Carcass.

The solitary car drives into the humble
moon, slipping past humanity;
Not a single lives shines in
the headlights, on its way
to the impending doom.
Winds’ a whisper crawls
across, the lengthening
shadows all around;
eerie silence, like a
blanket. 3 hearts
beating as loud
as drums, the
tires acting
like bread
crumbs
in the
mud
that
will
set,

For the police to recover the bodies, three months later,
all bones and flies over the molten flesh,
hollowed sockets, stinking rot, skulls shattered,
they were not bodies, they were carcass, they were a mess.

“For Humans”

There was once an old lady,
who had lived all and was waiting
for her death, with a troubled breath,
As she stood by the door,
every day more devastating.
She’d lost her husband to the land,
and there was no other name bearer,
who could live to her legacy and
be told in the bards, as the son of one
to whom death was the most dear.

Each day with a bated breath, she
looked forward to her final visitor,
But he never came and she always cried
because she really thought
it really was her time.
Her neighbors, her crazy kept at a distance
but that didn’t stop them to whisper,
“Ah that old, mental, moronic lady
Who is she waiting for to take her crazy,
a demonic mister?”

But somehow, things changed, as mostly she,
she realized they weren’t waiting for her
As much as she was for death,
And things changed, and soon the neighbor
kids played until they were panting with breath.
She made cookies and called for tea,
all the fancy dressed, beautiful ladies,
And soon her garden was bright and gay
And loneliness, she barred and mostly
was like a bright day in May.

But one day, when all the ladies
Came to her house for their tea
and the daily gossip they all shared,
they found the door locked, and her house
strangely, dead, and lifeless, and bare.
Worried, they rushed and somehow
broke the door and they entered,
upon a lifeless host, they cried,
The old widow, lying on the floor,
with a smile on her face, had died.

They looked around and some rushed 
out to call for help, but one, 
spotted a piece of paper, on the bed.
They shrieked, and some stood stunned
and then, cried in horror; 
it was from Death.

“She was a poor sod who thought, 
she’d lived life to the fullest,
Oh, what a fool humans are, 
They don’t know what is the best.
Waiting for me instead when you
should be making memories,
living life with love and people who are dear.
So that once you die, there are no fears
of having not taken the chance,
the chance to be alive after death,
to be alive in others’ memories and hearts.
And that’s why I kept her waiting,
for she didn’t know what’s right,
But fear not, my ladies,
She came to me with a smile,
and looked down upon all of you,
and waved a goodbye;
she sprinkled on some pixie dust,
And rests now, with her husband,
very happy and content, high above.”

Mathematics Fails.

I perceive the thought as it enters my mind
and then quickly brush it away like a mosquito
that I know will return once it has spotted
me, a half-hearted attempt, with clear intentions.
And now, like the mosquito that keeps buzzing
near the ear and then flies away only to buzz near
the enclosed ear of a tortured soul again, the thought
enters my mind when I see my mother’s loose skin
and the father’s pepper hair, and the slow, yet steady,
constantly increasing messiness of the house,
as my mother’s knees give way to the arthritis and
notice the increasing summons of the plumber or
the guard or the electrician to pick out something hidden
in the high shelf as my father’s backache prevents it, and
the reply that I don’t get when I greet ‘good morning’.
my hung-over-sleep voice rarely above a whisper
as they don’t hear and the quivering of my father’s hand
when he signs a cheque and the uncertainty of my
mother’s foot as she places one step after the other.
And I realize that though I may have known them all my life
and though they may have been there for me (physically or mentally)
all my life, I’ll be there for only half of theirs. And then sinks
the grim reality that there is probably only a small fraction of their life left
that they will spend with me, and with the planet, after which
they will cease to exist but in the memory, which will continue to haunt
me till the day I take my last breath on this planet, my entire life.
And yet even in that half life, they do so much for us that even
a hundred thousand lifetimes wouldn’t be able to pay
that back right at them . And I think how in that half life, they can
know us better that we can ever know ourselves.
It’s funny how promptly the rules of mathematics change, where
one will always remain less than half. One half life less than a full.
Slowly, as the mosquito leaves once he has sucked enough,
so does my thought, and as the mosquito leaves behind a  red sore spot,
the thought leaves behind a faint resolution to make the most of
the time that I have left with the two angelic souls that I have
and who I love most deeply and without whom, I shall always be
half.

Ishmeet, Gayatri And Forever.

Glossary: 

Diwali, Holi- festival in the Hindu calendar, celebrated across India. 
Badaun, Uttar Pradesh- a district in the state of Uttar Pradesh
Bauji- father
Mausi ji- maternal aunt
Agra- a city in Uttar Pradesh
Ludhiana- a city in the state of Punjab ( predominantly Sikh community)
Chennai- a city in the southern state of Tamil Nadu

~

We were born three hours, two minutes and twenty seven second apart, on September 23, 1939. We hit off immediately. Our mothers’ were best friends, and our fathers’ bonded over politics, and so, as far as I can trace back, we spent every Diwali at their house and Holi at ours. I was the elder, something I reminded her at least once every day, much to her dismay.

I lived in a government colony that was separated from the rest of the city. Our area was actually green and clean as compared to the rest of the dusty and dirty countryside. Her house was next door. The accommodation that the newly formed Indian government had provided us was comfortable, on account of our fathers teaching at the Government College in Badaun, Uttar Pradesh.

Those days were amazing. There were no cell phones, no televisions or radios. One simply spent time living, not surviving. We did not live in a fantasy world warped with the idea that the number of likes on our picture and the friend we have on Facebook made us happy. We liked company of people. Ishmeet was the one person I always wanted to talk to. She was my best friend.

Our day would start by us meeting for our tuition that would happen at our houses alternatively, then we would have our lunch which we followed up by a walk. Sometimes, when we wanted to go out, bauji would send his driver and we would go for a drive in that old rattling Ford. In the evening, we had classes at the University where our fathers taught, and after that, we would go to the other’s house for dinner. Finally, at around eight, we would retire for the night, only to look forward to the next day. Where there was Ishmeet, there was Gayatri. We were friends’ forever. 

When we grew eighteen, Ishmeet’s father fixed her marriage with Gurvinder Singh. He was a nice lad of twenty four, practicing law under the tutelage of his father. He was an alumni of the university and had had his eye on Ishmeet for a long time. I liked him because I knew of him to be a respectable man. Besides, Ishmeet was happy, and so was I.

I, on the other hand, wanted to continue my education, an idea my father supported with gusto. He was way ahead of his time, and so he enrolled me for a Masters’ In English in the Agra University, very renowned back in the 1950s’. I left for Agra, where my mausi ji lived in the summer of 1957, after a tearful farewell by Ishmeet. We promised to keep in touch by exchanging letters. And we did, until I got the telegram in the fourth year of my education, by which I was been courted by a fine man with the name, Vikram Sanghwal, that Ishu had borne a child. It was a girl and she had named her Diljeet.

By then, Gurvinder had shifted to Ludhiana, where he had been appointed as a district prosecutor. I hadn’t seen her in over four years, I immediately booked a ticket to Ludhiana, with a stop at Badaun, to congratulate her. Vikram insisted that he accompany me, so I let him. I liked him, and it would mean that Ishu could meet him too. There was no awkwardness between us when we met. Pregnancy had done her well and she looked very beautiful. And Diljeet had literally won my heart. She was exquisite. Vikram and Gurvinder became good acquaintances and we spent a delightful two weeks there, during which Vikram proposed to me.

He told me how he had already talked to my father and how much he loved me. I said yes, and we got married on December 11, 1962. He was an amazing husband, we three years later, I gave birth to the most beautiful boy, who we named Anurag. I had been working as a professor in the Agra University by then, and was up for a transfer. Ishu and I were still in contact, but it was less frequent now that we had our own families to look after. Our letters had been exchanged with phone calls and our visits by photographs.

The next few years passed in a blur. I was busy with my family and my job and Ishu was busy with hers; I’d heard that she had started her own boutique. We sent some two three letters an year, rest all contact was sporadic, but we were happy. We met for some two three times during that period.

The year I turned forty two was an eventful one. Our small family of three had grown to a big litter of six, and I had been promoted to the position of dean in the Department of English in the Agra University. It was when I got my transfer. Be it luck of pure coincidence, it was to the University in Ludhiana. I was exhilarated at the prospect of my Ishu everyday again. When I called her, she was surprised to hear my voice but when I told her, she had screamed.

We shifted there in March 1982. Living at a distance that took some five minutes to cover, we met each other every day. We shared the same rapport now that our parents had shared back in the 1930’s. We were family. The kids mixed well with each other and the next year, we shifted from the University accommodations to our own house in the same block as the Singhs’.

Then came the fateful year of 1984. That morning started just as it did every day, with me going to the University early morning and the kids to school. Vikram had been in Chennai for a conference and Ishu had called me in the morning, “G, come over for lunch. Bring the kids too. I’ll make biryani.” I had replied, “I’ll be seeing you.”

The day had been a hard one and I was wishing for lunch. On returning, I found the colony unusually quiet. I stopped in front of Ishu’s house and found the door ajar. It was unusual. On entering, it seemed as if the entire community was inside. Making my way inside, I found Gurvinder crying and Anurag hovering around nervously. I was shocked.

“What happened?” I had asked. Turned out, Ishu’s throat had been slit. The entire room was splattered with blood. Beside her body was a newspaper clipping that had screamed, “PM ASSASSINATED BY HER SIKH BODYGUARDS, Unrest in the city.”

I never saw her again. It was then I realized that forever is such and incorrect concept.

~

Elixir Of Life.

You said you wished to be
the greatest poet ever and
set to write the most
beautiful poem ever written
to immortalize, not in the
sands of time, for they fade
with time, but in the
rocks of centuries, your muse,
Me. And though today your
calloused hand lies cold and
dead, and the exquisite
smile your godly face adorned
is bereft of any affection, just
the ghost of what lay there once,
and the hazel eyes that made
me feel like the only girl in
the world are shut close are
hopefully, at peace. I
move silently as if I am
the one who left, across the room
to the papers that lay scattered
on your desk, my name written
on them. I open them and see a spectre
of words, beautifully written
in a variety of inks, some of
which is blotched and some of
it is cut hastily and in between
the wordly chaos, I find the
most beautiful lines ever written.
As my eyes well up with
tears, I think how you wrote
the greatest poem ever,
though just for me and how you lied,
immortalizing me in just your
memories, that will ironically
be buried in the sands of,
not time, but the earth,
like your mortal self.

APJ Abdul Kalam.

Shell Shocked.

The greatest President India has ever seen, Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam, passed away this evening after a heart attack. I feel sorry for the nation who lost such an eminent and a respected scholar.

I was very small when he was the President of this country. Yet I have vague memories of that time, each better than the last. One of my earliest memories of him was the time when he had come to our school for a function. I don’t remember much of his speech but I remember how he had the audience spellbound with his words. The entire auditorium was bathed in his words of wisdom. I remember how at ease he was when he talked to the children, how cordial with the adults, and how the each word that came from his mouth resonated with everyone present at some subconscious level.

Also an accomplished physicist working at ISRO, he was a respected person, a philanthropist, an educationist, a courageous soul, who despite many adversities, carved a niche for himself. He was a visionary who lived to a glorious and a ripe age of 84.

I’m honored to have met him and have learnt something from his respected life. I feel it that I owe it to him to read his book, “Wings Of Wire” that had been laying in my bookshelf for the past 2-3 years. It’ll be my way of showing how much I looked upto him as a human being.

Rest in peace, Avul Pakir Jainulabdeen Abdul Kalam. You are truly an inspiration.

Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam at our school.

The Last String.

Another place, another time,

There’s someone like you.

Someone there with love divine,

To share with, there are a few.

Someone hopeless, beaten to pulp,

Who’s given up everything.

Bruises he hides, abuses he gulps,

Straining on the last, unbroken string.

It’ll just take a single second.

To cut the string and relieve,

Just one thing that could anytime happen,

Which will be the end to all grieve.

This was double spaced, based on some comments and feedback that I got. You see, Grandpaww has weak eyes!

What Are Parents’ Called?

Young morning, breakfast in bed,
A little annoyance, a little dread.
A goofy smile bursting through your lips,
Earns you a smacking kiss.
Your innocent dance in the rain,
Your precious tears at a little pain.
The fashion shows and funky hairstyles,
Now far away- Infinity of miles.
My sleepless nights when you were sick,
You childhood, tiny, blue colored crib.
You smell in the silent, unmade bed,
Scattered with prickly crumbs of bread.
Oh! I wish I had never scolded you.
I wish you knew how much I loved you.
But now you’re gone, never to come back again.
My heart’s been broken; it’s never been the same.
Your first step, bike, graduation day,
Evening walks in summers of May.
First relationship and the first heartbreak,
Swearing like a sailor, for your sake.
Your anger walks and the sweet talks,
I remember, to let you dog be named Fox.
Every word, every step I stuck on to, ya
Be it Easter, Holi or Hallelujah.
I’m sorry I could never take you to The New York City.
I’m sorry I treated you with such ferocity.
But my baby’s gone now, it’ll never be the same.
An ache in my heart that refuses to fade.

Obsession and the Insomniac.

Image Source

In the dark quiet of the night,
She woke up, sweating in fright.
Her dreams haunted her,
She couldn’t get past them
her troubles it seemed,
had already stemmed.
He weaved in and out,
She was beginning to doubt.
Her horrors come live,
She couldn’t beat them,
No matter how hard she strived.
She believed he was a gem,
He couldn’t hurt her, she thought,
Ignoring the misery that he had brought.
He was dead, she had till now known.
But now, she just wasn’t very sure.
Her past had begun to haunt her present.
Her life now wasn’t very pleasant.
She lost sleep and trouble it brewed.
Daydream and insomnia, she remained subdued.
She lost her beauty, her peace of mind.
Her thoughts, his ghost were together bind.
A stalker, a maniac, he shadowed she,
For all the lives’ eternity.
Until she cried foul and he was killed,
By her brother. But still,
It was a mark left upon her life.
She married someone, became a wife,
And lived peacefully, until a day before.
She thought she saw his face through a crowd.
Her heart fearful, her mind went sour,
And she cried out loud.
Back he had come, to avenge his killing.
And she was back hysterically screaming.
Waking up in bed, sweating, with fright,
Wishing for her life, with all her might.