Upon seeing the wilted grass in the arid garden,
I would dream of the rain, and craft a paper-boat, hoping there’d be puddles.
I was in love with the rain, its strangeness,
its heavy fall on the rooftop,
the lamp post bearing it all like a head bowed under the shower,
the wind swaying the rain, the rain roaring in the night.
Now that the rain was here, my paper-boat had drowned, and I had neither the energy nor the courage to make one again. It was my first. There’s no second,
not one that is equal or greater.
Two little kids sit on the debris,
the girl looking at her brother’s bare back.
The hungry boy fumbles in the pile of remains.
The sister digs her finger into the wound on his back.
And the boy’s hand emerges out from the debris with a pencil that he thinks of handing to her.
You are going to wander
till you have found a way of loving yourself through it all
The journey is going to mislead you, disappoint you and what else? It’s also going to make you want it to end.
But you must find a way to love yourself before it ends.
They had their own way of grieving.
Some grieved while they laughed, and some when they shopped for things useless to them.
Some walked aimlessly, and some sang listlessly.
Orange shirts and white shoes, some grieved through colors.
Some added one bit more of everything, a shout, a jump, a stretched nap.
Some ate more, some read more.
They were not happy faces. They were successful faces, filled every bit with ambition.
I enjoy the company of two kinds of people.
One, those who can make me laugh.
Two, those on whom I can laugh without it being mockery.
Now there are others whose presence brings to me a smile.
The rest are population.😂
Population, please don’t crowd this place.
Because I wanted to pass that moment,
and I believed that it would take only a while,
I kept walking. I kept walking as a blind man would. I kept walking as a deaf man would.
And what do I see? Everyone behind me was shouting. They were shouting to save me.
I had come out too far. I had walked on a hot road of tar. Almost burning tar on which tender, fragile flowers wept.
Now that I was here, they began clapping and cheering. Were they the same people?
I was crying. I wanted to stand there for as long as they let me. I wanted to walk on tar again.
Who does not want to be protected?
And I knew even if that passed, there was more to pass.
With those intellect-drenched texts read, those paintings stared at, those strokes traced, those art pieces that pass off as vintage and occult and obscure studied with blank, awed eyes, who knows who knows what, really. Who knows, really, how many of us have managed to fool ourselves with the theory that we are trying to learn patience, that we have changed for good, that we did not hurt others, that hurting a certain person was justified because it served a purpose, that hurting can be for a noble cause, bah. Who gives it a moment of honest thought that we have lied to ourselves and chosen not to count. Who is willing to accept that we don’t like question marks and we omit them by choice. Who has maintained that understanding others even in anger and grief is a choice one can make, even if it hurts to. Does it ever bother us when we decide not to think because a small pain in our heart causes us to return it in multifold to others…Do we have so many people on earth… so many as to hurt and forget because being hurt is a sacrifice that entitles us to say whatsoever, act howsoever in the name of respect for self. That we read, talk, laugh but when it comes to living, we live to fulfil a great lie.
P. S. I have omitted question mark by choice.
Warmth of your breath, crunch of leaves under your feet, you are abstract. A melody that rises above the crank of garbage truck. You see, you’re not as complex as I thought. Or is your significance my thought?
Am I the constructor of you? Or were it you who gulped in the content of that glass? You answer in winds. You answer in silences. The air that rolled away is the air that ran to you once. Madness so strong, or were those tender hands that pointed towards south yours?
The swish while you passed by is still the last I observed. The tree trunk is serrated rough but it’s also wet after the rain. The heavy rains have a sound, and only I interpret.
Did I ever question your being? I know your sheer force. Did I ever call you my heart? I know you’re not so empty. Then why do you have me fazed? Why must you not fade?