Where did all the crows go?

Where did all the crows go?

says my disappointed mother

who is now sitting 

with an untouched bowl of

puri, kheer, khajur 

and ghughuti

What about others-

I ask?

Heaving a big sigh, she says,

No Sparrows, No Pigeons

Not even a squirrel

None…None…None

Gone, Gone, Gone !!

in these uncertain times

a bowl of uneaten ritual bound food

just adds on 

to the ever existing worry list

it’s so cold,

they will come tomorrow

I falsely assure her

and she nods

maybe the birds know 

we have Covid

maybe they too 

are socially distancing themselves

from the human race

now they have abandoned 

human residing roofs

only eating organic

from the swaying yellow 

mustard fields

maybe this time, it would be us

passing on our viruses

to other kinds

so they have gone,

gone with the wind

hiding in the

abandoned human buildings

but not eating 

human cooked food

after all, they too

have to survive

survival of the fittest

when humans will cease to exist

animal farm will become a reality

the earth would be ruled by birds

And maybe then

crows too, will cook

puri, kheer, khajur and ghughuti

Until then, 

They are Gone, Gone, Gone

There are None…None…None !!

Ascension

My morning writing scenes

Somedays, I glide instead of walking

on others I crawl, to reach the door

the gap between this crawling and gliding

is what there is, to my life, now

always crawling, on low days

always gliding on the high ones

and then there are days 

in middle of two

where I walk aimlessly 

in the streets of wonder and illusion

it’s in these streets I find myself

a person seeking a door

but mostly,

I end up finding windows

windows from where 

an old man’s soul, escapes

escaping, it mingles

with the swaying winds

reaching the locked

timber door

where it waits,

for an eternity

Tik Tok, Tik Tok

by the said door

the door that holds

the answer

to the ever existing 

question of arriving,

then existing, 

and finally escaping

the rabbit’s hole

So I keep knocking

Knock, knock

the latched door

only to know

the escape route of

my Soul.

Above is the link of the poem’s recitation on my YouTube channel.

This, too, shall pass !!

Seated up from my place,

I see,

The undying spirit of a human heart.

In the present world of

Deserted streets and closed doors,

I see,

An huffing old man,

Pushing a broken car,

And a young man,

Running to his aid,

Like a shining star.

Hovering,

I see,

Men caged inside his own hole.

Yet spreading hope,

By sharing,

His garden views,

To important news.

Masking their emotions,

I see,

Them doing a lot,

From feeding,

Thousand hungry mouths,

To,

Curing lakhs,

Even with their

Own exhausted hearts.

In human tongue,

They say,

Time heals everything,

I,

As time,

Is constantly bestowed,

By the human will

To escape

The tethering. 

For the grieving hearts,

And broken souls,

I say,

Always remember,

Change is the only constant of life,

So believe,

When I say,

This, too shall, pass away. 

Bring the spring home

As I open my window,
my eyes,
fall on you.
I see you smiling,
up from the walls.
As I escape my door,
to knock on yours,
I find some of you,
peeking through,
the fence,
Alluring,
the passersby.
I envy,
the flourishing
gardens you adorn.
So I move closer,
to feel,
your presence.
Your sparkly eyes,
glint,
with a twinkle,
when I touch you
with my bare fingers.
Sitting on the crown,
your smirk mischievously,
relishing,
the spotlight.
Bestowed by your charm,
I decide,
to ornate,
my place,
with your aesthetic.
So I bring,
the enchantment,
of the spring,
home.

Strangers in the night

A flutter in once heart
A wave in another
causing ripples
in the stagnant river of life
In despair, they both meet
clinging to something
which momentarily exists.
A pain in once heart
A sorrow in another
colliding in the darkness
clutching the little fingers
only to let go
in the glory of the day.
A weakness in once heart
A vulnerability in another
slowly bandaging
the raw wounds
with their rendition
of the truth.
A wistfulness in once
A contempt in another
yet smiling
while walking
away from each other
fleeting the last glance
before turning
strangers
in the night.

Path To Glory – 2

A small step, on a long staircase

A single red rose, adding charm to an empty vase.

One stick completing a bundle.

A lone flaring candle,

To tear away the darkness.

They say,

 a single stitch can save grace.

The last fast lap,

can bring you back in the race.

A single-colored bead,

to beautify a plain necklace.

A new spice can enhance the taste.

Every stone counted,

to quench the thirst of the crow.

Million of low claps

makes a roaring crowd.

A penny in the bowl of charity,

A single drop on parched land,

Afterall a summit starts,

 from the base,

Every step matters, every breath counts,

When walking towards the heavenly staircase.

At every tick, move,

At each whistle, run

The road ahead

is long and twisted,

But its the,

Tiny steps of today,

that will lead you,

on the path of glory,

tomorrow. 

Rainbow Bulle

The yellow boots,
drenched in rainwater,
with mud spatters,
enters the big puddle.
A small rainbow bubble
welcomes the two feet.
Two adjoining dots,
peer back,
the lurking shadow.
It resembles someone,
but whom,
it knows, not.
They both,
watch,
unfolding layers,
of the other.
They both look the same,
yet they are years apart.
One with yellow boots,
only smiles,
while the other,
laugh with eyes closed.
One has melancholy eyes,
the other, sunlit sparkles in them.
The furrowed eyebrows,
gaze,
at moonlit glow,
of the other.
Yes, they might look the same
but are years apart.
The umbra,
with knitted eyebrows,
gaze quizzically,
towards the two poles,
of this side.
As if asking,
the why’s
of the metamorphosis.
With a wry smile,
the vulnerable self,
answers, back politely.
People and time,
the
ever changing,
two’s of the world.
The silhouette,
slowly picks up,
the
coloured droplet,
and passes it on,
to the absolute.
The reverie breaks.
The yellow boots,
drenched in rainwater,
with mud spatters,
moves out of the large puddle,
leaving the trace,
of seven-band,
healed aura.

How overrated you are?

Do you know how overrated you are?
Arising from the pit of my stomach,
leading to a racing heart.
The waterfall from my eyes,

causing this unbearable pain in my chest,
and yet, they all tell me,
blessed I am, because I know you.
What kind of blessing is it,
where I give,
All of me.
and wait,
and wait,
and wait,
for all of you,
to hold me.
The poets praise you,
the writers write their stories about you,
and here I am,
holding the bare threads,
trying to roll them into a ball,
Always thinking,
how overrated are you?
From Moonlight sonata
to Rumi’s words,

you are every artist’s best muse.
And yet, I am sliding,
in abyss,
while trying to,
hold you.
And pondering,
why are you so overrated?
But then,
comes,
the spur of moments,
with gentle showers,
and warm breezes,

with a radiant smile,
and tearful laughter,
enlightening,
the corners,
and igniting,
the soul,
and in those,
fractions,
I know,
my dear,
why you are so overrated.

Silence

You ask me, “How are you” as a pleasantry, not as a question.

The question I answer with only a few syllables.

I say I am fine, but sometimes out of the prettiness of the weather, I might end up saying, I am good.

You never intend to ask, and I never mean to reveal the truth hidden behind the veil of smiles.

With time I have hushed the voices, hidden deep inside my head.

Instead, I have become a silent observer, like you, watching the tides of my emotion.

I am silently learning to burn the fierce fires of my belly.

I am silently befriending, the silence.

Letting my silences do the wonders that my words could not.

Alas! That’s the irony of being human; we need words for everything.

Words for our simple joys,

To our mundane sorrows.

Words to read the intricacy of someone’s heart,

To the conundrum of their mind.

How great it would have been, if we could read each other’s silences.

And if we could, the world would not have existed, as it exists.

Because if we could, you might see that,

It’s the silhouette of darkness, that watches over me.

It’s the soft hand of night breeze that caresses my hair.

The stillness of the moon that holds me in its care.

The chirpiness of the birds which bring me joy,

The glory of the sun that brightens up my day.

It’s the nature that holds me intact, not you.

So, this time, I silently choose, Silence over words, to pierce through your soul.

The Wild Bull

The red muleta, flutters,
calling the uncalled
fury from me.
You,
the ignorant one, think,
I charge,
because you are Red.
Let me tell you,
dear friend,
my angst is not against you.
I am color blind, you see.
For me,
You have no color.
Your good looks,
aren't my concern.
It's your movement,
that cause me unease.
You make me feel,
powerless.
So, I charge you,
guilty.
Guilty of taking,
my peace,
away.
Guilty of making,
me feel,
unworthy.
Guilty of controlling,
the unscathed,
me.
So,
I charge,
with all,
my might,
at you.
I charge,
to snatch,
the peace,
that's mine.