The Eternal Verity

There were days,
When the pen was overflowing with words,
When the paper was stained with strange worlds,
When each leaf of the tree spoke a new story,
And every flower evoked a different memory.

There were days,
When the time had stood still,
When the tree looked as stoic as God's will,
When the air was laden with scents,
And the garden with floral tents.

There were days
When the heart spoke of only love and peace,
When only beauty and life mattered to the eyes,
When the soul was untouched by vulgarity,
And believed only in eternal verity.

I long for those days,
Before the beginning of this race,
When honour, love, solidarity,
Meant something to this place.

The Green Sentinel

When the clouds take over,
And the world goes quiet.
The silent sentinel speaks,
A secret of some long lost time.

Hush!! You need to be very very quiet,
To hear the whispering rythm,
To understand the silent ryhme,
Coming from the green sentinel.

The wind carries the stories,
From his leaves,
To my pages,
Staining them with ink.

He doesn't know affection
He is the mighty sentinel
Who just knows to give
And give and give
But sometimes
In melancholy
He tells
Stories
Of
Decades
And days,
Those pretty days,
When sun was not so harsh,
And the rain was not so sparse,
For him the silent green sentinel.

For Peace?

These days people are doing really weird things for peace. Some are leaving their plush corporate jobs for organic farming, some are selling their Ferraris to become monks(not literally, but close) and the most recent one I came across is an advocate living in a slum.  A masters in law(LLM) graduate living among the illiterate, in the most unhygienic conditions for this fragile, absurd, impossible thing called peace.

So, there I was with a pen in my right hand and a survey sheet in my left hand walking down the lane in search of some poor unsuspecting women living in the low income housing cluster or in more sophisticated terms a juggi. I with my haughty know it all walk approached a woman who appeared to be the resident of the slum I was spending my afternoon in and asked the lady 'Apka naam kya hai?', pat came the reply 'Hello!! My name is Rashi Sharma(name changed), nice to meet you.' English as fluent as mine, habits more mannerful than mine!! I was hooked!! I just couldn't believe for the life of my backyard full of plants that lady with such fluent english and such wonderful mannerisms was infact a slum dweller!!

Then like the thread from a roll little by little her story started unraveling. The secret behind her fluent English and mannerisms was that she was actually a law graduate from Lucknow. Separated from her doctor husband, she is fighting a civil dispute case against her daughter for a house to spend her oldage days in. Her bank account is full, she does trading to pass time between hearings. So there is no dearth of money for her.

She has been living in the slum for past two years and any regular day for her starts with a visit to the court to take bath and freshen up, then she goes to a restaurant for breakfast and comes back to the slum only for afternoon nap and sleeping at night. In between she spends her time doing trading to pass time and earn some money.

On asking why she chose to live in a juggi instead of renting some place nice she replied in two words......"FOR PEACE".  On insisting she elaborated, living in a slum gives a distinct advantage as relatives and friends leave you in peace. They won't questions you, they won't pester you with their incessant unsolicited advice and there is nobody to judge you.

But is it really peace?, I wonder. Leaving the relations behind and living among strangers in a slum is it really the path for peace? Peace I have heard is an internal phenomenon, it needs to come from within. Whatever the situation the capability to accept it and move on in life instead of hanging onto it is the path ahead. Rest is all a smokescreen. It is what changes inside that brings peace.

Lost Spring

I went on a walk along the clover field today,
They say it's luck if you find a four leaved clover on the way.

I forgot that March had slipped away,
Taking with it the spring's bouquet,

Now everywhere the flowers are showing decay,
Under the sun's harsh ray,

Even the clover field has faded away,
From sparkling green to a dull grey.

The tiny yellow sunshine trapped blooms,
Are now the reminiscents of lost spring,
And the three lobed parrot green leaves
Are now just the crumbly fragments of lost hope.