The Red Bangles

The tiny driblets
of the perturbed rain
cohered to the serene window,
revered it's placid opacity too.

The gust draped him with
a frisson of the yesteryear,
(entombed memories!)
when the red bangles
clinked from the
untouched manuscript of love.

V@@S...

-from the Red Bangles and other stories.

I don't love,
I don't hate;
I observe.

I don't succeed,
I don't fail;
I learn.

I don't give,
I don't take;
I take care of.

I don't reach,
I don't find;
I walk.

I am not a noun,
I am not a pronoun;
I am a verb.

I don't belong to a state, country or continent.
I am energy and the universe is my only abode.

X- You read a lot!
Y- Sometimes, I prefer being read too.

Sweetheart, the only thing is, brain doesn't come with any pain receptors. It feels no pain. Hence, I choose brain.

Invest in memories.
When you will be old and grey,
You'll have a lot of stories to tell.

Loneliness is elusive but Solitude is substantive.

He loved, he lived.
It was the mask that did the magic.
Meandering memories were mapped in the heart.

***
Ah my love!
Little did you know,
All he could have given in return is anything.
Yet, he chose to give nothing but a silent promise..
An identity lost, agonies camouflaged!

V@@S..

Inside the tomb,
You're my words and I am your poetries;
You are this body and I am attachments;
You're that aroma and I am those memories;
You, that lovely dark death and I am salvation.

Inside the tomb,
I am you and you're me..

In a lonely winter evening, when you're not around, the breeze breaks into that little space of numbness in me.
Your memories allure me to go after the aromatic dusk, drop a few pebbles into the pond & to silently watch over the ripples ruffling and setting ashore.
In a lonely winter evening, when you're not around, my eyes look for the missing palettes of the ebon-arch horizon over the golden paddy fields, railing the shadows of the tinctured clouds neath the argent moon.
In a lonely winter evening, when you're not around, I wander before the eternal euphony of the enigmatic flute coming from the distant mound. The perfumes of the jasmine from the woods beguiles me of you.

In a lonely winter evening, when you're not around, the night offers me of oddments dark. I close my eyes, folded palpebras drape me in.

I dream of a 'formless existence' of non-dimensional measures...

(Year-2008
Place-a remote village in the foothills of a mountain.
Time-a lonely winter evening.)

Write for yourself. Write for the solitude that has been accommodating you since eons. Write for those nights when you were awake. Write for the 'nothings', that often widened your lips when nobody was around. Write for the one, who loved you. Write for the one, who betrayed you too. Write for a friend. Write for a foe. Write for someone, who doesn't even know, whom you are writing it for. Write for the marigolds. Write for the dew drops. Write for innocence. Write for love. Sometimes, do write without a purpose.

Maybe you don't know who is reading you, but it's possible that someone is reading you, thinking about you and laughing all alone and whispering silently, "This guy is insane, maybe a little or more like me"..

V@@S...

I know you won't read this. I know, you won't even know that I have written this for you neither I will let you know too.
See these stubborn words! They keep me awake whole night, murmur in my ear and enhance the density of my loneliness.

You don't write much these days, neither do I. But in common, we believe that Poetries are colourless with a purpose and tonight, I prefer solitude over love.

V@@S..

Poetry

The night was wild.
They both, buried a little silence each
from the unread pages,
where, poetry was an offspring
of the abandoned words..

Sometimes, the answers you get are not the answers you want!

She: Who are you?
He: I am energy!

And she opened the door.

One who writes, frames his/her fate with help of words and living by/with/amongst words could sometimes be lethal too.

The subconscious trains the mind which is prepared and receptive. We have come here with an abstract note of life in our hand and a goal to accomplish. The goal is to stay happy and feel accomplished.

I was privileged to have touched by this beautiful soul by her pain, agonies and her words. She was simple, shy yet wonderful. She lived with strong morals of faith and spiritualism and touched as many souls as she can by love and compassion.

In a cold winter night, when death confronted her, she was brave and wise to change way and join this nomad to walk towards the island of happiness. (Ensured, happiness for eight years!)

She had never expected anything from anyone. That was the key to her happiness. Defective hearts are often the most beautiful ones. Happiness and love always demands more spaces and she painfully yet successfully concealed much in her heart and it stopped beating.

She was a poetess, well published and adored. Her shyness prevented her to seek attention. After all, she was a happy introvert.

We both wrote about happiness and pain, not about each other. But, she had this last wish that I write something about her to the world and express her sincere gratitude to anyone and everyone, directly or indirectly who all coexisted with her in thoughts, feelings or reality, hence this.

No expectations of love, sympathy, RIP or help intended. This is what, she wanted the world to know about her when she is gone.

Gratitude!!

Subtracting reality from memories won't be easy. It's not as easy as writing a poem either. As I see you in this slowly blooming flower and go though the manuscript of the past, I hear the words murmur about her innocence. The void of incompleteness in "Us" won't ever be occupied by anything less than "You". The one who starves, slowly learns how to starve. We too will learn how to hover one day soon.

I die a little everyday

I die a little everyday, passing by your garden and watching the dry leaves falling apart.

I die a little every night, finding darkness engrossing every atoms of my existence.

I die a little every second, when my head searches for your lap only to find your part of the sofa empty for ever.

I die a little every moment, when the kid asks about you and I fail to answer.

I die a little every time I write a poem only to realize that you're not going to read them again.

Sweetheart, I shall thus keep on dying day by day, until I die one day and get freed from your memories for ever.

Let's fight one more time

Let's fight one more time; not for the words not for the world either.
I shall let You fight for Your share of happiness and let me fight for my share of love.

I shall let you rest and you'll let me paint your toe nails and wait until you wake up with a smile.
I won't make the bedroom filthy ever and shall cook the best you prefer. 
Let me make this fair one last time.

Let me place your hands in mine and feel that I am loved.
Let me unfurl your hairs one last time to feel the aromas of love.
Let me have you in my arms and thank the almighty a million more times.
Let me..Will you?

Sweetheart, will you?

I

I am not the job I do, I have merely a 10 hours job and hours of solitude.
I often go jobless to show reverence to my freedom.
I am not what I always speak, It depends upon people and places. Often I speak to silhouettes and I don't take help of words.
I am not what I wear, my Soul is naked and burning since eons, mostly, it's draped by a thick layer of nothingness.
I am not what you saw me eat, there is a hunger for happiness too. I devour the truth, not just foods.
I am not exactly how you perceive an image of mine.

But, if you still judge me by the aforesaid criteria then biologically, I don't exist at all.

Your humility will often be mistaken as your inefficacy! Stay calm and admit that a part of earth will always remain dark even under the mighty sun!
(And for all the wisdom seekers out there, a part of earth remains always bright irrespective of it being indefatigably kinetic.)

Freedom

Olivine: Bubu, what is freedom?

Bubu: Knowing that your exams are nearer and still willing to play with me all the times is Freedom for you.

Olivine: Say something else pls.

Bubu: Listen then,
Freedom is not just a choice, it's a priority.
Freedom is not just to learn, freedom is to unlearn as well.
Freedom is not always who you live without, freedom is to live with memories of people as well.
Freedom is not just to act, freedom is to observe as well.
Freedom is not just to talk, freedom is to listen as well.

Freedom is not just to escape from imprisonment to get freed, it's rather to stay imprisoned having the cognizance of the consequences well in your mind too.

Olivine: Bubu, what is "Freedom of speech"?
Bubu: Are you done with your homework honey?

(.)

When
He 
became 
silent,
the
Night
had
a
lot
to
Speak

Like concrete and rubber..

Let's smile.
Let's pretend one more time
that home is still home
with you, me and some emptiness.

Let's smile.
Let the walls, wound and memories in this home know,
that we are still the same, made up of concrete and rubber both.
The roads are dark and frozen, honey.
We have to endure the summer, winter and rain,
together,
like concrete and rubber,
for ever
and ever.

Death

"Death" is just another dimension, a different frame of reference where the energy particles are more subtle. It's really difficult to agree that death is a mere antonyms of life, rather it's life in a different form.
#bemusedmuse

Success

When I start to work every morning, I have questions in my mind. I more often don't have the answers. Sometimes, I do have a plan and most of the times, I don't.. I try, I fail. I try and I fail more embarrassingly. I fail to give my hundred percent many times. Some days, people are happy with my work and some days, they are not.

After a long tiring day, when I go to bed, I think, whether this life is worth living? I survive the chaos of thoughts till morning. In hope of some miracles, I convince my own stubborn self to live this one freaking day.

I fail, but I don't want to run away from that. I am slow, but I have hardly ever stopped.
Death intimidates me in the night, but the willingness to live through it emerges as a winner every single time. I think, that's success for me.

When a few successful people asked me about success, I had to say, to survive is no less than being successful. I feel that I am successful, when, every morning I wake up and find myself pretty much alive on my bed. That's routinely miraculous and that's what makes me successful.

(.)

The aromas of your
face, hair and skin
are so little fugacious
unlike You.

Since you chose to depart;
I had to conceal
those intractable
agonies of emptiness
picking myself up
bit by bit,
piece by piece,
day by day.

Ah! my love!
Little did you know,
solitude no longer mollifies this
wayworn nomad;
and here,
I move around
your memories immured in the
coffee cups,
sinful nights
and in the moments love made
when the night and senses
were all asleep.

V@@S..

Questions and Answers.

Questions are more powerful than answers. They help you with uncertainties. They teach you to wait. They save your life.

Is life worth living? Could be yes, could be no.
While waiting for the answers, tonight becomes tomorrow morning. Here's how the wait, the uncertainty helps..

Who knows, the questions may not be the same tomorrow or day after..