The Husband and the Wife

 

“Save me, save me!” Cries the wife who has fallen down the stairs; hit her head; and gone mad

The husband, observes helplessly, desolate and miserable, with an expression so very sad

 

The bedridden wife shouts angrily – it is not her, who is insane!

Wondering with bewildered eyes - why can’t anyone believe her - she lashes in pain

 

The husband, the doctor, and all others patiently try to comfort her mind

Knowing fully well that with each passing day, chances of recovery are hard to find

 

Earlier, everyone around saw, in their quaint little home, love quietly thrived

She tended to him; cared for him, and her joy multiplied

 

He, the silent writer, his pen danced on pages, his passion alive

A tale of two hearts, in the shadows they’d hide

 

Now, wife, lying on the bed, stretched her gleaming swan-like neck

Hoping to reach out to someone like a lotus from the beck

 

In her madness, asking everyone to take her away from home,

Screaming, moaning cursing everybody under the dome

 

In the old oak bed, memories come knocking and rocking

She, with a damp face, crying, screaming, hissing and mocking

 

Nurse tussles, clasps her hands, holding tight her tender feet,

Struggling to bring the food against her mouth to make her feel good and eat.

 

Husband is beside her, always like a moonlit willow branch

Wishing, hoping for her recovery, a day of revived romance

 

He tries to forget the pain, drowning himself in his writing

A prolific writer who is famous for his novels exciting

 

Family, neighbors, and people all around stay in worry and fear

For the wellbeing of the Husband whose patience is held sublime for years

 

In the chamber of dreams, where thoughts take flight,

The husband weaves tales in the soft neon light.

 

With parchment and quill, he forges his art,

In the sanctum of silence, he finds every part.

 

Disturb not his reverie, this sacred abode,

Where verses are born, where the stories unfold.

 

Then one day in the darkness of the middle of the night

When the screaming of the wife slowly becomes weak and slight

 

With eyes fiercely gleaming, drowning his head in writing, the husband recalled

The day he threw his wife down the stairs, and how her body lay bloodied and mauled

 

"Take rest, Stop writing, my dear," she did beseech

"Leave me alone, you're a bothersome wretch!"

 

Remembering how the wife’s eyes filled with shock and fright

Her frail body flew down the stairs almost like the mane of horses in their flight

 

Satisfied, with a twisted grin, and a harsh voice, the husband groaned

Anyone who comes in between me and my writing will be stoned!

 

Grief

 Grief is non-biodegradable

So no point burying it

Let it flow

Let it run

Recycle.

 

You can dump it in some low-lying yard and let a plant grow out of it

These plants, these trees,

Curl up their root feet on the forest floor

And shakes their bushy heads happily in the whistling breeze.

 

Or rake your brain for memories

Just as you keep browsing from one site to the other

And you will know that those yellowing sheets no longer hold those typed words

There are blanks and holes on those crumpled pages

And you will find out

In her own winsome wicked ways, your memories have decided

to no longer carry the burden.

 

Or be the eagle, the owl, and the hornbill

And turn to see hope lurking beside your shadow in the flowing river, beneath.

See, how the rocks too have weathered

Watch them blend slowly into the sand

And

Forget.

I, the paradoxical mess!

 

Hey my mind,

Hey my paradoxical myriad mind,

Of those many I

who is the real one?

At times I can move mountains

At the other, I am in that lowest gutter!

There is a me who travels miles proudly

concealing the shy fool that often lurks beneath.

Another time, there is a coward I, scared and feeble

and then the next, a new I rise like a phoenix whose spirit can never be broken!

One I build a card house, minutely, gingerly, with affection,

The other I stealthily, surreptitiously come to set it to fire,

looking at the pile of ashes with a weird satisfaction.

And then again, one I paint on canvas beautifully, splashing vibrant colours, and

another I calmly destroy the painting with unwavering hands …

And, when I am far away every beat of my soul yearns for you,

and then when I come back to you, I had already left long before!

Hey my mind,

How many 'I' do reside in your house?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LEHwpwpHEkY&list=RDLEHwpwpHEkY&index=1

The excitement of aloneness

My solo sojourn in North Bengal … at Sonada in Darjeeling district

To be a traveler is to find yourself. And to be a solo traveler is the scariest yet most liberating experience. 

Despite a lot of apprehension and fear, I set out for my solo trip to North Bengal. To make things odd my flight was at 5.30 a.m. and to catch that I started from home around 3.30 a.m. and that was overwhelming enough to convince me right at the beginning that I don't need to do this at all! However, there is this heady intoxication of a sense of freedom that was already setting in and I kept moving ahead with my plan.

There was no direct flight and the layover was tedious. I landed at Bagdogra airport around 11.30 a.m. and the moment I sat in the cab, driver Denis's huge welcoming smile triggered my sense of happiness. And soon the mountain range, the clear blue sky, and the soothing air started nurturing me,  and I was already looking forward to my tour.

My stay was at Tieedi Forest Garden. They say 'take it easy, easy do it'. Tieedi follows the principles of permaculture and it takes you to the lap of mother nature, making you grounded, humble, and simplistic. My little room along with the adjacent balcony made of mud and wood, overlooking the deep green forest was something with which I fell in love deeply.

The mountains are calling and I must go!

And then the forest spoke to me, whispering, caressing, its innocent wildness pulsating like a new life. The unknown errors of my life merged with the scent of the forest. Trailing clouds, the unassuming flower, the silence of the starry sky, the moss green leaves, and the trickling brook taught me the music of humanity. 

 And hey, your solo trip becomes vibrant with joy if you get to meet your close friend after 8years.

 I went to Darjeeling, and the British aura of the mall and the continental tone of the breakfast at Keventers still can be felt unmistakably. 

By the way, if you wish to taste local cuisine then you must hop into this tiny little joint, nestled amongst the crowded marketplace of the mall for some out-of-the-world Nepali food. 

As Tieedi endorses a waste-free clean environment, I too came back from my tour with cleanliness in my soul. May the forest be with me forever, may the mountain brook be my guide always!

“Then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.”

 

Reaching out to Ruru, again...

 Hey Ruru,  

The Boy in the Striped Pajamas - I watched the movie on Netflix and then I got hold of the book. And both the times a strange feeling persisted … it is as if there is something that got stuck in my throat - exactly through where I needed to scream, and I choked …. it is as if I am in a room and suddenly I felt this strong urge to run out of it but there was no door but whitewashed walls all around! 

It was not just Hitler or the Nazi Commandant or the gas chamber … it was about faith in humanity being broken … a realization that there are just these 2 classes - the oppressor and the victim, us and the other, the powerful and the feeble, in different forms and types. And it stays, always, everywhere. And this realization, Ruru, has been unnerving … 

'salad bowl', 'melting pot', 'unity in diversity,’ 'equality', 'pluralism' are concepts that are nice to read in books or intoxicating to give a lecture on, in my classes. In reality, we are a broken, divided, selfish, cruel lot … way worse than the animals as we use brainpower and mind to tactfully, deliberately strategize cruelty!

 But I need to live in hope … a hope that makes one feel warm and loved … maybe … someday !

“What exactly was the difference? He wondered to himself. And who decided which people wore the striped pajamas and which people wore the uniforms?”

Home

I do not want a home that's mine

I do not want a room of my own

I just want to move in and move out

a visitor

a stranger

without any worries about the unclean bed

or the dirty verandah

where I can leave the clogged drain

and the cobweb beside the window

without worrying about

the piled up conversations that had touched the ceiling

I need a place

like this soul in my body

alien and strange

the one that never wants to belong!

Happy Poem

 That butterfly fluttering, strutting, 

moved around us, bringing colour.

Despite the mundane

You and I believed in it,

believed it will bring magic

of togetherness and love.

The strange thing about love is

even when you disagree 

you figure out 

how to dance wildly!