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

Murmurings of Married Women

I hear murmurings from the graveyard In the West of the town, Of married women, Dead and disappeared years ago. I wonder what a time they had, What a life they lived. Their husbands weep and weep and forget them, They praise how they looked after their women, Covering in glittery gold, Buying them silly silks, Giving makeup for a make-over. But still, the women murmur, Their voices seem to break the edges of tombs. They force the sun to dry out the flowers on them quickly. I lowered my face and listened to the tombs, It seems their lipstick was revolting, Their eyelashes lifted to show the desperation. They talk about the lies they had to live through, In fear of strangers' pointing fingers on getting a hint on their unhappy marriages. They call out their abusive partners, Told me to look for the broken bangles behind the kitchen for proof, The blood-stained clo...

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...

THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

Search This Blog