Wabi-Sabi

     T he festival of lights has passed us by and yet the festivity and the fervor does not seem to have dampened. Diwali, the festival of lights that had turned into a menace with crackling of crackers but the festival this year was a welcome change with greater awareness of environmental deterioration. Umpteen diyas lined up the streets and the porches of houses in many a lane and the smoke gave way to a light in its true form; a light of consciousness about our responsibility towards the society and posterity.     Hoardings screamed for attention as shopkeepers shelled out everything possible at reduced rates.  Every store whether it was a white goods showroom or one that sold jewelry, had astounding discount offers and swarms of shopaholics flocked in the shopping streets. Handmade cards and recyclable material was stacked in markets and attracted a greater number of conscientious customers in comparison to the previous year.    Me and my friends celebrated the festival with pomp

I romance the pressed flowers of a woebegone time, bygone. A woebegone time? Was it or is it now? I wonder if the gaeity lies on a rug all alone By the fireplace in deep slumber? The pressed flowers in the scrapbook play a fragrant melody. The words that lay dead to the world caress the ashes of the roses Spring into a song, unabashedly With a fuschia pink rouge. The musty walls of a room that I think about often Is a room splendidly imagined; Where the perfume from a cold evening lingers. I pick it up on my fingertips deftly to savour the scent of today. The room shatters as I lift the burden of yesterday From my fragile eyelashes. On my mantlepiece is a candle that lights up the face of today; The candle that once was the drowsy fireplace.