Broken Images

BROKEN IMAGES

A broken heart

 mosaic of images

she searches frantically for  her  being

 numb ,kohl smeared eyes

stare back at her..

Instinctively

she wipes a tear

picks up the fragments of her life

she had lost

amid the ashes of the past

but memories,

how could she gather them

in the hollow of her hands

she wore a misty form of life

her soul 

 a heap of broken images

we both reach out an empty hand..longing for something to forgive

come fill my world

You Promised

And be these juggling friends no more believ'd,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promise to our ear
And break it to our hope.
~William Shakespeare

A poem ..by me

You promised

You promised to pick a reflected beam

Of moonlight from the dark waters

To weave in my hair

You promised to get me kohl from the night skies

To make my eyes more enigmatic

The sunshine smiles mysteriously

The night sky drapes the world in black

The breeze moans as it rustles up

 Memories that lie buried under autumn leaves

When i reach out to put a speck

Of my kohl on your radiant forehead

a handful of mist is all i have

The Car and the Carrier

How many of you have ever been victims of road rage in Delhi? Well, if you are a regular driver on the chaotic Delhi roads and prone to becoming a victim of this rage, I suggest you become a passive observer of the outrageous activities around you. Believe me, it’s fun! What amuses me is the attitude or body language of the driver perched pretty on his/her seat...Here are some of my observations:

1.      Women drivers...Well, most of them literally fall over the steering wheel while driving. Rarely will you see them sitting relaxed.

2.      Their backs become curved as the head juts out over the wheel and the legs stretch out to reach the accelerator-clutch-brake, just the small of the back in touch with the back of the seat.

3.      They mostly drive in the middle of the lanes. (trying to get the best of both sides..Or they are opportunists and change lanes at will.

4.      Men have cell phones in one hand and a cigarette in the other.(wonder how they balance –girlfriends and tensions)

5.      They turn their heads to look at their sides at traffic lights-if they see a lady, they sit up straight.

6.      A woman driver looks at the side, one look at the person behind wheels and another look at the model of the car. If the model is in any way inferior to the one she is driving, she turns up her nose and looks straight ahead.

7.      Men are driven by their cognitive domains and women, by their affective domains when it comes to overtaking.

8.      Few women drivers have a good spatial sense when it comes to parking their cars. They take ages to mentally fit in the car and thus hold up the traffic.

9.      If you happen to get caught in a jam and the lane next to you moves faster, the expressions of the drivers say it all... ‘Hey!slow-coach!crawl on...”

So,if you feel you are on the verge of becoming a victim of road rage,look around you and enjoy the comic relief!

Relationships

There is a source for everything.How can anything ever be detached ,i wonder!smoke,mist or fog..vagabonds they may be ,all arise out of a source.Light a candle,blow it off..watch the smoke swirling up..it will be attached to the wick,long after it is invisible to the human eye.I guess some relationships are like the smoke..apparently detached,yet attached to an invisible wick...

Windchimes and Shadows of the Past

I love windchimes.The soft tinkling sound lulls my senses. Usually my schedule deprives me of the joy to sip on to my cup of coffee in bliss , newspaper in hand and the gentle music of the breeze flirting with the chime soothing my senses. The morning was different today. Time rolled lazily...the steam from my coffee mug making fascinating patterns in the air. I was at peace with the self, with the surroundings. Memories took me back to the days in the mountains of garhwal,where life was in perfect tandem with the rolling mountain side. And I remember a poem I wrote long back, inspired by the beautiful landscape of Garhwal...In the sweltering heat of Delhi, the memory of the poem is refreshingly cool...

The Shadow

The valley stretches before her
Like the yawn of the lazy cheshire
The sun kissed fields with paddy
Cascade down like the folds of the bride’s gown
Rustling in the breeze
Lush green, sprinkled with wild pansies
She gazes dreamily at Khait Parbat in the distance
“Fairies and elves dwell in the woods yonder!”
She had heard them say
As the shared stories under the peepal tree
overlooking the Bhagirathi

The grand mountain peak
Raises in her mind
Images she had fantasized as a child
The mountain peak with walnut trees
The fairies had taken fancy to..
The sensuous simplicity of the hill folk
lulls her senses

The pristine peaks draped in white
The clouds with silver lining
Clamour to rest their wandering waves
on the rocky shoulders
They gather and crowd around like an eager audience
Waiting for the recital to begin

Someone plays a flute in the distance
Maybe a shepherd boy
In leisure and tranquillity
Under a pine tree roasting cones
That fall down with a soft thud
His sheep graze around
Occasionally lifting their heads
To fix their gaze on the clouds

The valley resonates with the sound of music
The ripples of octave reach far and wide
The sun dips down
To rest his crown
Draping the hillside with warm hues
As it lays its royal head to rest
For a siesta in the vast sea of timelessness
The angels of the eve get set to work
To weave fantasies in wandering minds

The breeze blows its conch
The lazy clouds span out in fog
To powder the mountain side in mist
Thus dimming the hues of the day
In their own unique way

As they swagger, drunk with wine
They clash and roar
Somewhere far away the showers of rain
Wait to unleash their power

In the foggy eve she finds herself
Alone under the tree
Where are the colours of the day?
The shepherd and his song?
The meandering trail of the river
Is lost in mist and fog

The smoky clouds fill up the void
Where the valley had been
And then someone calls out her name
Searching for her solitary frame

The fog
Swirling around like a lunatic
On the beat of drums
Holding her on an alter
Waiting for the moon to tear through the mist

In frenzied fury the clouds roar
Behind her a beam of light
Outlines her frame in fiery gold
In a trance, she stands
Gazing ahead at her own shadow
On the dancing mist
She reaches out
To touch her
Then, oblivious to the mortal call
She walked ahead into the mist
The immortal soul
To be a part of the cosmos