I have to make an honest confession – it’s been years. Absolute years since I have eaten a 20-rupee pop corn in a theatre, powered by fans. And I must say I truly enjoyed it. There we were, a motley group of 17 people, tucked in the last two rows of the balcony diamond section….
Can’t wait to reach home; Why are the vegetables so dear? I need more sales today – should I display the goods differently? No, don’t go to the other guy; Why doesn’t he look at me? Here, we go again … Another fight! Why? A wistful eye following an exchange of money; A pursued pair…
The same bench, the same feeling. I have sat here as a little boy watching the elders sing with devotion, while watching the clock: And wondering when it would be over and I could run to play with my friends. I have sat there, praying to score just enough to get into medicine school. I…
They woke up, yawning and tumbling gently out of their beds. Both had to be coaxed by their parents. An open marble floor and fields were what their eyes saw… A crisp uniform and old brown shoes. One walked into a waiting car that honked ever so lightly – hurry up, we’ll be late. Waving…
There is hope in this world And we must express it. Because the sun shines and We, too, must reflect its glory. Every generation needs to have storytellers, The world needs to keep moving, you see. And time is cyclical, Events that happened in the past, Will take on a fee form and will happen…
I wander through the crowds,
Tip toeing ahead,
Sometimes on the shore.
I might lose sight of you – but I am there, always – I promise.
A chance drive past a beautiful field…one fine day. The memory lingers…even while it gets washed with time.
Some stand tall, Others wait in the shadows. Everything changes, As time can swiftly show, The colors are right in front of you. It’s doesn’t really matter – stand tall, sit small, Tomorrow the colors will change for you too. (picture courtesy: Darshana Mathur)
I have loved William Blake’s poem many times over – over the years, especially the last few lines: “And I made a rural pen, And I stain’d the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.”
The lines run into each other, the ink is musty in some places.
Some places make you smile and the others, heave a sigh of regret.
The pages that you read are of your own creation.
Praying quietly, we hoped. It was a little uncomfortable in the dark. And it was so moist. But we needed to be in that space – and so allowed it. I couldn’t see my friend – though I tried hard to squint through the darkness.
Recently, my friend shared a beautiful piece on the ocean by Wilferd A. Peterson, an American author. It brought back so many memories of Marine Drive and the gorgeous Arabian sea.