I gazed out of my window
played peekaboo with the clouds
as they tried to cover the moon
through thick lids
I watched my sleep maroon
I saw her gleam
and farther was I from my dream
the creaky doors shut
the clocks still
perfect silence
in my humble hut
I twisted and turned
and looked at the sky
pitch black
but for the moon
and I wished the morning
would break her soon
the sound of my heartbeat
made my ears scoff-
if only there were a way
to turn it off!
Why can’t the time
take me back to that flooded night
when the moon was only a tiny dot
and the wind carried the moorhens’ cries
while I was awake gaping at the dark
like i could see the picture on the wall
smiling at me
inviting me to a
journey to an unknown dell
to float over the damp trees,
catching fish at my doorstep,
watch the baby goats snuggle up for a good night’s sleep
and to follow the purling rivers
on their way to eternity!
You battle with sanity;
Your treacherous mind
Steers your thoughts into a hollow depression
And laughs at you in that
Hushed voice inside your head
Where your thoughts resonate for ages
Resembling a death wish
To flee from the reality
and then; when you’re finally liberated,
You yearn to see the pit for
One last time,
for one last taste of regret
Longing for the little voice
Ringing inside your head.
Pining for the unending despair;
Hiding behind a dream
Enclosed by the slimy walls of freedom.
When I was a kid, before I became an atheist, one of the elders around me told me that a particular verse from the Quran would protect me from dogs and other beings. I was terrified of dogs, so I started reciting that verse and over time it became second nature. I would find myself saying it subconsciously whenever I felt scared. Not just of dogs.
I feel many of us do not actually know what the purpose of our prayers is.
Recently, an Arab friend told me what this verse actually means, and I felt powerless.
It was as though a defence mechanism I had relied on all my life was suddenly stripped away. I still recite it out of habit, but the feeling is gone.
Looking back, the sense of security it gave me didn’t come from the verse itself but from the faith I had in the person who told me about it.
It reminds me of the story of ‘Viddi Kushmandam’ from the Aithihyamala.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to believe in it the way I once did. Powerless now.
0:00
You’re dreaming
I’m wandering
Chained to the floor
Under the scathing Moon
Counting the crimson beads
Trickling down my palm
Whispering to an old face
How far I would go
While holding onto my pillow
Sprinting like a maniac;
Searching for a reason
To stay and wait
While you lie asleep
In your quiet world
Of rainbows and curses;
hatred and warmth.
Your dreams have meaning;
Unlike my being.
Some curls are fascinating. They keep us hooked even as they vanish into thin air; like the smoke from a dosa thawa. They’re such a delight to watch; especially if we’re in the kitchen during the early hours of the day. The smell of ghee, freshly brewed tea and the cute little curls swirling upwards into the first rays of the Sun… Sometimes I wonder how life would’ve turned out without the dosas! But let’s not digress- we’re here for some curls; like the ones on his head.
Anything is possible for those shiny curls. I can joke about how they’re thicker than the whole of the Amazon forests combined but that would be very inappropriate and alarming. After all, man has done so much to destroy everything fragile; sometimes with a head full of luscious blacks.
Many moons from now, while rocking my chair to the brazen chords of a hot summer shower, I would watch my fat kitten knock a coffee mug off the window sill. Unflinchingly, I will stare as my leftover coffee buries your unopened letters; my name calmly disappearing under the murky mess. A lot would have happened through the years; things that are meant to change. Laughter and failure. Life will erase the brief snatches of sorrow and pain and take us to a place where the past means so little. Till then I shall hold onto you like you shield me from death. Till then my memories will weigh more than the leftover coffee.
When I was younger, I used to love sleeping next to my grandmother. She knew exactly two stories and would narrate them with a lot of passion. Over the years, the stories underwent subtle changes according to her creativity but the central themes remained unaltered. Although I loved listening to her stories, they put me right to sleep; no matter how interesting they were. On sleepless nights, she asked me to chant duas (prayers). I don’t know if it was because of God or the devil, but the prayers always worked.
Now, years down the line, my childhood is a vivid yet distant memory. I seldom visit my grandmother. The memory of her stories have faded into an emptiness and more of my nights are endless. At times, when I lie awake staring at the stars, her old trick comes to my mind; like many things in life, it betrays me. I still cannot understand whose prank it is or if my lost faith is the culprit. In what did I lose trust? The stories or God? The devil, maybe.
AHighPoet 