the colour harmony!!

  A middle aged female body, Returning home from work Walks like a balance, swaying between Polythene of vegetables and hard earned time. They come in different sizes and shapes, Tired, with disheveled hair and displaced sarees, checking the pace of their steps and the awaiting chores. The sight of that bundle of warmth, walking ahead, like penguins or the rhythms of the quack, brings unexpected tears. Your overflowing heart. Every home needs a middle aged woman, to show the marks of   love women carry on their bodies. Those that they sow, and Never reap.  

  Each day, each hour one lives Is a step towards nothingness, Not even memory in its most primitive form Comes along that night, When you choke your breath out as never again. The moving train and the vanishing green, One sleeps like an unsung rain Abandoned, like the shadows one leaves behind. You become the darkness outside your study, sounds of the night that scared the child in you. Or the snake trail on desert sand Like the rhythms of summer. A haunted tree, birdless and raining leaves. The white flowers, like stars in your courtyard. The loneliness of a one foot lane or the sway of the kaattaadi. But never again, Footmarks, walking home or A love, like Spring. The hues of your evenings, the agony of withdrawals or thoughts of it in some nether land    

  When people die, you travel to meet them for a last time. The road becomes a metaphor and the sky speaks of infinity. You realize the link between Time and travel, and fading distances You look up from your window seat And decode patterns of clouds in frantic collage.   Death is frozen like lifeless lips, Grey and separated, like distant lands. The disheveled curls and the wind On your face, take you to the backyards of yesteryears. Laughter, evenings, jasmines Smell of home, mother, incense The swing, the heights, your nights and the early hour designs.   A memory, now, refusing to smile Sleeps on the ground, Cross, like a child wanting toffee. A body, tied up in parts to check further flights of fancies. You join the race of withdrawal symptoms, and the assembly of crows.   The last wish remain, so do void As armchair and that spot in your living room.              

  Can you imagine the pain, the gripping face and the screeching cry of a one year old Burning alive?   What would have been the little mind frantically searching? His mother? Her hug? Or the fresh air from the fields? He would have died of exhaustion Trying to push the pain away from him Tired, he slept in peace with his little sister as life left them.   Now, he won’t know the meaning of his skin tone Or the creed, to which he belongs And he wont live to realize the betrayal of his own race. He is expelled for ever.   Cuckoos are born of such tiny souls, Who no more believe in a home, a land. They scatter like the first rain and Don’t stop to see their seeds sprout Among us, the vulgar of the species.   Next time you hear a cuckoo sing, close your eyes and listen to the cluttered rhythm of tiny steps fading.      

  My only wish is to hear, he is dead.   Dead, Like a log of wood in the rain. The decaying slip.   This won’t do justice enough to the many closures , many truths, and the many many-ies draped over me. Or may be not. Yet, for the fakeness that is, And the self-centered coldness The best denial should come from life Like a still born womb or An unburied body.  

Relations die a natural death when there is nothing in common to talk Words have abandoned me And smiles too. I stare on the walls and at my children. Sullen. On whom shall I stretch my arms? And breathe out the fatigue of the day And sit careless, facing the sea, counting birds flying west. For whom shall I rise, a full sky when the sun sets Every love is an urge for a new space, of fresh conversation. A female in love with a man is half drowned in incest. For she looks for that father she never had.

The beauty of life depends on how much you can let yourself free, from the colored glass cases. And leave others too, to the rain, to the open fields, like birds flocking high. See the earth in you Expand to hold the green See the rain on the mountains Shading hues of green on your chest Rivers, fresh tears gather polluted desire To become the unexpected swirls of the sea. Find a spot from where you can see the setting sky and the infinite city, like a distant mirage The red robe becomes your wings as you fly down. Not a kite looking for its food, but you are a seagull in search of its sea. The fall is not a metaphor, or of Icarus But the celebration of wind in your lungs, and the lightness of your fingers, across your heart.