If it were not for stories..

Cobbled streets.
Cement roads.
Cross-bridges.
Junctions.
Signals.
Breezes.
Open spaces.
Dreams.
Thoughts.
They're just words.
But,
Ah...
If it were not for stories..

Have you ever thought,
Of a lane?
Of a way?
That you've caught a glimpse of somewhere.
Oh, not the same somewhere.
Somewhere else.
Where roses were pink.
Think
For a while.
Think.
Why do you positively 'know' that place?
Why?
After all,
There was
Just a barren dustrack.
And its twin.
Empty spaces.

Think.
Dig hard.
And you might find
That you saw
A Santro
Pass.
In both Poona
And say,
Hyderabad?
Think again.
Maybe
Since we are all human
And there is more
Alike one of us
In another
Than there is
In anything else,
Maybe
More than one someone,
Wished to ward off evil,
By means of the 'traditional remedy'?
Perhaps you saw a brother and his other,
At two ends of the world?
Or you might have seen
A protruding rock
Or a stray?
Or a child
Speak to his mother?
Or a signpost
That triggered a thought
Unique to you?
An idea?
In one place,
An idea.
The second time
The idea
Done with and dusted.

Remember
That
In this world
There is beauty
Not in the two cobbled streets.
No.
If I told you that two paths
In two places
Struck me as one
And the same
There would be no go.
The best part
Of this universe
Is that
There is logic
In every little thing.
There is magic
And art
In everything
Nature has got to impart.
Why?
Because
There is a story
To every nuance.
Every thought.
Each kindred soul.

There is probably a story
That ties
Bolt and Blyton together.
Isn't that a comforting thought?
That somewhere,
In some garden,
Or some hedge,
Or simply in a toy,
There is a story
That flings a coy.

There is a story that flings a coy..
Beguilling you into linking your pet with the Savoy.
Or a mesolith with a mouse.
Or a plain drive with the best day of your life.
Ah..
Ah..
If it were not for stories..

Comments

Clandestine

Sometimes we wait too long, To speak our minds. We let lingering truths linger, We let sporadic clocks, chime.. We allow patient seams to fritter away Like a sparrow does with the timber of the tune That she was shrouded by; shrill words tearing Ears, each word she utters, careful, today. While the first day it was a free reign, until Some unctuous winds carried to her, criticism. Just the same way as copper utensils in a house Of steel, are anyone's delight, until bronzed, With wear and use, both are the victims Of sundry needs and glances. Just the same way, some things, Are stowed away in careful pockets Because they have borne a lot of perusing When kept in the open. Like love. Like hurt. Like envy. Like silence. Trust and truth are two things I can list, That are given, that are l'habitude. I tell the truth because it is, it exists, It is what I perceive, it is what I've lived.. And I keep your trust, because I've learnt That it'll help you keep mine, it wil...

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The Happy Wanderer

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