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.

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!



Those rails,
The small gate,
A swing to fling,
That’s all makes her place,
Her owned cage.
She has got used to it since she was a little birdie,
She has started loving it now,
Spending each passing day,
In a fixed routine.
Getting up,
Fluttering her wings inside the cage,
Eating those seeds and then,
Jumping in those small puddles of water,
Which often got filled in the curves of the base.
She has always been a frolicking soul,
Calmness, and composure,
She doesn’t know how these are defined.
However, she knows how to spell ferocity,
She is never a soul to be chained,
To be bound to a single place.
She has that urge,
Of playing with the far spread clouds.
She has the whim,
Of dangling the twigs
Make her music through those rumbling sounds.
What she wanted is to own is that place in the far off sky,
Above those equally ferocious clouds.
She has always known that she could tame them.
Spending each day inside those limiting bars,
Her curiosity trailed towards the higher slope.
With days passing she used to think of the parallel world,
Where the boundaries cease to exist,
Where your world has no pain but glee.
One day she planned and left for a stroll,
Peeking outside that rails of hers,
She got out somehow and flew.
She flew through the heights,
Exploring paths and trails,
Embellishing it all with her music,
Screaming out,
Screaming loud.
She has never thought she could fly that high,
She could cry too loud with her spirits,
And get so near towards the end of the sky.
She flew over the fields,
She flew over the sea,
She took rest near the creek,
Sometimes near the beach.
She picked food from varied places
And savored the delicacies.
What she loved is the vividness of the cultures around,
The age old beliefs,
The folklores,
And those new sounds.
She met few companions,
Who shared with her their stories,
She wrote that in her memory,
And kept their images imprinted on her temples.
She has always believed that,
People often meet in journey multiple times.
As when they are introduced to you,
It’s the preamble to the story that is yet to be derived.
She knew she has to return to the cage again,
As she could not leave her owners in grief,
But she took it all,
Lived it all,
As a respite in brief.

Fire and randomness

Dark clouds all over the city today.
Gloomy weather,
It’s so perfect for her,
She chooses the particular club for the day,
On the top of the hill.
She likes the interior and the sitting,
The walls, all painted in black,
The scrappy plaster coming out of the edges,
Of the bricks that were laid so imperfectly, unfitting.
Yes, she has always liked the imperfections,
The unfinished furniture,
The rugged covers of the couches,
The broken lining of the coffee mug,
The torn corner of the menu board,
The slanted lines of the windows and the doors,
The wrongly placed carpet on the floor,
The patterned, torn shirt of the bartender with his blue hair.
Everything is so her, brimming with randomness.
She sometimes thinks,
The only contribution to the world,
She has made yet, is increasing its entropy,
Which she did out of her whimsical actions and ways.
Nobody will know, as she will never say,
She will never reveal her hidden secrets,
Her thoughts, her props, her figures of the game,
She has always followed her own path,
The path that follows through the dungeons,
Through the mystic lanes.
She takes the same place in the balcony,
Where she get to have the clouds around,
All dressed up in black,
She takes out the pack,
And lights the flame.
She has to manage with this petty matchbox today,
As she has lost her lighter,
She grabbed it up from the streets,
Where she walked earlier to get here.
She stills thinks why are they petrified,
When she walked down the lane,
Is it about the dark covering which she wore?
Or the layers of arts on her skin,
Or about her eyes,
Which encloses a void,
Searching for its own depths.
She puts this thought away,
Lighting up a new flame,
She flicks the stick away,
She finds some strange pleasure in that,
Lighting up the matches and riffling them away.
She feels as she is the one,
Who has the power, the control,
She can burn it all
Or stall it half way,
Picking another one, again and again,
Lighting and riffling.
Some matches go far, some lands up nearby.
Fire is her element.
She has always believed,
Randomness and fire,
Isn’t that a brilliant combination to have?
She smirks as she thinks.
The burning stick has the fire for a fraction of second,
But it burns it all away,
When she flips it through her fingers,
Sometimes it blows off,
Sometimes the stick flails.
Sometimes it lands unburnt,
Sometimes turns to black trails.
Fire and randomness again.
She completes a pack,
She can now feed on the smoke around her,
The smoke she has liberated,
With some remains,
Which the weather has added in rage.
She watches her wrist,
It’s time for the game.
The clouds have cleared her view,
The thunders and lightening,
She can hear them fading far,
Fire and randomness.
She mumbles.
In fraction of seconds,
It’s done,
Just like the riffling of the lit stick,
She smiles now,
As what she sees around are all fiery rumbles.
Fire and randomness.
She has done it all again.

The Statue

He rides a horse,
In the corner of the city’s park,
All worn out dark,
Still, shines with sparks,
For once,
He was a soldier in the armor,
The pride of the battalion,
A price charmer,
He sees the squirrels,
Squandering the dandelions,
He stares the boy on the wheel chair,
Amongst his companions,
He feels relieved that,
He is not alone hampered,
But then empathy trolls him,
In his mind, curbing him clambered,
He gains the rushing blood,
As youth runs for him,
In the marathon kludge,
Though this occurs rarely,
It gives him pleasure,
He feels so young,
Unwrapping his treasures,
Beneath the iron sheath,
He covers a century,
Full of clashes,
And a buried treasury,
He always wonders,
Who will own the four leaved clove,
Who will listen to his saga,
Find his wealth,
Hidden in the dark, beneath him,
Yet to shimmer its glow.

The last night

And it feels like a day before,
When she entered her alter-home lurking behind the door,
Twelve weeks as the letter says, she is going to live in this city,
Create new stories, in the town, city’s vicinity,
She saw from her window, the sky reaching towers,
They made her eyes gleam as her dreams settled down par,
She has always thought of reaching the heights,
Mundane life is never her plight,
She started her first day dressing up in the tinge of orange,
Discovering the land, people, weather, all once strange,
Strange things always carry the mysteries,
The light lurking through the darkness, the sun coming from the wild clouds in spree.
She has an insane way of dealing with the new,
She wants to taste the life at once, brewing it in her favorite stew.
The city is an amalgam of wild shimmers and serene showers,
She loved the way people walk on the lanes, agile gestures reflecting power.
She tried to tune her rhythm with them as day passed,
She sometimes felt like an alien disk hovering across mars.
She traveled alone,
She traveled far,
She traveled with her soul-alike,
She traveled across the altars,
The more see wondered, the more she felt the chills,
That now she lives a half-round away from her native hill,
She walked on her colored pairs and covered the roads stretched far,
In the rains, in the sun, in the signals, across the bars,
Her mind swayed in the rhythmic notes of the classics,
In earplugs sometimes fell when she heard the rushing traffic,
She often loves to hear the sounds of the vehicles, revving down the alley,
The signal’s bell,
The skates board trails,
The cheering performer,
The lofty rope walker,
The chatters of the mob,
The clusters of the swarm,
The shimmering lights down on the distinct road,
The pole star sticking to its place on hold,
The signboards with new marks,
The flower baskets hanging from the barks,
The spokes of the bicycle wheels,
The tapping of the elegant heels,
The masts with high flags,
The skyline, the highest tower in the stretch,
The green grass with yellow flowers,
The misty land with sprinkler showers,
The big black squirrel performing Martian arts,
The merry couples cheering wide playing cards,
The distinct convergence of the sky and the sea,
The harmony, the strings, the boundless words coming aside the tree,
The seagulls flying high,
The wallets turning down dry,
The shops, the bars, the clubs, the streets,
The tinge of new tastes, the savories from different cuisines,
The symphony on the radio,
The poetry on the daily notes,
The smile from people unknown,
The first glass of beer, with the one whom she now owns,
The fall, where you wish to drench high,
The color of zeal, that never let you dry,
The collateral stream of water and frolicking feet,
The ice cracking in the wine glass, the fire cracking in the dree,
The stars shining above them, when she took the first move,
The winds moving past when he subdued,
And she couldn’t stop thinking,
The infinities are bigger then they know,
Sitting in her chair,
Staring the city,
The last night,
In its unusual glow.