the tree had stored my words for ages
the sound of my words were lost in those green borders

today I could hear them clearly
those words
whom I lost
those words
they are back
I could hear them clearly

they are all around me like fallen orange leaves

now the trees are lonely
without my words
they are murmuring black stories

collecting my words
I shall escape from the garden
your roots have settled in deep
you can't follow me anymore...

I don't remember since when or why I have stopped coming here! Is it because I stopped being sad? Have I eventually learnt to be happy? 

And, the fact that I am here again, is making me wonder! 

Sadness is coming back. 

Sadness is a white hibiscus growing on my roof. It lures me to colour outside the boundaries. It makes me pour gray smudges all over the sketches. 

The letters I write to you, turn me into a new ghost. 

I make you my new lie.

A longing to smell like the warm rain, all over again ... 

Shared nook

As I cross forty

 I stealthily grow into my mother’s body.

I wear her saree, her grey hair,

her osteo-arthritic knee.

We have supported different political parties,

lusted for different types of men,

I the mellowed one, 

whose softness she often rebukes,

she the sterner stuff, a stronger one

who wipes away tear drops in secret.

Her Ramakrishna and my Buddha 

nestled together among our cup of coffees.

I share her dreams, blood group and

those ugly patches of varicose vein.

Her rebel mind to exist 

without her husband’s last name

percolated in my extra marital relation,

my horoscope of uncombed desires

her insomnia...There’s much more that connect us.

 she will never need me as I need her.

And this unequal sharing 

indeed is Comforting!