Wednesday, December 26, 2012
“I always have this strange feeling that I am this very old woman laying down about to die…that my life is just her memories.”
There is locked shyness in her very old eyes and an occasional flickering of the lashes. The curtains ruffle themselves like wavy hair in wind. She spread her legs over the carpet for an idle warmth and furtive silence. There is the sloshing of water being sprayed on the grass outside. She imagined a rainbow from the inside.
Inside inside there are colours raw and bitter
And I kept my palm over the eyes and slept.
Erik Satie. It’s like her soul covers a circle once in an hour. The music takes its own time with a looseness that can hold her shrunken feet fixed at a place. Fixed. Like you lay far from yourself in a forlorn shore and your hands try to reach so long to grab your heart rolling beyond your catch. Oh there is grave melancholy itching her very essence. And the ambiance shifts from a somber solitude to a seclusion with memories of long subdued laughter.
Many a times she fantasized to have an incomplete slumber getting split by his smashing of the door and his figure emerging surprisingly from the darkness to the light with that dashing look and bending smile. And then she would call back the thought of reality working in different ways with its own schemes and shrewdness. Now she knocked on her head to have depended so much on his memories for her joys after his demise. “Know thyself!” Unseen paths. Unlooked spaces. And she sighed on all the unthought thoughts and unread books. Footsteps are heard on the stairs. Someone is calling her name. Suddenly she searched for her. She heard a yell from within before the final call- “Cogito ergo sum!” And she couldn't yell back “ergo scribo!”
Thursday, December 20, 2012
While he talked of Sartre, stains, and weather
He lowered his face in-between
To the cubic vase with a drooping flower
Near the antique ashtray- partly used
Suffused with smells of ephemerons
In rolls of smokes
Coiling from his mouth
His breath thawing
Resolving into the air.
It’s then that his grave ruminations turned flaxen
Like the hackneyed clad of a senile soul.
He abruptly sniggered at the whiled away seasons
With frail reasons to hold
Refold the pages of Camus, Heidegger and others
In labyrinths of thoughts
Besmirching his being
Now discerning the implacable death
Roaming over his fretted eyes.