the long search

When you have nowhere to go, go back to yourself.

The Storm Outside





I stood there just outside the gate and watched the storm beginning to rage. There was a strange sense of anticipation in the air which made me anxious; almost unmindful of the strong wind and the rain to follow.

I looked at the house for a moment and then searched for my cell phone in my jeans pocket.

“Would you open the doors?” I said when she picked up the phone.

“Oh! You are already here?” She asked, a tinge of surprise laced in her voice. She probably was not expecting me so soon.

I reached early, I told myself. All my life, I have been late though. I always had a strong feeling that I should have been born in the ‘50s but it too was delayed. By two decades, I think. Terrible.

“If it’s begun to rain, it must be me at your doors. I am the Rain Man, remember.” My reply smacked of my self-obsession.

I pushed open the gate and reached the porch. She was not there yet. I stood there in front of the main door. The creepers and climbers had grown longer on the wall, almost covering an entire side of the entrance gate. Soon I could feel little drops of rain on my body. Oh! It’s raining, finally. This has been such a long dry spell.

There was no sign of her yet. I stood there, looked up at the evening sky fast turning dark with clouds getting low. The wind was getting stronger, the rain drops bigger. I stood there waiting for her. Several minutes passed by. Several memories came rushing back.

“How long have you been here?” she suddenly appeared from inside the house.


I looked at her for a few moments. I looked at those deep dark eyes. “A little while ago,” I replied.

“Come on in,” she said.

For a second, I wished she had not showed up. It has been an age since I met her last. My yearning to see her, for a moment, appeared more powerful an emotion than that of the joy of meeting her.

I stepped forward leaving the storm raging outside.




I will meet you yet again


I will meet you yet again
How and where? I know not.
Perhaps I will become a
figment of your imagination
and maybe, spreading myself
in a mysterious line
on your canvas,
I will keep gazing at you.
Perhaps I will become a ray
of sunshine, to be
embraced by your colours.
I will paint myself on your canvas
I know not how and where –
but I will meet you for sure.
Maybe I will turn into a spring,
and rub the foaming
drops of water on your body,
and rest my coolness on
your burning skin.
I know nothing else
but that this life
will walk along with me.
When the body perishes,
all perishes;
but the threads of memory
are woven with enduring specks.
I will pick these particles,
weave the threads,
and I will meet you yet again…. Main Tenu Phir Milangi by Amrita Pritam

To Her




Love


I.

Until I loved you,

I wrote verse, drew pictures,

And went out with friends

For walks…

Now that I love you,

Curled like an old mongrel

My life lies content

In you…





Freedom


II.

You planned to tame a swallow, to hold her

In the long summer of your love so that she would forget

Not the raw seasons alone, and homes left behind, but

Also her nature, the urge to fly, and the endless

Pathways of the sky…




To love. To freedom. To women.

To Madhavi Kutty.

To Kamala Das Suraiya. In her words. RIP (March 31, 1934-May 31, 2009)




(Image: Shamim Qureshy)

About this blog

If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, then all possibility of life is destroyed