Mirror

Perdition, forgiveness, petty resolutions all, 

This myth of love, burning through me, on this cold long night,

Oh lover of moon, scalded by it’s very moonlight,

Slither away, find a dark crevice to hide,

Escape somehow, this torment, this perfidy, this pain of hope,

Mirror tell me, this face of mine, where is that shine of joy, that twinkle of youth, or a little love perhaps?

An evening at work

The day was ending just fine, 

until she walked all happy past my desk, 

a momentary sunlight, in the few seconds, as I saw her go, 

and then the cold rain started pouring all over again.

The perfidy of hope

Oh dreamer, seduced by the pied Piper of yore,

Where to shall you go, chasing illusions,

Deluded forever, by the charm of that unknown,

How will you let go, when there is nothing left to hold.

Oh stranger, your unreciprocated lonely glance,

A million times, and some more,

Stoned, crazy and forlorn,

Burnt out embers of coal-black dreams, and this smoke-filled heart.

Oh, singer of hymns, from those forgotten forsaken,

Rock faced mountains and the steely moon,

Cold long nights, and this myth of love,

Perdition, forgiveness, petty resolutions all, just to get through the night.

Oh lover of moon, burnt by it’s caressing moonlight,

Slither away into some dark crevice to hide,

The shine of joy, the twinkle of affection, the touch of love,

Escaping this torment of the endless perfidy of hope.

Ruminations

A bright day and this darkness within, alone in an office full of familiar faces,

A knot in the throat, and a fire in my eye,

Anything to lighten this weight inside, of my futile hopes and sullen dreams,

Dredging souvenirs from people I used to know, empty aches and wounded memories of evanescent joy.

Unrequited forever, still waiting on that perhaps bus, even as life has all but rattled by.

Starry sky tonight

Deep dark starry skies, 

I am thinking of a strange evanescent and slipping someone ;
lying in a suddenly lonesome hotel tonight,

tucked in a far away oblivion, I am remembering few sunshine smiles; 

heart it's still caught in a long past moment,
as those eyes played wonder games from across;

Some deep dark starry skies tonight;

Cold touches

Can't make sense of what it may feel like,  parched and wet at the same time;

Fire or water, a kiss or a moment of passion;

Ruminations and dreams, beyond the edge of the water deep,

I will break my heart, normally yeah, but I am feeling otherwise tonight.

the promise of a promise

summer nights and moonlit untrodden paths,
on the silver streams sieving through the trees,
stars float on the wings of the flowing breeze;

dwarfed, I watch the trees with their heads in the sky,
swinging as if on a lullaby,
on the moist velvet greens, lost I lie,
watching the faraway blacks of the sky;

a pocket full of pebbles and an empty mind,
a poet heart vacillating in search of a muse,
I lie beside the gleaming waters of this stream,
rushing along, much like life, unmindful of the stagnance its beholder seeks;

someday I will seek you, oh queen of my dreams,
entrenched within this heart, sometimes close and sometimes afar,
I hear you whispering out my name,
someday I will, I vow, walk the long road to you

Few long miles

A few long miles is all I traveled since that old hill town and those hanging windows of my childhood house;

Heartbreak and aches, some laughs and shakes, like the white wisps of clouds I have floated so far, wind in my hair and sun on my back, many done and many more miles they come;

Someone up there looked over my shoulder, through every bend and treacherous turn, to get me through, a bit bruised & shaken, but undefeated still.

Naren Poker

I speak with the conviction of a strange mind, a mind that at it's will, either refuses to believe in anything or believes in everything. 

I speak from recesses of darkness that are getting enervated by a few strands of light, I can't see too far, but sure can make out some silhouettes. I am suspended in disbelief and grounded in cynicism, trying to fly multicolored kites of hope. 

I am the guy forever in transit, at beginnings, at the ends and somewhere in-between; sometimes waiting for the reds to turn green, and sometimes staring motionless at the greens. 

I am the crazy stranger with a far off look in his eye, I am the harmless tie-wearing man, already looking tired on his way to work. I am the enigma that doesn't really intrigue, I am the charmer no one really notices. I am an average bloke, with a very non-average agenda. 

I am Naren Poker.

Poker, really? I encounter this often, so to set the record straight, I ain't from a long line of illustrious but bankrupt players of poker, neither am I the kind who can live up to that name with their straight in the eye bluffs. I am just a chance victim of a joke, a cruel one, for a man who given an opportunity wouldn't really want to be noticed, for anything, carries a name that gets him a comeback each time. In a way, this also encapsulates what my life has been about, a series of circumstances unaligned to my wants.

Naren Poker, the private detective, reads the sign on the tired, beaten and forcefully held straight, the door of the humid and sweaty small room, I call the office, in a rather run-down corner on the fourth floor of a senile, old and wrinkled building in a busy, noisy and angry part of town. 

It is here that for inspiration, on rather dull morning hours of work I usually flip through the racy pages of the once glossy adult magazines I pick up from a pre-used magazine store around the corner below. The bored faces of luscious females pouting or twisting their faces into strange expressions of sexiness for my benefit, never seem to bore me. They just stare straight into my eyes, or sometimes even through them into the large empty space behind, not that I got any business judging their trade. But then neither do they desist from mocking my emptiness.

Outside the window, the world and its inhabitants were keeping up their maddening pace, calling each other names, shoving and nudging, struggling and despairing, hurtling along, trampling on hopes - most of them their own. Not that I could care any less. I looked at my watch, the morning hours really never passed, every day the same story. In the age of the internet, the self-promotion boom on everything social, a private detective was a vanishing breed. Especially the ones with no specific specialty or skill. I fell in this category, the kind of guy who will bring you all the information neatly copy-pasted and compiled into a report.

It was a soft knock, which sounded like a loud thud, I looked sharply towards the door on my right. The usual loneliness of mornings had made me so unaccustomed to a visitor that it startled me. It was a dream, standing in my doorway, outlined by the old dusty brown of the door, a brilliantly shining form of a woman. She looked at me through the small sliver of her bored half-shut eyelids. I looked back or rather gawked, not that gawking has ever really bothered me, the strange lasciviousness of my eyes, so often commented upon, failed to penetrate the impenetrable beauty of the twenty-something. She cracked a smile and the sun seemed to rise right into my old dusty office. As is my wont, in such moments I feign unaffectedness, a casual disregard for the obvious. I have always been proud of this ability irrespective of how foolish or see through my attempt may be.

I signaled her to the chair opposite, suddenly the layer of dust on my table seemed to stare back at me. I called it names and implored it to disappear. It refused to oblige.

Aloud

Unfulfilled? So what, for I am love and not an ambition;

Unrequited? Maybe, but a failure I will never be.

Drifting tunes

Songs which carried memories of my past, I have forgotten them all; today is a new destination, my old haunts, I have forsaken them all.

Nothing chains me anymore, no strings of love, no sliver of hate, I have forbidden them all.

Songs which carried memories of my past, I have forgotten them all;

An empty heart, I am free at peace, no fear no hope, I have foretaken them all.

Forever in between, no ends in sight, I unravel a knot a time, fingers sore but many more to go.

Strolling unencumbered through the labyrinths of my mind, I have forgiven them all.

Songs which carried memories of my past, I have forgotten them all.

The blues

I couldn't think of a better word, but then words get prodigal when you need them the most.

It was such a moment, it was a moment to express something my mind had not yet deciphered, a little something that was stirring in my heart.

Love isn't something I can believe in, it brings too much misery in it's anticipation, and the inevitable disillusionment that follows.

Some moments though still catch me wondering about would have beens, and the clouds they swallow whole a perfectly sunny day and it begins to pour from a deep blue sky.

deliberations on love

Have you stepped down in the middle of nowhere and thought nothing of destinations? have you ever tasted the water from a gurgling spring? have you ever seen the green valleys perched atop a hillock?have you dropped pretensions to be one with nature, ever? have you felt the slight shiver of cold breeze, standing in the evening winter sun? have you laughed out loud, alone, from heart? have you felt the warmth in the freezing waters of a stream in the peak of winter? have you sat alone, idling, and felt life within, a throbbing of the soul, a headiness of belief in the goodness of the future? have you let go and never looked back? have you chased, lost and been playful about it? have you seen the image in the mirror one morning and said wow? have you embraced an old friend and actually felt the honest warmth? have you walked down a deserted, lonely and cold path, feeling life was good? have you felt complete yourself, ever? have you ever heard your calling? have you heard your calling and followed it? have you started looking inside, for the meaning? have you pursued and discovered your gods within?  
have you understood & accepted, that love is loving yourself, connecting with your calling (small or big, momentary or long lived, frivolous or profound) and not even a bit about being loved?

Love, I feel I can be soaked in, if only I follow the callings of my soul. So often I cant hear them, lost in the din of this cacophonous life . So often I postpone and promise. So often in a moment of clarity I decide and then lose the purpose later. 
Life is within my reach, but I refuse to embrace it, lost in notion of what it should be and not what it really is.

Sun over the hills

A search for meaning and the eventual realization that the meaning is within us and not outside. The love, the joy, and the peace, everything begins within. About soulmates and their inevitable constancy in our life. 

Prelude

 

At the last call in the dreary damp bar, as he wondered again if there were eyes in a corner far, which looked at him askance, silhouetted by the dull flickers of light from the old dusted chandelier dropping from the dark roof of the bar. The eyes they shimmered much like stars and burned him deeper into a tar. A deep long slug from the last drink the bartender poured and he staggered back from the stool and walked with purpose towards those eyes, he stumbled and grabbed things along the way as the alcohol kept rustling through his veins. The eyes they moved swiftly out of the bar, and he followed into the cold night of searing winds and a sleepy emancipated moon riding rough on a sea of threatening clouds. The cold burnt through the fog of alcohol and he saw the eyes they didn't really beckon, they just looked through him as if a stranger.

 

Chapter I

 

But still, he was there on that curve of green shrubs that overlooked the old creaky railyard and she was there too and he was sitting beside her by the pine and kissing where her short hair fell at the precipice of her shoulder and back. 

 

But her skin was not inviting the caress of his lips, as she stared indifferently towards the railyard and muttered, Amanyu where did you get lost.

 

The question seemed to draw him out of her body and made him slump back on the moist bark of the pine. I don't know much about that Al, he grunted, all I know at this moment is that wherever I had gotten lost, maybe I could find myself again in this rustle of the mountain wind, the sight of that slowly chugging train and the myriad smells of your body that is bringing me back to life.

 

She reflected on that and whispered, but that ain't enough. She said, I too need to find you again and I don't seem to be able to do that. You smell no longer of the things I remember loving you for, instead you smell of hate, of loss, of cynicism, and perhaps despair, you smell of all the things you wouldn't ever let near. After a brief pause, she continued what now seems so many eons ago, when we used to sleep under the stare of a million stars, and you could look forever in my eyes and fill me with love without saying a word. Now you say so much, and it seems you mean so little. That speechless, boundless, love of yore, seems lost forever in a cloud of words that flow, it seems, from an empty heart. Where are you Amanyu, cause I can see you no more and I can't even feel you as your lips touch me? Then she fell silent, spent, and furious.

 

The pines had briefly stopped rustling, as the wind dropped a notch, this creates pin-drop silence in hills and he could hear her breathe even from a few feet away. He wanted to embrace her and perhaps hoped that that simple act could still make all differences melt away and make her eyes light up. But life had taught him otherwise time and again. I was here and I was there, and I was trying and I was losing, I was being broken bit by bit and each time finding it harder to put it all together again. I was sleeping with whores and cursing you, I was feeling alone in crowds and calling for you, I was on hills and staring down cliffs, I was with you and still everywhere without.

As the sun took a final yawn for the day and slipped into sleep, the chill in the air around grew and she wrapped herself tighter in her mild blue stole. The cold never went well with him, but today he seemed oblivious, he spoke to her in a voice that seemed to freeze and unfreeze in parts in the suddenly growing cold of the small hill town.

You know, he said, a few years after, I came here one evening like this and sat here much like today and I saw you sitting here. I touched you and spoke to you, I smelled your hair and even called you by that name and you smiled at me, I fell asleep under the stars here and it was old Joseph who saw me here and woke me up. It was half past midnight and the clouds had all walked in and the dew was heavy, he asked was I planning to freeze there tonight and all I could think of was your warmth and I blurted oh I was here with Al, she must have forgotten to wake me. In that instance, as I uttered those words, I realized how my sanity was slipping. That day I promised I wouldn't think of you anymore and the next day I took the evening train to Laza, went to a bar got drunk and then walked out to a taxi stand and asked the driver to take me to a whore house, I guess it isn't something that surprises taxi drivers in big cities, and without missing a beat he said sure or maybe it was something in my bloodshot eyes.

I slept with a whore, just to feel a woman after many years and more so to see if I could find warmth in another body after yours. 

 

The next few months I slept with many, my lust, and your hate mingled into a strange madness that drove me from one bottle and woman to another. I had begun to change, maybe for the better, for once I began speaking from my heart and for another, I started to see life for what it was, a shapeless mass of disappointments strung together by expectations, hopes, and dreams. And it wasn't just my life which was like that, everyone I met on anonymous shared tables in dark bars and all the women who slid in beside me for money, and all the darkness I saw in people around me, showed me it was what life was for most. The other few, evoked hatred, their happiness burnt me like acid and their love made me angry.

 

For a long time, I abused myself like this. It was as if I was playing to a gallery of one as if you watched each little thing I did to debase myself and it was as if I could hurt you by hurting myself. Until I realized the futility of it all, you didn't care. You were not watching, no one cared and no one was watching. I was like a pig hurtling myself in anger in filth, hurting no one, affecting no one, except myself.

 

That day I cried, at my own emptiness.

 

As he said this, finally he realized that in this long monologue he failed to see when she finally turned and started looking at him. He failed to see her big bluish eyes welled up in anger and he failed to see that at that moment he had inadvertently transferred all the hurt that hadn't got passed to her.

It stung hard on his cold skin, as she slapped him on the face. Taken aback he couldn't say a word as her eyes flamed. And she hit him again and sobbed, but didn't cry. Again she turned and stared down the rolling hill at the railway tracks, which were beginning to disappear in the closing darkness.

The anguish of love that was meant to be but still went all wrong. The anguish of hearts that got joined so young and refused to ever part. The anguish of innocence lost forever. The anguish of a life wasted. 

 

She suddenly got up and waved a hand through her golden-brown hair, said something about her family would be waiting, and then almost as an afterthought added, you know I have a beautiful daughter. The surprise at this revelation was almost covered by his smile, a smile that was almost impossible to place. After a few moments, he told her he would want to meet her. She said sure, I am here for a fortnight. Then waited expectantly. He read her expression and almost chuckled, no I have nothing to tell you. Don't think I didn't marry pining for you Al, he said, I married twice and thankfully never had a child. Those big round eyes saw him deeply again and asked what are you doing these days. He told her about leaving a cushy job to come back here a few years back, I run a small farm by the Toly stream now. You remember Toly? That seemed to lighten her up as she nodded. I can show you around, he said, I have a bed strung over two boulders and the little Toly passes beneath, it's the best place to sleep. She laughed and said oh so something has not changed.

Then she walked off towards her home. As he pulled himself up from the ground, he wondered why life would conspire to make him meet her again, just when he was moving towards peace and meaning. Was she the chapter that needed to be revisited for him to truly disengage from a life of unfulfilled possibility and achieve the peace he coveted.

 

Chapter II

 

That night was a night of stars and sleepless dreams, of many unknowing smiles in the darkness of his room. Of many aches he had forgotten and many questions that were best left unanswered.

The next morning, he dressed early, almost at the break of dawn, and stepped out into the damp coldness that engulfed the small piece of isolated land by the Toly. Toly was an evergreen brook, small and pristine, and hardly of the type that could drown anyone. Only during rains did it threaten his small farm, especially on days it rained a little too heavily in the higher mountains where Toly came from.

Spent time running his usual track, that looped between exactly hundred pine trees, three bends of Toly and two hillocks up. As he stopped to catch his breath after the second loop, he instinctively decided to go an see Al. Maybe to just confirm that yesterday wasn't just some revisiting nightmare.

Al's parents still lived in their tiny cottage near the grove of wild apple trees that overlooked the small post office. It was several miles from his place, as he walked and jogged, he knew somewhere in his head that life had finally turned a full circle and he was almost ready to finally and lastly let go of Al in his heart and in his mind. He wanted her to know this, especially after yesterday evening's outburst. 

 

As he neared the sun cam over the Zonu, the tallest mountain in town. It was said that since Zonu in the east was so tall, it had always robbed the small town of morning sunshine. The sun miraculously began to clear away the white mists and the chill in the air, by the time he walked past the small iron gate of Al's house he was sweating. As he swung the little, tilted and almost about to fall old gate, he remembered how for almost a hundred years of his childhood he had run past that very gate into her house, for the inane and the profound things he and Al could speak about forever. She was that little girl running around barefoot to say hi as he would throw his bicycle in her dad's little lawn. He smiled at the stark clarity with which he could still see her like that and wondered how she had managed to hardwire herself in his head forever.

 

As he stood there momentarily lost, the door opened and there stood, barefoot, with her open mouth smile, gazing at him intently a little girl, after a brief few moments of silence he broke out into a hearty laugh. Hearing the laugh Al came out and saw him with almost a delicate cultivated indifference. Mumbling a little apology he made an excuse of being on his morning run when he realized it was her old house and came in without realizing the early hour. He could see she did not buy it all but brushed Amanyude any comebacks by instead talking to her daughter. The awkward moment passed and he almost invited himself for a cup of tea. 

 

Her parents were not amused to see him but gracious enough for old times sake, he guessed. He learned that Al came every summer, and realized it was he who had come back to town in January, after almost ten years. They asked him about where he had been, he told them about being here and there. When he told them where he used to work, he was surprised at their surprise, almost as if they never believed he could achieve much in life. They seemed to feel ok when he told them he had left all that to start a small farm in town. It seemed to comfort them, probably relieved them that their judgment about him wasn't wrong after all, he looked at the two now old and shriveled pieces of meat who at some point long ago, had pretty much conspired to rip his world apart. Now he felt nothing for them, no anger, no pity.

 

He played with them until they felt uneasy about his motives in visiting their daughter again. Then as he left and she walked him out, he grabbed her hand, it didn't take her back, he squeezed her fingers and whispered he was happy for her and looked into her eyes. That seemed to melt her like snow under the first ray of sun, and he knew that was something she needed to hear. He walked out and turned once again, to see her golden-brown hair shimmer in the sun and the cold of the morning making her shrink into herself as she waved a bye. He closed his eyes as if to capture that moment for times to come. It was time, time to wrap up what he needed, and head out.

 

Chapter III

 

It was a day since he left the small village near Toru, which marked the end of the little town. Between the fog-filled morning and the early sunset, he had made slow progress through the winding roads that were full of potholes and loose dirt left behind by the torrential rains of the monsoon season. As the sun shimmered slowly through the white cover of clouds mixed with mists, he stopped at a small hut that served tea to the passer by's. An angry little river roared in the steep gorge behind the hut. As he settled to wait for his tea, his thoughts wandered back to the little farm he had left the last evening, wondering if it was for the last time. He had come to love the farm by the Toly, despite the attendant hardships it had begun to give him a sense of belonging. That wasn't something he had felt for any place in a very long time. He looked at his dirt-covered motorcycle and sighed at the way it had become old and outmoded. The old bitch needed to get him far from this place right now and he almost pleaded silently for it to not break down. He was headed to Dremi, a hermit village far away from any place, which had several Buddhist monks living in isolation from the world as they meditated. It would take him close to two days to reach there. He checked with the hut owner and made an arrangement to sleep there for the night. He was promised food and a cot after the hut closed for business and the owner left for his village. It would be better than trying to pass the night under a tree in his sleeping bag he reasoned.

 

That night as he lay down, the sound of the river was particularly fierce, as the waters angrily washed down the boulders, despite being tired from the ride he couldn't sleep. His thoughts wandered from one stupid chapter of his life to another. He wondered if he were to die there in that hut tonight, probably no one would care. He didn't mean that much to many. It is funny how a person measures the success of life in terms of possessions but never in terms of the people who care until the time comes when you no longer can do much to change either.

 

Then he thought of Al, would she care? Not much was the obvious answer.

 

The nights in the hills are strange, they are quite almost eerily quite. The sounds are strange and the loneliness all-encompassing. Though he was used to this, living next to Toly was nothing like being next to this fierce river behind the hut in the deep gorge. He was too proud to admit it made him uncomfortable, but somewhere it did. He longed for a company in that strange dark and lonely hut.

 

Finding it difficult to sleep, he took out his flashlight and walked down the steep and small steps cut into the hillside towards the river. The moonlit night made the water shimmer as it bounced upon rocks, the sound of the river grew like a roar as he carefully made his way towards the river bed. The sky was a clear black and as often happens in the hills, the mist had disappeared, he could sit on a boulder and literally count the stars, past the majestic mountain silhouetted in the moonlight. He told himself that for moments like this one, he could live a hundred years. 

 

So engrossed was he in immersing himself at the moment, that he hardly noticed that someone was walking towards him, it was only when the person was a few feet away that he noticed and almost jumped out of his skin. The stranger laughed a throaty laugh seeing him jump with fear, it took a few moments for him to realize that this was maybe just a man. The hour of the night and the wilderness still made him jumpy finding another person out for a stroll by the river. The stranger sat down and told him that he lived nearby. After a few.minutes he relaxed and settled into his normal bantering style with the stranger. The white robe of the stranger almost sparkled in the moonlight, though his face was quite undecipherable. The stranger's name was Hari, he was an ascetic who had been living here for a few weeks now.

 

Hari didn't speak much, but sitting there by the river in the middle of nowhere, he was a welcome companion. Hari was smoking a chillum and offered it to him, which was declined as anything other than alcohol never gave him any pleasure. Amanyu asked Hari, why despite being an ascetic he could not forsake this very earthly pleasure. Hari looked bemused by the question, he said who is to decide giving up what will make anyone an ascetic.

 

Chapter IV

 

The next evening too he met Hari at the same place, the river was louder than the day before and the moon brighter which made the river bank look like a loud, well-lit discotheque that was eerily deserted. Hari taught him to meditate that evening, telling him tips that would make him look inward and forget the cacophony of the river or the fear of being the lone creature in maybe miles and miles. 

 

Meditation wasn't new for him, for he had dabbled and lost interest in it often. Hari told him the legend of the river, apparently, nobody could drown in it, even though many people had been swept by its waters, the river wouldn't let anyone die he said. Anyone who ever fell in it by mistake or by design had always survived. 

 

That was an interesting thought, as he took a slug of the local whiskey he had procured during the day, and felt it's acid burn down his throat right through to the stomach, he wondered aloud if this was one legend that could be verified first-hand. Hari laughed at this thought and muttered that one thing he learned living the life of a nomad was that one should not trust legends. They are mostly fake. They fell silent and stared into the river, Adee couldn't get the legend of the river out of his head. As he stared at its beautiful flow and listened to its threatening roar, he wondered if his love for Al had also been like the legend of the river. Neither would it let him soak and swim in it nor did it ever let him drown in it. All his life, he had been as if sitting by the river watching his love flow helpless and boundless, unable to either partake in it or kill himself in it. 

 

The local whiskey, he has been told was made of apple, it was sharp and his head was spinning by the few slugs from the quarter he had bought in the village. Not having eaten much, wasn't helping either. He hadn't felt hungry for the last few days, he had only been feeling empty of late, rest any emotion or sense he seemed incapable of. As he sat there in the moonlight, a sudden dread came over him, as his abject surrender to this emptiness almost fifteen years back came back to haunt him. It had taken him almost three precious years of his life to scrape out of the hole he had created for himself by an alcohol-fueled rage and self-pity. It wasn't a period of his life he was proud of anymore. These thoughts almost served a reminder, that was he slipping down that road again. With a start, he jerked and looked to his right where Hari was still slowly dragging from his chillum. Hari looked at him askance and a faint smile seems to play on his lips, after a few moments he said, so its time for you to move, ain't it? He nodded and again stared at the river. See legends are meant to serve a purpose, after all, said Hari. Adee nodded an agreement and whispered almost to himself, yes they are and with sudden urgency almost sprung up and looked at Hari. He said, farewell friend, I need to be on my way, let's see if we meet ever again. Hari did not respond and he moved with quick steps into the shallow water spread of the river, splashed the cold water on his face and hair, it stung like ice and almost made the buzz of the country alcohol recede. Adee then quickly and with purpose, climbed the mountainside to reach the hut, pulled together his bag, and after a few minutes of trying managed to get his motorcycle buzzing. In a few moments, in the middle of that cold mountain night, under the silver rays of the moon, he was on his way. If there was anyone around, they may have seen the resolute look and purpose in his eyes. 

 

Chapter V

 

Dreji was a strange place, a place of immense peace and detached coldness. For a small severely remote village, it was surprisingly full of people. But he had never seen so many utterly indifferent people together. Each was as if engaged in conversations in their own head, stuck in their own world. As he sipped tea and savored the warmth of the cup, he wondered if it was just the numbness from the long almost back-breaking ride through the night or it was the numbness of the people around which was more oppressing. He pulled his cap further down his ears, the wind was picking up and had an extra ounce of chill that morning, his thoughts wandered to Al and her smile when she greeted him at the door two days back. That brought some warmth back. He wanted to carry on and not stop in Dreji for long, the place and its people were all uninviting. 

 

Chapter V

 

As he rode away from Dreji, his sense of freedom began to grow, much like hope that sometimes momentarily, like the sun through the dark winter sky, tugged his empty heart.

It was late and he was feeling unusually blue. The night and oppressing cold wind made the ride through the winding roads of the forest very taxing. As he turned a corner, he glanced down below the open valley that spread all across the bend in the road. In an instant, he lost any remaining motivation to chug along and braked to a stop. Placing the helmet delicately balanced on the seat of his motorcycle, he took a few steps to the brink and sat down tired, peering far into the open dark sky down to where it merged quietly with the endless valley. It was forever in moments like these that Al would come back and wrap herself all around him. Today was no different.  As he sat feeling her all over him, the meaninglessness of his life stared back at him. For, he mused, if after a lifetime of strife and strive, all he had was this dark open valley and its loneliness, life had been quite futile. For even as a young man he had these very same things. The journey of twenty long years had it seemed yielded nothing.

This strife within and the arduous mountain road was beginning to take a toll on him and sleep tiptoed in. By the time he woke up, it was pitch dark under a spectacularly clear sky. The cold winds pierced through every inch of his skin, he felt a heaviness in his chest, cold winds effected him quickly. Needing something to eat and a shelter to sleep was critical, else this could turn out to be a cruel long night. He hurried to the motorcycle, kicked it to life, and headed on.

The mountains are eerily quiet in the night, in the remote hills past Dreji, the sound of his motorbike could probably be carrying for miles. Not that he expected any audience at that time of night. As he rode through the pine and deodar forest, the winding road and the cold wind were keeping him sharp and awake. Amanyu remembered the long walks he would take through the pine forests with his father as a child, his father loved to tell him stories or rather legends of the mountains, stories that often involved leopards and witches, and he would listen in rapt attention, sometimes on the edge, but secure in the sense of humor of his father and comforting warmth of his hand, that held his. Those were the fondest and clearest memories he had of his father, not long after had his father passed away, leaving behind a confused and often unguided Amanyu to navigate his growing up years in a family of women. It is funny how one cannot always pinpoint what got missed in the growing years, for Amanyu's mother hardly left any stone unturned in raising him, but still, in some moments of reflection and solitude, a feeling gnaws at you, makes you wonder if you would have turned out a slightly different version of yourself if father was around. Al would have not approved his thoughts, she believed in dealing with the cards that were dealt, would have been always bored her. Amanyu, would rant for hours about would have been, and she would listen patiently, never agreeing but letting him blow the steam, and a few times she would lose patience and snap, asking him to stop whining. She had a way with him, always had her way, in loving him as well as leaving him. Amanyu never had a chance, she could walk in and take him away with a flick of her brown hair from her brow. She also knew him well, so well that he had spent a lifetime since hoping to meet someone who could know him like Al did. The road turned and a small speed bump, which he missed and jumped over, told him that he was entering a village, he quickly looked around for signboards and spotted a small place with a sign of 'room available', parking the motorcycle beside the road, he walked and knocked on the door. After several minutes, somebody answered, a short conversation and payment later, Amanyu found himself in a small but warm room with a blanket. It was too late to check with his host for a meal, so Amanyu gulped down a liter of water and snuggled into the blanket, waiting for sleep to come. Sometimes this wait could be endless, but today was a good day and in a few minutes he dozed off. 

 

Chapter 6

 

 

 

Three & eight begins

Neither sad nor frustrated, trying to find peace with who I am. Working through the details, well paced and correct. No cursing , no calling of names, a little turned on and quite turned off. Not a bad start I say.

On the turning away

A chance meeting by the river

one last ghost so hard to tide over

a lifetime of believing, hearts are seen in the eyes

how wasted our beliefs are sometimes

far off oblivions of blazing sun,

eyes on fire and heart unstrung

in the maze of life,

so aged and beaten,

I wonder, often I ponder

that long lost youth & strange times

when dreams were seen with open eyes

distant silhouettes of castaway hearts

falling wayside on these mean streets of life

hopes and worldly wisdom always collide

i wonder why's, but never if's

Across forever in search of peace

these bridges I burn across the great divides

roads winding and long ahead

a contented soul in search of my gods

Strangers in town

Chapter 1

Sitting by my window on a rather cold but strangely sunny morning, while the cup of tea, which I had placed on the morning newspaper, was quickly beginning to lose its steam, my mind was somewhere really far away, contemplating my options for the day. The prospects I was faced with would make any person crawl back into bed and wish it was still the middle of the night.

The constancy of this Sunday morning ritual, for the past many months now, was beginning to worry me. Was I really losing interest in my own company?  how could that be- it was my only strength, my highest virtue. This ability of mine, to never feel lonely, to always love to do things in my own company.

This stark reality of boredom was like the proverbial last straw that could break my camel's back. I needed a raison d'etre, a certain something I could hold on to, to float on the sea of life.

A passing car on the road beneath my window broke the reverie of these thoughts and I found myself saddled with a cold cup of tea. I pressed the power button of the phone, it again asked me to type a pin and I again made a mental note to change the settings on the damn thing. There was no message of interest, apart from a few tired forwards and a few really unnecessary emails. It was increasingly threatening to become a big sulk of a day. I made an instantaneous decision to get out, throwing a jacket on my shoulders, I briskly walked out the door and turned the key twice, lest this momentary sense of purpose turned turtle too soon. 

Jumping stairs two at a time, I was out in the brisk winter morning air in no time and realized that it was colder than what the bright sun indicated from within the confines of my room. The neighbors in this rather quiet corner of the town were generally of the type who celebrate Saturday nights and miss Sunday mornings; not surprisingly the gardens and the street were pretty much deserted. I was tempted to imagine the bastards lying curled up in beds with beautiful women, but by now I knew too well the trappings of such thoughts and how needlessly they made me sulk. So to focus on healthier things,  I instead decided to break into a slow jog.

I was headed to my favorite morning place,  an old decayed bungalow situated at a bend in the road atop a small green hillock. Ever since I was a child, I used to come in here and sit in its garden on a small jutting rock; always quickly getting lost in the view of the valley and the mountains beyond. 

The open blue sky today, I knew, would let me peer deep and far into the open valley. The thought made me happy, it also meant that I would be able to reach till lunchtime in peace and the Sunday would be halfway through.

It may have been an hour since I was sitting perched upon my favorite rock, soaking the sun, smelling the myriad fresh smells that the breeze carries in the mountains and contemplating the beauty all around; or maybe it was a little longer when I heard her voice.

The quietness of the morning was so encompassing till then that the voice really surprised me, I quickly jerked around to see no one, another few seconds passed as it came again, this time much nearer. I quickly ran a hand through my hair, for no reason apart from the habit of becoming aware of my looks on hearing a woman around.

She came out from behind a few shrubs that really covered the small dirt path that winds up into the hill behind the house. A few curls of hair were falling on her a face, where they glistened along with the sweat- she must have worked it up walking; together they shone like small diamonds as the morning rays of sun danced off her skin. Agape, I watched her walk out and towards where I sat. In an awkward and almost conscious manner, I tried a smile, which was returned with a heartwarming, carefree grin. This strangely made me even more conscious of some unknown social inadequacy.

She came and sat on a rock near to mine and commented on the beauty of the view- I agreed wholeheartedly. The conversationalist in me took over and my well-worn probes around the weather, the sun, the passing winter, and the coming summer almost tumbled out one over another, almost as if afraid of even a second of silence. In less than five minutes, I was facing the abyss, the usual abyss of a blank mind, bereft of any ideas to lengthen the conversation. I searched and urged my mind to come up with something funny or intelligent or even fleetingly engaging, but as is my wont, I found myself clammed up. For a few moments I glanced desperately into the valley as if hoping it would throw me a conversation line, she too followed my gaze and we fell into silence. The calmness of the morning had suddenly disappeared for me, but she seemed to be still enjoying it. After a while, she stood up and bid goodbye with the same smile, that a few minutes back had lit up my morning, but now it seemed to take away all the sunshine with it. She quickly dropped down onto the road and disappeared beyond the bend, leaving me rooted and almost wanting to jump and run.

As I walked back slowly home, oblivious of everything around  I resolved not to follow the beaten path of reminiscing, then dreaming of what all I would have said, then pining, sulking, and then eventually forgetting. 

Convinced, as I was, that I would no longer do all the things that had led me into middle age, without ever really experiencing love. I had resolved to find her again.

Chapter 2

A week had passed, amidst the morning to evening dredge and within the long hours spent doing unremarkable things, I had been secretly waiting for the Sunday to come. Waiting to find her again, to execute the many plans I had been contemplating every day.

That Sunday, I woke up refreshed and full of spirit, jumped out of the bed, stretched and walked to the wall-size window of my room, and moved the curtains with a flourish, somewhere I was hoping for the weather to partake in my enthusiasm and depute the sun to be shining bright. The dark gloomy clouds and the strong breeze that I could see flowing through the trees in my neighbors garden below, instead seemed to signal a dissuasion. Determined to not wait another week, I went about dressing up and having a light breakfast. I spent considerable time setting my hair in a manner that would signal a casual and carefree manner, and then in a similar manner handled my clothes. After an approving glance on the outcome of my efforts, I walked out the door of my warm, small but sufficient apartment, into the biting cold of that autumn morning. 

Heading straight for our quaint first meeting place, near the rocks of the old decaying cottage, I found the surrounding a little unwelcoming, the overnight dew had left the rocks dripping wet and the wind was especially sharp atop the corner of this small hillock. I could have still braved the conditions but I was convinced that if she did turn up again, and found me sitting here, the chances of being taken as a glum moron requiring help, were too high and not worth the risk. So instead I decided to take the trail behind the cottage and head into the hills.

A couple of hours passed, even in the oppressing cold wind, I had broken into a sweat, I stopped at a sharply jutting out ridge, probably the best vantage point to view my still sleepy little town. I had a few memories of having trekked up here many years ago, with a few friends from school. I realized, with a tinge of remorse, how in the moribund life that I had been living all these years, I had never again found the motivation to walk up here. The crisp morning, the slight light-headedness from the mountain air, and the many tall pine trees had taken my mind away from all the inanities I chase week on week, I felt liberated and brimming with a feel-good hope. Standing there and looking down far away into the valley that spread all around, I was tempted to promise that I would make this a weekly habit, to trek up here- but then I thought the better of it, as even in the optimism of the morning, I didn't see much point in adding another promise on to the overladen table of unmet promises I kept in a corner of my small room.

Chapter 3

Going grey

Let’s celebrate, for there is only this passing day,

The morning dew is fresh and the promise of a bright sun looms,

I feel younger every day, as the jealous sky gets old and grey,

Jaded, staling memories, sometimes flicker as if a dying ember,

Bit by bit, strain by strain, a white and then many,

In the urge for spotting epiphanies, subtle hints just pass me by;

As well laid plans, topsy-turvy, fall by the side,

Wisdom comes hardest to the wise, wonder any wiser if I am,

Just for a while, through the grey dark skies,

The horizon it shimmers, in gold thin stripes;

Another new day and a cold deep sigh, as we head to some shiny new lies.

x

Who nights

We are waking and sleeping, dreaming and despairing, all in and all without. Who are we? The endless nomadic thoughts take me from one cold endless night to another. What is this with cold nights? They keep me shivering and strangely warm within, the train it rattles the whole night through nameless towns and hills, all I can think of is some fantastical lights , sparkling drops of laughter and my glories. The orange of the sky blending into the ink blue and the grey all around, flying a thousand miles up in the air, and all I want to think of is freedom and love.  Mystical stars and me chasing their twinkles, sitting all alone and still all without and all I can think of is some conversations to shoe the night by. What is it with all that goes on within? All I am thinking of is lying flat in a mountain stream and feel the water submerge me in its coldness. What is it with streams and me? You seem to be in my every dream and yet I can't take a dip in you. Like a thirst I cannot quench any of you, my nights, my dreams, the silhouettes I can never decipher, bring me a drink, for all there is somedays, is an old cask whisky to make me slowly drift away on a boat in the sleepy sunshine of evenings, over the stream in my backyard and stare far into the sky and wonder where are the stars behind the dying rays of sun. What is this in my eye? A longing , a determination, a loneliness and also the love of all I have been given. The warmth of so many who love me, the peace of the nights and the self determined pace of life. But then there are dreams and in those dreams are sunlit streams and there is me finding myself bit by bit in my small hilltown of dreams. And there is those whistles through the trees, calling me deeper into the woods as I dither and vacillate on the edges.

Aching flights of fancy

Listen, I said to no one in particular,
I want to fly down that mountain,
Soar on the wings of my soul and call valleys below names,
Paint some orange on the white floating clouds and make them rain as I go piercing through,
Fall flat into some lake between the mountains and rise frozen phoenix from the waters,
Then sit and wonder about life, my apparent loneliness midst our togetherness,
long nights of restless dreams and fantastical beasts who fail to get me through those  long night chases,
My heartbrokenness amidst the aching love of the mountains, the darkness within amidst the white and greens all around.
Call me names if you must, but don't call me back.