Journeys

Journeys are not only journeys

The distances stretching and shortening
Or the terrains shifting,
Because they enter you,
The smoke rising from behind the palms and coconuts, and the gulmohurs in full bloom,
The unending river with its stomach dry at places, boats stagnant or floating
In clouds of white and blue.

The chatters stop at times suddenly
And you dive into other recesses
Inside you, without purpose, and
Come again,
Refreshed, bathed, before going back to
The crowd of monotonous voices
And bee lives.

The Woman in You

There is a woman in you,
Who does not feel anymore,
Neither ecstasy not pain,
When the night lights fall on water
And set fire to it, 
She only looks on
blandly, mute to the happenings and mishaps.

Why the other woman in the
front seat cries,
Wiping the defiant tears
flowing ceaseless,
What the phone tells her just before three
minutes, of a insensitive spouse,
or the news of a sick father?
She cries and sends her silent sobs
to the darkness outside
and to an invisible God.

The woman in you
Sits like an idol
Watching her
Reminded of the many similar pains
That hounded her in many
Past lives.

The journey comes to finish.

GROWING UP

It is not the black and white innocence anymore,
You get pushed in,
Without zeal and intention
Into a realm where the people
Change into strangers without words
And move in and move out of shadows
Sometimes familiar faces turn into
Nine-coloured rainbows
And vanish
And you see them walking in the
Same old sweat- shirts
With the same familiar smiles.

Growing up
Saves a lot of pain
And reminiscing.

It is Still the Showers

Rain came
Lashing at the trees and the houses
Displaces the soil here and there,
But did not enter the rooms
The air inside which
Smouldered with gloom.

In earlier showers,
Front yard to the heart' s intimate chambers
Cooled down,
The joy was sheerly our own,
Without reason,
Except for sky's unpolluted tears of  in torrents
Being the only thrilling aerial incident,
That warmed up the interiors
Of the earth and the spirit.

It still rains,
The pitter patter of the drops
Falling on the leaves,
Serenity passes by the window
Its face indistinct
It' s pace hurried,
As if houses are grooves
For eternally parched beings,
Who do not seek peace anymore.