I haven't learned how to to drive yet. And people keep wondering why. I am not skeptical about my ability to take the vehicle out and stride about with unknown companions on the road.  Companions; some who ridicule while I take quite some time and place to make a simple right hand turn , some who don't waste words rather blow horns which sound like a perfect coronach in chorus. And that fears me more and I tell mom that I would never go driving again. I will take a cab, ride a bike or walk to the destination but I 'll never really "drive". You see if I don't overcome this aversion, people would perhaps say more. People won't stop. Not when you're dead, not when you 're born, not on your convocation. Actually never.  So,  I went out again on the same road, at the same time. They are still staring and babbling. But this time I am slighlty relieved. I am mocking them too. One at time ,till I take a right hand turn.


And there my driving license was born.

The witching hour is almost home
At the point from where she left yesterday
She said she had some places to roam
When I asked her to stay.
It was when my tear- drop  did twinkle
I heard the clock ticking
The air of melancholy somehow dwindled
As she went on singing.
I admit I am a midnight lover
For it disguises itself into a person like me
Not like those whose reality is covered
By the multitude of opinions they never wanted to be.
I live the sleep I die for in bed
By doing the things of my choice
I dance recklessly and donot tread
For once I find myself rejoice.
And sure I am a midnight lover
You will find dark circles under my eye
Keep gossiping until you have more to discover
Of the secret land where I fly.
But listen my dear ones
What I just found is what you all look for
To snuggle down when you 're fatigued of the run
To the other side of the door.
Heart is still beating
And you are here to stay
Live a life to which you want to cling
So there are no regrets ,when without you another night changes to day.

























I

December beckoned to me while half winter darkened the night sky to augment the starlight. "So it's time for a new time again. If you were  to take something along, what would it be?" he mumbled. I said "Yes, any minute now for us to stride towards January. It will be colder there but my mother's knitted cardigan has more warmth than warmth."  He wanted to ask much but the surfacing discomfort somehow restricted him. But at last I spoke like the Christmas fall, " We are so accustomed to moving now from one year to the other like nomads that there are somethings we take along while other have to be simply left back. I wish I could carry every morning which changed to night and every stranger who went out of sight, I wish I could carry the speck of dirt which hugged my clothes while a car passing by ran through a puddle, I wish I could carry the endless melodies we chorused, the last smile on every one's faces  in candid snapshots. The stark reality is that I cannot. Noone can. But I wish the same things arrive in newness , so again I will to cling to them by the end of another December, like another home. " "Anyway let's blow the candles, it's midnight ", a voice from the side interrupted.  And then there was silence.

Closed eyes, heart not beating. They lay there on a hearse bedecked with flowers. Flowers which smell of them. So we realise their presence for one last time;  as they were near. With every petal 's fragrance waning, they go far and far and far.
Now we know, they are not here. Marvel how a person fades like his scent....

Look what you left behind on your quest for nothing,
A door left ajar and a blackout
In the city and your eyes
Look how time flew through the eyes of the dead
Which lie in the snapshots
While once upon they still existed
Look how the furniture changed since pals left
Through the lives of the solitary
Who gallivanted about in the delicatessan
And chorused the bargain song with family
Look what the dead say
Shoulders of pricey cardigans are all worthless
Without the weight of someone's face
Whose presence you never regard
Until the sands of time fly him away
Time, which you cannot trace.
Look what the furniture says and listen meticulously,
It says , home is not far
And if a vestige of you ; you cannot find
Is lodged still in that shadow behind the door left ajar.

I am writing to you this last postcard
And a part of me I am leaving inside,
See you just wanted me to depart
I 'm finally fading with the secret night.
The snowstorm is furious my dear
But I assure it heads to your way till sunrise,
I will exist but I won't be near,
Like starlight of the distant sky.
The paperweight could barely stop the pages,
To break the walls of fault
They seek for sea to drown of rage,
And let the chapter to halt.
For once I thought you 'll cling to my back
To say no to goodbye,
The only trait that you ever lacked
Is that you know but you lie.
As I stroll down the untrodden street
Reaching towards its end
The only one I didnot meet
Was my soul left to mend.
In the dingy room with all other letters
The postcard from me you will find,
And you wouldn't make things any better
Until you know it was in it ,I left myself behind.
Sure this will be the last postcard
For all my power to write is gone,
I 've justified always and it has been hard
But my case will remain as late as dawn.
And If you look for me at some place
The distance will I fear,
I wish a new love you will embrace
If it is with you , I find me near.

Welcome to the mad world where you don't see the madness happening,
Until it havocs you enough to let you see,
The evil things sheathed in the cover of beauty
It won't obviously give you an inkling while you are unwrapping the parcel in wonder
Because you are not your own master anymore; I found you dizzy until
You were hypnotized.
The profoundness of beauty has triumphed over you,
You are another one in the herd; dragged and beaten with scars and scrapes,
Keep walking till you really wish to stop
But if you ever stop remember :
Welcome to the mad world where you didn't see the madness happening.

No mom as you said , I donot cry for sympathy. I wish I could tell you what kills my soul so slow that I don't know. No mom as you said, I donot cry for attention. I cry not willingly, I cry because I see through my heart.  And I don't know what's wrong and right or whether there are people like me, but when there is noone ,there are only tears.

I don't need your dark brown eyes
To travel through mine,
Or your words to be riveted
To every wisp of my spine.
Because you are not another
Soul in people I see,
Had I discerned earlier, that
I am you and you are me.

In the silent auditorium of the silent city
Two sauntering steps were seen
According to the birdies they were,
Shivering in seventeen.
But the painter's painting was only black
Until two sauntering steps were on stage,
Starlight like diamonds on ballerina pumps
Was the only colour he added to the image.
You see how a mere touch of twinkle
Can add beauty upon;
From everything that's black,
He knows; a new star is born.

The words fell like sugar cubes
That nana adds to her tea
In abundance ;captivating with a perennial charm
Blending in as they found snug in its arms.
And to me, it is strange yet satiating
An endless rhapsody.
Then I wonder,
What if our words to one another were also  melded,
With the right proportion of sweetness?
There will be no war ,no weapons the only option
Just words.
As solacing as nana's tea;
Sometimes I wonder.

Mom,  you are out there in another city and I am walking across the hall hoping you 'll call. I walk restlessly to your room and back only to reminisce about our talks. You are out for a week though, I don't know why I am crying. I still find you sitting beside but this time you are a beautiful mirage.
P. S.  I love you.

Every chapter has to end. Today or tomorrow. If you cannot finish it, destiny will finish it for you. Being rebellious would only hurt you here. Let the page turn after there is a full stop. You can go back to the previous page but only for memories, not for life. Letting go simply means you cherish what you had but there is enough courage in you to seek better. If you don't believe what I say, think of a favorite novel, genre mystery, did you find the secret on the very first page? I found it when I moved on.

If you ever pass by the lanes of my mind, you will know that a corner right there gawking at you is home to a vinyl record. And if you go in close, closer;  I know you will be astounded. Yes, one record is playing and the flow is unceasing. I might be surrounded by tens of people but my mind still listens to the voices of those who' left ', these voices are trapped in that flat disc that circulates recklessly day and night and night and day. Basically, all the time. Now, it is exhausted by this perpetual activity and new voices have stacked upon . The broken sounds say that the end to this audio is impending and even though this record is my favorite one, it is falling in the death throes. A sinking; and it is gone. The same corner is filled with ashes , it's a graveyard, it 's deserted.
I yearn for the voices in despondency. I do hear them ; slowly approaching. But this time they come from the tens of people around me with mouthful of smoke that they puff while prattling on. And a faint light in the blackout from the lanterns in the either extremes of my drawing room. Lanterns ; gifted by the last person who 'left' and one of whose voices, just died.

These days of cold surrender when the environment wraps me in its weather and I obediently follow its instructions. These are the days of chilling mornings with perpetual shivering in the lips, too frozen to get a word out of me and too warm to keep all that I want to say inside. Safe ,with a quilt on. Eyes lowered , cantering down for a lecture at school in sheer hope of you lending a helping hand to stop the insane movement and say" Rest now".

Something sad in my bone and winter settles on the marble tiled floor. No one speaks here. Everything is quiet and now quieter because of the cold. And by speaking I mean, that one I admire and that one people fleetingly are fond of. You know those talks one craves, getting it? Then my feet touch that floor and the winter slowly scuffles its way up through my structure. So much that it's upon my sleeve, approaching towards the red turned, gloveless fingertips. Time was passing. But my mind asks the same question everyday and now, " Are you gonna write today?" I sneak out leaving a main door slammed with an enormous wave of wind to gaze at the stars. But there are no stars today. Then I boil some eggs for the old, exhausted , regular looking street dog who wanders around Ramu's chai stall everyday, waiting for some bread crumbs or food leftovers from customers and passersby. But we weren't that kind. We never bothered. Why would we waste a walk to a mad dog over Saturday night plans after juggling between work and home for whole six days? And the dogs are smart, he'll figure. Now suddenly you wanna feed him Mahek. You'll take all the walks it takes . But he is somewhere else today. "He filled the ground he digged. That's where he used to sleep." Ramu showed me. He left. Probably because no one cared. And I'd lost two poetries by now. I dial a friend to meet up over coffee and make up for my wrong doings. She didn't answer. I kept trying. She didn't pick once. I show up at her house, but she abandoned it six months back. No one in family joins my poem recital on the terrace. So I recite to the empty chairs, picturing a sudden yet satisfying eruption of exultant approbation from an imaginary audience.
But the real question was, "What should I write about today? ". The stranger dog who left the city tonight, about the stars that never came , about the family I have always disappointed, about the growing misery that's zilch compared to my blessings or the past that always makes me laugh. About the grief that people call " staged" or a father who works all day for his children . Or a mother who I am thankful for. Or maybe about how all this has long been over.
So, I don't think I should write today. Because this isn't real pain. "Your tears are fake and your actions are staged. You 're too weak. You can't survive in your poetries. You can't create a world of your own because sometime or the other, you'll stumble upon the reality. Just come back , Mahek. There is a sun outside because it's meant to be. Not because it wants to secure you in its warm embrace. Not that. "

But you know, the dog came back.