‘ને મૂછે મલકાતા દાદાની, વાત કંઈક ઔર છે…
વગર વાંકે એકમેકને, વગર દાંતે એકમેકને,
બાચકાંનાં ઈરાદાની, વાત કંઈક ઔર છે…
Far away, deep down the horizon,
lightning strikes and the land
that has been craving for a drop of rain,
in the hope that it’d vanish all the pain,
The wait kills. The wait grills.
Each moment, the longing gets crushing
to the extent that the land’s heart
rips apart a crack with each lightning.
But the hope remains
and gets firmer with each crack.
The void caused by the crack
gives space to the hope
for it to rope in some breath. Continue reading “Magic”
He was on the edge of the cliff, just about to jump. He did not know why. Or maybe he did. He did not want to. Or maybe he did. But actually it did not matter because either way, he was dying. His mind was the killer.
Shackled mind had cramped him for space to breathe. His mind had no vent. And the worst (or the best) part was, the world had no clue about it. It was like he was floating alone in the middle of an ocean wearing a life jacket and the life jacket had a hair sized hole in it letting the air whisper away. With each moment, without a realizing, he would sink a little.
He had no reasons to be where he was or what he was feeling. He, in fact, had reasons to be repelled by anxiety and restrain. He had reasons to be free and flying. He knew what he had.
Photo Credit: geralt
Silly fat bubble
getting gladder with growth but
closer to own death.
‘I don’t like you!’ she said.
‘Well, I can’t say exactly the same. You know why?? Because, I, actually, Hate you!’ he said and exhibited his hatred through a pattering tongue and thumb-on-nose with fingers waving.
She looked away to ignore; as every day, as every time.
He went closer to her, bringing his face right in front of hers, ensuring she sees his pattering tongue and, he wished, she receives a few drops of his spit on her face too. That would make the soul of his skewer rest in peace, he thought. He almost touched her nose with his right pinkie; while his right thumb remained touching his nose and the other three fingers still waved emulating playing a piano.
She slapped his hand away in disgust.
This was routine. They didn’t need a reason to fight; they just needed the two of themselves; nothing else, no one else. They were pro with skills to spark a spat out of nowhere and convert it into a war. They would scratch the hell out of each other verbally and often physically too.
This is how the entire school knew two eight year olds; Arjun and Vaanya!
‘Ok children, sit down.’ Ms. Maria entered the classroom and the ceasefire was imposed. Arjun went back to his seat with his sword, tongue, back in the sheath, mouth. Vaanya gave him an ‘I will kill you!’ look as a parting note. Continue reading “The Revenge”
Black is a color that makes you sick.
What is it about it that would still stick?
What lies behind it is vital.
And what it shelters is my pick.
It is not easy to hide the hurt
nor is it a child’s play to smile in pain.
If black can hide it all why can’t you?
Why can’t you act new and shining
as he does?
Why can’t you absorb the heat
as he does?