Sunday, August 27, 2006

I met a Smile

A sweat lined day,
Melts and flows by,
On a slow evening,
A journey begins.

On foot, and a mile,
Roads filled with sounds,
Of a city turning back,
A bus meanders.

As a phone calls,
Unknown face of a voice,
One wonders, and walks,
An auto agrees.

A few minutes more,
Of hesitant talk,
Symmetry in red stone,
A head turns.

Steps which draw close,
Hands meet to shake,
Twinkling eyes, mischief?
A coffee brews.

A cool room with people,
Red chairs for two,
Tall glasses condense air,
A smile breaks.

Talk, as never spoken to,
Weave with words,
A person, within,
The smile stays.

Silent storms beckon,
Drops of first rain,
To fall, and break free,
The journey renews.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Shortcuts to insanity

I got this idea in the middle of a sticky, sweaty journey home on a DTC bus. Since then I've been twisting and turning it inside my head thinking, "Should I write this or not?" "What will people think of me?" Yes, I'll admit this thought does cross my mind every so often. Then I see a movie like Iris and the answer becomes so obviously clear that I cannot help but laugh at myself. So here's my little idea, and here's to life.


In that special world, which lives and thrives in my head, you are still as alive as yesterday. And always will be. I write these words to remind myself that I have talked with you all my life, and there is still a lifetime of talking left to do. I cannot, for the life of me, do it alone.

Do you remember that day, of the clear spring sky and of the lush vines of purple Bougainvillea, when I first saw you skipping across the road, talking to yourself. Your ferocious red hair was the first thing that caught my eye, and has never let it go since. It was time for the rains before I was to see you again. A dark, gloomy day filled with rumbling thunder and frequent streaks of golden light parting the skies. I was waltzing down the garden path, drenched to my skin, when you appeared with the next clap of thunder. It was the first time you saw me, and laughed. I must have looked funny that day.

I remember that laugh. Peals of it. As overflowing with life as the sky was with rain. I should have known that day, that you were too good to be true. I should have run away while my head was still mine. While it was spotless. Instead I said, "Hi." Innocuous sounding word, isn't it? Yet no appearance was ever more deceptive.

I, who was and still is, quite weak of opinion and mostly at a loss for words, was washed away in the heady gush of ideas you let out on me. Everything mattered suddenly, because it mattered to you. Everything from the height of the heel on your new platforms to the advantages of a welfare state. Suddenly I was discussing socialism and Ayn Rand, interspersed with the ringings of the cute golden bell on Noddy's hat.

I was frightened to say the least. Frightened that I would lose myself, amidst all that made up your world. I was an alien, a misfit and yet... There you were, the only person I felt I knew. In what way I was not sure. I just did. You felt like a cozy, warm quilt on a chilly winter night. I felt so snug, and so safe... it was like a dream.

A dream of flying highs and diving lows. A dream of ice-creams and chocolates and chocolate face-packs! In fact, The only emotion of mine that can match yours in intensity is honesty. Yours is brutal, mine is benevolent, but both are truthful. I think that is what holds us together.

"I don't know any of your friends. I am lost in your world."
"You know more about me than anyone else. You ARE my world."

You have seeped into me like the dampness in a rain-bashed wall of brick and mortar. Mixed with the smoke of cigarettes that you smoke, you have become my breath and left me gasping for air. You are unashamed to live and unapologetic that you like to live. Being with you is like no novel ever written or no film ever made. It is like... living.

You love that bicycle ride down the hill, don't you? The unrestrained speed. The mad rush of air that sweeps past the skin. Screams of ecstasy echoing through the country side. I always fall behind, forever unable to catch up to your pace. I never could see beyond you. I didn't that day either. If I could, I would have warned you about that truck.


I so don't fit the mould. Not anybody's. Is that too bad?

Wednesday, August 02, 2006


I got a gift of tears,
Tears that don't flow,
Well up and dry inside,
Isn't that enough though?

A truant drop escapes,
Over cheeks made raw,
With repeated wipes,
Is it too late to withdraw?

A palette of dreams,
Spilled over with care,
Mix with the tears,
Paint now, do I dare?

Smiles and words adorn,
Solid walls worn down,
By a core of seeping damp,
Still want a house in this town?

Wisps of vapour, leftovers,
Of the splendid gift,
Rust shackles I made,
To be harboured, or cut adrift?

When everything is gone,
To dust and times of yore,
The gift renews itself,
To be forgotten, or remembered ever more?

I got a gift of tears,
Tears that will flow,
Free from guilt or shame,
Is that enough though?