Betty Lou Got a New Pair of Shoes

Betty Lou decided to buy a new pair of shoes,
And while she was walking towards the store,
All she can see were shoes that people wear around,
Black, white, gray, red, pointed, flat, knee-length, round.
She has never noticed them so much before yesterday,
Because her pair was well and good for all the walkaways.
Yesterday, she realized the water seeping through the crevices,
She does remember those crevices from the past summer,
But she doesn’t care for them then,
She doesn’t care for them now as well.
But her feet were almost frozen last night,
When she walked back from some concert site.
It was snowing.
You remember the first snow?
Which melts over as it touches the ground,
It was that snow.
Spreading water all over the streets
Making small puddles of frozen liquid.
She didn’t mean to dip her feet onto them,
But you all know how she walks,
Did she ever see the ground?
She sees people, lights, shops, streets,
She never actually sees what’s beneath her feet.
She kept walking that night,
Stepping into the mud,
In the puddles between the streets,
Clearing some dirt in the trunk of the tree,
In the midst, she thought she couldn’t make it to home,
It’s when she decided that it’s time to buy a new pair of those.
Not next week, not next month, not next year,
But tomorrow,
So, here she was, walking towards the shop in her tattered shoes.
They just feel good from above,
Not really new, but not really torn,
Its secrets are there, talking with the ground.
She doesn’t know, but she feels a sense of belonging to them,
As they have walked along her several miles,
In her unprecedented adventures, wherein no one ever dared to join,
As insanities are not meant for everyone
Its meant for few,
And this tattered pair was then new.
The crevices are the marks of the miles
They have walked together,
The ruggedness is the memory,
Anyways, she thinks,
She had already decided to buy a new pair,
So, let’s not get into that despair.
Let’s focus back on the feet of random strangers
Rushing onto the streets.
Damn sophistication,
Damn modernisation ,
Damn sleek style,
How did they manage to keep it that clean, uptight?
Her shoes are all coated with dust,
And the salt lines from the sea,
It can be a nasty thing for the people around,
But for her it’s the feeling of homeliness, the feeling of glee.
She feels it when they make them sound.
When she taps them hard onto the ground.
Doesn’t matter now,
She has decided to buy something new.
Which can save her from the rains and the melting snow,
Let’s see how they will get along with her in her random walks,
Till she roams around the world,
To capture the last dew drops.



Of dried flowers and wilted leaves

Why everyone searches for the light?
Why we always hope for the sun?
Why the fresh flowers are picked up often?
Why are we asked to smile when filmed?
Why are we asked to write better?
Why are we asked to be better?
Why things have to be better?
Why being sad is not a state?
Why is crying not natural?
Why being raw is being unprepared?
Why are dried flowers and wilted leaves
Not exchanged,
But thrown away?

The Color Blue

They say I am numb,
I cannot react to the things around,
Sad or sound,
Happy or drowned.


They say I am numb,
I don’t have a take on situations,
No stand on my beliefs,
No tussle, no creeds.


They say I am numb,
I didn’t seem like laughing when I do,
My smile is a deception,
My happiness is a truce.


They say I am numb,
I don’t argue,
I don’t debate,
Like a vast ocean contained.


They say I am numb,
How can I explain them?
The truth.
The reality.


They say I am numb,
How can I tell them about the time?
When I took it all in,
When there was no vent to breathe.


They say I am numb,
It was not easy though,
I have coached myself,
I am prepared now.


They say I am numb,
Yes, I am
I don’t want any instability,
To rule my mind.


They say I am numb,
They don’t know,
How much peace I have,
I know it is superficial but it’s around.


They say I am numb,
I know they made me that,
I cannot help it now,
And I won’t complain.

Performer’s Dilemma

Panicking, nauseating, bewildered,
Caught in a loop of acts,
What should he do, how should he act
What should he perform which would please the rest?
Should he narrate a story?
Or should he create something new?
Will they accept it, as it is?
Or they will need something suiting their views.
Should he tell them, should he unveil?
His beliefs, his wishes, his dreams, his wants,
Or should he make jokes about his seemingly real life,
And stick to their predictable demands?
What if they like the character more than him?
What if his feelings, his plights, his emotions are lost,
And all they can see is
Nasty painted laughter and the fake glee?
What if they fail to see?
What he wants to show them behind the scenes,
And they get blown away by those mere made-up unreal plots,
When hidden beneath them is the actual story yet unseen.


Ever wondered why you like few places?
Which make you visit them again and again,
Let it be harsh summers,
Or windy nights of rains.
Ever wondered why few small things are so precious?
That you look for them every moment,
Whether you will be jolting out in excitement,
Or sitting across the room sobbing in pain.
Ever wondered why you get an instant connection with those people so strange?
That you feel longing for them without even knowing their past, their present, their future,
You create a space for them in your thought space, unknowingly,
And keep nurturing them again and again.
You know, our mind is a closely knit pandemonium,
It often looks for similar structures around, let it be places, things, or people insane,
It tries to put everything in, to fit the world in its well-defined frame.
If it fits, bravo! If it doesn’t, it never exists for you in this running chain.


The Canvas

I am not an artist,
But you know
I love to play with colors,
Draw some random patterns,
Throw them around,
Scatter them a bit.


Make some circles out of it,
Sometimes lines too,
But I don’t know how to make them proper,
I just try to move my thoughts around,
With the colors,
And sometimes sound.


Do you know how there are times,
When things need not to be perfect and so?
They just need to scatter randomly,
And turn themselves on their own.
They just have to be there,
To stand distinctly, all alone.


But you know from some days,
I cannot turn them, the way I like it,
The way I want them to breathe with their soul,
The way I want them to unconsciously strike in,
I tried, a number of times but the thing that is left,
Is nothing but a gray slate, all dirty, all messed.


The colors get mixed and get lost,
I could not differentiate between a red flower and the grass,
It’s just an amalgam of colors in the end,
Which is strange and dull, like rough sand.
Maybe its stale now.
It’s not the fault of colors.


Often you get a wrong slate,
And put efforts to bring out sanity in the end,
But you know what, circles are everywhere.
And closures are just like snares,
Let’s just toss it in the bin this time,
A new canvas is all, that it takes now, to build a new shrine.



I saw a dream again.
I got a big house
Looking through the ocean and the endless sky,
There is sunshine all over.
There is a car which comes to my place,
And I see numerous faces coming out,
To my world, to live with me
In my place which will become a home now.
There are so many people in the car,
Ones whom I met years ago,
And spent cheerful days,
Which were remembered forever.
There are people who graduated with me,
Bearing those years of struggle,
With laughter and giggles,
Scribing the moments of a lifetime.
There are faces which I loved once,
But they are lost as I walked away,
Walked away further in life,
And snubbed the moments we had together.
But now, they are together with me,
In my big home, which has sunshine,
Coming right from all the big glass windows,
Enlightening each doorway and each corner.
We all are now heading towards a garden,
It is not mine but of someone who is familiar,
Sitting there, we are making art,
An art which we have forgotten long before.
Gathering philosophies from the butterflies,
Roaming around in the air filled with the mystic smell,
A smell of forgotten freshness,
We are creating something new, something of our own.
Our ideas are not stale this time,
They are not compressed,
Everything is free,
Our minds, our souls, our bodies.
There is a water stream,
Flowing in the corner,
We are drinking and making art together,
Ecstasy seems to be alive now.
We are making art together on a sunny day,
With sunshine enlightening our heads and the canvas,
And our free-will enlightening our inner self.
Everything is too bright and too good to be true.
The art we ended up is flawless,
Unlike us,
But it’s all too good to be true.
And then I wake up in reality in solitude.


The Streets

The streets in which I travel these days,
Have rushing bodies on either side,
I see faces, I see limbs, all the same,
But I don’t see any human soul,
Which is walking without an aim.
I remember us, doing that often,
Walking in random lanes,
Picking up those abrupt games,
Chasing the squirrels and those birds,
Trying to recite sign boards, their strange names.
I remember us, walking so far,
Away from the mainland, for several hours,
Were we ever tired? I wasn’t, were you?
We rarely settled down for those flashy lights,
While aiming for the sand, the ocean, and the reflecting hue.
I remember us, talking so loud,
Was it because of the plugged earphones?
Or was it the ecstasy pouring out?
Screaming when the refrain comes,
Getting lost in the verse wherein daunts the doubt.
I remember us, leaning against the lamp post,
Watching the sporadic lights over signals,
Wishing that the count never ends,
Resting upon each other, we used to whisper,
Will the time stand still in our frames?
I remember us, sitting on the grass,
Talking about stars and their weird names,
Connecting those constellations, pointing out to infinity,
And making a few of our own,
Telling ourselves made up lies, proving it with sanguinity.
I remember it all while pacing through these paths,
Which now seems the way as they see it,
Spontaneity is not my forte these days,
Maybe, I have embraced a cycle, a pattern like them.
But certainly, I doubt its continuity. It won’t stay!


Suppressed Cries

7 am tolls.
Oh, it’s another morning.
Is it?


How will you know?


Brush your teeth,
Gather your covers,
Dress up,
Show a smiling face to the mirror,
See yourself.
Are you conscious?


Welcome to another day.
All laced up,
Following the track,
Without any variation,
Without any change,
Like it was drawn,
Back there in times.


Take a glimpse of your social life,
Meeting persons,


Staring at veils,
Multiple layers.


Share with them your stories,
Are they real?
Is it what it is?


Connecting with screens.
Living with its elements.


Swirl around,
And round.
Among a thousand of people,
Talk work,
Talk money,
Talk love,
Talk lust,
Talk fantasies,
Talk dreams,
Talk gossips,
Talk stories,
Are they real?
Or, is it what it needs to be?


Hearing their stories,
Blurting them yours,
Do you get them?
Do they get you?


Calling it a talk,
Saying it a moment,
Did you ever really go through?


Roam around,
As you state it,


‘At last peace.’
‘Lived the moment.’
‘At cloud nine’
Did you?
Are you?


‘Living your dreams.’
‘Following your passion.’
Aren’t they too heavy for a phrase?
Yes, my grace.


Wandering all day,
Scrolling all night.


Does it ring any bell to you?


Oh, yes,
Another task pending in a while,
Another list to go through riled,
Another state needs to be changed,
Another level needs to be managed.


12 am.
Staring your face on the screen again,
Mirror this time.
Oh, you have got nothing in your eyes,
Neither hay nor straw
But yes, a lot more behind.
A hidden cry.


To the mountains

I want to go back to the mountains,
This city eats me up,
I cannot feel my own soul,
I cannot feel my own breath,
The sounds of chaos turns me deaf,
The winds of commotion take away my soul.


I want to go back to the mountains,
Far away from those people stuck in cyclic tracks,
Towards those souls which soothe me,
Pacify me with their serenity,
With their depths and profoundness
Far away from monotony, boredom, dullness.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To hear my own voice,
Locked in those chambers struggling to set free,
I want to hear it echoing back from the peaks,
Ringing back in my ears,
Making me realize that I am alive


I want to go back to the mountains
To talk to myself,
To tell myself that bounds, pain, expectations
Are mere realities that the whole world is suffering from,
Some things which are meant to be there
To add flavor to the savory termed as life.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To scream out loud,
To tell the world what I hide in my depths
To open up all my secrets,
To tell all my stories,
To the winds, the clouds and the streams.


I want to go back to the mountains,
Because I am spending sleepless nights,
I fall asleep and abruptly wake up to nothingness,
To emptiness filled with insecurities,
Of times that have passed
And the times that are yet to come.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To be a child again,
To wave my legs hanging down from the cliff,
To enjoy and frolic around the clouds,
To face my head towards the winds,
And let my hair flow with them towards infinity.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To listen to the sound of the winds,
And the music that nature crafts for me,
To lie down and watch the sky grow
As dark as ever,
And the fireflies as bright as ever.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To feel the mist over my skin,
To feel the congregation of clouds,
Coming to me, embracing me all over,
Fathoming what’s within me,
And landing me in a place where peace lives.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To encapsulate it all which is visible to the eyes,
Either in my words or in my canvas,
To sing them my symphonies,
Symphonies which includes them.
Symphonies which includes me.


I want to go back to the mountains,
To just be there for years, for centuries, and for ages to come
And never come back,
To be there at those peaks,
To shine with the sun rising high,
To shine with the moon and the stars.


I just want to.