A F0rTuiT0uS scRipT

A dream was doled out

cloaked in awe,

festooned with ribbons

of hope tied in bow.

Coy smiles topped with a sheepish ‘hi’

yarned a fib

in you and I.

 

Greetings dipped in flavoured hue;

palette splattered with

red, green, blue.

Day-by-day our names got etched

on benches we sat

and portraits we sketched.

Whispers, whims, wails and winks,

tears and chuckles

spilled in chinks.

 

Old snaps lie drenched with yen;

diaries chatter with ink in pen

of a glossy morrow

and perky tomorrow.

White coat and stetho-

both in place,

a rose in bun

and poise in pace.

 

A dream was doled out

cloaked in awe,

that now smells ripe,

rescued from raw.

So here I scribble my train of thoughts

with memories that ebb

and join the dots.

AN ECHO

I sail on waves;

my apparition follows.

Unstuck, unscathed

wild in chase.

 

Voice beset,

mirrors, beget.

Intent in sight,

ahead and behind;

races and sweeps

across my mind.

Falters, totters,

lurches and slips.

Upon inflicts a score of clips.

Brushes past and loops in hitches;

dips and drowns

and floats atop hitches.

The echo deepens,

frozen in frost;

hunts me down when

dazed and lost.

Smoke of chagrin melts away;

unveils the wall

bathed in trance.

The echo deepens,

frozen in frost;

takes a stance,

dead on chance.

It whacks and strikes

and returns to me.

An echo so deafening;

it coalesces into me.

THE FACADE

Borrowed skin,
Concocted grin.
Swagger in gait, 
A dainty estate.
Listless ways dot the pace
of man who feigns a beckoning face.

He dreams unsure of
aisle obscure;
entrapped in fame,
drinks allure.
Shrunken shimmers
plated with gold
blind the eyes
pretence that hold.
Flavoured breath flitted from crowd,
creeps and peeps;
shallow yet proud.

Sits inside 
a fidgety soul
astir with lies
and half-baked smiles;
wells with tears
that never were shed
for duties undone
and promises with held.

DANCE OF DESTINY : Deep inside... where 'I' reside

She swivels and moves and takes a turn;

holds my hand and makes me learn.

She takes a dip and shoots a glance;

thaws a chill

wrapped in dance.

Unseen

Amiss

Unacclaimed,

A fortune so humble and yet unnamed.

An azure dissolves

in ocean blue;

deserts the ripples

without a clue.

Tears, sweeps, delves

into pockets unearthed,

chimes unheard.

Forgotten hues and unbound shades

knitted into moods,

twirled into braids.

She leads the way and plunges in,

Eyes so wise with a chiseled chin;

stirs the light out of dim.

Uncanny, unflinching fire

set ablaze amidst heart’s desire

that gleams, glows, erupts in time

an ingenious flow

rolled in rhyme.

She shovels a reef out of den;

enthrals with smile

spills a gem.

Gem - not one - but many a count,

lay in rest in glinting amount.

Unflappable

Impeccable

depth so very immeasurable.

Aroused from slumber;

sprung to life.

Sneaks in glory;

triumphant in strife.

She sings a note;

sombre in tone.

Beckons a boat;

from shore unknown.

Then sways a little

and thrusts and heaves

above the rustle, into the breeze;

against the clutter, into the ease.

Sailing across a hundred realm,

I treasure :

a pearl in fist, a flattering beam!

 

 

 

A LEAF FROM AUTUMN...

May be because it is my birth month or may be because it marks the ‘zenith’ of the year on the astrological wheel, ‘October in Ranchi’ stands apart from the rest of the calendar in more ways than one...and it is only befitting that I sit down with my lappy this evening, trying to squeeze out the colourful pearls of memories from the chambers of my heart that are still awash with the most precious moments I have lived.

Autumn...yeah...autumn doesn’t manifest itself anywhere as exquisitely as it does in my beloved Ranchi... Needless to say, the utter ecstacy of the crisp dawns, followed by the summery noons stays with you like the smell of an English rose. The evening breeze has a melliifluous ring to it as the notes of anticipation waft through the air - anticipation of a rebirth - of the entire milieu sprouting back to life in the coming months.

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THE LEAGUE

Shah Rukh Khan is a workaholic. My Dad is another, albeit he is no King Khan. And my degree of reverence for both touches an inexplicable level. These are people who are almost married to their work. The always-so-dedicated lady of the house might turn into a nagging figure, the kids might kick up a fuss... and the nosy neighbours might hold a grudge or two, occasionally. But the bottom-lineis : there is no picture as remarkably inspirational as that of a man consumed by his work. Such perceptive minds are shrouded by a whiff of mystery. I have always been intrigued by what keeps these men going. And when I say ‘going’, it really means working 28 hours a day! This blog is born more out of my attempt to get an inch closer to the ‘engine’ that drives them.

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