Children Of War

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I wish I could pack my bags and leave;
to hug every sobbing child out there,
the thousands of Omrans’ who sit in rescue cars and ambulances
too shocked to know from where the blood
gushes down their face, too terrified, stunned
to even cry; , two, five, seven, nine year olds,
rescued from under the rubble
of five storied buildings, silently
wiping their hands on the seat of the vehicles.

I wish I could reassure them all
that there are people who love them,
that there is a world in which buildings don’t
topple like house of cards, and where
the sounds of winds and clouds are heard,
more often that the sounds of bombs and bullets;
that trees are not always coated with dust and dirt;
that you can watch  movie, you can take a walk
and return, return to your house, not vanish on the way.

I wish I could tell them that the skies,
they are blue, not black from the smoke
the bombs create; that sometimes,
the earth moves and you can see the sunrise;
that at night, it’s not always light
from the rescue operations; and no, not
everyone who looks at you will point a gun at you;
that sometimes, the house will shake
because the earth shakes and not because
something is going up in flames, yet again.

But who am I to say that to them-
to the children of war- who’ve-not trained-
but rather, learnt to shake like a leaf when the skies rumble
day and night, and not a single drop of rain falls;
who’ve learnt that death will always be accompanied
by a broken limb, and  blowed-out brains, and
coated in red, the color of the sun at a sunset
they’ve never seen? Who am I to break their
perfect view of the world in which cancer is
unheard of and AIDS does not exist?

Who am I to tell them that they can dream of a world
without war, a world like one in which I live, where the
problem is the rise in the price of potatoes and not
that my father won’t return for the potato curry dinner,
where the problem is the termite in my house
or the lack of drinking water and not that my house
might get bombarded, and my loved ones killed,
where the problem is the in living and not in surviving-
but who am I to tell them that, to the children of war-
when I was the one who created it?

Soothe Sundays #18

Yesterday, I was talking to my roommate about some really good Hollywood movies that she has watched because she isn’t very comfortable with Hindi, and talking back and forth, my memory called upon a jewel of a movie series, that I absolutely love and adore with all my heart, the Before trilogy: Before Sunrise, Before Sunset and Before Midnight, and then I just had to watch it! According to me, anyone who’s not seen it is losing out on an experience.

So, in honor of the brilliance of the movies and in honor of love, today’s quote is:

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I’d love to hear about whether you’ve watched the movie or not, were you planning to, did you like it, do you love it. Tell me how this movie affected you. Tell me why you love/hate this movie. Till then, have a happy weekend!

Turning To Caffeine

I get that warm gushy, mushy feeling
as the last of the coffee swirls in my mouth,
crashing against the pink walls
it is controlled in, all the juices
from the body, blending perfectly
with the milk, and coffee, and water
and sugar from the pantry below the rooms.

I nestle comfortable in my chair,
my spine jutting with ease with the
Styrofoam under the red, cheap cloth
my knee perched up, ankle left loose
on the steel hand rest of the chair;
my ponytail playing chase with the
the slight air that the fan sends in my way.

Arms across the chest, my eyelids flutter,
just as they do when I feel droopy, the head
reminding me of the paper that I have due
and my heart, of the feather-like mattress
that crushes under me each night; as the eyes
shut close, the world starts to breathe and stops
as the smell of coffee warms my nostrils, yet again.