Tag: memory

Miss Marauder

Miss Marauder

For Ilauza,
I listen to
Maroon 5’s daylight
as if it were
my first time.
The dawn
is breaking
with the scent
of petrichor lingering
in this twisted atmosphere
which is exactly like
your capricious fidelity.
Because these days
it rains in the night
when the sun
scorches the day.
Things seem to slip
away from its
usual trajectory.
You absconded
with my heart—
the one thing
I couldn’t keep.
And how the last
time I saw you:
you promised me
the faithfulness
of Altivo to Cortez.
That you would be
my today waiting
for ever for
the morrow ahead.
You build a house
of card with the spoils
of love you pillaged
from me. My soul is a
dilapidated fortress
beleaguers by nostalgic
nightmares & bitter-sour
technicolour memories.
I’m trying hard
to contemplate that
ours had been
a beautiful, splendid sight
like a child looking at
a diffusing contrail
for the first time
in awestruck wonder
even when the plane
has already left
far ahead.
I wonder why
time is always
generous to me.
I wish it stole
all the details
of your memory
for itself.
And time flies;
but never heals.

 

Some Nights

Some nights are always long
& some memories always haunt

Some leaves are always green
Some games are always fun

Some people move on
While others wait & wait

Some things always break
While others merely bend

Some tears are out of joy
While others, like mine,
Are always out of pain

Some people die
We watch them leave
While we are doomed to stay

Here’s life
Sometimes I wish I were
A bird that sings in the rain
Patiently waiting for the
Sun.

[Some leaves are always green even in autumn.  And no matter how hard I try to forget you, somewhere the memory of you often lingers like an 8-bit game I could never forget–thrilling, fun and always mesmerizing; but long no more to re-live the experience.  I’m convinced everything ends in the long-run, and some things always break while others merely bend.]

Radio

As far as my memory serves me, the first time I listened to a radio was when I was too little too young to remember anything.  Back then, there were no computers, no cell phones, television was a luxury and only few had owned it.  Our only medium of mass communication was through the radio.  Even though I was born and raised in an urban area, the thrill of radio was omnipresent and its popularity was at the level which none could replace.  We would listen to the traffic police communication, twisted the round button—they’re usually round although with comparative difference in sizes—and surfed channels and stations out of sheer curiosity and enjoyment.  Sometimes we would go to electronic repair shops and picked up broken radios.  Then we would salvage everything that’s not been broken and maybe still be of use.  We were all engineers back then—only that we didn’t know we were.

One of my friends was a specialist when it comes to repairing broken radios.  He usually repaired them easily but those repaired ones usually looked like the organs of some sophisticated machines.  All their outer coverings and intricate designs had been lost during the operation they’d received.  With luck, I could grab one of those repaired ones with two bands—FM & MW.  All of us (me and my friends) envied those who had three bands that could receive international radio stations.

Every day, my father would listen to ‘Thlirvelna’ which is somewhat synonymous with ‘gazing’ or looking at certain things that’s been happening around us, to be precise.  The announcer was usually always a female with soft but firm voice and must be in the wrong side of her forties because her voice was, all the time, lacking exuberance unlike the young RJs who played songs and other entertainment programmes.

One day my father bought a Philips radio having three bands.  It was small but well equipped.  Although the operation of radio was a heuristic no one had difficulty dealing with; our new Philip was somewhat difficult to handle.  Maybe because it had three bands or maybe because it was a foreign made or maybe my father was conned by someone who sold replicas.  I can’t figure it out till today.  One day our house was robbed by a radio aficionado and absconded with our Philips which my father put on top of our red whirlpool fridge which was near the main door.  The burglar must have been desperately in need of a radio since it was the only thing that was stolen.

Time moves on with its usual promptness.  And when I reached middle school, radios were already being replaced by TVs with VCR players and video games that had made my childhood awesome.  Today radio has become obsolete like the typewriter.  It becomes some kind of souvenir that represents the zeitgeist of a particular era.  It has become a matter of antiquity more than a necessity.  Now, as I update my phone’s software, it has no radio anymore.