Smile

What is it that makes you smile

A happy thought, or plain guile?

A smile that carries to your eyes

This smile that tells the truth and lies

Lights up your face, stays awhile.

Is this but a deceptive charm

That every ploy does disarm?

So many smiles, and what a prize

You smile a smile and that is all.

A hundred truths, an act vile

All hidden in your smile

Where my old hopes demise

Your smile holds on, strengthens the ties

You smile a smile, and there I fall!

Haunted

Ever heard of the poetry-form "Sestina"? A sestina consists of thirty-nine lines — six stanzas of six lines each with a three-line concluding stanza.

The feature that distinguishes the sestina is that the words which end the lines in the first stanza are repeated as the end words for the second stanza and so on in a fixed pattern until you have written six stanzas. The same six words appear in the concluding three line stanza — two in each line. I find it a very beautiful form of poetry and this one below is written in the same format.

This is where i was born

Where I was raised

And yet, today I cannot find myself

Part of this world

There is a curtain drawn

Between this life and me.

Is this me, or was that me?

The place where my beliefs were born

I look for someone called myself

Within these walls where I was drawn

The house is dark and so is my world

I wait for the curtains to be raised.

And as these curtains are raised

I look into the mirror and a broken me

I squint to recognize myself

The specs of dust in my world

This is where my smiles were born

Love and I together drawn.

A notebook with a picture drawn

Flaps around to be raised

Into my hands-it was drawn by me

Some hills, a river, a morning sun born

Faded colors, but a living world

Where I cannot see myself.

As I hunt for myself

I see the window, the pane half raised

When I left, were the shutters drawn?

Tomorrow, this will light the world

The window that shows the night to me

Does it tell me how hope is born?

And now that hope is born

I walk the dark garden by myself

Dried flowers on their beds raised

With bent heads they lay beside me

Over my head this rock is drawn

Hiding me from the living world.

As the night deepens and stars are drawn

From my dead tomb my soul is raised

My soul lives on where I was born.

The Great Divide

Between what I want

And what you want from me

I see a great divide.

When you walk away

Into the world

Under the skies

The handsome sun

Looks down unto you

And smiles.

When I walk away

Into the woods

Along the roads

The broken twigs

Look up to me

And cry.

When you sit alone

Thinking of things

That made you sad

Someone to share with

A special someone

Is always there.

When I sit alone

Reminiscing all afternoon

Noone comes along

Just memories

And musings of the heart.

Between what you feel

And what I feel

I see a great divide.

You know this night

And the moonlight

You dance through it

Like a ready kite

A happy world

And that is all.

I know this night

I feel its breeze

But when i walk through it

I feel no ease

All I hear

Is a distant call.

You love to live

I live to live

And that is where I see

Our paths apart

Our hearts apart.

The world is yours

The earth is mine

The flowers are yours

Dewdrops are mine

The moon is yours

But the night is mine.

Between where I am

And where you are

I see a great divide.

Tomorrow

An aching branch

Bent, impregnated

Adorned with flowers

And extraordinary fruits

Pride of an orchard

Cultivated beauty

With banches that reach

Out unto the sky

Reaching far and high

Unmoved by the rains

Unhinged by the winds

And yet in pain

Shadowing a many

Passing crowd

Sheltering little ones

That play around

Tended by none

Nourished by the sun

Watered by monsoons

And muddy sorrows

Rooted to an unknown soil

Aimlessly it hangs on

Waiting for a tomorrow

Filled with promises

When you forget..(Part II)

So, where was I? Yes, the lacuna in the story of my new "robotic" life. The big turn of events that made me discern and perceive life differently. No, I do not exaggerate; neither was I imagining this lesson life now began teaching me. And if, by any chance, it was a figment of my imagination, then I am sure many would agree it was not entirely my fault. I had been trying to figure out a valid explanation for what was happening, but could not- for a long long time.

For, when I now reached the bus stop, (Umbrella in hand, wallet in my bag, money in the wallet) I would find, surprisingly, that the singular bus I was waiting to board was not to arrive for hours. At times, the gods would send down a heavy downpour into the heat of the dusty and potholed Chennai and my umbrella would not open up until it had but ensured that I am drenched. Things around me, with me had begun to breath a life of their own. My sandal must break when I am starting for office; the crow must choose my head to shit upon; and an unaware passenger of an unaware bus must yield to her motion sickness when I am standing near her window.

It was as if there was a plan that began working to undo my planning; a map that was transfiguring my own; a force so great, that try as I might, I could not live with. And this time, it was disconcerting. It was agitating because I knew I could not do much. I stood victimized, scandalized. I was frustrated and my friends were fascinated. And, I earned a new name. "The Queen of Tragedies". It became apparent that Life, if I must quote Shakespeare, was a comedy of errors and more so with me. The ploy of Destiny could not be curbed by my designs and it was time to give up.

When I now forget things, I know it is nature's way of telling me, "You're to get late, come what may". I do not try too hard. I am fine, the way I am. I can live life to the fullest, despite what I forget and what I do not. To me, my absent-mindedness is a way of my life. And what good are you, if you cannot make a few people laugh?

When you forget..

Absent-mindedness is a quality often associated with frivolity, lack of seriousness, irresponsibility and at times, even lethargy. I have come across many a person who would couple it with refractoriness. Let me assure you, however, that absent-mindedness is none of these. It is but a quality that exists in people who enjoy life, who want to live it to the fullest and would not want to waste themselves in the tiny mechanical details of it. I know this remark raises eyebrows, but think about it; what does one achieve by remembering to take his umbrella when going out, or not forgetting to pack his toothbrush to a camp? Nothing, I must say. If anything, one would lose the joys of getting wet in the rain and the fun of cleaning your teeth with the twig. Also, the pain of having to remember things is much greater than what one is subject to when something is forgotten.

I speak in favor of this unfavorable quality because not many of the people who know me would refrain from categorizing me as someone who is prone to forgetting. Stuff ranging from lunch-boxes to pencil erasers in school and umbrellas to handkerchiefs later have gone missing from my life owing to what people would call a wretched habit. I was, I must admit, ashamed of this habit too. To me, it made me different, and somehow little mishaps occurred more with me than they happened to the careful lot. So it had to be me who would not be able to remember her ATM pin and would want to store it in a hidden, password protected location of her cell phone. And some opportune moment of some opportune day, the cell phone would go bust, so it was I who would now be a pauper without money and of course I now had no cell phone to make calls either. Somehow, my library book would be found in the cafeteria and I'd have to shell out 25 bucks to get it back. It was too much, not to forget the fact that I was easily the laughing stock among my friends. And then, I had had it. I decided to do something about my dis-ease. I decided to decide not to forget my decision of deciding to remember things.

And what did I do? I subjected myself to the power of the "memory tools". I began to keep track of what I kept where in a tiny diary. But, oh no, I am prone to forgetting; so I must maintain a backup of this diary somewhere. I copied down all the important numbers, credit card accounts from this tiny dairy into a bigger dairy and locked this big dairy up in my trunk and the key to that trunk in another one. Phew. For my travel, I now took out at least three copies of my tickets. One in my trouser pocket. One in the hand purse. One in my travel bag. I designated a place for everything in my life. The keys go here, my employee card there; My watch stays here and my wallet right beneath it. All in all, I became a part of a map, and followed the directions it gave me, relentlessly and tirelessly until my erstwhile free mind gave up. It was now trained to do what it was trained to do. Nothing could annihilate its new sequence. Now I step out of home and my Mind says to me, "Changed into office shoes. Checked-OK(I've gone out with flip-flops once, so this was added). Shower cap removed. Checked-OK(this doesn't need to be explained, does it?). Watch on left hand, checked-OK. Keys in the hand-purse, checked-OK. Employee card dangling on your neck, check-OK. )". Thus began a life of no mistakes, no follies. Of boredom, monotony and tedium; Of mechanism and contrivance. And suddenly, there was a hiatus.

(To Be Continued.. )

A Strange Day(Haiku Poem)

Haiku poems are becoming very popular these days. The charm of these poems is that they are always short and concise and often express a unique thought or feeling. I have written this Haiku poem in the 5-7-5 pattern; you can figure out how by counting the number of syllables.

A Strange Day

A strange day has come
Everyone on a run
No time to live life

Gardens, parks and lawns
Villages, cities and towns
All in a mad race

They save and they save
They run after tomorrow
Keep nothing for now

Young age but no youth
Roads without destinations
Where are we going?

When comes the old age
There is nothing but money
No joy, only fame

With kids no one plays
With roses no one now sits
Happiness is gone

When there are tears
No one wipes them off for you
No friends any more

There are no long walks
With friends and companions
No jokes to laugh at

No fun in this run
Why are we living like this?
Can someone tell me?

Where are the days old
Of helping hands and kind words?
They seem long gone now

Why not live a life
Enjoy everything nice
Smile and die in peace?