A Window No Doors

We will sink soon The victims of the same ocean Carried by this river to the moon

Between the two doors, one that leads you in and the other  moves you out, stands this man, shouting at this little girl, the voice like an autocrat, and the words come out as easily without a second thought. The anger of some previous tension, all out on this poor soul whose smile has turned into a frown, and the colors of the day get dark. Inside that heart that was away from stress, now someone's anger rests into hers. Hatred that was on the back burner until now, is coming to a boiling point, she wants to argue, want to say that anger does not solve problems, things can be taught without that. No more can she stand this authoritative dominance. She stands there looking into his red eyes and opens her mouth finally, word after word keep coming out and she goes on without listening, without anybody understanding, bangs the door and goes out. She had said it all, the frustration of being the youngest and the forbearance of domination. Never had the courage come ...

Masters of Anything that stands on this soil Genie, no, we just need our wands Ink spells, quills and parchment Clear, our fate is to us, we make it.

Crawling they'll come up, and go down again, what they want to say, it's hard to understand because of all the confusion. Too many words together mixed up and a single mind to take decisions. Now, what should I say, and what should I write, Where's my voice?

The sheets of paper smothered with the ink of the fountain pen smudged on it are words of an older generation young cannot comprehend the parchment does not say it loud how old it is, it can be seen bound inside an old book inside the grayish dark room with a cover that has lost all strength the stories are still protected well in the old man's head he reads it out to his children and grandchildren.

In the endless darkness, where the streets are all lost, where all eyes expand, when there is nothing to look, when we all search, above us there is the only light that hides from us our shadow, and we can all go home, there in the sky, the lonely moon.

A few drops dribbled down the eyes As she opened them after a deep slumber of almost 8 hours to be exact. and the water from the tap did little to clear the dust and stop the on-flow as it kept coming down her cheeks. The memory of the current dream resolved all the guilty conscience and too many words would be too little to say to store this series of thought. Whenever she woke at this early hour, she would go get the papers from her grand-Daddy's room, recollects she, as she looks into the mirror. There, he is lying in his bed, where I lay now, and how strange that he should be there, when I know he's gone. Yet, there he is, and I walk into his room and I ask him the question in mind, "You really haven't gone, na?", says I to which he replies, "Not yet, dear, not yet, but I will I feel it........ .....but I am here now, to tell you to work hard, and don't worry or be sad for me, it is just to happen. Your end's too far. ...

The sun sets while the loyal footsteps of a shadow enveloped in a drape of rudhira walks down from one corner of the house to another in obedience. Multiple jobs and multiple voices call out her name every second, asking for a lifelong performance. Happiness in the smiles of others, the belief that is carried; ingratitude is ignored. Selling pieces of herself for their sake, vaulting the tears in a closet and wishing for the dawn to come sooner. The image of her likeness stands up, and cuts the cramp of her sheets of toil, metamorphosing it into a modern art, walking down the streets under the sun of liberation.

Owning things, keeping possessions, building relationships, fathers, mothers and sisters, job, career and studies, is a lot of weight to carry. Empty the backpack Keep things that you want the most to begin anew And relax your shoulders But don't be too selfish to wipe out all the memories that has been keeping you company always Keep the old possessions afresh in a new state of mind.

Fly. To fly, they say it's my dream. It never is. Flying is something that comes with full stops. But we have invented full stops in our lives. We follow deadlines, that is our period on the letter of life. But if you really want to fly, you have to be free of any stops, you have to follow on a long journey and go wherever you want. It is just like when you were young, and you didn't know any grammar and you could think anything is possible. Those are the moments I am talking about. There's the freedom. Commitments. They have commitments and so they never have time. What is time? Why are we counting? Is it too hard to go through the days that "one, two, three...." will keep you company. Is that why we learnt numbers? Pursue your dreams. Everybody has heard those words. What ARE dreams? Is there a definition to it? And if it needs to be achieved why do we have to slog? Isn't watching a dream in itself fulfilling. Because you had the ability to think about ...

The rains have washed away all the streets and uprooted the trees while the grass stays covered with raindrops making the water seep inside the shoe's skin There is a mother who stands at her doorstep She waits for her children to come back cares and cleans their muddily drenched clothes and washes their hair with soap it has taken all her time, to leave her with the thought of nothing but them She cooks daily and listens to dailies this is how she spends her time 15 years later no other care in the world but obsessed with her midlife crisis she has forgotten her dreams were once killed when she got married early all through the years she never once regretted but today when the rains have departed she discovers she could be what she couldn't be and now she wants her children to be The sigh of autumn comes in life when mothers see their dreams through their children's eyes The old man wanted to pursue law instead works in ...

--> Writing is such a daring assignment for which I have always been dragging my feet before. It takes an effort of reading some affirmative statements so as to show the way to an overriding emotion of stimulation along with an instinct to write that emerges out of nowhere and settles in the stomach like little butterflies waving their wings. It makes a woozy sensation, and I constantly think about the statement I was reading a while ago which makes me chuckle at my ignorance towards writing. The audacity to conquer writing what you actually believe in is sometimes terrorizing the same as the thought of revealing yourself to others' skulks before any other thought. Only the fear of exposition stops the pen from moving towards revealing reality but only in reality there is true honesty and substance, while passion knocks on the door. Furthermore, as I continue with this free flow of writing task without stopping to check my misspelled spellings, doesn't matter wha...

A tear or two dabs the eyes clean With much effort I hold back We are all sombre After a great weekend of a long holiday It’s different with different people But these are close kin Once in a year we convene We jell and mingle and become one But it’s the day of the departure that’s bothersome We reminiscent each day together Sing goodbye in a chorus While each dialogue sets up itself in a vault To be touched again and again by different locks How we all get together so well? And I see everyone leaving The house is empty My head is heavy , I watch the trains slowly picking up speed Taking with it strangers to families While some strangers to even stranger places And I think about tomorrow or the day after How will it pass? But we all get used to, We have to. On a different day, While browsing Through pictures, My mind drifts to a newer journey Where I’m leaving alone To be taking my own lesson To become a stranger from a person And then b...