The Man, next to me…
The man, next to my seat, wore a violet silk,
So I asked him, “What is Violet to you?”
He glanced at me, like he was staring at blankness,
Then with a pause he sighed and answered, “Nothingness,
It is same for all colours, just I know with Indigo
My Home stands along in the fields of Texas;
There a Blue car waits for me daily
To pick me up, but I reject it,
More or less I like the Greenness of the grass,
It feels home when I stumble upon it
And I personally prefer the Yellow bus more,
See how I loved to talk with others;
In my home it’s all alone, the Orange phone seldom rings
And I feared it as much as when the doorbell rings_
I see Red, all red and then it’s the same Nothingness.”
I was amazed really, so I asked in a trance,
“What about the black? I mean your suit; do you like it the same?”
He smiled a little then, and with another musing he said,
For me, the rainbow is painted Black! I only wore a part of it;
Cause the Red was dried up a long Ago!”
It was a clock; ticking spontaneously without a notion to stop.
I left my bed to chase after it.
Though my body didn’t follow my wish
and I collapsed on the pink tiles of the floor.
When I opened my eyes, everything was still;
the tap on the basin, the corridor chair,
the moisture in the air & the moon’s way to grace my limbs.
I never enjoyed them so much in my life:
till this very moment I gasp only for reason & hope.
But now I know what really matters_
beating loudly than my pulse,
waits like a polar bear in Aurora Borealis;
For the fish that will swim up the river,
the very next minute…
And they will find me on a table in the next morning,
Etherized and Still.
Do you know why I was famous? – For pick-pocketing.
I used to travel by buses without any proper destination in mind.
It was a joyride to be in motion, when you are not bound by any rules.
I think I was a child back then
cause 10 rupees a day were enough to please me.
It was more than anything I was capable of doing on my own;
Buying a hurdle on my way home, I used it for tire-rolling.
But that swiftness of my hand is of no use now;
Pick-pocketing is a silly thing.
While I can perform robberies, I have the control;
a whack job like me then, never dreamt of this to happen.
To provide your family is a heavy duty
and being caught is out of the picture now_
But that was the only spice I enjoyed,
because of its thrill in check.
Frisson of being caught by a hand, faster than you;
It used to made me feel ashamed,
but that was the joy of pick-pocketing_
What is there in these millions I stole now?
They meant nothing as I hurry home
daily with stakes on life, planning for the next day.
But what would you know of this? – the child was long gone
and the adult, tagged with duties, took place for him.
Do you find any resemblance in them?
One summer afternoon I heard a cracking sound,
like breaking an eggshell from which a chick came out,
and I found myself in a mustard field.
Everything was yellow around, where for the Sun
it’s playtime as golden aura intensifies.
I thought it resemblances my room;
in my farmhouse, on second storey, the yellow
paint and the morning Sun plays the same way
Though it was starting to fade,
I remembered the spectacle clearly.
In a distant vision, I saw the IV tube.
But with that same cracking sound,
suddenly I found myself in an ablaze,
surrounded by extreme screams and prayers.
The mustard field is in flames now;
the same yellow but more dangerous, in his red armour,
roasting everything as if he is displeased_
with the way civilization works and animosity grows.
The enemies and rivals never play fair,
taking lives they prove their greatness
over poor and weak.
One day I will woke up again,
and this chain of hatred will follow.
This is how our world works
and this will be the way it ends!