Light

Quick Scribbles – 001

(1)

The insomniac night

Is my part-time lover.

It keeps me company,

Conversing

through the dark, shallow stillness.

Jilted lovers of sleep

We share our tales of betrayal,

Weep and wet the wee hours

And when the first purple dawns

on the distant fringes,

Night quietly leaves.

In its sleep-deprived eyes,

There is a promise to return.

Yet again, when darkness falls

And all else goes to slumber,

We shall be awake.

Part- time lovers –

The night and I.

(2)

If these mute things around me

The golden window drape,

The snaking money plant,

The still water in the jar

The aging wall pieces

The myriad possessions –

If they were to speak one day,

Will they ask me questions,

Or will they have answers for mine?

 (3)

Let us talk of betrayals tonight.

Who knows,

Somewhere in their midst,

As we rummage through the litter

We may stumble upon our

lost love.

(4)

With each breath exhaled,

I am losing connect

with the prescribed norms of loving.

The old rules seem odd and limiting.

Now I see you

In black granite and morning dew,

In the sneeze inspired by a seasonal ague

And in the anonymity of things

I pass by.

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And it almost rained..

The thunder here is different. It has a distinct timbre when it booms over the thirsting desert. It rolls in from a distant cloud cluster, like memories of an old love. In waves, with laughter sewn into its echo.

The blobs of black clouds I saw outside suggested it was going to rain. I gazed at the sky, listened to the rumble, took in the petrichor. My dusty window pane waited to wear pretty rain stains on its tinted cloak.

There was anticipation in the air. And with it, a feeble fear in the heart that the clouds may go unfallen. The rain is very temperamental. It can beguile and it can betray. It can wreck or revive.

Standing by the window, I felt like waiting for a letter from a loved one when the postman rings the bell at the turning. Will he pass by my gate without delivering my beloved’s mail?

The postman cycled past, shook his head as if to say, ‘You have no mail.’

The waiting was over. The sun peered out slowly as the clouds moved and made way. They must have fallen elsewhere.

Come to think of it, not all rains are the same. Some are just monsoons. Some, a reprieve from voiceless weariness. Some, a mere blip in a summer’s daydream.

And some, just passing clouds decked with drizzles. Like it was today.