Facets

Come to the Land.

A lump of life-giving sorrows.
Here everything is passion.
Free and fettered.
Obsession. Poison.
Can you not notice the roots?
Where the forests began. 
The forests are still dense. 
Just like your eyes. 
As dense as Sundarbans. 

Riddle 

We live in the society wherein breaking of a coffee mug, dropping off an iPhone, and the news of a lover’s death induces almost the same reaction- a dramatized one coupled with hatred for the whole of humanity.

Maya 

Far away from the citylights in one of those slums (with heaps of garbage and dry gutters) where hungry orphans lick water from the pits during Monsoons, there lives a pair of eyes with hope. They wish to come close to the citylights that always seem like stars. But starlight is an illusion. 

Seasons

A train whistle bringing flowers to the moon. Brown fire igniting rocks and pebbles. Cold wine celebrating the first monsoon shower on the hot pavement. And Serendipities. Faint glimmers encapsulating warm hearts. And restless winter dreams.

Diversions

The distant cracking of knuckles preventing me from thinking about you. And heavy breathing. Snores. Ticking of the wall clock. Serenading cicadas. Rustle of wind. Sounds of remote controls. And fireworks in the moonless sky during the wedding month.

Chaos Comes

Take those mountains. Swift-footed mountains. And the valleys carving themselves out to be filled with ether. Filling the cottage where she caresses her wrinkles. These ornaments are her prized possessions. Like the ripples on streams which dance in the moonlight. The pearls of the ocean that lits up in happiness at the arrival of Moon. Imitating the stars.

O Fire, will you burn it all? Orange fire. Raked in passion engulfing it all. Fire that purges. Here, let me give you a dash of fire. That which purifies. Fire that swallows and rises. Fire that flirts. That which is graceful at all times. Fire that is now inside me burning for you.

Do you smell the wind? In my hair. The wind fluttering the veil that she holds with her bangled hands. And the sand of the Oasis it carries from the far away lands where the kohl-eyed mistress is waiting for her lover while fetching water from the wells. Listen to the music that she makes while she pulls those jute ropes entwined between her unmanicured hands. Listen carefully.

The waves. Those waves that sing their own song. Waves that compliment. Waves that are in clouds. Or in the paint brush of a lonely artist trying to develop a masterpiece. Waves in the hands of a dancer. Waves in the ocean of your eyes. In the tresses of my hair. And my stretch marks.

And the sky. The ethereal sky. The vastness that fills up the seven hells inside me and the heaven inside you. Enveloping warmth and light. Absorbing sounds but not whispers. Void that consumes and breathes. Sighes.

***