Could you?

Could you live with the night in your sunny universe?

Could you accommodate a tear in your vast smile?

Could you stay awake when all you needed was sleep?

Could you fool yourself in thinking everything was fine?

Could you carry the burden of the past knowing it wasn’t one of yours?

Could you be fine for you and i both?

Could you desire when i had lost hope?

Could you hope when i despaired?

Could you be ruined for the sake of my reputation?

Could you replace your warmth with my chill?

Could you truly make me yours when i’m not even mine anymore?

Could you feel when I went numb?

Could you live with knowing that it was a path of thorns you were walking on?

Could you spin poetry from the unwritten prose i served you?

Could you?

Could you?

On being happy

No it’s not a slow process;

It is spontaneous

like a cat’s jump onto the unsuspecting prey.

It is

just.

 

I’ve never felt this way before;

Or have I?

Maybe. Could be. Would be.

I am

just.

 

Uplifted, elevated and impregnated;

Sporting a smile and a funny eye.

My dog amuses me as does my sock.

They are

just.

 

Funny is the word of the day;

funny how black the black hole is;

funny how the whiskers are ticklish;

funny how the ant forgets its path sometime;

I am just

Happy.

 

And I don’t know why.

Dawn

Midnight- Camera flashes. Music blares from the speakers. Conversation turns into babble.

The vodka and tonic hits. The speed thrills. The lights blur.

Empty. That’s how she feels.

 

Dawn- birds chirp. Head hurts. Stomach growls.

Sleep comes. The mind tickles. Hands tremor.

Darkness. She draws the curtain.

 

Afternoon- Heat prickles. Head pounds. Memory of last night is a big question mark.

Facebook tells her what she has been doing. It’s 3 pm. It’s late.

Rise and shine. What is the use in waking?

 

7 pm- Her twin screams. She sees Virginia Woolf on the table. Head throbs.

Bell rings. The pizza is here. The book beckons.

Sanity. Who does she discuss The Lighthouse with?

 

10 pm- Same fakeness. Same mindlessness. The vodka and tonic again.

Same music. Same lights. Same rootlessness.

Bollywood. Let’s be baby dolls together.

 

3 am- Head pounds. Speed is blah. Lights play checkers in her head.

Mr. Ramsay’s mind is his enemy. Woolf haunts her. The Lighthouse calls.

Laughter. It’s all a show isn’t it?

 

9 am- No sleep. The paper smells good. Words are a visual delight.

The coffee is strong. The light pours in. The bedsheets are spotless white.

Breakfast. Seems like a good idea.

 

1 pm- Mrs. Ramsay loves her husband. She smiles. Time passes.

War starts. Smile fades. War ends. Time passes.

Order. It feels nice when the house is back in order.

 

5 pm- The marmalade tastes good. Lily finishes her painting. James is content.

Smile returns. The incense smells good. Her twin is happy.

Dinner. It’s time to cook some broccoli and pasta.

 

Life is good.

 

Bluebird

Charles had a bluebird and so do I;
She lurks somewhere in my vast unknown.
 
I envy her her curls and smiles;
She speaks of the miles in a great undertone.
 
She came to me on a May day;
Shy, but firm in her resolve.
 
She said- hey creator, I am here
Leave me not unheard of.
 
My blue bird, she sang me a tale;
Of a lost child and her grieving mother
and of the street of Paris and the men yonder;
All knitting their lives with lies and gale.
 
She says to me– let me out,
let the world see my many colors;
I say– stay shut you schmutz,
You needn’t trouble my dark blue world.
 
I have a bluebird and she cries at night;
Let me out– she pleads.
 
I smirk and twerk and swallow her whole;
Leaving her all by herself in the dark unknown
to cry herself to sleep.
 
Maybe one day she will out
to destroy my world;
But till then let her weep.

The refugee camp

The little girl asked her mother, “ma what do you remember about home?”
Mother got a glazed look in her eyes; stared into the horizon, out of their tent in the refugee camp. Images of the sunkissed rooms of her husband’s house; the huge bookshelf containing tattered books; the rolling hills which gave her shelter from her mother’s wrath; the smell of incense; the warm feeling down her neck on seeing her neighbour smile– all flashed past her within a few heartbeats. She had relived a lifetime within a few seconds. But when she saw her daughter’s eager young eyes, she said, “lala home is where you are. I don’t need to remember anything. I am home.” No joy was greater than seeing her daughter smile.