The storyteller...

She calls me too often
To tell me stories she conceived every day...
She tells me stories of severe ramifications,
Of people she met across the street,
At the bus-stop, at beauty salon,at the eateries,at a public loo,
On occasions equally varied-
Early in the morning, at sunset evenings, at frosty daybreak, on a wet afternoon...

She calls me to tell stories
Every night,
As if she had been part of them ...

And listening to her ramblings,
I believe I'm also there somewhere,
In varied shapes and forms,
I feel all her stories involve me...
I believe I am the book myself!

Mirrors-you and i

You put me in front of a mirror, every time,
Naked, sans ego...
And I discover the workings of my mind and body;

Bodily we meet, like grooves,
Cut to perfection to match;

Mentally we're like two kites  
Flying in the sky, carried by the breeze of the day...

Bodily we entertain each other
Perfect playmates...

Minds of ours float
Like boats downstream...

You put me in front of the mirror,
And I be mirror sometimes...
And we both discover our ways of mind and body...

in slow motion

I saw the drops of rain,
Falling incessantly from the sky as mere tiny wet balls,
And the moment they fall on my face, they burst
Spreading coldness and moisture,
I feel so happy, inside...

I saw the balloons being released one by one,
And they move up and up
Till they become colored dots,
And the curious eyes of my little kid
Follow the dots while I follow his eyes,
And I feel so blessed, inside...

I saw her coming towards me,
Her dupatta aflutter,
And her hair tossing like black foam,
And the smile pasted on her lips, suppressed,
As the world moves by, ignorant;
I feel a sense of belonging, inside...

I saw three friends jumping in the air,
Making them look like the poster-boys of a soft drink ad,
I saw how their legs turn upwards and their heads spin,
I feel so victorious, inside...

There are some rare moments
When I see the world in slow motion,
And I feel so good that I scribble,
Lazily on papers, and almost
On anything I put my itching fingers...

The Racer

He knew exactly how to enact the foreplay...
He knew it by his memories;
So, he moved dodging playfully the forests and the valleys
Of the world known so well like a gritty explorer;

He knew he would never lose his way
As his memories were strong...

So, he sped up and turned and slowed down at each bent
Only to gather speed at the rightest moment-
A practised racer as he,
With a GPS navigator embedded into his memory...

The race was intense, warm, exhilarating,
Full of adrenalin pumping out at every delicate move;

Finally,  he pressed on the brakes,
Seeing the checkered flag being waved;

'you're a game, aren't you?'
She said, when he was about to start the victory lap;

Just then, he thought,
He wasn't a game...
He was just a naive,
For even after several laps,
And trophies,
He finds the race useless!

park street, 24th december,

It was the Christmas eve,
And Park street was  madly crowded...

There were black heads all around,
Screaming with joy, gaily dressed;
Even the policemen looked happy...

The cars whizzed past merrily, 
Blaring car stereos...

The bar doors were flung open every minute to let in and out
Stream of men, women...

The cake shop was choc-a-bloc
With the counters brimming over with demands of chocolates and pastries and truffle...

Just then I noticed,
A woman  in black trousers and grey pullover,
Standing at one corner, a few paces away from the crowd,
Her back was rested on the wall, as she stood,
Her face was bowed a bit,
Smoking nonchalantly,
As if there was nothing to cheer...
As if Christmas would never come!

the goatherd of Timbuktu

As the sun finally went down behind the distant cliff,
He started to walk his weary ways,
He the goatherd...
And the flock of his favorite goats walked and ran
Before him, making shrill cries, homeward bound;

The dust from their feet rose,
Just like a maze,
Enveloping the tiny huts not far away,
Which looked like the refuge sought time and again by people like him...

The goatherd and his goats of varied color patches on their coats,
White, grey, brown, black...

The goatherd walked towards his hut,
At the end of just another day,
But he knows within,
The next day will be a new one;
He knows
The next day will bring him to another desert of Timbuktu...