, was 50 rupees.

For years, our Typist sat outside the post office with his life, his typewriter, typing letters in Hindi, for ten hours a day. English was a luxury he could not afford. His life was upto his typewriter. His typewriter was heavy, and so was his life. The cost of "life" was a heavy burden. He typed his own life's story everytime he pushed a bead. At 65, he still authors his own life.
After years of having that spot outside the post office as his sheet of paper, it didn't look like he needed some place else to go. The neighbourhood knew that there was an old Typist who sat outside the Post Office, who would write a letter for them whenever they wanted.
I can't say if he was happy with the story he had written for himself. But, he did the same job, everyday, in that same place, without saying a word. Grief and despair don't come to you when life is being harsh. Grief and despair come to you when there is nothing left to call it, "life." One day, there came a time when he felt grief.
It was a Sunny day with the regular bustle of the street outside the post office. The Typist was sitting there, looking around, nothing to type. Maybe, it was one of those really bad days. What day isn't so bad when you can't keep up with society? Or when society doesn't let you keep up with it? It was the same neighbourhood, the same people who recognised the Typist and whom the Typist recognised, but, without a greeting or a smile. Years and years of sitting there like a statue and no one cares. Does he? I don't know.
Years of having people he recognised around him couldn't prevent what happened, that day.
A man clad in khakhee, stars on his shoulders, badge on his chest, neatly combed hair and a better life than our Typist, stood tall in front of him. Hoping for a customer, the Typist looked up eagerly, with a tinge of hope that it is just not someone who needs directions. His mouth was open and he had an expression of humility on his wrinkled face. His eyes glistened with something only a person in the most desperate situations can show. He waited for the man to say something.
"What are you doing on this street?," asked the man, with pride and high-handedness.
The Typist replied, "I type letters, Saab."
The man asked, "Do you have permission to do it?"
What permission was he referring to? No one had asked him that since the time he started typing. "It's time to close shop. Go home," said the man with force and threat.
The Typist stared at him with doubt, disbelief and shock. Words did not come out of the man, this time. He pushed the Typist away from where he was sitting and, with a stroke of his hand, pushed the Typist's life off the stone, onto the road.
The Typist took a second or two to digest what was going on. He ran to the man and begged him to stop. He made for his feet, but, only ended up getting hit by the man's hard, black boots. The rock hid his typewriter. But, it did not hide the man who continued to crush it under his boots, like it was a soft-drink can. What's a soft drink can to one is a source of life to another. And our Typist's source of life was the man's soft-drink can. The last thing our Typist could do was join his hands and beg someone so much younger to him to stop doing whatever he did.
The Typist's paper, suddenly, wasn't the same. In a span of ten minutes, everything his life stood for was alien to him. He looked over the rock and saw his life lying there, broken. More broken than it ever was. The strings of the typewriter were torn. But, for him, the strings of life that played his tune were forever broken. The typewriter's casing broke, the belt was torn apart, nothing seemed the same. He left his sheet of paper there, without any weight on it. He took his broken life to the only other place he could call, "home."
The wind blew and the sheet of paper flew away and told the Typist's story to all the right people. The man was taken care of. The Typist received two new typewriters.
How does it matter anymore? A broken life could not be stitched back with this thread. The Typist accepted these typewriters because his life, even if it was broken, could not afford to stay on a busy road. It would be crushed. He had to push himself to a side and wait for someone to place him somewhere safer, if not better. 
He went back to that place where it all happened. There was no paper. Whatever was left was only an inkblot.

Flower Basket

It was a fun-filled evening at Eat Street on the banks of one of the most grandiose lakes you will ever see. It was 9 o'clock and something beautiful caught my eye.

Right outside the long, green coloured Eat Street building, stood a bald-headed man. He was tall, perhaps around 5'11'', wearing a white shirt and dark-coloured trousers.  In his hand, he held a long, white garland of flowers. A garland whose aroma reached me a few metres away as if I were holding it in my own hands. For the first time in my life, I was instantly awestruck by flowers. I thought they were the sort of mallepuvvulu (Arabian Jasmine) that I had never seen before. They were fantastically white even in a blinding yellow light. The smell kept grabbing my attention.

The man stood, putting all of his weight on his left leg as if he had waited for a long time. I'm willing to bet that he had been waiting for a customer for a long time. His face, unlike his posture, was still eager and energetic. He had been staring at the exit of Eat Street while I was observing him.

A man so immaculately dressed, wearing those naturally dreamy eyes and holding such fantastically beautiful flowers should have been a girl's dream, quite honestly. It should have. Not a single woman exiting Eat Street bothered to look at him, who was incessantly staring at every person coming out of that building. I remember a time in my childhood when women used to crowd around bandis selling flowers in huge flower basket. I remember when all the women and girls I knew would flock around the flower vendor and buy many many muras. I remember when vendors did not have to worry about their flowers rotting and dying away. Flowers in the fairer sex' hair was as common as men with bikes. I remember early school days when my teachers used to fill the classrooms and corridors with the aroma of fresh flowers, a lively bunch of flowers. I remember my mother filling the house with the aroma of flowers. Flower vendors were guests as frequent as the rising sun.I don't see that anymore. It's all the smell of Tre'Semme and Lo'real and Livon and Dove and Pantene and Sunsilk and all-the-others; an artificial smell that just rests on the hair for a few hours.

All these women who got out of the building went straight into their cars and vrooooom! I looked down at the flower basket the man was keeping his flowers in. It was a towering pyramid. Untouched flowers, not sold, not taken. Untouched. The sort of state that makes vendors worry about their livelihood. Flowers won't stay that fresh for more than a day or two, tops. Letting the flowers this man was selling die would be a sin far too great for mankind.

My mother loves flowers in her hair. Mainly the fresh and lively ones. Mainly the ones with an enchanting aroma. Mainly the ones this man was selling. All this while, the man had just taken me to be a passerby. AFTERAAALLLL, I'm a new-age boy hanging out with other boys. I would, obviously, be the last person he'd expect who would buy flowers. Even as I moved towards him , he didn't look at me as a prospective buyer. Only when I asked him about the rate did he consider me as a buyer. Perhaps to his amusement, I mispronounced the word used for the measurement. I asked, "Oka Mula entha?" (How much does one Mula cost?) He replied, "Oka Mura iravayi rupayilu" (One Mura is 20 rupees). It then struck me that it was 'Mura' and not 'Mula.' He added to his reply, "Rendu Muralu theesesukondi, muppayichchi" (Take 2 Muras for thirty rupees). I wasn't too sure about it. But then, his patient wait for a customer, all the thoughts that ran through my head before planning to buy it and the thought that my mother likes it convinced me that I should buy 2. What am I losing? If anything, he might have lost ten bucks. But then, it's better to sell it than to let all of it rot, isn't it? It is a sin, after all.

As he unfolded the garland to cut the measurements, the smell; no perfume would have been a match to it. It may be right to say that expecting to come across something so amazingly fresh would be foolish in today's world of industry and artificiality. These angelic flowers were beyond anything. He packed them in a polythene cover. I paid him and then, he continued doing whatever he was doing. The polythene was bloating up, as if it found it difficult to contain all the aroma. As I pushed against the bloat, the aroma rushed out and filled the air. I made my way home. I bought a gas balloon on the way. It was heart shaped and danced merrily to a beautiful song at the railway station. I gave it away.

My mother loved the flowers. Perhaps, it was the last thing she expected to receive at 10P.M in the night, from me. Doesn't matter. She was happy. She liked it. Then, she told me that they weren't mallepuvvulu. They were Verajaji (Juhi).  If I am obsessing so much over flowers, I am sure they are some of the most beautiful creations.

The day has ended with an aroma of joy.