Retiring Leaves

Fallen leaves have gathered
to narrate their lives under an old unwise tree

How the butterflies had hovered around
How the green had changed shades
How the rains had left impressions
How the flowers had stolen attention

The egoistic tree hears, smirks and shakes to shed a few more
For he bores the flowers
He calls the rains
He exhibits stability
For he has birds for friends

The leaves continue -
talk of swinging on the branches
brushing against the solemn winds
bringing life to the tree they cling to
and sleeping little when the sun would make visits

The tree watches the show and falls asleep
The leaves slowly retire

-Shringi
December 29, 2011

A Different Sound

"Mai yahi ruki hu, jaha mai hamesha se hu"

Lehro ki tarah sangeet beh raha hai

aur mera darshak bheengta hi jaa raha hai

It's all coming together,

the mountains, the birds, the trees,

flowers... swings, earth, wooden doors, bees,

the sounds of these.

chalne do, bas chalne do

let the sounds merge, marry

let sounds rise

be taken over by each other

... dissipate

in awazon ki god mei mujhe

kuch samay ke liye so jaane do

"- dekha jaaye to tumne kab mujhe roka hai

wo to mai hi samay ki gaanth mei fansi,

shaanti ke andhkaar mei band baithi hu"

When the fire speaks

when earth listens

when they mingle

there sprouts a different sound.

A sound so different, that you lay under it.

Shringi

November 25, 2011

Painting by Ethelyn Woodlock.

Kshan

(Hawa ki boondein

mere badan ko choo ke

asmaan mei ghul rahi hai)

ye kya ho raha hai

(ye sab kya ho raha hai)

kshano ke ghunghroo pehan

thirak thirak

mai

aasman ke manch pe

naach rahi hu

kisi tatkar mei tum mere bhitar hote ho

to kisi mudra mei koi aur.

kabhi Ram Ram

to kabhi Raavan

kabhi Krishn Krishn

to kabhi Kans

Kabhi krodh mujhme Shiv ko pata hai

to kabhi karuna mujhme, ek aur Shiv

(Hawa ki boondein

mere badan ko choo ke

asmaan mei ghul rahi hai)

Wo tera hi sparsh hai

jo leke jaa raha hai mujhe

isi aasman mei kahi

jaha ek aur aasman ka sangam hota hai

Aao, mere sang ho lo

hum milkar kuch aisa naache

ki ho jaaye hawa ki wo boond

jo aasman mei ghul jaye

Shringi

November 17, 2011

5 Steps

Spontaneously

Drops of blood fall in a rhythm on the ground

while the eyes express,

a body daggers down the stairs.

Blood swims.

Follows, the weight

of renunciation

the blood will dry

the body shall fall

the body shall fall

Knowledge sinks in the red,

presence succumbs.

The fallen body sheds skin

exposing innocence.

Oh, the spectator,

what shall he be going through

if not pity

if not distress

He claps soon after he cries

witnessing the

conclusion : peace

Shringi

November 14, 2011

In circles, the winds and the leaf

Dancing on instincts,

triggered by a flying leaf,

the wind spins

and swirls in a flurry of thoughts

The leaf is a traveler

and it must return

The wind winds itself in a circle

around whose center shall an old leaf turn

again young

playing

forgetful, innocent

repeating themselves

;

sending the leaf back to its orbit, disturbed

bringing the leaf back to its position, placid.

Shringi
November 14, 2011

Stones

The purple lad worships nude stones

while THE mother throws pebbles at him,

(making him purple all the more)

He folds his hands foolishly

and asks from the stones for a world, religion-free.

Shringi

09 November, 2011

Taken over

A lapse studded with emptiness

Stars hovering its crown

A lapse studded with emptiness

Earth by its foot, carving ground

A lapse studded with emptiness

surrounded by forces of time

A lapse studded with emptiness

stays still, balanced

as the wind of moments takes it down

Shringi

Novemeber 07, 2011

Whispers, Waters

(Soft alarms in the air)

Your whisper

fails to say

but triggers waves in the farthest of oceans

Waves, jump to meet the earth

and collapse in front of it's beauty.

The ponderous earth

returns

, with this your whisper fades,

my eyes forget.

I emit light as

the silk of your absence plays with my skin.

I pray, this light reaches you

through the curtain of your lost whisper

I am forgetful and silent, like the waters are

They roar when you sing

Fall when you sleep

Sway when you are lost

Glitter when you smile

Thicken when you wonder

Emerge when you whisper

The oceans will never be dry.

Shringi

November 05, 2011

Bhavan

I miss every birthday by hours or days, so excuse me for that!!

Bhavan, my friend this goes for you -

When,

On a chilly night there is smoke in the sky

I think of the snow still stuck in our shoes.

they discuss, How in 10 days, to lose a guy?

I think of the New Year's eve you screwed.

When,

In the river there is a pair of kings

I think of the 3 aces you hold.

dude, I know you can play

but Pocket tanks (against a pro) turns you cold :D

I dont remember Scotland for its scotch

as I do for its large white Chaach

they all make us leave on a jet plane

when we are a few pegs down in a bash!

So Dude,

There are times, and there are "good times"

There is life and there is, 'Sweet Nirvana'.

Tom Hanks!!

Shringi Bhai

October 20, 2011

See you soon, till then practice PO with my toothbrush!

n yes, I hope Flo is not still sniffing his bed-sheets for a clue

A very happy birthday, n sorry for this lame little scribble.. couldnt help myself. Cheers to the good times :)

Blue, cradle

In my cradle, I would blabber

the moon would come and say, “Why says, why says my child?”

I would howl to gather around me a few,

they would disappear, the moon would rise.

With the sky boiling around me, I sleep

The dense blue runs through my body

My cerulean eyes, my cerulean eyelids

unite,

as my body dissolves in the sky.

In my cradle, I blabber

the moon, watches me and weeps.

She hides herself in the azure

the moon has given to the cradle, her child.

Shringi

0ctober 19, 2011

Lands

In a faraway land where the grass is green, I see my destination. I walk for days and pray for nights to reach the green. When I do, I never sleep. I smell the grass for hours, and collect its velvet in my hands. I look at it with satisfaction and close my eyes to see if I can have a better imagination. I know I cant, so I jump up and run, away from the green grass towards a parched brown land to yearn for green.

In a close by land where man is happy, I see my lover. I hold myself back for days and ignore my intention for nights before I give in. When I do, I never sleep. I torture myself with constant action and throw myself blindly in the air and wait for the fall. Unfortunately, I never fall. I go on flying higher still, passing by confusions, clarity, joy, emptiness to reach nowhere real but a state of comfort. From here I look ahead at the green patch where I always wanted to be.

In a land whose distance from me in unknown, I see conclusion. I stay ignorant for days and see it coming for nights, and myself moving towards it. When I will reach, I don't think that I will ever sleep. I will fall flat on this land reminiscing the smell of green and the sight of my lover, breathing fully the beauty of this place I saw coming. I will not run to any parched patches, neither will I fly into comfort. I will fall flat on this land and I will then be unconscious .

While I think of this land, I find my body running down some unknown waterfalls. My skin is touching water for the first time, teaching my mind to be wet.

Every man must live a life where he has touched the water, wants to see the green and knows how it is to have a lover.

-Shringi

September 23, 2011

Thirty One

(15 September)

Today, a friend of mine, Vikas turned 31.

(18th September)

Sorry, I have been busy. This is still dedicated to you!

I used to write an year back too and Vikas was a dear friend then as well, but 'thirty' never amazed me, that figure I knew very well. Thirty one is one more than what I know.

There was a helper at our home who used to maintain our kitchen garden when I was in primary school. This man used to carefully divide the land into rows, each row of a certain length.

I wondered how many seeds would each row take and on a day asked him. He said 15 on one side of a row, my little mind quickly calculated how many seeds would then be sown on both the sides. I was satisfied and so was he for the first thirty seeds. I never wondered where would the thirty first go.

The thirty first seed, I guess went to a new row or got discarded. Maybe, the counting always stopped at 30 and begun afresh at 31.

Vikas, like other people has traits than can be divided into categories, easily two. A part of him is silent, somber, intelligent and thoughtful and the other is vibrant, funny, illogical and also foolish.

I always thought these were equal and knew that would stay so till 30. 15 of him like one and the other 15 like another. Now, that he is 31, I wonder which of him will become heavier, I hope for the later. On second thoughts, will a new side branch which shall play a role in defining Vikas when he is 45.

Whatever it is, I think I will be there to see. I will update this post when Vikas turns 46.

I wish you the best in life.

- Shringi

18, September 2011

There were smaller incidents

Janaab dutifully entered a big white room full of fresh flowers randomly scattered on the floor. A small flight of marble stairs led to this empty room which smelt more of people than of flowers. In it had come many men and women unknown to each other and from it had left many others.

Janaab was the man who would decorate the room once again like a bride. He looked thoughtfully at the colors on the floor and the patterns they could make. Unlike all days, he lied down in the middle of the flowers, his head touching a few yellow ones and his feet crushing a few red ones. He thought of the many days and many years he had lived in these; how the flowers changed every day and how with them had he.

This room was one of the guest rooms of his employer, Raja.

Janaab thought -

"These strangers - roses

These strangers, I come to

The red petals, commanding

Their helplessness makes me weak

The smells tire me

The colors make me old

They were beautiful when they were young

Now, they wear masks of youth

and arrive everyday

They are no more fresh than I am

I can step on them

and refuse their art

I can sleep on them

and let them lay underneath me."

Janaab stretched his legs crushing a few red roses. He felt free of the many years he had lived, he felt liberated and light.

The smells got together and attacked his rebellion, Janaab shifted and in a while the room was decorated with more beauty than it ever was.

Shringi

September 11, 2011

dedicated to the short-lived rebellion in us.

Kept.

In an old notebook

I see, pasted childhood

cut in squares

She would jump out of the window

on a pile of collected old leaves.

There she would sit and read her fairy tales book.

The notebook now smells of kept mud

of memories that don't have endings

of time, that wears no stamp.

She would extend the stories in the book

and bring them to herself

under that window, she would greet the characters

she read

These squares look to be colored with paints and innocence

They must have had a story each when they were pasted

Now they have conclusions,

under layers of dust.

She would stay there till late

till the sky would change shades and force her outside the book

into deep imaginations.

She each day pasted a square in her notebook, painted it in the color of her day.

Today, each of these squares are windows

I would jump from, into a pile of old collected leaves.

Into faintly different moments, but amongst the same leaves.

-Shringi

September 10, 2011

It can't get any louder.

There were three friends, Fer, Fudd and Foong. They lived in the honest village of Glad and read in a local school, Happy.

Fer was short and fat.

Fudd was short and sad.

Foong was tall and fat.

Their favorite game was Boblethon. The rules of the game were simple. They had to dig holes in the ground and throw stones in each other's holes. At the end of an hour whoever had the maximum amount of emptiness in the holes would win the game. Foong always won. This made Fudd sadder.

One day when Fer was digging a hole, he found a small golden rat sitting in it. As he started to shout and call his friends to show his find, the golden rat said, "Hi Fer, I am Fith, the golden rat. I stay under the ground of Glad and I have many sons and daughters, not all of my children are golden. Today since you have found me, I shall help you win Boblethon. I will eat all the stones that your friends throw in the holes you dig, please make sure that you dig all your holes close by. I am doing this because I am good."

Fer did as told and easily won the game. Fer was winning for the first time, this made Foong suspicious and Fudd less sad. When they were leaving Fer peeped into the hole to thank Fith who now was a little fatter with the stones in his tummy. Fith said,"I am glad that you are happy. Whenever you need my help, dig beside the yellow pillar at the entrance of Happy in Glad and whisper your need." Fer smiled.

Now on whenever they planned to play, Fer quickly dug a hole where asked and whispered his desire to win the game. Fith always helped Fer win. Foong's curiosity faded, he accepted that Fer was better than him at the game. Fudd was as sad as he always was. He never won the game.

With each passing game Fith became fatter and fatter. Soon there was a huge golden Fith residing under the village of Glad. The villager's found gold wherever they dug, but nobody ever touched it as the villagers of Glad were too honest and this they considered as stealth. In little time rumors of gold under Glad spread in neighboring villages, Incomplete and Uncomfortable. The villagers of Incomplete and Uncomfortable started migrating to Glad and their kids started going to Happy.

Fer was scared that someday some immigrant would find Fith; to ensure that there were no more migrations Fer thought the only way was to introduce gold under Incomplete and Uncomfortable as well. For this Fer needed to play Boblethon for hours and days. Foong and Fudd no more wanted to play Boblethon for they always lost and there now were many new kids who came to Glad with many new games.

Fer played Boblethon alone. He asked Fith to make him win and threw stones in his own holes.

Shringi

September 09, 2011

Sewn - (One Day II)

"Slowly opening up,

very slowly."

It fell apart

as she guessed the climax very early

In front of her

nothing could stay stitched.

A purple petal flew her way

she knew of which tree it came

A purple dot in her mother's dress

she knew why she wore it today

At the sky she would look

and predict the rains

Tears she would touch

and know the stories behind them

It was another evening

when she was going her way

A thief came to her

she gave him a cake

A squirrel came to her

she gave it a date

A man came to her

she said a story

A monster came to her

she offered herself

These met - the squirrel, the monster, the thief and the man

they discussed their disappointments

The thief took the girl

Th monster - the date

The man took the cake

and the squirrel listened carefully to the tale.

Shringi

August 26, 2011

Back ache

When everything is beautiful, my back aches. Left over nuances collect themselves in a corner trying to leave me alone with my happiness. This affects me in a different way.

Rain pours

thunders wait

noises run

and I alone get drenched

I have been trying to talk sense since a few days and all I am speaking is of wet and soggy feelings which nobody can be interested in.

Wheels churn

paths become older

we ponder

we never unite, we can never unite

If I sit in the corner of an old street

I count windows

I look into people's lives

I never reach a conclusion

then I look into my life and find it no more amusing than any. Red bricks falling off an inconclusive building. Red bricks ready to be taken by someone else for their dream. You don't need to be young to be dreamy, you just need to be ready.

Then she ran crazily towards the winds,

with the enthusiasm of a fool,

the sky stood silent in anticipation,

the sky said nothing when she reached.

Shringi

25 August 2011

The book and I

It was an hour and more past midnight and I was reading my book. I was weaving myself with all that was written, and all that I was reading was passing through me. I was in a tiny world which was full of the characters I was reading of and some of me in each of them, men, women and children.

Then, I looked at this from the outside. I saw a girl/ a woman with a book half read in her hand. She was sitting with her legs pulled close to her chest in a dim lit - light yellow room, very big for her. The floor was of white marble. She looked distant, pretty, aloof, content and very tiny. I moved further outside and lost her somewhere on my way.

From outside the words of the book were nothing but some filling of a decorative in my hand, from close by it was a world of which I was but a visitor, an engrossed visitor.

Shringi

26 August 2011

reading To the Lighthouse

Shouldn't ask

There are times when we shouldn't look back and shouldn't ask.

Of one of those times.

I must be little, but I was observant. You don't know when you grow up, but you do know (should know) if you still haven't. I am a man of 40 and like many of us I have had more than one real incident in my life, each of which are special to me. Each happened when I needed to grow, not sure that I did.

Judgments fail us, they fail us more than our real failures. People fail us, in a way we can never judge.

I should not think so much of how I have lived, but I do. As a child I was observant, now all I am is contemplative. Like a white feather travelling in the sky with a silent, almost hidden hope of flight, of some real happening. I am not even white, I am gray. Do I sound unhappy? I am asking you because my thoughts don't reach my ears; my ears are dedicated since years to music and words. Music of the countries and words of unknown philosophers (all men). My eyes in search of that blue sea whose color only my heart knows. I might find it and I might sit next to it, I might be satisfied or I might spend hours finding why this isn't exactly the color I was looking for and how is it different?

Man is curious to know and is scared of finding.

Life showed a way and I followed, like a boat and a river we moved. On our way we found unknown flowers in states of happiness, full blossom, death and loneliness. I liked to touch these flowers and know their smell. I liked to hold stems of these in my hands and caress them till they would fly. I liked to sing to them and hear them singing but I could never muster the courage of plucking any of these. They were beautiful where they were and I thought I would be unsatisfied with or without them. Life loaded a few known flowers on my boat, I carried them like an obedient servant. In the time we were together, I couldn't help the sadness or touch the happiness of these flowers.

Age is no milestone, it is no achievement. It is just a reminder of the fact that you are yet another human being surfing the waves of time.

I have made no contributions yet. I don't think that any of the inventions made, literature written or art created were necessary. I would have lived without these and so would you. Incapability sprouts its own philosophies. I have seen my mother grow from young and vibrant to old and wishful. I have seen her do the same that she always did for years and I have seen her holding tight to her rituals. As though if for a day she would not water the plants at 10 a.m. in the morning the plants would complain of disturbing their routine. The trees that I climbed when I was little, still are the same. The barks of these always looked wise, the only difference is that I don't seek their shelter anymore, I think that I am providing them with shelter.

We have been betrayed by ourselves countless number of times, so many that we are now not scared of any superficiality.

I am not a man who would be by your side when you would want me the most or expect me the most. I am not a man who would fulfill your emotional requirements. Of both of us, I would always be the baby. I am the man who would never love you more than what I do today, and I am the man who would never know what is needed. But I refuse to look back and realise why you are important; I refuse to ask myself any questions that would confuse me and make me feel uncomfortably right. I don't want to force improvements, I don't want to hide my present in the shadows of yesterday and demands of tomorrow. If you understand this, you would like to stay.

Shringi

August 24, 2011

Perfect

(Before I pen, I never know what I am going to write. I have no idea of how happy, sad, real or ironic is the write going to be.

Deciding between a poem and a story. Story wins)

So, there was this perfect day. On a perfect day, perfect things happen. Like: the sky is clear, the winds nice and slow, the house and car keys are right in front of you and friends bump into you at a super market. And also, you are not shot in your head. That never happens on a perfect day, unless you want to get rid of your life.

This is about a perfect day of an imperfect person. A man who was old, had a white head, who wore brown clothes and had a swollen face. He ate mosquitoes and lived on the streets. Obviously, his perfect world did not have a car, house, supermarket or friends.

Morning : A bus stopped by the street he lived on. A little girl with a little smile got off it, alone. She went to the imperfect man and asked him his name. The imperfect man, mumbled something imperfect from his swollen face. The girl gave him a bun to eat and left.

Noon: A bus stopped by the street he lived on. A woman of 30 got off it, alone. She passed by the imperfect man as though he did not exist.

Evening: A bus stopped by the street he lived on. A girl of 17 got off it, alone. She looked down upon the imperfect man and gave him some money. She walked away speedily. This was the last bus coming to that street .

Night: A calm breeze flew into the imperfect man's hour and brought him sleep.

Shringi

29 July, 2011

Compared to the fields, the towns are nothing

Compared to streets, houses are nothing

Rings in all ten fingers.

This place has become a temple where I emote. Since I am emoting, they must be my own expressions.

In a piece of glass, I see reflections of a woman and burning candles. I breathe the smell of it, and wait for another darkness.

There is a tiny hole in a very cemented wall, out of which music is escaping. The real world will soon witness a storm of coming beats. From this hole, then I will peep.

Whenever I think of meeting new shades, why does it have to rain? Whenever in the rain I begin to find, why does it have to bring and take back all colors with it? 

After words of sorrow and battle. After actions indicating conclusion. He in his overcoat left, he ran away such that nobody could follow. Nobody but music.

When I was young, my visitors wore coats. Now that I am older, many of my visitors are bald. (Whenever I wear a coat, I always stay at home)

Black and brown owls are in plenty in my garden. Few nights me and the black ones stare at each other; few nights the brown ones and me look at the moon.

If at all I fall in love, promise me, you will fall in love too. That love will not be of rains, words or of trees, that love would be a little less real.

Green cat, Orange rain

I have a story to tell

of a green cat in orange rain

tell you,

why she runs away

The rain is falling hard

and its color is orange

she needs a shelter, like you and me

maybe, she wants to catch a shade

She is not running away

She is a dreamer

Before the orange rain stops to fall

She wants to see the flavor it gives to the Irises of Arles.

The cat is lost
It never rains orange
maybe, she is in the fields
maybe, she did run away

Shringi

July 22, 2011

Painting : Irises by Vincent van Gogh - 1889

Sad crow

The crow

: she carries a song of distress to me

While I sing, she croaks.

I will leave her alone.

This persistent croaking will break the sky into tears

In someone's sorrow, I will be drenched

her tears mixed with the sky's will fall down my cheeks

I wont know how to continue to sing

This night is luminous

I can see her many friends sleep next to mine

The rivers have closed their doors

The hills have drawn their curtains

I am left alone, in this white night

with a sad crow

who will break the sky down

I should leave her alone.

Shringi

July 20, 2011

The crow might just be croaking happily, who knows

The sky might just open up with colors. Who knows.

Moon in Flames III (series)

Tomorrow: sun falling on a dust clad road

Yesterday: heavy gray clouds making a distant sound

Today: the rains

I have come too far ahead

to remember how it felt, the movement of days

I remember vaguely how I looked at the sky on a winter night

how in the moon, I found flames.

Shringi

July 14, 2011

Morning has broken

Morning has broken

today with its burdens

(It takes a lot to churn with the world)

Being a woman

with my body I am cursed

being a man

with the lack and excess of reality

Morning has broken

last night's dead bodies

are still starving on the streets

Men, women and kids are hungry

There is still some night time left in this morning

With many others, I too should cry

for morning again has brought no relief

Morning has broken

bringing an end to many sleeps

an end to numbness of the mind

The hotels are getting cleaned

the roads are left dirty

there are blood stains all over the city

In the meat shop, an old song is playing

Morning has broken

like an old morning

Cat Stevens had his version

whose blackbird now is sick.

Shringi

June 29, 2011

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1TWd3skb-Rw

Moon in Flames II (series)

On a moonless night, I look for the moon in flames again.

A flake of which fell on me yesterday,

On the first night of its burning.

Now it is nowhere to be seen.

After a few moonless nights, a fresh moon shall arrive

Earth shall greet

I will wait for another flake to reach me

For now, I will let the fire with the coming moon be

Shringi

June 27, 2011

My Sphere.

Vaani, a girl of seven turned seventeen yesterday. On a swing in a veranda, she carelessly rubs a blue ball thinking of the days she has lived.

Vaani, when was seven sat on a swing in a veranda playing with a ball made of glass filled with blue and green gel like liquid. The rains fell, fell stronger, and stronger still. The view from the veranda became dim, only sounds of fast water beating the grounds could be heard. Vaani touched the sky; a whirl in the sky took her and shot her beyond the realms of this world. Vaani without the ball in her hand, for a while revolved around the earth in an elliptical orbit. After minutes, the ball arrived too, together they escaped.

Vaani in the sky would play with the ball, look at it intently. She would see how the liquids interacted among themselves. She could see particles - black, brown and yellow. She could see red dots and white miniature flakes. The ball changed shades at times, becoming a little lighter oceanic blue and parrot green to a little darker indigo and olive green. She could see a lot in that little ball. When she would bring the ball close to her ears, she would hear a lot too. At times music, at times thunder, at times nothing and mostly some random noise. Vaani was happy in the sky with her ball. The sky was happy with Vaani too, it would breeze her, cuddle her, toss her and make her sleep.

Vaani was in the sky that night when it took her farther still towards a concrete structure. In its carelessness the sky became a tone too violent and Vaani hit hard against the concrete. Vaani was fine, the ball broke. The gel spilled over the concrete and the particles moved haphazardly for a while and then settled. Noise could discretely be heard as many loud shrieks; it was disturbing. Vaani had broken the earth zillions were living in. She now is seventeen. She is sucked by the concrete and thrown in a veranda with a swing. She has found a blue ball lying by. On a swing in a veranda, she carelessly rubs a blue ball thinking of the days she has lived.

Shringi

26 June, 2011
Vaani, spare my earth, please.

Dipadi

Like before, he walked alone on a long long road

men and wind passed by, he walked some more.

This happened a while ago, on a way in a city less known. Dipadi wore a bored expression and walked towards her school, she was a dance teacher. She bought some books on the previous day. Dipadi to some was comely, to some sensitive and to many unworthy. She gave the books she bought to a boy who came running towards her. He must have known her. She smiled lightly at him and continued. Dipadi was a girl few would like to know. She is central to the story you are going to listen to.

A bridge fell, few men died, Dipadi watched with apathy. She was in a mood to practice dance, she did. Could we ever understand how the girl thought? Probably, but we never had much interest until she started walking down a new road to the school she went to every evening. This road was four times as long as the straight road she took earlier from her home. This one was curved more than twice, each turn showcasing a different view; the city was such. After the first turn you would see a fallen bridge and a shop of books, after another, small hills at a distance and ill bred lands closer, on another flower laden trees (only in the spring, otherwise just trees). This road, only a few owning cars took. Dipadi walked up and down on it every day barring Sundays.

One evening Dipadi was walking by the broken bridge when the men who died came towards her. Dipadi ignored them and kept an even pace. The dead men followed. She turned with the turn and the hills started getting closer to the road. The boy whom Dipadi had given the books came running to her and handed her torn pages. Dipadi kept on walking. She turned with the turn in the road, the flowers started to fly away from the trees, away from Dipadi, there was no wind. Very few petals flew in the Dipadi's direction and even fewer fell to the ground

Dipadi reached school, taught her session, took the straight road back home and pasted torn pages of the book she bought from the book shop next to the fallen bridge.

Shringi

23 June 2011

Stomp a stomp

On a dusty night

In a slimy room

Of a mind that knows

nothing new

I go on and on

To the walls I speak

of glorious days

In the bed I think

of yesterday

And I go on and on

Half true, half sad

More of a random yap

Listen to me

for in the maze

there might be a mighty muse

In the confusion

there is some brightness

I know, I know

How I go on and on

I push myself

I drag you too

for you are a fool

you are nothing but a fool

Shringi

09 June 2011

Sickness

My reflection has no beliefs

Wrapped in flesh

I think of the abstract

As an abstract I think of my proclivity

Thoughts :

move haphazard unwilling to make sense.

In the company of fools

I reverberate

Yesterday was simple

I was a man of few worries

and I collected drops of air

My ribs are paining

I am sick

I want a little food

however well fed I am underneath.

Shringi

June 04, 2011

One Day

A golden bird

talks from behind a cage

Her words are of freedom

and tone of rage

There is a twinkle in her eye

She is a slave

There is a man in a cocoon

looking for the rays of sun

His intention is to see

He looks very dull

There is a flurry in his eye

He is a burden

A lonely moonbeam

is stolen by a cloud

It has fading luster

no expectations to be found

There is calm in its eye

It is a treasure

A bevy of artists

is standing at a conjunction

They are stitching the breeze to a river

and talking of changing structures

There is concentration in their eye

They are radicals.

After time

to a jungle these moved -

the golden bird, man, the lonely moonbeam, the artists.

..

Slowly came others few

They lit fire one night

and in it threw stones,

exchanged stories of misery

and now the freedom

To establish gratitude

they jumped in the fire too.

Shringi

June 02, 2011

To Sunaina

A very happy birthday and may you live a life of colors and beauty.
May you get all you wish for, may you be as you are.
Love you.

We boarded the swings of childhood

and sang rhymes of laughter

Sunaina, now that you have grown up

I can only imagine

how as adults we together would be

We would travel the world on our ponies

name cities after our fantasies

Dance on the music of the winds

and stand silent under the moon

in front of a small lake in a land of stories

We would recite our imagination

I think we would have wings too

We would pass by the world

making an observation, only both of us would know

We would wear our spirits

form fairy tales

We would walk by the brook

Call the world a menace, be scared too

Call the world a garden, lie down with legs stretched

On your birthday, I think of a few days with you

Shringi
28 May 2011

The sky shall be blue

In the orange of day -

decorated with the grays of smoke ribbons

there is a sleeping melody

Music will be made

That night the sky shall be blue

the clouds shall be silent

and music shall be

Shadows of man,

Colors of heaven

shall dance

The crooners shall stop

and gaze at the blue, the sky shall wear

How we see, how we see

in the orange

glimpse of blue that shall be

Shringi

May 28, 2011

Instead.

Instead of misery, I felt an indescribable calm.

...

A drop of cold water fell on my cheek

A fallen dry rose flew from ground into my lap

The breeze by the brook kept on hitting me in a rhythm

I could not ignore.

This had to be a revisit, of times, of broken stories, of chill

Instead of bitter pain, I felt the feel of sweet acceptance

I must have been hurt, to now be overwhelmed such

Eyes decorated with black kohl, decide to shed some thoughts

I can understand, they need to spread the magic they hold

and be free of the many burdens.

Shringi

May 24, 2011

A small boat

A small boat

carrying my message

is travelling across the vastest of seas

Tonight I will sleep without my muse

I will wait for the message to reach

before I talk of the breeze making melodies

of the night falling on the boat

of the message being broken and redone by the waves

of the tiny boat with a small light hanging by its roof

Tonight I will not talk of the many stars

falling on the sea

of the music playing under the skin of earth

I will not talk of the moving horizon

I will sleep without my muse

ignoring the birds flying east

the rays of moon striking the hills

of men wearing colors and moving towards

day

Tonight I will wait for the tiny boat to reach

I will sleep without my muse.

Shringi

May 23, 2011

Painting by an unknown artist taken from popartmachine.com

A fractured canopy

Knitting dreams
under a forbidden canopy

Next to the street opposite to me
is a small river of stars

There is a leak in this canopy
the dripping water
turns into a message
before it reaches me

In the darkness
is hidden a song
which was written centuries ago
by a man in love with me

The roof is the sky
It is separating me from the sky behind it

Soon I will turn into a purple flower
my nectar will be distributed amongst the most fortunate
To bloom, I need more sun
for which I finally will have to move out of this fractured canopy

"The canopy broke when she left."

Shringi
May 10, 2011

Flowers of Spring

I am a little girl
who stays in a tiny red room
I am the fantasy
locked in the cupboard of my adulthood

I have a yellow frock
a box of ribbons
few favorite poems
and many small shoes

I dance when I walk
and fall when I run
I am the little girl
who comes often in the nights to you
The one who gives you a rose
and plants a kiss on your cheek

I will grow up and be one of you
but while I am little
let me give names to the many flowers of spring

Shringi
08/ May/ 2010

A Peep

And heavily, once,
he lifted his eyelids

The map in front of him
was in flames
So were his senses

He slept
in the lap of time
In his mind,
he undressed

Thirsty
for a glass of moonlight,
with his eyes closed
he asked me to look into him
I did.
He was overflowing with what he yearned

There was fervor
there was shine
there were bruises
and there was him.

Shringi
29 April, 2011