My Literary Indulgences...

Look, as the red sun retires; Dying light heralds a parting! The long day draws to a close, And ere I go, I wish to hold you! The hollow of my chest gapes, Ever growing to a dark chasm! Afraid I am of the melancholy, That grips me in its vices so! An east wind rises, buffeting me, Chilling to the very bone! My Love! Come! Make haste, ride swift, Embrace me and deliver my soul, For such torment, it cannot bear! A parting, ’tis so, but come fare me well! Kiss me so the heart may beat, Evermore in your desire and love! Bless me, so the stars shine ere I go, And I promise, a rising sun I’ll bring to thee!

An enviable fortune it’d be, If only all those questions, Those dramatic exclamations, About my age, came with a penny! This repute, not just on actions, But is founded on my playlist, Filled with “Oldies” to say the least; Justified then seems their reactions. However this I now make clear, It’s not just the soft melodies, Jubilant thoughts, poignant tragedies, But their first memories, that are dear. A boyhood spent in ghazals, Lazy Sundays on father’s lap, When innocence wasn’t entrapped, And life was free from troubles. Hence, “Main zindagi..” when Rafi says, It reminds me of father’s advice, Of the strength to fight life’s vice, And of the promise of good in coming days. Sure, Netflix now rules my Sundays, However, just one note, word, rhyme, Cues nostalgia of a long lost time, Of ageless songs and my golden days!

A solitary existence, diminishing, Slumped on an isle, woefully eyeing, The shore whence it all began - A solo sailing for soul searching, Respite from all voices but my own. Meddled by currents, winds, tides, Deserting light, fate beyond reckoning; Perpetrators they were in my wrecking, But innocent they’re in my current plight; 'Tis not for want of favorable winds, Currents, tides or stars, that I’m marooned; 'Tis for a line that I yearn, to pull me in. Rowing, swimming, I may brave the gap, However, the last league will defeat me. 'Tis then when I need a lifeline to hold, But who stands ashore to cast it? One fights her own battles, too weary; One so noble, who’d risk everything, Knowing well, of lacking strength; I see them, and would rather stay Than trouble them to bail me out. Others? Those who took affront to my sojourn, Mistaking my respite for desertion, Proclaiming hence all relations broken? I’d take my chances h...

No parent should have to bury their child. "An innocent soul now rests among angels", read the epitaph. Shrouded in a haze of grief and alcohol, his eyes stared at the tombstone as the early morning dew trickled down its pale surface. And yet, no tears rolled down his dry, bloodshot, dead eyes, for his pain was matched by a fiery, maddening, hell raising rage. As he sipped the last drop, the empty bottle tipped his fury; lashing out, he flung it into the lake, at the swans his daughter so loved. Staggering back to his car, he slumped behind the wheel and drove up to the cliff. It was his first Sunday alone at the top in a long time; after his daughter’s birth to be exact. Gazing at the vista the height offered, he prayed his last prayer – his daughter, wherever she was, may she had this and other vistas to enjoy, the rising suns and pretty twilights. And then, he jumped. Eyes closed, he waited for the crushing embrace of the earth which, to his surprise, never...

The times, this world, its people, Their dreams, its pursuit, the means, Everything changed; save one - The Boss, and his Bread and Butter. "Stretch", "Fun", "Extra-curricular", And other belittling synonyms stamped, On creative releases, sucking bone dry Sap of life, for want of Bread and Butter. Resource: digital age neolithic men, women. Perk: shiny new bridle to match the sheen, Of sweat and blood on the ass's face. Compensation: to make hay even when sun's out. Why must I disrespect my makers, With decades and millions invested on me, In a pathetic pursuit of paltry happiness, and Bread and Butter, which starves my soul? It craves caviar!

Born with a veil draped eternal over my eyes, To shimmering visions of sun or clouds I rise. And though colorless, my hills and valleys, To rescue me from the blackness, my senses rally. ‘Tis his face though, that I conjure up the most, For he’s the beacon of light in my dark, dark world. Eludes me still, how I fell for him, being unromantic; I guess it was his crystal clear thought, that clicked. Subjectivist, high on emotions, in my art, I go; For my objectivist, will find me, if I get lost doing so. When these hands tumultuously attack the canvas, He bestirs them, slicing through my soul’s fuss. Mistake him not for being icy though, my friend! For his passion emerges in words from his pen. Though I wish, his exactitude would tone down somehow, A fantasia, the only one, I have nursed for some time now. *** Think of a face you love, what do you see? A flurry of countenances would occur to thee. I know they’re not there, but you see them lifelike; I...

“Doc, call on your personal line. It’s your mother.” Glancing at the clock, he wonders, “at this time? The night is long dead back in India by now!” Alarmed, he replies, “Thank you Anna” and connects to the line, his lone connection back to his roots. “Adi, Mummy here.” “Hi Mummy. It must be really late back at home. What happened?” “It’s your father. He’s no more among us.” And with that, a statement put forth as an offhanded, matter of fact remark, Aditya is stunned to silence. His mother, gives him a couple of minutes to recompose. “I’m so sorry Mummy. I wish you didn’t have to go through his passing alone. I’ll catch the first flight out of here, but don’t wait up for me. Knowing father, he wouldn’t want his last rites delayed because of me. I’m sure Mayank uncle would oblige if you asked him to take my place.” His mother breathes out a heavy sigh, burdened with the weight of decades of discord in the two men in her life. “Just come home son.” *** As his cab zooms along t...