of the city of love

upon myself

and have thrown the key

of each gate

into the jade-eyed sea of oblivion

this little timorous feeling of hope

is so consoling:

Beyond the forbidding walls of the prison

in a small lane

of the old walled city

there is a little window

still open in my name.

———————-

Can I ask my days why they are so different from how my nights are or can I ask my nights why’re they so damn killing and shattering?

Answer me, please/

……..posing buds and fresh leaves ‘)

There were times, not long ago, when we , me and my sis, all cold and wet played in the rain. Swinging and dancing the whole time. and there were times too, when i spent the whole evenings on this very swing, building high castles in the air, fighting over turns with my sister! ‘)

…the wild flowers are two sisters

they dwell in lane and lee

with faces fair and sweet and rare

they nod and smile at me

‘

…fairies in my garden…reading in the strangest of places.. ”)) 

outside
in the flower bushes
blooming away upon the sunny skies
where pretty larks chirps the same ol’ song

oh breezy oh sweet breezy
i want to dance & smile
maybe you should hold my hand
& run a thousand hills

cos i love u so
& i’d run a thousand hills

outside
on the fields while autumn leaves twirl
like a cute tornado going ’round & round
high into those sunny skies

& oh spring aww that wonderful spring
i want to sleep & feel you near me
there is no better than butterflies
the lovely feeling of butterflies

make me fly
make me castaway

over the calm meadows
over the sketching milky way

can you see?
in your painting mind,
i’m only outside
waiting for u—eagerly!

The dew on the window
itself cleared,
wishing that they neared,
The birds outside stopped to sing
and wind to make trees swing.

Their eyes met a moment or two,
while the wind carried his kiss to her,
and as she turned to the mirror behind,
she thought she looked beautiful….
***

She stood by the lake,
waiting for him to come -
waited through the falling flakes
until her fingers fell numb.

And then he came,
to warm her with his hug
and on the horseback carried his dame
her head in his shoulders dug.

And she was greeted by her father at home,
He said she looked beautiful…

At night when the lights were dim,
came a knock on her door,
& zoom she ran; knowing it was him,
whose name her heart bore.

A good night kiss they kissed for long,
their hearts dancing to their love’s song
but now she had to hurry back
before someone could spot through the black.

And as she ran her sister held her close,
mumuring, ‘sister, you look beautiful!’

But deep inside she knew
It was not God’s art or people’s view
but his kiss, his hug and his love’s pull
that they said she looked beautiful.

Perfume, lotion, lipstick, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, foundation… bottles and bottles and countless other containers all sprawled across a small desk. Their reflections bounce off the large unbordered mirror hanging on the wall.

She lies in her bed, eyes red and bleary. In her hand — those lovely hands, so ghostly pale in the dim light — she clasps a wad of tissue, all wet and crinkly with her tears. At that very moment, wet dewdrops well up in her eyes again. Slowly, slowly, they trickle down her face, down onto her pillow, drenching the fabric.

She opens her eyes. Sits up on the bed a little. Stares at the mirror. Her own tear-stained face stares back.

Holding her hand up to the weak moonlight streaming in through the window, she examines her dark red nails. Blood. Nail polish the color of blood.

The wind ruffles the thin, white gossamer-like curtains. They flutter in the wind like butterflies’ wings. She breathes shallowly, hurriedly, as her tears fall again.

The toilette table stands guard close to her as she weeps.

Her heart is broken. The perfume knows. Its gentle, floral fragrance caresses, soothes the broken pieces.

Her heart is broken. The foundation knows. It brushes a soft, powdery hand over the wound, in an attempt to cover it up.

Her heart is broken. The nail polish knows. Its deep red resembles her bleeding heart. It poured, and then smoothed, some of itself onto the sides of the break. All the bottles and containers pushed, and glued the two halves together again.

She sighed, a tired sigh. The broken heart, somewhat healed, beats, slowly, but beats.

What is fantasy and what is real?

Marks of love
Ownership
or womanhood

Yet they are taboos to me
my tears wash away
the wet henna
from my hands
the hands of
a bride never to be.

Flying butterflies fall on the dahlias,
I swing slowly, lazily sitting
On the big, beautiful swing, with
“Anne Frank’s Diary”, closed in my hand.
Looking lovingly at the soft creatures, my eyes
Searching for the most beautiful one.
Why?
Why do my eyes, rest always
On the ones—most beautiful?
My self itself does not know this.

In the garden play few children
All little maidens, and again
These big eyes of mine seek
For the sweetest one,
Why?
Why do my eyes, rest always
On the ones—most beautiful?
My soul itself does not know this.

On the meadow, sit three rabbits
And suddenly, hops down…but,
Before they enter the long green grasses
My discerning eyes catch
The cutest one—the fairest one.
Why?
Why do my yes, rest always
On the ones—most beautiful?
I, myself do not know this.

I jump down the stairs, and here I am
On the verandah!
Suddenly, the most graceful rose
On the flower tub shades its
Pretty pink petals, when got touched
By my unconscious fingers,
And I find many others beautiful,
Charming in their own ways.
Ones found uglier, less beautiful
Have turned beautifully beautiful
For my broad eyes today.
But why?
Yes, my heart itself knows that—
Why, am I still not me,
Deep inside?

I have been thinking a lot about birds for a while now… did not realise it but i am fascinated by them… if you come into my home, you will find them everywhere…. wooden birds, metal birds, wax birds, mirror work birds, birds that are toys, bird sharpeners, bird pencils, birds in my paintings, birds in my bathroom, even birds on a duppatta!! – a lot of birds that don’t jump out from the rest of my little things but who are always there and in some way must symbolise something to me.
I tried to think about why i’m taken in by them and here are some possible answers….

- The mystery – i love enigma and in some ways they represent that. I’m unable to fully grasp what their life could be like or how they think and what they do.
- The fact that i can’t simply reach out and touch them, fascinates me. I guess that’s linked to the first point.
- Their colours – i’m mesmerized by the textures. I’ve observed Crow Crow for long stretches of time and not a single one his black feathers is the same shade of black. Pigeon necks – magical in so many ways. And these are the more regular birds.
- Their movements – i’ve seen two eagles soar from great heights and gently spiral down and i’ve been thrilled to see that dance from my window – there’s a grace there that is unique. I especially love how sparrows hop.
- The fact that the sky is their home. Not sure i can articulate this clearly but they’re so above everything else. It’s a mind thing. They live in a place that’s uncluttered in thought and through that have the ability to rise above all that i’m caught up in.
- Their lightness. Thing more than actual weight, its the feeling i get when i see birds in flight. This sense of airiness… not really freedom… but the sense that my feelings alone can make me fly.

Not sure i quite have understood what this means and really there is no reason to think so much either. I like birds and i’ll continue to collect them and bring them into the different corners of my life.