walking through tombs … … …

walking through tombs … … …

bicycle rides to ancient tombs, stealthily traversing the bygone years,

those days and nights of delhi long ago, pluck heartstrings, a sitar being tuned, the cricket matches in the park, fetching the ball from monuments to long dead sultans,

feasting on a masala-dosa, my bike chained to the rusty pole next to the paan-wallah,

downing numberless cups of cardamom chai, in between home and school, bunking classes to catch the one song in a bollywood flick, sitting amongst the people, singing along in days and nights that used to be so full, so long,

now just a fading memory, of diwalis at the kumars, and eid feasts at home, intermingling with splashes of holi colour,

a synthesis of cultures, of faiths, of friends transcending caste and creed,

a delhite whistling beatles’ songs,

ah yes, nostalgia that sly deceiver,

be mine again, come to me in rain-swept monsoon nights, lit by a million diyas of softly flickering lights,

wear your kaleidoscope dress,

rekindling memories, stay with me, my eternal evergreen seductive mistress … … …

the perennial exile … … …

fitting in,
acceptably hushed,

alienation photoshopped, airbrushed …

at home ?

not this rolling stone,
bruising my rattled self to the bone,

enveloped by walls,
as each evening falls,

shivering as desolate morning dawns,

painted smile,
shushing rising bile,

my fatigued soul yawns,
a being who fawns:

the perennial exile … … …

Banksy

Words …

Words …

he said that he would love me forever.

he whispered sweet nothings.

he said that it would endure.

he said all of this,
and all of that,

words that soothed,

cajoled,
promised,

the sun and the stars.

all said,

he said far too much …

Port of Call – a re-post of one of Scribbler’s favourite scribbles

Port of Call

…
…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

with the breath of the ocean a caressing balm,

soothing pained memories away,

to the swaying of a solitary palm.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

feeling the brushing away of all past turmoil,

on a quest for solace,

ever so hard to find,

yet comforted by the crashing of the waves,

as the tide cleanses all pain,

and leaves despair far, far behind.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

drenched in a sea-breeze of mist,

that hushes the ache of bygone moons,

tasting the salty tang on my lips,

as the burnished sun,

over the distant horizon,
swoons,

and dips.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

searching, ever searching,

for a slice of solitude,

as memory bids a final adieu,

reaching under the sea so vast,

and seeking comfort in the depths,

while embracing,

the tomorrows to come,

wishing that they be true.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

seeing my truths drown,

as they slip beneath the turquoise waters,

feeling my heart ablaze,

with a passion that rarely falters.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

yet knowing that I am home at long last,

wishing the waves would wash away,

the defences that once stood,

like an impregnable wall.

…

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

I have found, at long last,

my final port of call.