Life...

Witch on The moon..

Right now i feel like a witch.
I just feel like getting on my new broom, with its tiny blue stars and wacky handle, and escaping from my hostel window, flying off into the dark wilderness beyond.
I can almost feel the heat rise to my cheeks as the cold hits them like a friendly slap, can almost see my wild black hair getting wilder as they get whipped back behind me by the speedy force, can taste the sweet tears of freedom as the crazy wind makes my eyes stream

What freedom, what joy, what magic, being my own mistress and that of the black kingdom spread out before me.
The whole sky is my domain, its velvety softness passing through my open fingers like liquid silk.
The stars are my soldiers, bowing in my wake as I brhoom past them on my shiny wooden broom.
And what is that below me? Is it a city lit up just for me too see or have the heavens turned on their belly to honour this night flyer?
Its a sight..
From this high up, the roads with their yellow lamps look like narrow streams of gold zigzagging across a city of black coal
The rare car seems like little diamond coated animals going out for their nightly hunt by the side of the stream.
The houses with their still lights are like drops of water from a recent shower still clinging to the ground for their momentary lives.
Its a sight..
and its all mine..
what power, what pleasure, what beauty, what possibility.
I stand there for a while hanging there like a star myself.. the brightest of them all.. the queen.. the witch..
and then off i go rising higher, faster and faster every second, my body flat against that of my broom, my robe billowing out around me.. a bird of prey in flight..
higher i rise than ever before, towards that creamy rocky little crest of the moon.. my shining thrown hung in the sky for all to admire..
I sit there in its smooth rounded chalice, my broom hanging by its sharp edge..
I sit there wondering, pondering, living out every fantasy, and then dreaming up a few more..

I sit on the moon with my magic wand
turning dreams to reality and castles to sand
I sit on the moon lost in thought
free from the world in the haven i had sought
I sit on the moon looking at my world for a while
noting every single tear seeing every single smile
I sit on the moon and wonder about life
would it be heaven or would it be strife
I sit on the moon away from the violence
listening to the music of pure silence
I sit on the moon being wise being clever
I sit on the moon for now for ever..

PS: had this sudden urge to write so put up two posts at the gap of a couple of hours, so please don't forget to check the tag reply below.. hope you like both the posts.. take care

Dying dance

The soles which had once supported a pair of soft padded feet, are now all worn out and falling off in places.

The once soft satin ribbons, which had wound themselves round legs, softer than silk, are now all ragged and faded.

The shoes, that had once graced brightly lit halls and glided over waxed wooden floors, are today just an old pair of ballet slippers lying neglected in the darkness of a rough unpainted attic.

The memory of every swish and turn they had taken, the magic with which they had once danced is getting cloudy with time.

The applause, which they had come to take for granted, has been replaced by the silence of a forgotten anonymity.

They have come to the point where they fear they may never dance again, and the very thought of it adds another wrinkle to their shredded satin.
They burn with the desire to climb out of their dusty forgotten grave, to face the archlights once again, to move once more like fluid silk across the shining wooden floor, to swish and turn and to take everyone's breath away..
But even as these thoughts slither down their blue roughened surface, they know, that even if they get a chance, they wouldn't be able to hold up, would stumble and make a fool of themselves for the world to see.
They can almost hear the cold cackle of the spectators, witnessing their fall from glory, can almost see the cruel eyes staring at them as they fumbled..

May be some desires are better left to simmer into nothingness.. some lives are better doomed to a dark existence..
So they continue to lie in their little unnoticed corner, forgotten.. fading some more.. dying some more..

In The Park

The green grass is parted in places to reveal the upturned moist brown soil, where it had been pulled out by unseeing hands.
The tree in the corner is swaying to its own rhythm, swinging its arms around, shaking its head from side to side like one of those stoned standing babas of Shantaram's Mumbai.
The isolation of the small triangular area within its cream, cracked, vine-covered walls, mounted with green grills, is almost complete.
The sound of drills and the shouts of workers pierces the wind which carries it, and yet, in its own way, the silence here feels undisturbed. Moments ago it had seemed almost oppressive, but now it has grown to being a silent companion.
The sun is like a big lamp wrapped in white fleece, so that its light is coming out in a warm glow rather than a piercing stare. Its rays feel like a friend wrapping himself around you in a comforting hug, drawing out your heart's sorrow with each passing minute and destroying it with the warmth of the embrace.
The wind is not freezing, in fact it is a little too warm for a cold winter day, playing with hair, twirling a stray black strand around its playful finger, chasing a few more out of the already loose braid.
The bags strewn in little heaps on the ground are an indicator of intruders that have been and soon would be again.
The empty bottle of Pepsi lying like an alien on the grass is a quiet reminder of the game of truth-truth played there a few minutes ago...aaah truth.. a phenomenon often a lot trickier than its infamous counterpart.. a lie.
The bottle was a witness to the games people had played, games far deeper than the apparent children's play they had been making. It had felt the emotions that had been like the acrid smell of burning plastic in the serenity of that park, had tasted the sour taste of concealed hostility and silent attacks.. had smelled the bittersweet stink of politics...

There are voices calling out.. the intruders are back.."bache.. chal uth wahin khate hain paranthe yahan uthake lane padenge"... "kiddo, we'll have the paranthas there itself, else we'll have to carry them to this place"
time to pick the backpack.. say a hasty goodbye to my silent companion, as the sounds from without strangle it again.. put the mask back in place.. flash that false smile.. and loose honesty amidst the everyday pretense of life..