A Ride From The Past II

After a long period of months I have the sequel to the first part of this blog series. It was so poetic that I could sum up all of it in a single line.

Sabh moh maaya hai. Period.

Also, LOL.


Other foot in Medium

It’s been by far my greatest dilemma in this field whether to move my blog to Medium or stay here at WordPress. Not that I have a considerable audience who will be affected by this change, it is rather about my own satisfaction to get settled in one place and start writing.


I like Medium for its gorgeousness and their extensive focus on writing as a community. It will be better to become a part of that community I’m sure, and beneficial too if some have it in them to make it large. Publishers often swarm around those places with book deals in their hands to offer. I’m not being that optimistic to think that I’ll ever be approached by anyone, but why not settle down somewhere where there is a little greenery (pun totally not intended) than a dry land (no offence WordPress).

It was also one among the few (only) changes, beginning to write there, that I have adapted with this new year. Perhaps it is to announce my invisible audience that my prime focus will be shifted on writing at Medium. All this shall stay just like it.

See you there.

Withering Away


For the most part of our lives, we are constantly engaged in some sort of chaos. There are very few moments of stillness in our hands where we can absorb whatever is happening around. Two lives pass through each other like two trains running in opposite directions, too fast to see what is going on in the other’s cabin.

Memories, however, always seem to unfold in slow motion whenever we peak in the past. There is an extra sensitivity and consciousness towards the passing of time in some of us. Sometimes, in any moment I would snap back myself in thoughts about how this very moment will be added in the timeline of memories after a long while from now. Remembering, is the only way we know to preserve the past and not let it dissipate into nothingness. Life, the greatest thing there to behold every meaning to everything, itself is transient.

One summer vacation at home, I was sitting beside mum and grandma surrounding a heater with a tea pot over it. It was that hour of work-less-ness before night, just after darkness has taken over the day; the moment when all the birds return to their homes. Every one to stay the night were coming in one by one, the kids heavily dressed in layers of sand and dust and leaving again. Me, I was in the stillness of being at home sitting beside them, talking shortly and freely without any discussion. If you notice, there is this very short state of confusion when the day has just elapsed and the night has just dawned. In this confusion one likes to just sit and let the night completely spread to begin with things to do. Our moment was just that. At this point, I was lying by their side, with my head on grandma’s lap and watching mother do some chores. I twisted a little to look up and saw her face; an old lady lost in some deep thoughts, her palm gently brushing from my hairs to my cheek. We were all quiet for some time, there wasn’t anything to be said. She was lost in a thought of her own from almost an eighty years of life. I realize that it would be impossible for anyone to strike a close guess about what she was wondering. It could have been anything about tomorrow, or about all the deep unending yesterdays she has lived. There were no strains of worry on her face, it certainly was nothing unpleasant, neither anything overwhelming. Just a thought, just a memory.

The picturesque moment I was lost in seemed to last so long. My eyes had softly rested on her. I was reading her face like an old painting, trying to draw out meanings from the wrinkles that seemed like brushstrokes of an experienced artist. There are stories behind this painting, and no one shall hear it once she is gone. Death silently sits on the shoulders of old age like a falcon. Along with withering away of this painting, a part of so many of us will wither away too, because she carries our stories too. I have been walked around so much carried on her shoulder when I was tooth-aching child crying inconsolably. It was heavy to realise that someone made of so many stories must disappear in the air just like that. Given the silent corner of everyone’s lives she takes; it will be a silent moment of loss. At that age, one does not demand love, they are accustomed to absorbing every feeling silently, without complaints. The bones must feel tired to handle any emotional strain at that tender age. However, for me, I will feel like a piece of my universe has been taken away with her. Currently, there is not much I can do to prolong our proximity. We take part in such a race of life where there is no going ahead without leaving something behind. I see her, walking away on a road, disappearing slowly in the fog, fading away from existence, to reveal nothingness once the fog subsides. Gone, just like that.

I paused in the moment, trying to absorb it all in my skin that it may never dissipate away as long as I live, for as long as I needed it. All my focus shifted from everywhere else to the universe between the touch of her fingers and my skin.

There are scriptures embarked on my skin were she has touched.

Broken Pen

I am a failed writer, or a writer in making.

I am a warrior robbed off of my sword.

A broken pen before a troubled soul.

I am not a spectacle of human world.

Not an ageing woman. Not a broken poet.

I am a faded identity. A blurred line.

I am the lost sea, or just another wave.

I am a radiant light, too bright to be seen.

I am a scentless flower, my fragrance dried.

My heart is a battlefield of lost wars.

I am the empty reservoir of peace.

An untaken step, weighed of hesitation.

A broken needle in the art of mending.

I am the frozen fire, or the burning cold.

A paradox of old soul, and young age.

Night, and Her



Nights, and all they witness. The moon, and all that it sees. The silent breeze, and all that it hears.

Her voice, governing the tides in this sky. And my heart, dancing to the waves of sky.

Colours that this sky glows in at night, colours beyond human understanding. Forever a mystery they remain, the night forever remains in dark. Patterns of night sky, unravished splendours of the universe.

Solitude of the night, body lived by its soul. The eyes, the mind, the sweet ether of these winter nights.
Moments are like cologne, they slowly evaporate from the skin and dissipate into memories.
If my hands weren’t bound by the need of eloquence, this heart would have said things even the heavens would turn ears to.
Her, and her, fields of yellow mustard, the petrichor of soil, ether of a winter night, hue of a night sky, she stands beyond these.

Through Her Body

After engrossing in her body, I have more reasons to love. I know the roadmap of her curves. I feel like having visited every crest and trough of her body. There’s a special canal that runs down her spine at her waist, and my hands wave along her waves there. Like one feels close to a place where he has resided for long, I feel attached to her every part, having visited the smooth ways so often.

There are reasons to love her, even though I never needed one. To really fall in love is to fall in love with the idea of her, not her as a person, not her qualities, neither her body, but the presence of her, the sound of air when she breathes, the cries of soil being trodden when she walks, the flashes of her smiles and giggles in the conscience – all these but I doubt if her as a whole person, in entirety.

To fall in love is to set my mind onto her beyond these fields of explanation and comprehension. Mysetries, unexplained, unfathomable; that would make a wanderer lost if he were to search for ways.

And the love that has never been understood, as to what exactly is it that he loves, there can be no end to it. It keeps spread over the heart like the sky, which exactly is pure space and vastness but persists mightly than anything.

What cannot be grasped, can never be lost.