Frames on the wall
Four generations.
Great grandfather worked with the British
Grandfather witnessed the World War
And my father was born in pre-Independent India.
My brother and I heard their stories with awe;
History a wonder and life unimaginable;
The times have changed since then.
Our next generation
Loves the frames on the walls.
*Previously Published: April 2014
Moving clouds chased each other
Orange ignited firmament
A mirage of golden chariot;
Sun remained hidden.
On an expectant full-moon night
The breezy evening light
Leaving inhibitions on the shore
I dig my feet into the sand
Writing the words of hope in anticipation;
The distant roar of the tides
I hear with a shudder but
The waves come calmly –
Collective messenger in manifestation;
Gathering words, rinsing feet and
Depositing strange travellers
Living and dead to hope in anticipation;
The spreads of blue with no distinct line
Past, present and future a transcendental straight line
I devour spontaneity
Layers of washed sand visuals
The mystic sea, resplendent.
The string snapped;
Beads scattered
And rolled around.
The released tension,
Unfolded;
A humble string,
Ordinary;
And a single bead,
Unpredictable
That hit the floor
Bounced, and jumped outside….
The street,
Bustling;
The window,
Unsuspecting;
The string,
Resilient.
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