Eighteen

i hate the rain.
and its endless wetness that seeps into sleep.

its distant bass-hum of thunder, dotted by silent pitter-patter. the tubelights that shine on freshly glazed green leaves. the crunch of hurried heels on sodden roads going home. the blackness of night. the monotony of big hunks of cloud.

i hate its humid quietness that sticks and binds to your skin,
things, memories, people, dreams.

and that distracting smell of loveliness.

i hate the rain.
and i hate it that i don’t sleep – not wanting to miss any of its scantiness.

Seventeen

the piano in the corner of the hall had grown accustomed to being alone.
underused, with each of its wires bending with age. its white and black shiny digits losing lustre, fading to the ochre of old, old paper coloured with cream shades of romance.

its life was inching past, and all it could do, was wait for someone to play god with it.

and today, someone opened the piano box.

the piano watched in expectant silence, the hesitant hands that hovered, invoking a long forgotten Beethoven or Brahms.

it smiled.

and then educated fingers drew a soul out. they glided together, over the quiet of memories stashed away for a later time. they flew, fluttered, wavered, meandered, sank, plunged
deep,
deep within a bond beyond the intrustion of words.

they rose to a crescendo:
the piano, hands, souls, shoulders, eyes, all – they were all laughing.

For an icecreamjunkie

Sixteen

everyday, a thousand stories die in my head.

little tales made of lives that accidentally touch mine on a bumpy bus ride, occupy my empty seat once i leave. pink blossoms that i built with words, wither in the summer afternoon.

everynight, my hands are stained with the colours of each moment that passed through my fingers.

and now, i blink at this mess, and wonder.

i need to remember.
i need to remember what i wondered.

Fifteen

god’s eyes are shut.

in his yard,
a tree bears twelve wishes for offspring
twelve wombs’ waiting, tethered tight to its bark,
a circumventing mother’s eyes pressured shut, chanting
please please please please.

this tree probably has delivered the approximate number.

everyday,
god’s eyes are shut
between one and four at noon.

the absence of a red or black circle on my forehead
tells him i won’t visit anyway.

trapped in stone, then four walls, heavy curtains, wooden doors,
and even iron grills,
god yawns at the world hurling past in a hurry,
at his more faithful pieces touching each cheek at a time,
or kissing a bent finger,
in a reflex, lasting five seconds.

my unbowed eyes, glazed over by original plans,
exclusive of the maker,
tell him i won’t visit anyway.

but i pass him by, everyday,
around a round-about, dedicated just to his shrine.

everyday,
his eyes are shut,
between one and four at noon,

and i’m glad he can’t see me
smile
everytime i inhale
his camphor skin doused with water.
a moist calm of belief.

olfactory is my religion.