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