Tag: nostalgia

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.

 

For Koppy

How I wish I could fly.
Red bull won’t give me wings,
Instead it would make me
burn the midnight oil,
And my mind would wonder wide & wild,
Searching for your fragrance that lingers
lucidly elusive, in my heart.
The saddest thing in this
moody monsoon is the fact that
you are not with me
to tame this hazy madness,
Of longing and loneliness.
But Koppy, I’ve sent my kisses,
I hope the wind, would carry it
to you, where they always belong.

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.]

Shelby

How do they name
a story that ends
before its prologue?
Perhaps if there
ever were, ours
would be one
of those stories—
of ephemeral ecstasies
& unquenched desires.
Sometimes in retrospect,
I regret the chances
I didn’t take.  The
dares I didn’t have
the courage to dare.
That place in Ai at KK,
where once I held
your hands & we
gazed at the stars
that were like the
freckles on your
snow-white face
in vast endless
sky above us.
I wished I would be
entrapped in that
moment for ever.
Now things often
break through
& apart. It rains
here today & the scroll
I see reads ‘who dares wins’
as if to only remind
me I’ve always been
a loser all my life.
Wherever you are
I hope you are happy.
I wish you would
find a way to reduce
the unforgiving masses
that make you
feel self-abased.  But
just remember I
still care less until now.
And you are
the best story
I could never write.
Cos you make me feel like
I could hit a jackpot
with coke’s cap.
I think I’m mad
as I always have been.

 

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.  & 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.

But still I’m trying 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.

 

 

The Bicycle Boy

It was the dog days of summer, and only God knew why I was there in the street that day.  The winter was entirely unremarkable that year, we stayed indoor for most part of that particular chilly season.  I can’t remember which year—the date or the time except that it was an afternoon when most of the kids (like us) went outside to play and have fun.  But it’s my street—where I was the day I met you, and like Robin in Sherwood forest, no other kids could pass without an exchange of a word or two with me.  Maybe I had the feeling of being a boss because my house was only few steps away.  Then, like bandit’s luck, a lanky kid from ‘vengthlang’ was riding a brand new bicycle and pedalled toward me.  I took the chance and let him halted like they do at the check gates as if some sort of taxes or donations were to be levied.  Then with an authoritative tone, I insisted he let me test his bicycle.  But it was like trying to snatch a candy from a chid, he timorously refused to let go the steering and tongue-tightly muttered something like ‘Dad says me ride only’.

I don’t know how to expatiate it in terms of a more clearer picture; but that was how I break the ice with him.  Now, it’s been almost thirteen years since the street bonded us with an awkward introduction, which is clearly one of the few memorable moments of my life.

Ah! Life goes on chasing memories.  Today, I am reminded of the times we met an accident and convinced ourselves that God forbade us to gamble, and another time when I was unconscious due to the crash that rang the bell of my no-two-wheeler curfew.  When I regained my consciousness, your voice was the first I heard.  It was one helluva reassuring voice.

I am feeling a bit nostalgic right now.  But I have nothing more to retrospect—intentionally.  Because some memories are way too precious to scribble them down.  And I may not divulge them except that one time when you told the most well-to-do family of our locality that their colony was the Los Angeles of ‘khâm veng’.  If I one could fly out of sheer surprise blended with the utmost and earnest need to blurt out laughing—I would be a space ship.

Now that it’s the day when earth borne the most precious friend I have ever had, it’s way to rueful not to celebrate.  So please, cheers! Let’s feast with life for the remaining years ahead even when it’s uncertain like the heart of that little chinky-eyed girl whom you once cried for.  Let’s sail in this ocean of life, and I know whatever or however perilous our voyage might be, we will never sink.  Because our bark is not made of steel or wood, it’s made of trust and honesty, a ship which is charmingly named friendship.