Yesterday is but today's memory!

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Why am I writing not!  Thousands were the content in mind, hundreds were the story in brain, of course few emotions in tens and twenties in my heart.  I still don't write.  Writers block! No; the writer in itself was blocked.  Pain in my hands as a collateral of being an over worked owl and palpitation in chest as the result of a broken marriage. Thank god it was broken but the resultant pain the process and the society had brought in was like a needle prick in the beating heart. Slow and steady the needle goes in so the heart throbs. Words pour from somewhere in the air just like the breathing, unbridled and subconsciously but throbbing evaporates the pour and the sourness ties the hands from writing.

 

Now that I fear not about the pain and sourness and decided to eschew the blocks it has built, the words flow from the same unknown source, the sun, the moon, the sea, the sea shore, the river, the trees, the chirpings, the eminence godliness and thousand more. 

 

The heart still beats faster knocking the doors of my chest to open but it was a cage of which the keys I could find not. The fragrance of the skin I know before decades is not leaving my olfactory.  And the face that owned that fragrance, the face that I held in my palms, touched with my fingers and kissed with my eyes is leaving me not.  The good thing about it is that it is the pill for my palpitation.  I have tasted real love once in my life and realized that never again, ever again will that same fragrance will come crossing my nostrils.

 

The story was a not a simple one liner when I thought it was over decades back. It still continues without the protagonists because the story is the protagonists and the characters are dead long ago.  It is still a book that I still write; I neither know the ending nor the number of pages it will take to complete.  It is just a story like any other but a story by itself, writes by itself; mine are only the hands that just types. 

 “Yesterday is but today's memory, and tomorrow is today's dream” – Khalil  Gibran

SK

A Devil’s Rendezvous

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…and then she claimed into the moving metal bogie, in a

flamboyant attire, with no make over, with no polished nails.

Her eyes were sharp like a guillotine, every time she closes and

every time she opens it shines as if it was sharpened.

 

Like a slash of a great warrior, her torso was a clean cut

designed with divine’s own precision toolkit.

Her bosom complimented the waves of the oceans and

every wave threw a spear in the air puncturing my hormonal sack.

 

I could metaphor her hair with the moonglade on the ocean, it was

not black nor blonde, it was plaited and glittering.

My olfactory picked no fragrance, no scent: natural or artificial,

other than the extreme cologne of femininity!

 

I have read about Ishtar, a delicate beauty, but

this woman was far delicate than Ishtar, a hawk’s feather.

When with no special power we want to look beautiful and

Why not a devil with all super power wants to look ugly!

-S.K

Love of my Past!

There is an unfathomable hole in my soul,

Deep down lives the memory of the past of

the unsatiated unquenched love of my life.

 

Some movies, some music, some words,

Some rain, in times some shine, some couples,

reminds me of me-with-you as you-with-me.

 

Like the petrichor, like the blooming jasmine,

like the smell on baby skin, your fragrance sleeps

in my philtrum and it wakes in time like a alarm.

 

And my soul rejuvenates from slumber and I dwell

in the past to see if that can be turned to present,

to relive to relieve the weight of the memories with you.

 

When there is a knock on my window sill by the rain,

 I reckon the day you rejected my umbrella walk, and

When the same rain drops touches my cheeks,

I remember the day we walked together under the umbrella.

 

You held my arm like a baby holding her mothers neck,

the rain, the umbrella, the togetherness doesn’t exist today

but the scorches of your palm, your tender love is still a scar!  

sk

Mirage

…I have to start it from the middle for I am in the middle of a summer day, scorching and burning.  There is no place to hide, no shade to fide.  I reason out it to be cauterization for I have been bitten by many poisonous beasts. When everyone waits for sunshine I wait for the night time, the dark and cold sky.  I sleep in the desert sand and the heat never leaves even after the sun goes down, the surface is chilled by the moonshine but the heart of the desert still fumes with heat.  I am just a poor pupa in conjuncture to develop into a butterfly.  The soul is caught inside the body making it difficult to fly and reach its astral home.  There is no space for my soul to twist and turn inside the body I was caught in. And the soul lacks the ability to tear open the body to fly and reach heaven.  The abode, the haven is what it looks like but it feels like a prison; caught behind the bars.  It is all nonsense: the dogmas, the righteousness, and the rules of culturally correct life. It is all cynical.  Everything here is only a mirage wherein the water you see is untrue but the mirage is true.

 

What am I writing!  I started it somewhere and just like my life the context moved into a different direction.  Words! O words! You are my last abode, betray not me please. Thousands of word runs in my brain and I could feel them in my fingers but the mind interrupts to make mistake in the spellings and I pronounce it wrong.  I have clumsy thoughts, mystic thinking and dusty memories; I have dumped them all in a corner of my brain but when the new thoughts comes it still stinks with the older dumps from the corner.  What a stupendous, stupefied, astonishing but wasted design!

 

Nothing makes sense, the context above, the sleep, the waking up, the walk and run, the work and job, the money and savings nothing makes sense.  The soul knows the universe is just one soul and the images we see are only the fast and slow accelerating cells. There is no you and me, there is only I and that is only one I, everyone is one I. Of course all those crap enlightening stuffs of reality of the universe is known to the soul and the soul tries to teach the mind and brain but the cognizant is so dark and dusty that the mirror just cannot not be wiped clean to show the reality.

 

It is hard to distinguish the truth and falsehood, the real and fake for everything is in juxtaposition.  Let the universal soul, some day, rest in peace! 

Bliss!!!

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Calm down! Calm down! Calm down! - I said myself – the words are coming, the veils of dam that stopped the flow of words from the subconscious damn river were broken.  The shivering hands that seldom write a sentence will write a book in one swivel – I consoled by anxious, fast beating, palpitation-suffering heart.   I know this body, these hands and heart, these cells and muscles are not you – I read my own thoughts – this life has become a burden; a immaculate gigantic mountain over the weakening shoulders. The weight over the shoulders had started breaking the vertebra and making me a hunchback before the mortal humans. 

 

The fables that were taught – somewhere in the far distant high there is a God sitting and watching, the deeds and morals, dogmas and guidelines has become oil over the burning soul.  The preaching to look inside, the universal force that drives the lives, the result of big bang inside every atom has only added weight to the shoulders!  The realization that I was something else arrested inside this very body – I read my thoughts – has become painful.

 

I couldn’t advice but – there is a feel the flames up and down that I have to get out this house that hosted me – wait, who the hell is me if this body is not!

 

It feels like tearing my own body like caterpillar and fly out like a butterfly to taste the honey in every haven flowers – I feel the perplexity inside me – but what is that  that will get out of the caterpillar skin? Is it the life that blooms out of the soul that pops out! I wonder! Which is the animal? The one inside or outside? Which one should be euthanized; I know that that dangerous cold blooded animal was wounded seriously.

 

Or, should I wait for some hands to break open the shell and take the pearl out; Oh the pearl! The drop that came from up above and arrested inside and become precious with the years.  Is the pearl our atman? The Danjayan, that which could be captured not, smelled not, but was arrested inside somewhere in the head and leaves only after the life leaves the body; the resurrection!

 

This feel is heavy, heart crunching, muscle scorching, and skull breaking; Ignorance is Bliss!

 

 

Drug...!

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 It is the scent of sweat, mixed

with the fragrance of jasmine buds. 

And the secret ingredient: femininity!

Put in together along with the night,

kindles the olfactory to suppress the brain,

The venom spreads all over until it drains.

To the songs of love, cells dances in grace,

It is a hard core violence that leaves no trace.

Till the drug consumes the addict,

To fly in heaven is all you predict.

Once the grail is empty it feels fire in water,

But soon refilled though you repent, it doesn’t matter!

Sometimes in regret you freak, and

Historically it is the cup you break!

The Lost Walk

 

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“…my boy friend is not going to like this if he hears about it” she said. 

“Neither do my girl friend, but the difference… is… we are not talking anymore, so I don't worry” he replied.

And they walked down the hill slowly in the twilight.  It was not the hill what actually you think with thorns and bushes and trees.  It was once like that may be, but now it was turned into a concrete jungle with computers, internet, junk foods, food courts, car parking, white lights, air conditioning vents, jeans, short skirts, formal suites with tie and securities.  Basically it was an IT ‘park’, so it is called.

 

But still the hill had had its originality.  The roads were not straight but curvy; it cannot be plain and smooth but bumpy and sloppy.  They both knew each other lately but were buddies from earlier births.  He remembers standing still at the first day, very first moment when she saw her. 

She said “why are you sad…?” that was the very first thing she said as if continuing from the last conversation they had. 

“What is your name?” he replied and from then on the past life buddies became buddies again.

 

The road was in harmony with the nature, trees and breeze mend together along with the twilight.  They planned it for a short walk, treading till the bottom of the hill. And there were waters flowing down the hill at the sides of the road faster than their thoughts.

 

“I like this walk” he said

“…I too” she replied.

 

They didn’t know what life has for them when the road ends and when they go on in their own ways, but for now the walk was pleasant and present. 

 

“I need a small house, built only for me.  I probably won’t allow anybody.  I will paint the walls in pink, the doors, the floors, the window, the utensils, my wardrobe and what not! Everything I want it in pink.  I will wear pink silk dresses and like a pinkish happy life alone” she said

 

He was silent as she recited her wish he was taken in to her imagination.  A man’s imagination of a woman will always be little different.  He had put her in a pink castle where in the flames at the night glows in pink.  There was a throne or a high seat decorated with white and pink flowers.  (Wait! Where does the white come from! But you see plain pink won’t look good).  She walked the aisle in her silky soft pink queen’s wardrobe and white gloves (it is okay, gloves in pink doesn’t match the pink dresses) followed by guards wearing pink suites (they where wearing black shoes, not white this time nor pink).  She resigned to her bed where in the walls were pink and the bed and pillows were pink and shiny.  She changed to her pink night dress allowing her long black hair to spread over the shiny pink bed.  It looked like a portrait from the top angle.  The curtains on the sides of the bed fell which was white blending with pink.

 

“Are you with me?” she asked. 

“Oh, yes” he replied. 

– Man destroys the reality any woman wants with his own virtual reality – he thought

They continued to walk.  When they reached the bottom of the hill it was dark. 

“Shall we walk for little while more…?” He said.

She didn’t reply but walked with him.  The walk seemed to be a continuation of the one they went together some centuries back, may be, in the same place with the same friendship.

 

He knew, she cannot be saved from the life and she knew he cannot be consoled and comforted.  They both know they have to walk forward holding their hearts together.  They know life will bring them together whenever they are stroked down so that their friendship is renewed.

 

The reached the cross roads and parted with smile only to meet again another day to say that - that walk was great and never had one such after because life throws relationships in our way but less friendship.