Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Lost gold

Under the stars, on the grass
Lies sprawled a story untold
Whose ghosts are now but free
to haunt the skies and the seas
It began with many
But ended with only one.
Who went in search for gold
In exchange, for their souls.
In the combed fields of savannah
These friends had sworn
That in the light of dawn,
They would abandon all
Carry their keys of freedom
To the netherworld of darkness
Where the key shall be lost
But all for a mere cost
To walk on clouds of dreams
As they tied up the loose seams.
It was a legend to some others
And a curse to some.
That none ever cared for
For they sowed the seeds
And ploughed their fields
Till their bones returned
To the soil and to the earth.
But ours was not a fate
left to chance, they said.
As they stepped through caves
And jumped over bridges
To leave behind their dust
Back in their cradles
The lure for that heaven
That holy grail.
Brought them to meet
The man with the hood
And the sickle estranged
Who followed them closely
To redeem the debt
That all men paid
As events unforeseen
Unfolded in front of their eyes
Witness to them were the horrors
Of man and animal alike
As friends broke ties
And swore blood on their sleeves
None could win over the other
Hence all succumbed
To each other’s wounds.
And as the last one
Lay on the grass
With seconds of life
In his grasp
He recalled his mother
As she held him with tears
While he looked up at her
And took her hand, one last time
And then he saw a glimmer
In his palm, lay the gold
That none ever had found.

Monday, May 14, 2012

A minute in darkness

I opened my eyes to the world around me. A world that had colours, shapes, sizes, feelings, loss, passion and so many elements that drove our minds and raced our hearts. But the world that stood before my eyes was of a much lesser composition. It felt simple, it felt neat, it felt new.

All that I could identify was one colour. Black. I was seated in darkness and completely unaware and hidden in the oblivion of space. As I felt the wind from the fan brush my face, I let my eyes try to identify the slightest bits of light that my eyes could fathom to. At a distance, I saw the light from the sodium lamp creep in through my window and illuminate my old and broken record player. An antique that had once played classics and given many a reason to bring in a wave of volatility and an eruption of emotions. But it stood silent today and maybe it will tomorrow as well.

I embraced the silence as I made shapes in the air with my hands and performed actions like a mime would. I could swim in this sea of nothing where all was back to square one, a blank sheet that should have been left blank. I carefully listened to the sound of air entering and leaving me. Not many of those breaths have been noticed, I might as well hear them now before I give out my last.

An ascending tune catches my attention as I listen with intent, knowing well in my world what that sound stood for. It was the call for an attack, a battle cry and I was ready to face my assailant. With a swift move with my fist, I grasped the air and immediately dragged my fingers across my palm. Hoping to feel the carcass of the vector but alas I had missed. But there was no shame in leaving a battle unfinished, maybe there was pride in letting your life finish last.

The darkness seemed to have befriended me and wanted me to stay but my time was up, it was the hour for me to go.
My minute was over. Not the best of minutes, I confess.
But who leaves the last as not the least.

Monday, April 30, 2012

Between the Frames

I am a work of art. No really, I have been painted by an artist. But there was something very peculiar about the colours he used to make me. Unlike the lifeless reflections of a mixture of the palette, the spectrum which he created to paint me had signs of a soul in them. The red on my lips had the taste of blood and the pink of my nails had the scent of a rose. Even the green colour of my eyes wept the dew drops of the leaves in the mist of the morning.

I had been created with a mere brush from a box, a brush that went back into the box after every painting, back in the world of darkness that stood in an unknown silence till the creak of a hinge and the click of a latch let the light touch its hard, coarse, hair. But these colours lived on to see the light. See it through me. And now I had been made to dwell in the worlds that millions only imagine living. Jumping from one painting to the other, discovering hidden worlds and reading untold stories. Giving a whole new meaning to the term, the term 'Interpretation of Art'. I can undo those long conversations over Caviar and Chardonnay, unveil the truths, read between the lines, the strokes, the blots and the spots, all of this even before the paint dries off that sheet of canvas.

Imagine me, asking Mona Lisa why she smiled so or having the chance to taste that Last Supper on that table that cast so many questions to the world when all they wanted was some bread and wine. Gazing at the Cosmos on that Starry Night. It was all so blissful and yet to unrealistic, as if I was still on the other side, wishing upon falling stars and falling eyelashes.

Today, I am on this port where ships with sails have been docked beside me. With their orange sails settling down on the mast, I compare the smooth touch of their sheets to the bruised blisters on the hull. I can smell the stench of fishes being hauled on to the port and the sound of gulls trying to scavenge for any left behind. Beneath me is the water splashing against the rocks and the crabs that peek outside for any leftovers.

Tomorrow, I'll embrace the silence and sit in a room with empty chairs and vacant beds. Gaze through windows with tinted green glass that show me the cloudy skies and beyond. Discover wardrobes and pick out clothes whose owners are unknown or unborn.

I have made plans for days to come as I wander from frame to frame and see beyond sunsets and travel under the seas but in my heart of hearts I do hope to find another creation such as I, who may share this eternal space and share the secrets that I may have missed out on.

For there lies a brush with its tips stained with blood lying closed in a box.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

On the stool

He looked out through the window, he had been here before. Beyond the mist that engulfed the glass he saw them trickling, the drops of rain. It was an odd time for the rains in this time of the year. Maybe there was something big about to happen or maybe it was just dumb luck. His thoughts were still somewhere in the mist of the glass as the sound of music played in the back ground, Phil Collins had just said that it was another day in Paradise and he'd asked us to think twice about it. There was no thinking twice about where our protagonist was, right there in the corner on his bar stool. Clutching his 5th drink of the evening, he shifted his looks from the outer to the inner (sic). Conversations buzzed, meaningless mostly, the price of tequila, the oil in the food, the length of the sixer and the size of his package (pay package). And then from his ears he shifted focus to his eyes and from the corner came the figure of a female. A figure that had not been taken care of but you didn't need to look at her from tip to toe to tell that. Just the hidden double chin and the muscular legs (to take that much weight) was probably enough. A girl, probably on a date (or just to have a free drink on ladies night) that seemed to seek, capture and cultivate on a seat of her own. Had she not been too busy fighting with her parents for another credit card, she'd probably reached here on time, but right now she was just staring at the concrete between the bricks, hoping for some secret chair to show up. As her eyes rolled from ground zero to the ceiling, clearly she had stood in one place for too long, eyes had been lifted from their drinks and up to her. And she got her cue as well, mouthing the words from the song in the background to give the indication of showing interest in the music, she turned on her heels and went back to the waiting area. He chuckled to himself, shook his head and chugged down what was left of his drink. It was time to move on. As he tipped the waiter, his eyes fell on the girl again. She wasn't alone anymore, in one hand was the arm of her date and in the other was a Shirley Temple. A bit of the conversation reached his ears as they cursed the rain for ruining her hair and dirtying his shoes. It was a crowded place indeed but then again, every body deserved a chance. And so he offered his seat to the couple in despair (not wondering who would sit and who would stand) as he moved himself from the table to the door, put on his jacket and walked into the rain. He'd been here before, he'll be here again. Probably doing the same things, probably just stare at the rain.