The Happy Wanderer

"A lot many things are much more than numbers. " Where numbers matter Is not where they are cardinal First, Second, Third.. such as, The first in class or the third from the end, Such numbers don't matter to me And shouldn't to you. Where numbers matter Is not when they count The number of A Grades one  Has secured- the number of hobbies One cultivates- here numbers don't matter Because very different things do. Where numbers matter Is not where they brandish The number of medals one wins In races, or the number of debates One has triumphed in, or the number of friends One has.  Where numbers matter Is where they show us How many times we've been pushed To the ground and launched Ourselves back on firm feet. The figures that do matter Are the number of times We have chosen to be kind; To assuage fiendish rage into  Patience. Patience in letting Negative emotions ebb.  The numbers that make real-world Sense, are those that signify  How many times you have chose...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        I see a new face strolling in And I ask myself- will she be my friend? Will I be her friend, rather? I can answer the first But only sh...

It is the solstice of summer-  The once-wan days now carry on them  A well-worn tan; the haggard, quiet summer- An unprecedented affair- bids to bid its final adieu. No smoldering sun having dappled on human skin, No sunscreens applied nor shades and akin- Summer heat scorched some denizens of the undergrowth- And allowed the marble, granite, iron, copper, cement To sunbathe, unwatched. That was the Sun's Only achievement- and so watch the summer, wry and wistful, Say goodbye with a troubled heart. Well enough, the summer has closed, To pass the baton to the cold, confident monsoon. Watch crimson leaves being swept off the trees-  Roots are torn off the damp soil, waxy upper coverings, Are molted off plant skins. There is a lot of noise, But the fact remains that the chaos is gone. No umbrellas dotting the sidewalk, no mackintoshes fluttering In the damp wind- no puddles being splashed in by busy adults Driving their serrated tyres to cross and dot each playful puddle- No...

  Do you know, the stillness around, While peaceful, inviting even a pin-drop- Does invoke nostalgia from the golden cup- Which steams into sympathy for the lost chaos. The lost ambling, the muted squealing, the free Uninhibited playing- the syncopated beats of  A child's sundry existence. I am reminded  Of my childhood days- I look over the shoulder, And don't trip, but smile, pushed ahead. Such is  The power of the people that filled those days. Those Saturday mornings, spent entirely outdoors, Playing some game or the other delightfully, gleefully, The restlessness of the place as we debated, finally deciding On the next game. The winner didn't matter- with so many  Such games- who could ever keep track?  Of course, those were the days when gadgets  Had a subtle, accessory presence- not the dominant Monopoly that they exercise over us now. Friend to friend, home to home, we bustled, Spending time with flesh-and-blood, not with silicon- To put it coa...

Bundled, rolled, crumpled, creased, Sodden, dog-eared, without a cease... Now, possibly, just possibly; it is A remote, yet scary, possibility- Infested. To infect you. With the virus That you fear. I arrive at your doorstep Fresh from a night's grind, oven-ready, On the whole, but, thumbed over several  Times, in several places. As ancient as I am  New. Sporting stories pulled out from archives That don't need a second thought. Yellow journalism, Red-tapism, purple pandemic pessimism, red fumes of Anger from the irate citizenry, green environmentalism, Brown, bare, bold jingoism- all the colors are stamped  Over my thin pages. I am a rainbow- I am not  Black and White, as I once used to be, in form As well as in function. I am vibrant, bursting, eager, To meet you. I love scrutiny- that's probably because I have a virtually non-existent identity of my own. I am merely the mirror, the glistening surface, to The loud views, the charades, the propaganda,  The clar...

"Adversity is the first path to truth." -Lord Byron It seems like it was just yesterday when I associated my worth and well-being with doing well in school, working hard, ensuring that I completed all my homework and all the other tasks I had taken up, being polite and jovial with my friends, and so on and so forth. You get the picture.  While such a cause-effect relationship between the two pillars of your universe that are as independent as they are inter-dependent helps to keep you fuelled and motivated, it may cause you to feel that the cracking of one pillar signals the faulty foundations of the other, and vice-versa. That's when the building can seem to collapse- the walls are reeking plaster and paint, crumbling and cracking, you feel like you have wrought destruction, and bam! Thud! You allow self-doubt to permeate your stronghold like an eerie trickle of muddy rainwater that can peel the plaster right off. If you don't realize your error soon enough, you'...

Image Courtesy: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/maymayped/miss-you-grandpa-quotes/ This was meant to be written in my grandfather's lifetime, But so uncertain is life that I thought there was yet time. So I kept it biding. My grandfather was the person my father reveres the most, Disciplined and principled, his role model, Someone my stolid father looked up to. Silent, subtle and severe-looking, he would sit On his cane chair, and there would merely be An exchange of a few words between him and me, Separated by a generation and by language. Of language, I am not so sure, for he was an avid reader Of English novels, of the language itself. Not merely that, He was a critic, a reading enthusiast- a keen observer, Of characters and plots among many other pragmatic things. But with my father his conversations were endless. And Appa careered wisdom from Thatha's few, meaningful words, While he painted vivid pictures for a man living in solitude, Loquaciously. Like black and white in the ...

  “If there were no poetry on any day in the world, poetry would be invented that day. For there would be an intolerable hunger", poet Muriel Rukeyser once wrote. How true! And yet, the most poetic thing about poetry is how its beauty can be steeped in oblivion in a matter of minutes.  Readers and poets question themselves time and again- "Do we need the poems that take minutes to weave and minutes halved to read? Do we need poetry in our lives?” I’ve asked that question too. And I've found the answer. We need more poetry in our lives. Poetry is like a placid stream- gentle on the surface, bubbling, spouting. The swift verse is the fountain; its creation, in a matter of minutes, the work of months’ thought flexing and wrestling to find the best way to manifest.  A thought sparks up in dim light, And wedges past several footstools To transform into a lingering piece. Toadstools bright with color Deck the narrow course  That the thought pursues And impart their color t...