Wabi-Sabi

Swimming in a sea of faces is a memory. A memory of the first day. Hesitant smiles of many. Few grins, restless to play. A celebration, a fete. The exuberance, the colours. Within the four walls many a rooms awaiting the curious shuffle of feet. Many a questions, varied answers. Awake then asleep from time to time. discovering companions on the way, yet to be called friends. A drink called life, seldom sweet with the sourness of lime. A place unpredictable, where every rule bends.  Restless come for a stroll. Bored, for a change. Dedicated play their role. Explore every new terrain.Hunger attacks in between. With a drive to kick away the sleep. Lead us all to the canteen. Scattered in groups with promises to keep. Back at class, enthusiastic hands scribble the present. Many ponder over the future. Mind boggling ideas with competetion to resent. Many a spoilsports, many brains present to tutor. Painted faces, many behind the mask. Only a few behind the stage. As we search for our iden

A leaf stirred or was it something else that stirred within me. The rain that poured in bouts of anger blurred my vision or a pebble of reality thrown carelessly in the calm ocean swirling in an eye. Ruins secluded, spread on the sand, breathing heavily in the fog that kindles the dusk. No ones land, a trail of thoughts dance with a nomad that wanders under my skin, as I trod in the dust. Ashes of the scrolls that lies unnoticed, unread. Stale ink in the bottle dries up as an oasis in the desert of words unsaid  . The raucous breeze sings a lullaby for the leftovers in a bedspread of concrete while crumpled sheets await the poetry of tired breath. An untouched teacup on the windowpane, of a room turned sour. Piercing silence echoing in the vaccum of the irreversible pain. as light hesitates to crawl over the fragility of the floor. A windshield stoned;shattered, as shreds of faith lie sprawled on the ground. The murderer drips drop by drop from the broken remains

( I walk on the thin line to move towards the parenthesis. As an alphabet I balance the frail feet of mine as I carefully change places. I strive for a new me, encompassed away from the crowd. To accept a distinct identity, secure and sound. I have formed many a statements Many a times I have been rubbed out. Words stand in the way as I jump over the fences, to land up within the parenthesis to avoid being wiped out. )

Had been conceived as flesh and blood.  Flesh and blood I remain. Through the veins and arteries with silent footsteps runs the blood. The scars I knew were traces of physical pain. I wonder how many a homo sapiens made their way through the window of the heart. Why I ventured out into another terrain when others entered mine. Many a feet left leaving the skin scarred. I ponder over the reason of my being as I hesitate before crossing the line.

It pounds on the walls. It thuds inside. Am I compelled to hold on or is it a conscious choice of mine? It bears the burden of my mind, the sack of many a thoughts thrown away. Bruised by the interrogation of dilemmas many, it withstands the black and blue wounds of my day. I question it often. When they remain uanswered,I question my sanity. I wonder if it also compelled to pump life into me.

My hands remember the way they molded the earth, that embraced the seed in its womb, as an embryo amidst the heartwrenching dearth of traces of life all around. The layers of the soil that tended it with selfless pride, witnessed the growth of green towards the blue. The leaves that could bridge th divide, climbed up with veins of strength as they grew. As sunlight tiptoed towards the grass, the plant sang the song of oxygen. It roughened with the chapters of the hourglass touched by every season. Bowed with gratitude as it bore the fruits of labour. An umbrella under the scorching sun. It saw time on wings fly by with the flavour of life that had lingered on since the story of the seed begun. Nothing is permanent as they say. I wonder if it could have been an untrue lump. As autumn leaves are swept in on a nostalgic day, I peep outside where a few birds still chirp around the wounded stump. Can we ever solve the riddle? We create and uproot without a piece of shame. We believe that n