FIFTY YEARS OF EUPHORBIAS

20 january 2019

Get me that old house of spring.
Anyone who is as rich as my memories can get that.
Fifty years!
I longed for that.
That place of happy giggles and peaceful hibernations.
Sitting in this dilapidated house of winter,
my thoughts get into that fifty year old vintage bus.
Caught in the web of wedding pain,
I traveled to this unknown land.
But I was still dreaming in that house of spring, unable to wake up.
Fifty years ago,the fallen gulmohars whispered while I swung.
The walls of the house treasured my unheard stories.
Every time I entered it,
I used to smell happiness and peace.
And then,time flew away to nowhere.
Fifty years later,my septuagenarian eyes visualise it.
I see the web of spiders hanging in silence,
the aged ghosts wandering and whizzing,unable to catch hold of a pillar.
It's threshold still seems to beckon me longing for a home.
Children of mine loved and looked after then,
live in their happiness and business now.
Why at this age? That house is a mess!they tell me.
They do not know the scarlet gulmohars of that messy house
which gave way to the crimson summer flowers of Euphorbias,
messing up my only life with deadly thorns.
The scars of my delicacy and servitude,
each of fifty years of age,ooze out memories at my pain.
Now that I see it closer and clearer,
I hear the sound of excavation.
I feel my spirits already up from the six feet land
to occupy the highest branch of that gulmohar tree!

A.C

Comments

A Call for One More Summer Swim

Dear Oliver, Last summer was not only about freshly smelling grass and ripened peaches to me, it became something more than that because of you. Your arrival to help my father taught me lessons for a lifetime. It was you who gave meaning to my summer, to my days and its absurdities. When I first saw you, little did I realise that you are going to unravel the real Elio, an Elio who was so much in love. An Elio who was so confused at the choices of his love and who showed the courage to confront it no matter what. I remember when you whispered to me "Call me by your name and I'll call you by mine", the time when I felt as if the four lettered word Elio pouring out from your mouth is all I wanted to listen to in this entire universe. But sometimes life offers us a different path, away from what we actually want. I still remember the fun we had at Bergamo, the way you kissed me secretly pressing against the walls, never did I experience that feeling ever again. Bec...

Most Nights We are Alone

Most nights we are alone, Trying to form a shape, Wrecking with the pain of a bleeding heart, In desperation to flatten the lump formed in the throat, Trying to keep it as calm as possible Not to wake our partners beside us. Most nights we are alone, Clenching onto pillows, Playing loud music, Pretending sleep, While we writhe in pain. Most nights we are alone, Thinking of faces that promised company, Faces of people we assumed would hug us, Hands that we thought would caress us, And talks that we registered would soothe us. Most nights we are alone, Peeling off our gender, Searching for an identity, Making sense of our essence, Organizing our anger, Revolting against the structure, Living past the breaking point, Storming a mysterious body. Most nights we are alone, Cursing the dreams we believed, Blaming the instincts that spurred...

Stories

The eyes of the stories are bulging Out of the cracked windowpane, Searching for a listener. Stories with bindis on their foreheads are striking a pose With their saree pallu. Stories are lurking From the car glasses, Waiting to bump into someone. The lost generation's stories Being trapped between the bedroom walls, Started nagging for release. Shuttered by the binding forces, Stories demand antidepressants. My stagnant love and evident hatred has different stories to tell, Like the flying kite and its manja. The breaking bones and breaching laws scream stories of torture. The multifaceted tapestry and cutlery propose stories of subjugation and indifference. Romanticised stories demand a stripping, And pink stories argue for another clothing. When King Lear laughs at his own story, Poor Tom dances at another story. The blood reaches out and shares his story, The heart beats at an umpteen number of stories. The adventurous story of runaway bride and The ...

THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

Search This Blog