Still Me...

The morning madness comes to a still
The cup of tea no longer left half
The newspaper can now feel my fingers
No one needs to panic on my behalf.

Years and years of the same routine,
The unbelievably early alarms
The rushed tread of the sleepy feet
The heavy bags on both my arms

The anxiety of always being on time
Forever 'hurry up' on my mind
The perpetuity of the irritation gene
Mental list of things left behind.....

The morning madness comes to a still.
I am sitting with my cup of tea,
I breathe out a blessing and then some more
For giving me a chance to be just me....

Wrinkles

That new face cream in the market
Which claims to keep age at Bay
To smoothen out the lines from my face
And to rub the wrinkles away,
Does it not know that I love these lines ?
These crinkles around my eyes.
The little sag of the cheek over my chin,
Are not the things I despise.
Each wrinkle is a age line for me.
Each one, has a story to share.
The laughter lines around my eyes
Shows my victory over despair.
Every bit of sagging skin and tissue
Is a life which happy moments lifted
Every scar and mark of mine
Is the love that life has gifted.
No cream no lotion can ever claim
To erase away any such happy line
I would like to drift away in life
With the sight of your wrinkled hands on mine.

Nought

And suddenly, like snowfall,Nothingness descends.
Wooly clouds are masking the mind
The basket of dreams is rattling around
Sanity and good sense are tough to find.

The bliss of the naught, the null, the nil
The fuzz of the empty head
The charm of the cozy warm blanket
On my favourite side of the bed

The fun of wanting to do just nothing at all !
And a willing heart to follow that !!!
The thrill of shutting the door on chores.
The choice of silence over chitchat.

What an amazing blessing it is !
To be able to travel to nothing land
The foolish happiness of doing nothing,
Only a dreamy soul can understand.

The recipe of romance

Folded pages of yellow paper with your handwriting all over it , 

Stay within my Hawkins recipe book.
On the page which teaches me how to make chana pindi in my pressure cooker, 

I have secured away 6 pages of your friendship.
I know exactly every loop , every curve every emotion that your words take. 

I have kept you preserved forever in those 6 pages.
In the age of instant chats and messages 

I have held on to the romance of your letter.
Long back I have learnt how to make chana pindi , 

yet every time, without fail, 

I open the recipe book. 

Just to touch the words you wrote.

Romance smells like garam masala to me.......

At Wagah....

On the Wagah border today
I met a mango tree
Of deep green leaves
And a gentle sway

It stood proud
Rooted in the Indian soil
It's stem bending
The Pakistani way

Laden with fruits
Bent double with weight
It looked as if
It had a story to say

Maybe it was a proud guy
With honour and valour
With unending bravery
Every night and day

Or maybe just maybe
It had been a confused
Tottering seed which had
Simply lost it's way.....

Aaj mujhe waqt mila

Badi muddat ke baad mujhe shaam ko waqt mila.
Roz ki daud bhaag mein kho sa gaya tha kahin

Mila toh bade adab see maine chai ko poocha
Dar tha, aaj bhi phirse bhaag na jaaye kahin

Jo chai pe baithe dono , toh maine ruthte hue kaha,
Roz milte kyun nahi ho mujhe?  Zara batao to sahi ?

Khair, yun toh roz hi mila  karta hai waqt mujhse,
Par kabhi use phursat nahi kabhi mujhe phursat nahi

Kolkata Morning

It's 5AM on the Kolkata street I am travelling on. Driving through a city coming to life. Slowly. Beautifully.
The street lights are still on , though the sun is bright enough for visibility already.
We pass through sleepy streets to come to a road side marketplace selling old used clothes. The clothesellers are busy setting shop. There are surprisingly many customers milling around. People are busy trying sizes by holding up the garments to their body, and haggling for the price simultaneously.
Rickshaw pullers are busy cleaning and getting their rikshaws ready for the first 'sawari' of the day.
The samosa shop has already started frying fresh batches and kept out yesterday's sweets to be sold at a low price.
The corner paan shop is buzzing with those in need of early morning beedi and paan.
The tea seller walks around hawking with his aluminum kettle and small paper cups. This morning sees him doing the best business of all.
A girl in a lurid yellow dress sits on the pavement. A dress like that, with the kind of make up she wears, makes me take a second look. She looks tired. The eyes with kajal smudges tells her story. She is tired after work just like anyone else. She also went about her business just like all those around her. Yet, she has no place in this 'civilised' market. The milling crowd gives her a wide berth even though they jostle to give her a second look.
The tea seller approaches her. Normally. She asks for a cup of tea, and he gives it to her. He doesn't believe in saying no to business, or maybe he is a gentle soul.
The girl in the yellow dress sits under the unnecessarily bright street light, bearing the scrutiny of men who would prefer she remains in the dark.
But as I said,  the street light is on without reason...the sun has lit up the world equally for all.