THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

Hey can we just put ourselves aside.. and think like two runaway boats  capsized in churning waters  of a blue stormy river? Can we remember how we felt drowning and saving ourselves instead of each other in the stormy churning waters? Imagine the rocks that we hit and the holes that were made.. the scars that would remain of that night in the blue storm? We would return home some unknown shore Laying side by side battered and lopsided. Masters and people would think  we were runaway boats, While we would know how shamelessly we shamed ourselves  in the blue churning river.

I am the nest of a migrant bird... The peace of a wandering soul And the wheels of a caravan life. You are like a flower blooming In a pot watered by a leaking roof Unattended and wild.

Can there be something as temporary and as final as death? Life replaces life, Incidences replaces Memories... But what remains true under these dusts.. That what has gone shall never be. I will put your crumbling Self that remains with me In bottles and put some fireflies... When the finality of your absence Comes home on a spring morning as this. I will look at the bottles and know That the fireflies glow only by night..

The hotel room had a bluish glow. Reflections of a sign board of another's existence. Infiltrating our rented nights With an ease of childhood innocence Or..In a way that only light can. The first time we saw each other On a December midnight. We were both looking out of our windows Bathed in blue. Down at the red neon washed Balustrade, Care went down the streets As we both stared at the torn jeans And smoke rings create fantasy .... Down far below... Someone played a mouth organ .. Faint music filled the December air. The yearning of soaking the red The euphoric moments of the red Was washed by the pale blue Of the infiltrated existence. I could see it in your eyes And of mine in the glass

Those days, hot and sultry as young love, ended with tea and smoke. I never smoked, though...or did I not? Smoke like love is inductive. When all around you, people smoke and drink and love... A yearning grows in you. Which satiates itself in passive inhalation. Much like falling in love with characters from folds of a dusty classic. Forgotten and imaginary, just like me. In the commotion of a roadside stall, filled with smoke layered conversations that oozed out of us, like the departing sunlight filtered through a mess of cracked wall and cobwebs, I had seen you. I had seen you through a gap within the smoke. The snakes and dragons of smoke curled around you and you looked somewhere far. It is as if nothing touched you. That mad unsettled look in your eyes had settled in some other world. You felt the weight of my gaze. I had always wondered how gaze feels like a touch. Like a deep slumber that has touched your eyes and you cannot see. And you looked at me

He knew the story by heart and so did the audience. Every time he would whet his knife, audience would cuss him silently. And yet, Antonio would not lose his pound of flesh. His wealth would not be his at the end. He would have to embrace a religion he despised and would forever be disgraced. Every time he left the stage in disgrace, the hall would resound with thundering applause.  And how he loved being cussed. And how he loved that thundering applause… the lights shining upon him, the audience dimmed to oblivion in darkness. If anyone was standing at the top of the world, it was him. If anyone was able to part the ocean by sheer strength of voice, it was him…for the waves could not deny the voice if he ever chose to ask them to part. An when the hall was as silent as being empty, his voice would thunder across the hall, “…………………….You will answer 'The slaves are ours:' so do I answer you: The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, Is dearly bought; 'tis

There was this guy I knew a few years back. Not that I knew him much but we were in general talking terms. He was the kind of person who in general gave out the aura of being in an eternally doped stage, with occasional banters that earned him the fame of being an intellectual lunatic. One day I caught him in the middle of his banters. With blood shot eyes, he started mumbling something. Well, banters are something that does not demand audience per se, although it would not be too bad if banters were heard, even if not supported. He called me, “Hey you budding economist! What’s up? Repo rates up, down or sleeping in your pockets?”. I, unable to find a suitable witty answer to this, tried to say something in the lines—that I am not an economist, you know. Like doctors or engineers getting a degree becomes doctors, engineers etc, but not the poor students of economics….even a post doctorate does not make anyone an economist. He asked me what I meant. Well, I mean, I could become a PO,