Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Unsaid

Thousand unsaid thoughts,
And rustling whispers of winds,
Cruise the starlit nights.

Linking with Haiku Horizons

Cruising along

We cruise along the edge,
Tracing the seams,
Swaying carefully,
With the strong currents of time.
A little tip.
A hard fall.


Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Orphaned by cancer

Raivat Kumar.
No, not a very renowned name. Just another homosapien amongst the crowd of billions. Inconsequential perhaps but probably notable for family and us friends.
Raivat lost his mother that day. Rather his mother lost the battle against cancer and yielded to the tyrant malignancy. One more instance of death by cancers. Won't alter the statistics drastically. But will definitely be tumultuous for Raivat and his younger brother. To unimaginable degrees.
One moment, she was there. Sick, pale, weak, failing but present, warm and breathing. Her heart beating, though erratic but pounding beneath that hospital gown. The next, she wasn't.  Cold and stiff but absent. No breathing. No rising and falling diaphragm.  No heartbeat. Not even a faint one. A pin drop silence in vacuum. Sudden, swift, screaming silence.
Raivat clasped her fingers in his own. But she did not squeeze them back. He shook her but she did not stir. He called her but she did not respond. The heart negated the lack of stimulus, sleep, exhaustion and the likes of it. But the brain had processed the workings of electrocardiogram. Silently, the truth had seeped in. His eyes blurred. Tears stained his cheeks. And he made no effort to wipe them away. Perhaps his tears would bring her back from dark lands. Perhaps she would want to wipe away his tears one last time. Perhaps. But there were many perhaps lurking in her untimely death.
The flames on the pyre flared. Sublime now, the elements consumed her. Each claiming his share. A few hours later, she was reduced to a handful of ashes. A handful of ashes. Nothing accompanied her. Her needles. Her crotchet. Her spectacles. Her sewing machine. Her pestle. Everything stayed behind. Reminders of her being. Reaping of her life. He looked at the smoldering ashes and wondered if her memories of life spent with them would accompay her in her journey. Or had they turned to wisps of smoke with her? Did she think of them in her dying moments? Had she wanted to tell them something? Had she speculated her end? Had it pained her to leave this life behind? The questions hung heavy over the sooty remnants.
For a few days, he ached to hear her voice in the empty house, living in flashbacks. But then he adapted himself to the silence. To the misshapen rotis and cold daal cooked uncaringly by the maid. To no one bothering about his day. To the void around him. To the numbness. Ofttimes he sat like a retard, not comprehending his present sans her wisdom. Other times, he let his grief wash him over.
Someday he would marry some girl. But his mother would not be there to welcome his wife. There would not be that  adorable nagging between his mother and wife. No insecurities about daughter-in-law.  She would not be there to play with his kids. To tell them tales and sing lullabies for them. To teach them  pearls of wisdom. Would his kids ask him about his mother? For them, she could easily be a star in the sky or some beautiful angel. For him, a huge hole in his heart that will never heal. A picture on wall. A photograph in some album. A hand in his hair. Extra ghee on his roti. Homework on his school notebooks. Words when his voice failed him. Anger when he did something wrong. Pride and joy on his achievements.
So much unsaid. So much undone. So much unseen.  But one fine day, cancer came knocking and swept her away. Just like that. A flicker called life humbled forever.
That day, Raivat lost his mother. Raivat Kumar. A speck amongst a billion others.



Sunday, November 29, 2015

The muse

Once more, his quill stains A4 blanks,
Scribbling and scrawling against time.
And every single syllable talks only of you.

The poet’s chosen muse, he reveres you.
In gliding thoughts and flowing words filling the blanks.
His imagination brims with sentiments of lovely time.

Perhaps this will be one last time,
That his quill will talk of you.
With you gone, he lays it to rest amidst fluttering blanks.


He holds you again in the blanks, scribbling poems and prose each time, knows not what to write but you.



Friday, November 27, 2015

Sunday, November 22, 2015

A stranger on road

It was good to meet her. 22 days ago, we were all huddled up together under one roof. Amidst the chaos of renovation ( read cement dust and wood splinters scattered around us), we celebrated her bday. And soon thereafter we said our goodbyes. This is how our associations with each other had come to an abrupt end. When the paying guest arrangement had been suddenly made dysfunctional, we all had to look for new accommodations. And so we moved out. In groups of two. And today was our get-together. Over fried and tandoori momos, we spilled our experiences and shared our hearts. Until the glowering scowls of waiting crowd and descending night forced us on different routes once again. We ran a couple of errands and finally walked back to our new niche,  planning our dinners. (Yeah, when it comes to eating, we do have more than healthy appetites. And then we wonder about all those weight loss plans). Hurried steps soon brought us to the busiest road crossing. We cautiously crossed one lane and were waiting for the traffic on the other lane to become manageable before weaving our way across. The stream of cars seemed endless. Loaded with shopping bags, the two of us were getting a little impatient.  The market was no longer buzzing. The early evenings of winters had cast a shadow of hush and quiet and we wanted to get back to the room at the earliest.We were getting late with each passing minute. And then all of a sudden he stopped his car. Right in the middle. Oblivious to the honking horns behind him, he smiled and waved us through. Clear path. Before I could comprehend anything, my friend had already dragged me half way across. Only when we had safely crossed the lane, he resumed his drive, immense gratitude following him to wherever he was headed.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Struts in beauty

A vision to hold,
A fleeting summer romance,
Struts like a peacock.


This week's photo prompt is provided by, Sonya, with the blog, Only 100 Words. Thank you Sonya!

Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Friday, November 20, 2015

Bowl of walnuts

Flames crackles in hearth,
Bowl of unshelled walnuts wait,
Warmth in deep recess.


Image from Wiki Commons, taken by H Zell and used under the Creative Commons Agreement : Courtesy Light and Shade Challenge

Linking with Light and Shade Challenge

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Monday, November 16, 2015

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Antiques from her wall



Rusting sentiments from the wall,
Souvenirs from their many escapades,
Vintage car in which he brought her home,
Even her potted glories,
All dusted and buffed for garage sale,
Possessions of their love claimed by some strangers,
But pieces of her heart would go nowhere else.

This week's photo prompt is provided by pixabay.com (free to use photos).











Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Prepping up for prosperity

Households busy
Prepping up for prosperity,
All nooks and corners dusted and cleaned,
The waste all done away with,
Light, fresh and strong, they herald the winters
With vigour and celebration.
The scent of fresh flowers and love,
The heart brimming with love and joy,
The greying winter days splashed with
Colors of rangoli,
And the pitch dark moonless night
Glittering with light of earthen lamps and oil,
Prayers wafting through the ether,
Rendering all things pious and pure,
Feasting and treating ourselves,
Without worrying about calories,
The sound of firecrackers,
Driving the evil away,
The sparkles spattered throughout
Like gems and swarovski.
One night that glitters better than all golds
One night that brings us all closer to Gods
One night that is full of life and energy.
One night that beats the darkness.
One night called diwali.

ॐ असतो मा सद्गमय ।
तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय ।
मृत्योर्मा अमृतं गमय ।
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः ॥
Om Asato Maa Sad-Gamaya |
Tamaso Maa Jyotir-Gamaya |
Mrtyor-Maa Amrtam Gamaya |
Om Shaantih Shaantih Shaantih ||
Meaning:
From ignorance, lead me to truth;
From darkness, lead me to light;
From death, lead me to immortality
Om peace, peace, peace.

Monday, November 9, 2015

Lost in you

Every rhyming syllable sounds
Like it belongs to your name.
My mind, fuzzy with your thoughts,
Constructs, rather concocts
Make-belief realities
As to why I hear your name
Amidst the clamor of thousand voices.
Heart, well, it fares a little better,
Confessing to the crime
Of having fallen for you.
Head on.


Sunday, November 8, 2015

Far, yet so near

500 kms separate us.
An overnight journey by bus.
Tiring, exhausting, yet refreshing to the core.
The warm embrace of my folks.
The pristine greens. Lush and verdant hills.
Icy cold mineral water of rivulets.
The songs and rhythms of Beas flowing in my veins.
I grew up with the beat of mountainous life.
And I am grateful that it has stayed with me.
We may be miles apart today.
Yet every single breath, every single heart beat, dwells in the footfalls of hills.
With my people, at my place.
Not here. Not in this temporary make shift arrangement in chaotic capital city.
I belong to rugged terrains and winding circuitous routes.
And I am on my way to my sanctuary.


Saturday, November 7, 2015

Winged white saviours

Prayers at her feet,
She lifts the heads of the bowed,
Lurking in shadows,
Watchful spirits light our paths.
Winged saviours bless us all.

Linking with Flash fiction for aspiring writers

Friday, November 6, 2015

Marionettes born of dust

So much dust
Wandering this terra,
Baked with fire and water.
Hidden and cloaked under
The robes of humanity.
Soft and undefined,
Impressionable like clay.
Shaped and molded by
The deft and expert
Hands of our Maker.
The sculptures put to life,
Like dancing puppets
Dangling by strings
Operated by Puppeteer.
The dolls gathering dust
And withering away.
To dust they return,
These marionettes.
All that matters
In the end,
All that echos around is an "if".
If that
Short performance on the stage
Was worthy of a standing ovation?


PHOTO PROMPT – © Connie Gayer …(Mrs. Russell)
Linking with Friday Fictioneers

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

That's me, knocking at the door

I peeked in her thoughts
Where my room was taking shape.
Prams and cots and disney wallpapers.
Sometimes she planned it blue,
Sometimes a lovely shade of pink.
Occasionally I would hear her sing lullabies,
Rehearsing for impending sleepless nights.
Hear them both find  me a name,
I really loved some, but there's no way I can tell.
They build me a home in their hearts
And I bask in the glory of their love.
The riotous joy that I am,
I laugh at their planning things post my arrival,
Little do they know, I will mess it all.
And on weekends, I find them shopping
Feeders, diapers and clothes,
Their faces aglow with sheer happiness.
A little bundle draped in a pink sheet,
I enter their lives,
Expanding their horizon manifolds.
My mother crying in pain and then in pleasure.
My father looking at me with sheer joy.
Seamlessly, we blend in one embrace,
A happy little family.


Monday, November 2, 2015

X is for ... Xmas

The faint scent of winter in the air
Competing
With the remains of autumn,
Fireworks and light
Swirling into our nights,
Traditions seeping into
Our daily lives,
Spirits conquering the
Inertia of routine,
Souls seeking sacral refuge
In celebrations.
The days leading upto Xmas,
Rich with the scent of festivities.
The nights dizzyingly beautiful,
Evenings glistening with love,
And tea-time conversations,
Centered around homebound journeys.
Yay! I can feel the Xmas peeking
From around the corners.


Jenny Matlock

Sunday, November 1, 2015

W is for ... Weather

But weather doesn't really matter,
As long as we sway together.
Waltzing closer
With tunes of wind and rain.
As long as we weather
The fickle weather
Hand in hand,
It doesn't really matter.

Jenny Matlock

Thursday, October 15, 2015

V is for ... Voice

Winds of whispers
Blow around me
And toss our words
In the dark silence.
Our hushed voices,
Long conversations,
Longer phone bills,
Resplendent nights.
You and me
Talking our hearts out
Till the wee hours of morning
Used to dawn upon us.
A million words scattered,
Between you and me
And bridging the distance
Beneath a million stars.
Now a million stars
Watch over me
As I stare at dark screen
Of my phone
And pine to hear
From you.
Your voice drifting away,
Receding to memoirs
Of yesterday.


Jenny Matlock

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

The sacred altar

One has to approach
This altar,
Naked.
Place the beating heart
At this sacred pedestal
And stand to worship.
Reach the deep insides
And surrender completely.
Burn away,
Slowly but intensely.
So, here I am.
My prayers rising
With the incensed mists.

Lingering over

Warm suspirations,
Lingering over my soul,
Our shenanigans.


Inspired by the prompt at

Friday, October 9, 2015

Speaking of shadows

Tricks of light,
Stalking the corners of dreams,
Like a haunting phantasma.
Slivers of life linger in
A pocketfull of sunshine.
The dancing flames grow,
And the shadow slips by,
Consigned to Cimmerian dooms.

Image by T. Al. Nakib on www.freeimages.com

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Joy of being alive

Every time I breathe,
Someone somewhere breathes his last.
Each waking moment,
Hallowed with being alive.
This life is such a treasure.


Monday, October 5, 2015

Thursday, October 1, 2015

The Tempest

The tepid calmness beneath the somber shroud
Pregnant with a promise of violent storm
The preceding silence is intensely loud

Still and stagnant, like a painting in the dorm
Ships return, seagulls take refuge at the coast
In those darkened hours barely before the storm

And then the gusts taste of thunder, roar and boast
Blizzards twist and twirl the weather-vanes about
Deafening howls resound from pits nethermost

A chaos reigns within, a chaos, without.

Until a sliver of hope is tossed about.

Courtesy: Louise, with The Storyteller's Abode





















T is for ... Treats

This little heart leaps,
Delights in flyspeck pleasures,
Wallows in halcyon days.

This little heart springs,
Treats itself to happiness,
Though the portions are too small.


Jenny Matlock

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Savoury, all the way



There is something special,
About a mother's cooking.
Could be measured scoops
From some secret recipe,
Or extra dollops
Of love and care
That make it ambrosial.
But no master chef,
Anywhere on this cosmos,
Can serve a platter better than hers.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Cumulonimbus

You barged in.
Like a violent storm.
And a raging chaos followed.
The walls of my heart faltered.
Bursts of lightning
Filtered through the cracks
Setting me ablaze.
Lulled by thunderous claps,
I found my peace.
Ravaged by the tempest,
Saved, too.

Thursday, September 10, 2015

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

My masked love

I fell for him; regal and impressive as he was.
Even lost my toddler-days devouring his comic-strips.
Phantom became the reason I wear thick eyeglasses.
He and transient surge of first crush.
Yet he chose Diana Palmer.
Masked men, I tell you!


Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Blaze of colors

A blaze of colors smeared across my heart.
The strokes of an unskilled hand,
uneven and splotchy.
The hues, all vibrant, vivacious.
The oranges mixing with reds
and purples and pinks,
with tiny little sequins littered here and there.
Wide eyed, I watch as this masterpiece
is splashed across the sunset skies
exclusively for me, every single night.
And then everything in the pallette blends,
swirling across the canvas.
The enchanting moments
fusing and merging
until I can't separate one from another.
Misty eyed, I watch
as the muted brilliance
slowly turns to a
subtle pink and mild, soft gold.



Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers