Sunday, June 13, 2010

TWO GHOSTS IN A DECEMBER MORNING

5 am, a cold, dark December morning
I steeped out into the bus stop
It was deserted save for a suppressed cough
I found the owner,
You had a scar.
The mist lifted,
And cold, dark brown eyes stared back at me
In confusion I took a few steps back
Startled and strangely pleased
By your close proximity.

I wanted to reach out.
Caress your scar,
Ask your name,
But the words never came
And the cruel mist engulfed you again,
You went away,
I felt cold again.

You came in my dream,
You spoke my name
So every morning I came back
But every time you went away,
You never asked my name,
I never asked yours.

Till it became a daily ritual
To learn up every detail of you
Your clothes, your countenance,
The navy blue muffler which wrapped your neck,
Your hair which I dreamt
Of running my fingers over,
Each freckle, each eyelash,
The slight furrow of your brows,
Your carefully suppressed smile
Betrayed by your unfaithful lips.
And you watched me each time
From the corner of your eyes,
An art which you had perfected.

I know this will come to an end
With nothing more than our
Silent glances, our inconspicuous blushes,
Our rushing heartbeats.
We will leave it there,
Afraid of the brutal world
Afraid of the indictment
 That would destroy our lives
So you go your way, I go mine
But I will carry the images of two ghosts
Lost in the mist of a December morn.
PS-This one is based rather loosely on an account by Killjoy who asked me to write from the point of view of a girl who used to watch him every morning!

Thursday, June 10, 2010

NO SIGN OF YOU ANYWHERE

I glance at it
Every now and then
Waiting, Wishing, Heart beating,
Afraid that you would hear it from so far away.
It was I who made this choice,
But I still want you to come,
One last time,
I can feel the passing
Of every second distinctly,
I stare out into the darkness,
And I can hear only your voice
Calling me back,
Your undisguised laughter,
And your sharp intake of breath.
Some one brings me coffee,
I forget to thank him,lost in my reverie,
I sip the coffee absentmindedly,
Only to burn my tongue.
A faceless voice announces my departure
I still wait,
Even as the last person in the crowd has crossed the gate
I still wait,
A message perhaps?
I wait for your tormenting taunts.
It would console me now,
But it doesn’t come.
Your cruel laughter haunts me.
I wait for you to come,
One last time,
The wait is agonizing,
The silence consumes me,
The lounge is empty,
You still haven’t come
The faceless voice announces my name,
I look around;
No message,
No sign of you anywhere.

NOTE- It was about midnight when I wrote this.I guess I was waiting for something, some message, maybe a sign but it never came. I just tried to encapsulate the dismay, the sinking feeling that appears at such times! I wonder if anyone has ever felt it too.

COLLECTING STRANDS OF CONVERSATION

How do I collect conversations


To make as museum out of them?

Heart-broken lovers and estranged ones

Collect tangible, inanimate objects

Which remind them

Of the ones they loved and lost.

But I didn’t have such privileges,

All I have are just broken strands of conversations

That we indulged in everyday

That relieved the strain of our unintelligible lives.

We sat down after each weary day

To leave behind the arduous task

Of attending conferences and meetings

That made decisions which determined

Someone else’s life,

To escape the monotony of our lonely lives

With our wives and boyfriends.

I am so afraid all of it will slip away.

How do I get a box to empty it out?

Those conversations concerning

The most trivial part of our mortal lives,

Of books and music, words and conversations.

And the one in which you told me

That you see my ghosts in alien places,

See me in every girl you come across,

That you have begun to hallucinate my images,

I had smiled, knowing little

How much it would cost us in future years.

So how do I preserve them?

Can you tell me a way?