The Happy Wanderer

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...

Just the other day, I was thinking, whether, you know, there is such a thing as a 'right'. Now, I'm not referring to the direction, which I know you would certainly have put out of the question, or the Constitutional Principle- that which allows me, forthwith, to express freely here -or the moral doctrine that goes a long way in dictating most of our actions. Nah. What I want to tell you about is much simpler, because it's colloquial. And if we can get someplace else with the meaning of the word, starting from here, I can bet you that it'll be a worthwhile journey. What I've been hinting at (which is easier to guess if you say the word 'right' five times than with a thesaurus at hand), is that it's sometimes alright, oxymoronic as this may sound, for there not to be a right. For there not to be an 'accurate'. For there not to be... accuracy, correctitude, pointedness, unblemished-ness. (Pardon me the coinage of the last one.) There is a funda...

"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...