Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

Enter Like the moment between sleeping and waking, the memories dance across Red mosaics on a blue sky Lying there, the sun warming the cheek, and a soft breeze. In the distance, a green hill Close your eyes, the wind is coming in from the sea, smell the seaweed taste the salt Open the doors you closed before At seven, under a tree the lazy afternoons of long back, like sand in small palms Look up, see the leaves and the rays pouring in Open your eyes, the flood of thoughts the tranced moonbeams bringing moments Reach out, grab the past into the present And him, on the terrace on a winter's day with cups of tea Hands in hair Gently, the love And the eagle on the tree screeching, spreading its wings Flying away Open your eyes, The gate lets you in But the gate also lets you out The purple waves lash against the froth of now And they shine, the colours the reds, the blues, the greens They are here, for now. Let them remain in the palette merging with oil and the painting will form it

On the Tree I read this article today about how people don't necessarily have six degrees of seperation between them. It said the possibility of knowing someone who might know someone you know is probably after you pass the 97th person. All these figures come from months of research. Well, maybe they are right. But I wish I could ask them to live where I do, a thriving metropolis, and they'll realise like me, that we're not connected by six degrees of seperation, but by one. In such a big city, everyone seems to know everyone else. It is very easy to get your info on someone if you have your sources well spaced out. A colleague of mine not only knows everything about the man I've been in love with. He also knows my ex bf. Makes me feel exposed, naked, so predictable. Half the people I know, somehow know the other half I know. It's freaky and strange. Wherever you go, you're bound to bump into someone you happen to know, without your knowing. Which as its flipsid

January Again The rivers are freezing, And soon the routes to the farm will be cut off, divided between ice and soil The animals are huddling in the barn. torn between chill and warmth The farmer's wife is heating a bowl of soup, heating it till it boils, boils over, steam and vapor Watching the children staring with greedy eyes. He sits with them every day as they discuss the snowstorm and the wind the deaths and the darkness It will be here soon, the land he never saw before White shades, stars in numb air. Before the melting, the droplets dripping from the leaves And feeding the new ones with milk bottles The roads to the farm will grow wild heather New roads replacing the old ones. But now, look They sit near the fire Fearing the end Knowing, it's just a storm and the sun is just a month ahead.

Slam Dunkin' Chipmunkin' I'm fed up. I know I love animals, always have. Since childhood, I've reared dogs, cats, sparrows, toads, lizards. But this is too much. Three days back, I had an uninvited guest coming to my house. It still hasn't left. I'm calling it FIFA, just because I think it came at an appropriate time. Also because there's so much of the game in it. I first thought it was a rat. I can't stand rats, I find them ugly and diseased. But it wasn't a rat. It was a squirrel, a tiny ball of fur with a bushy tail. I stay on the top floor of my building, much above the trees. It had to choose to climb all the way up, using the pipes, and enter my bathroom through the gap between two glass panes. Why me? At first I thought it was cute. Till it decided not to leave. And not get scared of me anymore. I've left all the windows open for three days, left it alone, hoping it'll need its privacy to leave. But I think it doesn't want to any

Cycles The rain falls on the window Moves upward towards the sun And comes back to the window, the same shape, the same sound, at a different time Those who left are back in phone conversations Will stay in the voices of the head, in the lamp shadows of the room and leave, and come back at a different time The ones who were here with footholds in the mud with palms holding the heart are leaving, slowly, towards silences, towards beginnings towards the land of the sun, for the time being, till a different time.