At the back of my head

That little alley at the back of my mind, which leads to those hushed regions with invisible boundaries, that I don't want people to see, hear or even know are there. It's secret and comfortable and absolutely private. I store my my favourite and most relished memories thoughts. Thoughts of my least known desires and fears; insecurities.

There, when I choose, I can find my little chits of happiness folded and scattered here and there, and I open it and peruse it at will. My mind is like a little room of my favourite colours. Black, red, green and white.....and hues and shades of purple and mauve, lilac and violets......... It will have my thoughts swirling around like rings of vapour, smoky and vibrant. I have people entering and exiting at my, only my, will. The blackest and reddest parts of my mind are open to only people like my very close friends (they know who they are). The only time when anyone else is let in here is when I develop an ardent desire to shock them with these aspects of me.

My mind's room open to a neat room which anyone can see; it is deviously deceptive. On further observation you can see a slight sootiness covering those shaded corners. My room/mind is essentially calm and peaceful, with rare eruptions of thunder. It breathes softly at intervals, and letting in puffs of thoughts from leaky corners. Sometimes there are people in there with me, and sometimes we're alone, my music and I. My room is painted,I admit, in pretentious psychedelia . Sometimes there are little imps resembling The Beatles. There are intoxicating smells. Fragrances, beautiful and sinful, which make their home in the sniffer.

My obsessions roam these territories,though they don't know they're there. They please and shock me in turns. They unknowingly tread the sacred domains and I hear their footfall from my corner. They leave only when I forget them.

My room is also my library. Everything I read , am reading and will read snugly await my attention. My music of yesteryears and my own waft in the air. Art, that I witness and envision leap from wall to waltzing to the enveloping music.

This is my paradise, full of life and sunshine; my wilderness; my pleasure dome.

Tiny details here and there

Zeroing in on the little details of life, I find silent words, sounds, music, scenes, colours, scents and dreams that go largely unnoticed; ignored into oblivion. I have the choice of either noticing them or leaving them virgin and unexplored. I choose to wander into these slight territories of secrecy.

Images spark and I see their intricate woodworks chiseled delicately into their place. The beauty of anything beautiful ever seen is that it is studded with tender details like, the sheen on a statue, the glitter on a diamond and the fire in sunshine.

I can recall once having absorbed a particularly cherished detail. While inhaling the sweetness of a flower; I forget which; I happened to accidentally notice a tiny droplet of nectar clinging to the base of the flower. I happily licked it and tasted it on a minute area on my tongue. It still had flavour; in spite of the minuscule amount.

Some of the things that we leave behind are just some stone unturned. Something missed due to carelessness or hurry. Pity plays its naughty game on me when I find people missing the intricacies in life. How these individuals do in life without the small flourish of detail, I fail to comprehend.

Something tells me, however, that the ones who are meant to see, do see and enjoy. Their pores are receptive to the most undetectable of all sensations. They detect the most hidden of all visions, melodies, fragrances, tastes and touches. They feel the touch of heaven in bright snow. They feel the peace in the notes of a violin. Most of all, however, they feel themselves particle by particle and, thus are in completely harmony with themselves. J

Waves Of Sorrow

I burnt me,

In my scorching light,

Of the night,

In my home to be.

My expanding sea,

Of serenity,

Is splayed beyond for eternity,

Yet I'm washed ashore,

Before my door,

By my waves of sorrow.

MY sight atwinkle,

With hopes and dreams,

Sailing through my drying streams,

But salts of pain sprinkle,

Me with hardness of reality,

They are my truth and verity.

I feel the coarse severity,

As I watch my waves of sorrow.

Candles i light,

In my oft trodden way,

My sun refuses to stay,

And my moon is never bright.

Though my stars watch over me,

And smile with unity,

Trying hard to sooth me,

I feel my waves of sorrow.

Down below the surface,

My flesh is raw and tender,

Unwillingly I surrender,

To the pervading harshness,

Of what life has to offer.

Cloistered forever,

And waiting for the summer,

Splashed by the waves of sorrow.

Kolkata

Cracked pavements,

With etched dreams,

Yellow leaves lying,

Scattered on them;

A typical Kolkata.

Kolkata...

A city of times,

When it was not it’s own,

Of times when it was trampled,

A city through which,

The hot fluids,

Of revolution rushed.

A city,

Of times hungered,

And pained.

A city…

Which is touched with,

Numerous intellects,

Far superior than ever imagined.

A city…

A haven for the birth

Of those men

Who had hot blood

And warm hearts.

A city of tram bells,

And rickshaws,

Drawn over cobbled roads.

A city which sleeps.

A city languid,

Yet vital,

And invigorated.

A city…

Which believes,

In the power,

Of the pen,

Yet unfalteringly hoists,

The weapons of war,

On nation’s call.

A city…

Of ancient,

And untouched,

Inheritance,

Relics of the past,

Colonial and native.

Wild minds,

Molded and carved,

Into rebellion,

Of a kind.

A city…

Of vermillion women,

Who leave ruddy,

Footprints along the paths.

Women with doe eyes,

And rose petal lips.

A city…

Of early morning birds,

Of sleepy visions.

A city…

Of sanguine life…

Of fond hearts…

Of love.

The Ageless Tryst

Beyond the falcony cliff,
There slept a crystal sea,
Dipped down beyond the frowning rocks,
Into the earthy concave of water.
Swimming with fragrant sea waves,
And flashing on the sand.

Droning to the mountains,
The mountains, her lover,
Speaking words of comfort,
And whispering melody.
She closes her eyes, to sweep back,
To find unbound lores,
From her silent depths.
Then she comes surging back,
With talking songs to unfurl.

In return for her favour,
The mountains, the mighty lord,
To his beloved speaks,
Of his gentle sages,
And their worshipped wisdom.
Sighing upon her fluidity,
He breathes her vapours in,
Bringing her to his dense self,
As she laced him with her ice.

The winking silver peaks,
Laid bare below the sun,
To bask in its glory,
Glimmering with little sparks of fire.
His steep solemnity pays homage,
To the blazing sphere of life,
Offering his icy jewels,
For heaven’s kind acceptance,
Of his lady ether.

From there she drizzles and storms,
In rage ‘cause of her distance from her lover.
She rains into her pristine domain the sea,
Flowing into the calm stretches beyond.
From the seven heavens she brings,
Tales of serenity and peace.
Spreads them along her way meant for the,
Viscous search for her beloved,
To inform him of her flighty adventures.

In peace, wisdom and serenity,
They survive the time.
They chant youthfully of their years,
On earth spent in beauty.
Of anger, rage and sorrow neither spoke,
Nor leave any tell-tale imprints, did they.