It is another Sunday in the winter.
I am properly tucked in my quilt.
I browse through the top headlines of the hour.
It says the temperature outside is two-degree centigrade and I quit
all ideas of leaving my quilt.

Sundays in winter were my favourite days
and letting me play on Sundays my cookies
for reading properly for six days.
Those Sundays, which seem to be distant memories,
are some of my best memories.

Saturdays were the days of preparation.
Arranging bats, *****, and bicycles, at least, four,
deciding time and venue for the action,
making strategies to sail us ashore-
were some important tasks to be completed before.

I used to sleep a bit early after setting
up a thousand alarms, in case I missed a few,
to ensure I woke up in the morning.
and then I would make a few
calls to wake up the crew.  

Though while gearing up,
I would move as little as possible
my Mom would always wake up
and then I had to wear all the clothes ‘cause cold air made you susceptible
to sick and sick made you feeble.

Before I could leave home, I had
to close the door as slowly as possible
because I didn't want to wake up Dad
for he was predictably unpredictable
and it was too risky a gamble.

We dared not look into uncles 'n aunties'
eyes while asking our friends to come to play
for their looks could terrorize
anyone. We'd then go to the decided play-
ground on the shared bicycles without delay.

Quarrels to bat at the top,
the endless running around to save a few runs,
‘barking’ on fellow players lest catches they drop,
heated discussions on run-outs-
these memories still give me goose bumps.

The celebrations after winning the matches and
blaming each other for losing were
the customs of the day and
mom made ‘chicken’ and a good after-
noon nap - a perfect finish for a day to remember.

A lifetime has gone by
since we last played together
and bade each other goodbye
but those memories still lurking somewhere
inside our brains adhere us together.
I usually do not write about myself or my memories, which makes it special. Those days are some of my best memories. And in a cricket crazy country like ours, many definitely have similar memories.
© Devashish Kumar

​So you are coming back now,
In small currents.
Lapping against my shores ever so gently,
Sneekily peeking inside for hidden memories.

Now that you have come back,
In tides and waves.
Hitting against me with a power so familiar.
Trying to knock the walls that hide me,
From the memories I dare not revisit.

Now that you have gone,
A storm's wreck behind
You knocked down every wall I built.
Leaving me in circles,
In this hurricane of broken emotions.

I am still caught up in your winds.

My heart has been struck with the venom of your twisted love
All of the memories
All of the security
Our planned future, shattered
I was lost in your dance with the devil
Round and round I swayed until my knees fell weak
And as I descended to the ground, a revelation appeared
Your face was flowing with tears and regret
The fiery lust in your eyes, doused with reality
As the one true soul who cherished you
Disintegrated into your world of lost dreams

Rain flows here from the sky
As if he knows what I'm doing
Can't stop my world from mourning
Even those young bird cry

Their peeping sound are just everywhere
But only one human listened, only my ear
Seems no one can ceases the weeping
Tears that can suppress the flame

The time when I recalled some memoir's of my life
There I've seen some close friend of mine
Laughing, crying, dancing, singing
And saying goodbye

Memories that shed more tears
Knowing that in reality
I can't see them
For the rest of my life....


written: Feb. 19, 2000 @ 4:15 pm

For Jimmy and Emmanuel
Gone too soon...

Mysterious Aries

And we all like to compare the past with the here and now,
but there are only certain memories that we will allow.
Like how “remarkable” our childhoods used to be,
compared to adulthood now where “everything has turned to debris”.
As in a state of reminiscence we remember things in the most positive light
and in the greatest form so our memories of the past shine bright.
But we forget that nostalgia is a deceiver to you and me,
because nothing was ever as good as we like to remember them to be.

Walking down Memory Lane
Living forgotten dreams again;
Seeing the faces and colors
Of friends, family and brothers.

Some of them good dreams
Of sunny days and pastures
And some were scary times
With fear in too large measures.
Many times the details there
Are cloudy and too indistinct.
Maybe they aren’t as important
As I may once have liked to think.

There are friends there, too
In the lane of remembering
And lovers and co-workers
That don’t deserve forgetting
But there are so many there
In any person’s lengthy time.
If Memory Lane were a hill
It would be a long hard climb.

There are playgrounds and parks
In the vistas of Memory Lane.
Some of them better forgotten
And some I want to see again.
I want to swing on that swing
And feel I am flying so very high
That I can let go and reach out
And actually touch the very sky.

And there lakes and flowers
On this journey through memory.
There were tasty walnuts and
Lovely pines and old hickories.
There were puppies I love so
And kittens and some horses.
So much better to remember
Than breakups, fights, divorces.


I am always so pleased when
I get to come back here again.
Rewarded for a lifetime of love
And walks down Memory Lane.

While the other children were content
To play jacks and skip rope
She preffered the company of the old oak tree
Towering in the back corner lot of the schoolyard
She rested against it's mighty trunk
Basking in the cool shade she loosened her bonnet
Only the toes of her patent leather shoes
Catching beams of wavering sunlight
As they arched through the rustling leaves
A sweet song of a robin whistled amongst the branches
As she smoothed the pleats of her dress
A leather bound book at rest on her thighs
It's jacket so familiar and a comfort to the touch
The scent of it's brown and curling pages
Reminding her of late winter nights by the fire
When her grandmother's kind smile shone so brightly
As the flames from the hearth danced in her eyes
While she spun the girl one of her many stories
As deftly as her fingers could pull stitches
From a mountain of patchwork piled on her lap
The chiming of the bell marked the end of play
And she shook herself from her daydream
Dusting off the errant leaves and grasses
She lined up at the entrance to the courtyard
A sweet smile forming on her lips
Though a measure of sorrow still lingered in her heart
A bittersweet mix both of pleasure and mourning
Her spirit pining for the solace of those precious days; of her past

If I ever tell you how much I love you in three words,
Forgive me, I lied.
Because words fail me in your grace.

these memories
each one sharp as a thorn
yet so supple
a new chapter of life has now begun
do I leave my past behind?
closing my eyes
remembering every single one
pricking and prodding
trying to find my happiness
but that is something that I have left *behind

The monumental smile
on your continental eyes.

And the impossible question they pose.

I pine in sweet denial,
and build cities from goodbyes.

And reminiscence paves the road.