Variegated Vignettes

If it wasn’t for you, it wouldn’t have been for anyone.

It wasn’t until I heard that baritone, with apt pauses and stresses while you spoke for good one hour that I decided to meet you in person. It has never been difficult to spot you even when you are in a crowd: the snow-white hair and the charming countenance in the trademark crisp white cotton kutra sets you apart in many ways. I wanted to ask why you love white so much. Why do you always wear mojaris? I have always wondered whether this white cloak is to veil the darkness, or maybe sadness that lurks deep inside your heart, somewhere. A stillness that connects you with so many people, with the magic wand of words you weave that fall like a script written exclusively for us. What is that makes you think like us, without knowing us, in so many ways? But, there was no time; you were busy meeting people you knew, blessing them and hugging them. There I was, right behind the girl you hugged, our eyes did meet, though only for a fraction of second till you daintily treaded towards the exit. That was the first time, perhaps, I had seen you so closely, and observed those wrinkles around your small eyes; you had removed thin-golden frames that adorn your eyes most of the time except when you are reading. Yes, I observed that. While you were holding those white sheets of paper on the podium, and reciting those poems, your frames were missing. Conjuring various emotions were those poems, and we devoured each one envying how beautifully you could sketch a prosaic situation into variegated vignettes. I wanted to tell you how the crinkles on the hemline of your kurta added another dimension to your visage; how piquant it always has been to hum your notes for every season and reason; how every prose has a heart and how every verse has a life; how we find solace under the splattering sunshine of the paeans of love, life, loss and pain.

Hence, I decided to chase to tell him how good he is. It wouldn’t be a discovery for him to know the fact, but it would be an experience for me to remember as I didn’t want to regret later for not trying. So the zeal to meet him stripped off the shyness and hesitation that I am loaded with. Lucky I was, indeed, as I saw him talking to someone in the gallery where his face was incandescent under the jarring tube-lights and the white-marble flooring. Like a teenager in love, my heart was thumping and the queasiness had taken over my nerves, after all, it was my first ever chase and hopefully -- the last one. With every step, a sense of intoxication was overwhelming my senses. The rephrasing and rehearsals of the impending conversations had vanished in the mazes of mind; I was blank, almost numb. He was talking to someone, till he saw me, the other person paved way for me. I looked at him, right into his eyes, shook hands. And the shameless me, refused to let go off the hand, holding it, looking straight into his eyes, I said, “You write so well. Though there is nothing common between the two of us, except for the birthdays. Thank you so much for writing so beautifully.” He smiled back, and in his mesmerising baritone said, “Thank You.”

I left the place wondering what kind of a stupid thing to say. But, at times stupidity takes over this colourless life and makes it more florid, more vibrant. I guess that was the moment for me.

If it wasn’t for you Gulzar, it wouldn’t have been for anyone.

Shameless Desires

To slip into those size 11 slippers,

And walk like an alien,

Wearing his favourite t-shirt

Feel like a kid on her own,

Clinging on to those big arms,

As long as she could,

Not worrying about tomorrow,

Only mistake she overlooked.

Conjuring various memories,

Are the circles,

They circled around so many times,

Delaying departures,

Waiting for the next day to arrive,

Of the morning sun,

That was bright,

Like his smile,

Of the sunset,

That promised,

A beautiful time,

Growing old in his shoes,

Was one thing she shamelessly desired for.

One Day

It so happened,
One day,
Our paths crossed again,
Even after a decade,
Awkwardness was still there,
We left it like that,
Between the sheets,
Paper thin emotions,
Didn’t take much time to heal.

It so happened,
That day,
When we met for the last time,
On a sultry summer evening,
With the same awkwardness,
Cautiously avoiding eye contact,
Pretending to be normal,
While wondering when we could,
Just run away.

Run away from being pretentious,
Run away from each other,
Run away from the time we spent together,
Run away from the throes of emotions.

It so happened,
One day,
Our paths crossed again,
This time we had nothing to share...........

A New Journey

Unpredictable ways of life,
A new lesson every time,
Learning is in your hands,
Hidden are divine surprises.
Beneath the superficial surface,
Lies a beautiful mind,
Thinking silently,
You need a jolt to realise.
Being blunt is a virtue,
Makes life pretty easy,
Stop pleasing people,
It doesn’t come handy.
Alone you always stand.
Don’t belie the reality,
Forget the forlorn past,
Lessons learnt should be in the memory.
Take the tightrope walk,
Shrug off your guards,
Plunge into an unknown territory,
And get busy with a new journey.

A lousy afternoon

The day looks long. So long that when I look at the clock it stares back with a mischievous smile. Even yawn is taking its own sweet time to stretch all the muscles of my face; there is blood rush, I can feel it running all over my face, with the 'power yawn.' Yes, I would like to call it a “power yawn.” The dials of my blue watch have smothered in the lethargy of Delhi’s sweltering summer -- they too are in the mood for an afternoon nap, it seems. My favourite song is playing in the loop for the past three hours. My ears are not tired, but mind is wandering; focussing is a problem as the dials of my watch are still in slumber, I guess.

I look up; creaking sound of the rotating fan is annoying. I look at my watch again, with some hope. It isn’t four yet. My focus is now on the fan; I am trying to catch the scurrying movements of its blades – they are running in rhythmic circular motion. I stretch my body, I am bored of fan. I could hear the crackling sound of my back bone; sitting on the chair for long hours can do this. But, the relief you get after that crackling --- there is blood rush in that part of the system and an immense sense of pleasure.

I looked at my watch. This time it has woken up: its 4 pm and a long day indeed. Just two more hours are left, but everything still looks so still. So monotonous.