Naina Agarwal

I love his stories.  I love the timbre of his voice  and the places it takes me  effortlessly. I love to hear his stories- His voice offers no escape.  In a world full of mash-ups,  he is an original sound track.  He is a hot rose blooming on my face; as deep as the ocean; he recalls Christmas bells.  And I love his stories. They  remove the deepest thorns  from rose-heart; balm my temples and heal them scars. His voice, is a lover  reciting an old ballad,  when he laughs.  And when he sighes,  the sun sinks in the sea  in the other spectrum of sight. I love to hear his stories. They remind me of the 'April showers breeding lilacs  out of the dead land. ' Kohl to the eyes, ice to the burns, his voice is the music of rain . And so it offers no escape! I think about his voice as a gradual change from reality to dream, morning to eve, from wedding to mourning- a note of shehnai . His voice, thus, becomes a stinging, burning  heart on my hand,  a w

Dear one, you are a rock - Hard and stable, Situated at the bottom of a waterfall. I am a river - Swift and proud; Falling from a height, Reaching you, s triking your sharp edges. Edges that hold you, ground you, Situate you at the bottom of a waterfall. You resist me, And in the process I slow down.  I cut you but only at the edges;  Strike you till you smoothen -  You flow into me rolling and tolling,  Miles after miles  Till you break yourself-  Piece by piece,  From stones to pebbles  To the fertile life-giving resource. We leave a part of selves along the way As we travel into each other, Years upon years. You shaping up my course now; Checking my moods- Meandering, curved, straight; Challenging my wild, Imbibing patience- That unacknowledged virtue. And I,  I leave you be, On my way, To fulfil my own destiny. But such is our relationship; Do not be angry- The parting is temporary. I'll meet you in the monsoons; I'll rise to the stars and fall into yo