Understanding Art.

"Would you like to take a pain killer?"

"Ahh. You do not understand. For, it is another pain that ails me much more, presently."

"Another pain?"

"Yes. A pain deep down in the recesses of the mind. Manifested only in supposed art."

"Then why don't you manifest it now?"

"Don't you see? My speech in itself is art."

Unanswered Questions.

Are you entitled to an apology?

Was whatever I confessed a mistake?

But, would an apology make any difference at all?

Since you no longer care that way?

A similar situation had brought you back

But those were different people, I guess.

What had I done to deserve this abandonment?

What had I done to deserve this regret?

And I don't even know what this regret is for

I don't even know what made you do things.

And you would never answer my questions

Never protect me with your wings.

Didn't you have even the slightest courtesy

To at least tell me what my mistake was?

Do I owe you an apology?

But would that apology make any difference at all?

Diwali and Longing.

Diwali.

The warm glow of friendship and relations, reflected in the flame of the diyas. The variety and emotions in life, reflected in the many colours of the rangoli. The sweetness of those memories, reflected in the delicacies. Diwali is the festival of lights and life, celebrate and cherish, the light of hope, the light of love, but most importantly, the very light in your eyes.


That's what I wrote for the world to see. 




Here's something I'm writing for you.












Ever since I was born, I suppose, Diwali has been my favourite Hindu festival. Why?


Not the light, the darkness. Not the rangoli, the 'gheru' (the brown canvas like base). Not the jaggery and sugar, the coconut. 


And yes, the new moon.


The silence after the firecrackers. The dark of the windows when they switch off the lighting. The dust and bits of papers lying on the ground. The crumbling left-overs the dogs get a treat with. The faded colours of the rangoli. The extinguished lamps.


A lonely Diwali it has always been for me. 'The Eternal Longing'. 

But, I guess, that's why I consider it my favourite festival, after all.

Mindless, Hopeless Verbiage.

It hurts.
It pains.
It's a feeling I can't really explain.


Unpredictability showers.
Every once in a while,
You make me smile.


Unpredictability showers.
Every once in a while,
You also make me cry.


It's the authority I thrust.
It's probably my fault.
That's probably why I lost.


It stings.
It cuts.
There are anger outbursts.


It still doesn't apparently matter.
But there are people who care.
And, then, there are people who dare.


Pretension was something disliked.
It turned into what I now do.
I turned, slowly, into you.


Words always mattered.
That was all I truly had.
Never knew it could also hurt so bad.


This poetry isn't going anywhere.
Just the same as me, hopeless and unaware.