But....

There is a spot on the mirror.
Rub she might
Day in and night
The spot stays put.
There is a call she awaits
With bated breath
Like duelling life and death
But the line is cut.
There are words she wants
To fall on her ears
To wash away her tears
But the tongue is rigid
There is a hug she needs
To melt her heart
Causing lips to part
But the air is frigid.
There is a rainbow in the sky.
She wants the hue,
To give her the happiness due
But her eyes are shut.
There is a lining in the cloud
For him it's a dream
That she would notice him
But her eyes are shut.

Feel Good.

That pat on the back you are waiting for?
Don't wait.
You think you did good ?
Pat yourself.
The fairy that you wish to be?
Be one.
And enjoy.
Those times you look around,
Eyes expectant?
Don't look.
Be your own wings
Be the wind under the same.
Be your own sunshine.
Spread your wings. Fly out.

Troubled.

Trouble comes suddenly
Stealthily,  crouched
It came to me too,
Unannounced
A little guava seed
Lodged in my teeth
Has refused to budge.
Tried as I much,
I could not pry
The little guy
From my half broken teeth.
Out of sight,
Hidden away
He put up a fight
Without a sway
The tongue battled
And royally lost
But the stubborn fellow
Moved at no cost :( :(

Measured

Everything is measured.
My age ,my weight, my height.
I am the number of zeros
behind my monthly-in.
I am the square feet area
Of my house.
The number of cars I own.
The number of times I have left the country's soil.
I am the number of likes my pic gets.
I am the position which my child gets.

A maze of numbers encases me!
My societal identity are these numbers.

But I am NOT

Not these numbers for sure

I am more
I am the wonder of holding my child for the first time
I am the caught breath of love
I am the passion in a bookstore
The laughter of the waves
I am the guilt of chocolates
The scent of new clothes
I am the embodiment of life
And that's how I shall be measured.

Mom and she

She is a splitting image of her mom!
The mirror says.
They would look just the same,
On most days
Just the same, yet not quite so.
Some differences.
Which many times eyes missed
Subtle nuances
The twinkle of her eyes, not mom's
Shone out bright
Mom's skin sagged at the eyes
On closer sight
The sparkle of her smile, not mom's
Lifted the day
While mom's guarded lil smile
Had loads to say
Same, yet not, they both looked
At the mirror
Conjoint life, some gone some awaited
Always together

The Manicurist

The first time I saw Emma, she was twisting a pearl white lace hankerchief around her fingers. Even as a kid she had long and shapely fingers. They say, love is in the eyes, but I, fell in love with her hands.

I was an apprentice with the manicurist at the salon which Emma's mom preferred. Warming the water basin, handing out fresh towels, getting tea or water for my guru, my days were always busy. Guru never allowed me near his clients. I was the background boy, expected to melt into the surroundings, but always alert for orders. My eyes soaked in every stroke of Guru's fingers,the masterful application of pressure, the gentle kneading of the hands. Each finger of a client was Guru's masterpiece. 

Emma often accompanied her mom to the salon. A charming kid, she had created a soft corner in everyone's heart. She would sit swinging her legs on the twisty chairs, sometimes twirling it a full circle and laughing at her own mischief. Guru's usual reticent facade often slipped as he smiled at the ray of sunshine, which Emma was. He would often paint her tiny nails during holidays, school days being a strict no-no with her mom. Emma had a fancy for a shade of white nailpaint. It was the colour of crushed rose petals in milk. White with a hint of passion.

I slowly graduated from the background boy to a full fledged apprentice with the passing of years. Days when Guru took a leave, or was a tad tired, he allowed me to hold fort. Such days began with a long list of dos , don'ts and detailed instructions about how to handle his precious instruments. His regulars hesitated before giving their hands in mine, such was his mastery over his craft. I gazed in wonderment at his now wrinkled hands, filing and buffing the nails of the gently wrinkling fingers of Emma's mom.

Guru loved his sweets. His gruff manner prevented us from stopping him satisfying his sweet tooth, even when he was diagnosed with diabetes. We worried, but then, he was never the one to take kindly to advice. The disease started eating him up. My days at the salon became increasingly busier as he took to the bed often.  His regulars slowly became mine, and Emma too joined this group.  The disease claimed Guru's eyes first and eventually his life. His nails, chipped and brittle, as I laid his frail frame on the bed the one last time.

My work became my tribute to my mentor. I would shine and polish my instruments as if they were made of silver. My work area was surgically spotless. I studied designs and enrolled in a distance programme on modern nail art. Though, all my ambition and sense of purpose became a mushy gel when I held Emma's hand in mine. I lost sense of time and space, the only tangible thing being her long white fingers in mine.

I hid away her favourite nail paint shade so that no other customer could use it. Kept the best and the softest towels for her, made sure that the water was the right temperature before she dipped her hands in it. The jasmine shrub from which she inhaled with eyes closed on entering the premises, always missed a bud or two , because I added them to her water basin.

My best feeling about Emma was that she never played with her phone or turned the pages of any silly magazine while I worked. She spoke to me. Often asking me how my life was going and sharing tid bits of hers with me. I never once raised my eyes to look at her while I worked. Chancing a glance only when she wasn't looking.

Often laying on my bed , I would wonder if I would ever be good enough for her. After all, she was a bright girl and was studying to become an accountant. Would my dream of my own nail art studio materialise quickly enough for me to ask her out ? I tormented myself with such thoughts almost every night.No one noticed the subtle sprucing up I did whenever Emma made an appointment. 

When she called me the day before, to confirm her timings for today, a small candle light started burning in my heart. After all, I had saved up enough to venture into my own business . With luck I had found a mentor and an investor in my landlord for my nail art studio. I had even laid the down payment on a small shop in the basement of the new mall. I wanted to tell Emma. Would she now consider me worthy of her affection ? The tiny flame became a raging fire by the time she walked in for her regular manicure.

I hoped she would notice the vase of roses and jasmine blooms which I had placed next to her seat. Would she also notice the strange mixture of thrill and anxiousness which coursed through my fingers today ? I was more quiet than usual, as I settled into the familiar routine with her hands.

I noticed that Emma was quiet too. She was lost in her thoughts. She was wearing a delicate silver chain around her neck. This was a first. Emma had a fine long neck. I had often glanced at the hollow V at its base with wonder. Today the chain drew my attention again and again as it dissappeared at a top of the modest pink top she wore.

As time flew, I became more and more anxious. The key to my shop weighed heavily in my jeans pocket. I wanted to give it to her, asking her to come and inaugurate my dream. What if ?....But I didn't want to delve into 'what ifs' today. I had done so, forever.

Gently, I asked her to select the nail paint, knowing fully well which shade she would settle on. Emma surprised me by picking out a ruby red colour. As I looked up startled, her hand reached up to unclasp the silver chain around her neck. Dangling at its end was a brilliant ruby and diamond ring.

"Let me wear this before you paint my nails. I assume the red colour will go fine with ruby. After all, it's not everyday that a girl gets to show off her engagement ring ! Don't you agree ?" These were the last words Emma spoke to me before I let go of her hands.

Well, if you are feeling sorry for me, don't.  There are countless hands in mine and someday, when I find the perfect  hand, I will not let go. I will never let go.

A grey red day

It was drizzling. The unexpected rains in winter had painted the days a morbid grey. I stared listlessly at the swirling traffic around me. Delhi roads have lost their charm owing to the incessant construction of fly overs and metro tracks. Traffic is at a standstill more often than not.

Two little girls huddled under the huge road diversion hoarding which was providing temporary relief from the rain. A flash of red caught my eye. A man was crossing the road. He was one of the most ordinary looking fellows I had ever laid my eyes on. If tomorrow he turned out to be a criminal, and the police asked me to descibe him, I would draw a mental blank.

Anyway, this fellow in his brown shirt and brown pants, thinning hair and rotund pot belly was crossing the road in front of my car. The red which had caught my attention was the brilliant red of the bouquet of roses which the man was carrying.

The flowers were looking such a misfit in his hands. The visions which the movies have fed us over the ages has seen many a dashing hero carry a bouquet of love for his lady. But my common man carried the blossoms with a flourish. His measly leather portfolio was held atop his head to protect him from the rain. The bag protruded way ahead to protect the flowers he held close to his chest. He didn't care that his back was soaking wet.
Why did his catch my interest?  Not because of his commonality. It was the tender expression in his eyes. A soft love for his special someone which ,at this moment, was being represented by the roses. There was a gentle smile on his lips and an anticipatory briskness in his step. Love had made a simple commonplace bouquet of flowers rise to a level of reverence in his eyes.

The light turned green and I moved on , the man crossed the street and moved on. In a few seconds, the man and his bouquet of roses had changed the colour of my grey day to red.

Romance

Got thinking about you today
The elusive that you are,
Observed your play with hearts
From near and afar
You are the kiss of the red rose
The dew on the morning leaf
You flit on the butterfly wing
You are the glistening snowcliff
You are also the whispered vow
The curl of clasped hands
You are the soft hush of breath
Which on the lips lands
You are the flutter of the heart
On hearing the lover's name
You are the lowering of the lids
On thinking of  the same
Oh ! You wretched romance,
Residing that favourite book
You are the soft sunshine
Glittering on the brook
But you are an elusive one,
So gently do you tread
You play  a peek a boo
With my heart instead.

Tea

At the end of the busy day
As the menu drew to a close
Between the items on the menu card
A surprising challenge arose
The loftier sandwich roll
Nudged the donut aside
And the red velvet cake
Had the blueberry beside
They sat and they bragged
About who was the most choiced
Who got the max love
For whom taste buds rejoiced
The apple pie was squashed
So she had no face
And the burnt caramel pudding
Also bowed out of the race
It seemed as if today had been
The day of the chocolate ećlair
The day end sales register
Was declaring the winner fair
Brownie, ećlair and donut
Wore the smuggest look
Each went up on the podium
And a deep bow they took

When suddenly among the fare
A  steamy voice came up
'I stand a chance to win '
Said the humble tea cup.
'I may not ring in the cash
And make the register blue
But please hear me out,
I  am in the race too !'
'I bow to all delicacies. 
Accept my humble spot.
But, without a sip of me,
Many would like you not.
And the two young girls,
Who sat and sat today.
They drank many a cups
Coz they had so much to say.
Love and friendship blooms
Over a cup of tea.
Many walk into the shop
Just for a sip of me.'

'So, I may be down the list
Of this delicious spread
But, I am the first choice
Of many people instead.
Ask those two young girls
Who gossiped over me,
Who was the most loved?
And who the winner should be?'

The register raised a brow
At this touching speech
All eyes turned to her
For a decision to reach.
She shook her pages out
Said, "Hmmm, let's see...
After a lot of thought,
I declare the winner is 'tea' !!! "

The hallowed horns

Over the years I have built up my persona, the way a writer builds her characters. Giving it a desired shape and form, embellishing it with the best. My social self is a well worked upon sculpture which brings out the best of me.
Anyone from near or far will find something or the other to like,  or at least I like to believe so. The process is a continuous one, there is constant patting into place of any stray bristle of character.
But, at the end of the day, stripped clear of the facade, the bristles and horns emerge. The emotions screwed tight struggle out. Very few see me this way. Only the closest know the horns under my halo.
I always wonder about the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde view of life. I have them both inside, as I  am sure most do. I prefer to offer the softer version to the world, yet want to be loved for my rough side. The desire is for the closest coterie to not just accept, but also love me for my flaws. Wishful thinking, but when has the heart liked a simple life ?