In Search, In Vain.

There are the stars in a cluster,
Wild flowers in the wild forest.
There are the leaves, hyper-sensitive,
And, there are those who never understand.

There are so many of the coffee beans in each cup,
Ground first, then brewed.
There is such a rich aroma around them,
And, there are those who never understand.

There are millions of shades and a multitude of colours,
Soothing to the eyes, and infuriating to the mind.
There are thousands of shapes, symmetrical or not,
And, there are those who never understand.

There is so much to see, so much to give.
There is beauty to behold, love to be sowed.

And, there are those,
Who never understand.

The Vividness of the Unreal.

From the dark wooden arch of the narrow opening to the lonely turret, also made of dark wood, standing on the third step of the winding wooden stair-case, I could see the beautiful amalgamation of bright colours.

The lush and refreshing green of the grass, the bright golden yellow flowers, with petals shaped like the rays of the sun, a few wing-tailed brilliant-blue butterflies.

The sky was a cloudless azure, clear as the colours I could see (and as clear as clear could possibly be).

A loud, happy chattering of families with little children, seated on numerous white tables and chairs, gathered as if for an occasion, emanated through the lightly fragrant air. But, I couldn’t figure out what occasion.

The children would duck under the tables, hide and laugh like a thousand chimes chiming together. The adults sat bantering and match-making, with tea in lightly decorated porcelain cups. The women dressed in flowing and comfortable gowns, the men, in light-coloured coats and cotton pants.

From within the lonely turret, among the dark wood inside and the brightness outside, I could see myself, except for my face. My hands, they were gloved with creamy-white satin-silk-cotton, lightly laced with delicately embroidered flowers and leaves. I was dressed in an off-white flowing gown of the same comfortable fabric. It was beautiful. Whatever I was dressed in, for whatever the occasion.

I wasn’t very old. I must be around 12.

Just as I was about to climb up the stair-case, a very familiar, and expected voice of another 12 year old called out my name and I turned.

Years passed by and I visited the turret and the grass with the differently shaped yellow flowers often. It never changed. The colours were always as vivid as they had been the first time. The dark wood impeccably maintained. The only difference was, the people kept reducing, and so did the white tables and chairs. The loud and happy chattering grew fainter with time.

Today, I was standing on the same stair, the third one, on the spiralling wooden stair-case, watching the scene from the same arched opening. Today, too, the sky was the clear azure, the grass- refreshing green, the flowers- bright golden-yellow. But there were no bright-blue wing-tailed butterflies, and absolutely no one outside. Not even the white tables and chairs. Nothing animate.

Today, I stepped out of the turret. For the first time ever, in all these years. I looked at my hands, clothed in the same gloves. Myself, clothed in the same off-white gown. The fabric shone a bit in the warm and soft sunlight.

And then, I heard the distant hooves of a stallion. To my right, and about a few miles away, I could vaguely see the shiny black of the stallion, walking away from me. There was no one on his back. No one, I could see, around him. I watched him until he walked so far away that I could no longer see an outline.

And I waited.

I yearned within.

What for, I never knew.

Eight years have passed since I’d first come here.

The Window.

It's cold outside.
It's frozen inside.
The window on my bed-side
Always changes colours.

It was bright blue in the morning.
Golden yellow in the noon.
Lush green in the evening,
Turning to midnight blue.

I can see
A dust full of stars,
When the stallions gallop by,
In the blazing sun.

I can't see
A twinkle in the Knight's armour,
But, emotions
In his eyes, undone.

I can feel
The breeze
And the storm
Through the thick glass.

I can touch
The carriages,
Dark ebony,
That go past.




But, the window lies.

The blanket on me says
It's a wall of bricks,

Not a glimpse of the outside.

Undying Innocence.

Wouldn't it be
As bright as the cherry
On your birthday cake,
(I wanted to slick off, before you cut it)
My little, cherished dream?


As fluttery, as pretty
As the wing-tailed butterfly,
A splash of blue, a tinge of black

My little, cherished dream.


Wouldn't it be
As the chilly and sparkling snowflakes
On a gold-hued wintry afternoon,
(I've only imagined of, being inspired)
My little, cherished dream?


As wooly, as sweet
As the cotton candy,
Spinned and spinned, like yarn

My little, cherished dream.




A million stars, a million moons,
Thousand suns, and thousand balloons!

Yellow flowers in green meadows,
Chocolates bundled at my door!


My little, cherished dream
Turning plural with every dawn,
Yet still remaining,

My little, cherished dreams.