Sunday, January 30, 2011

Morning Mist

I wish each day for the moments to last. The mute mornings, early musings. To rise up before sunshine. To be the first and the only one around. It's the best time of the day, of solitary existence.

When, in the darkness, I feel upon me, the shadow of mist.

Of You and Me

Somehow, I live in an empty world
just me, alone, away, bored
a choice, I still persist to choose
an invisible life, my world of muse.

Invisible it was, my life and I
In my own world, till you came by
how did you know I was worthwhile
to be your friend, to make me smile.

Have had some friends, come and go
but it wasn't me they claimed to know,
it didn't matter, it never did
I was well away, beneath my shield.

Vivid memories of life gone by
without you, this is all a lie
you turned my life to mighty moments
and I travelled with you to the depths of bliss.

All I had was me and life,
relations that made no meaning or rhyme,
now here's a choice I'll always choose,
you, my friend, my kind of muse.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011


The bare feet, dirty and wounded, climbed onto the dumps. It was a summer morning, and he was early. Maybe today, he would find something before the others did. He sat down atop the two feet junk and looked around the vastly spread garbage. It wasn't an empty playground and he didn't enjoy playing in it. He picked a dirty piece of cloth and worked on his left foot. He would not have cared to bandage the wound had it not hurt so bad. 

He started to rummage through the pile in front of him. An hour later, he looked content with his bulging sack stuffed with rag. He lay down on the garbage bed staring at the hollow sky. He liked the sky. He felt it to be just like him. Empty, clueless, no hint of happiness.

He felt a sense of desperation again. Ever since he was mocked by three boys last week. Ever since he wished for their white uniforms and shiny water bottles. He dared not to ask his mother, or he would get more scars like those on his arms. He continued to gaze at the blue and let the desperation swallow him. The desperation for happiness, love and grace. To tell himself that there's a place to escape and the desperation to believe that self taught lie.

He lost himself into the darkness. A place where he often felt alone and scared . He screamed for help, tried to run away. He shivered as he looked at those angry eyes, strong hands grabbing him tight, lifting him up and shaking him.

He woke up with a jolt. He stared at an anxious face, and felt a hand on his chest.

"He died.", said his friend.


"He died...They say he killed himself.... "

" ... "

"Are you coming?"

" ... "

" We were looking for you. Are you coming? "


"You should come."

He didn't listen to him. He lay back again and stared at the empty sky. He fought with him last night. Tried to talk him out of it.

 He didn't bother to wipe his wet eyes. He stared. He wished he could go away too. Like his friend did. His best friend.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

A Week's Musical

I've reached a point from self contradiction,
to a state of denial dressed in satisfaction
have had some talks; arguments for sake,
some here, some there; left promises at stake
what's to come, or to ever become;
from a cake or two, than from a few bread crumbs.
My drug that kills the axiety beneath
nothing that burgers and fries can't beat,
at Pitstop again, I hogged last week
in a corner seat for two, enjoying my treat.
And talkin' of that day, I dropped by her den,
a crazy cat owner, a dear old friend.
 my flu caught up, since the morning mist
that put me to bed for the day and the next.
have since been around, got sights to ponder,
of huts, brick stove, salesman's wonder,
cow by a tea shop, foreigners by a street phone,
the queer green roof atop a broken home,
mighty moments of a journey on road,
of life, it was a journey I rode.

Saturday, January 8, 2011


" The day we stop lookin', Charlie, is the day we die. "

                          - Scent of a Woman

Counting Jackfruit

Sometimes it becomes a conflict within, between the heart and mind. In the end, either way, it's never easy.  No matter how overt it is, or how hard we try to make a reason, time runs out.

" ...The house was full of people, often noisy with kids running around; there was never a moment to relax. The same beaten path, from dawn to cockshut time, every day. I still remember, somedays at two in the afternoon, my sister and I took turns to sit by the rye-spread, drying in the heat of the midday sun, to chase away crows. Those were insipid hours of trivial afternoons. A life that often didn't feel good.

But now, I wish it all came back. The crowded kitchen, the celerity each morning, the noise and comotion, all of it. "

It was such a detailed recountal, that it almost felt, well, present. Certainly, through eighty five years of life, there has been a lot to see, love and apprize. Today, it might be a brief memory that instigates to just narrate itself, but it's all the more a life that my grandmother prefers, a life that seconds the existing present.

Sometimes it's the past that is easy on us. It was a cognizant truth that reflected in her eyes. The long lost days of watering the lilies, in her garden roofed with jasmine creepers. Though far away from home, she still counts the coconuts like the year before. Still checks the ripeness up the jackfruit tree.

She's talking over the phone to a neighbor, back home. Incidentally there has been a "jackfruit issue".