That Last Winter.

Staring through the screen door,I can sense that the weather outside is just the way I want it to be.
One of those weathers-cloudy and breezy,but the atmosphere fosters no rain.
Yellowing little leaves on the drumstick plant hang from the fragile branches,like rivulets of liquid gold.A subtle announcement of the Fall.All at once,I wonder if they would feels as delicate and pretty in my hand,as they looked upon the framework of branches.A few top branches have begun to bare,they jutt out skyward,like scars proclaiming their sacrifice.
Flashes of inspiration hit my subconscious like a million string lights turned on at once.
I decide it's about time I cease the moment and slip on my oldest pair of flip-flops and run out into my garden.Posting myself below a short,shady banana tree I watch my garden grow.
Grow,in it's prime..before window strikes a chord with it.
A large cluster of lilac flowers burst into bloom-the dynamic manifestation of life itself.
A double hued rose stands apart,averting every that may ever pass by-for it is warmth and brightness unfurling in the form of it's petals.
It's then that it dawns on me,the epiphany that dawns on over and over again.
Every event takes place in its own time and right,there is no forcing upon at all.We deceive ourselves that we can change the pages of the unwritten.
Nobody can rob me of this contentment I am brimming with,for it is only mine to control this instant.
The mishaps and daily triffles that momentarily upset me stand no comparison to the sense of belonging I feel.
What's good and essential and lovely is already mine,for have conquered in the mind's eye.

Maniac Moor.

 
An unusual iridescence surrounds the full moon.
A translusence better than butter paper,
We watch it soundlessly, hungry eyes,
Eyes that long for the moonless sky.

Clouds tear away,to hold in sight,
The bridal glow of a newly wed satellite.
She peers down at us,curious eyes.
Eyes meet eyes,a strange premise.

She coyly smiles,through her veil
shifting beams of moonlight,
Eyes that grow still on love newfound,
 Loveliness,she watched us,personified.

 Scarce stars scatter around,wedding lights,
like a lidless jar of glitter spilled.
This night,but,belongs to the moon,
as she outshines our cold despair.

Hang on a minute,now.

Holding on to a fleeting moment of glory is the hardest thing to ever do.
Looking out at a breezy Saturday afternoon,plated in front of me..a feast for my eyes.
I try to hold onto the trickling minutes,hold on to the fleeting butterflies that swish and dwindle past me.
I breathe with the same pace as the breeze,that wavers my unruly hair about,quite carelessly.
This overgrown,weeding garden is exactly the sight my eyes crave for.
It makes me wonder if he dwells in these little facts that we so often fail to take notice of.
His presence is the cool undertone of the breeze today,it's the soundlessness of my days.His presence..is the fall leaves rolling up the slope,against the direction of the wind.
Call me absurd,but I begin to believe he exists in all these negligible forms.I can feel him in the first splatters on drizzle on my face..in the funny feeling of a raindrop that lands in my ear.
I can feel his laughter at the back of my head,when I narrow my eyes and watch the serene sky though my starry scarf that I hold up.The day and the night share steal each other a glance,as I giggle at them.
The silence has a voice.The darkness has a clear demarcation.

For a Hero's smile,With love.

A set of the most perfect dimples that can ever be,smile down at me,as Shah Rukh Khan flashes his near perfect smile from the big screen.That smile.
It instantly brings a smile upon my face.Gotta admit the man's got charm.
The smile of a genuine man.A "braveheart" as the film potrays.The bridge that forms his acqueline nose.
 It also revives childhood memory,shoved to one corner of my mind.
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever" said Wordsworth,I believe?
It's true.Bollywood might produce the most commercial,unrealisitc films mankind has known..but they have a quality,a tendency to make me happy.
The classic girl-meets-boy-fall in love- Romance might seem sterotypical to many,but to me it symolises the fact that they're still making films about the power of love.Why?
Because the audience still wants to believe in it.
The groovy numbers often make me want to dance to their beat and sense of humor is almost appealing.
Very honestly,I din't really look forward to watching a typical Bollywood film.
But that one smile changed my take at it.
I did not go expecting much,or expecting to take a carefully wrapped message home..but I got even more.
I relived the childhood glory of watching a film being a big deal,of being mezmerized by the Hero's smile.
Of wondering if these people really existed..or if these things really ever happened.
Give Bolly flicks a chance,Yo.

Today was a fairytale.

Spheres of luminescent amber glow over our heads,
Shards of moonlight pierce through the slightly overgrown grass.
A unfathomable sweetness surrounds the atmoshpere,
We can feel it grow upon us..sweet as a little yellow songbird at my window on a mellow Sunday morning.
A petite Indian princess trods around in circles,taking along with her,a few yards of golden sequence and fushia silk,a teaspoon of grace and a beautiful smile.
The kind of beauty I dream I could be,sometimes.
 I watch her in all my amazement,the same cloudy eyes I watch the stars and dream with.
Lantern lit is her little,chiseled face that reflects the depths of her momentary joy,it holds all the happiness those liquid brown eyes can.
The evening drapes around us,dark velvet smooth.
Conversation cascades from excited lips and ends only when the night does.

In desperate need of a vacation.

Looking down at my white canvas shoes,no longer white,I felt a wave of uncalled emotion wash upon me.
Vehicles whizzed past me,as I attmepted to walk,having to drag my soggy shoes soaked by the muddy puddles the rain had left behind.
Losing all hope,we found ourselves an auto-rickshaw,in which we squeezed ourselves and Boy,was it a cold day!
To add to it,the spray of the rain greeted us from the sides of the the rick.
We looked like the absolute chaotic mess that school is meant to make you look like.
Greasy wisps of stray hair clung to our sweaty forheads and we took a long sigh,knowing what waited for us.
 Pretty, run-off  rainwater streams in the hues of the rainbow,created by engine oil.
Incessant Haggling with the auto-wallah and a pile of unfinished homework.Long days that grow to haunt us all.
Phew.

In the times of death before dishonour.

 
"What is war?" asked my History teacher,in class,today..looking at us meaningfully.
After a class spent building trenches with school bags,to give the classroom a warlike atmosphere,our laughter had dissipated as we began to discuss the adversities of living through times of war.
"Seventeen and dead.Said one last goodbye to his parents.A young soldier who fought for his nation's pride."
It is so easy,today.To be seventeen and sit in a classroom,talking about war as an absolute waste of time,as they all ended in peace treaties and uneccesary deaths.
To be fortunate enough to study this tragedy of the times gone by as fact as students of History.
To be young enough to build make-belief trenches and rifles with pencil cases and laugh about it.
Oh,what a blessed time to live in.

Prisoners Of Our Active Imaginations.

Sometimes,I wish my longing for love was but a distant dream,instead of the despair it seems to be.
I wish I din't picture sinewy arms wrapping me in an embrace.
Or the warmth of a familiar breath creeping down my spine.
Don't mind me.I just need to get some sleep.