Nothing

In the end this means nothing!
Ecstasy turns to happiness and then fades off
Into an empty void, that longs for more
Or a piercing heartbreak, shakes us to the core
And then turns into a memory, that makes us weep for a while
And then just turns to that physically untraceable moment in the past
Getting blunt under the weight of all the new ones..

Why do we have to go to the romantic explanation
Of the very cliched kind, that everything, yes!
Everything happens for a reason.
Sometimes, the reason is just the fact that we are here
In this space and time, partly by choice and in part
Due to the helplessness that arises from being born.

Best Friends

In the middle of all this chaos
Of putting together broken fragments
Of stories that decided to tell themselves
Quite differently than what we would've liked,
Without changing our role as the protagonist!

Of all the revolutions and rebellions
Of trying to get into shoes that just didn't fit,
Or were too pretty to be comfortable,
And walking around with blisters for weeks
Of getting on the scale every single morning
Hungry, sore and obsessed.

Of endless comparisons, with ourselves, with others
With them, who have never walked with us
Or stood by us, with their shoulders ready for our tears
Or their arms, ready for a hug.

Of the often misguided thought, of being too important
Or the equally pointless assumption
That we are not important at all
Then, sinking into the couch with a bowl of ice cream
Just accepting that we are, and that is all there is to it!

Of all the frogs and the imposter princes
The lost patronizers, always eager
To help us find our way in life!
Men showing up late,
And men who have met more books than people,
In their sad, solitary lives.

In this constant evaluation and sorting
Of people and situations, successes and failures,
How often, and how consciously
Do we celebrate,
Having a  friend by our side?

Michigan Sunsets

First, the sky turns pink and blue
Then, the descent begins
Smearing the horizon with an orange hue
Turning an awkward broccoli shaped cumulus
Into a magical glow cloud!

Making his way through a bunch of
Confused and scrambled cirruses 
The Sun leaves for India
Leaving us, with this sky to deal with

Maybe it is because the land is so flat
And there is nothing distracting about the fields of corn
No mountain to compete with the horizon,
That gets an endless mirror of a lake!
Or maybe, there is just more sky over Michigan

For the sunsets seem to have more color, more canvas
More soul and more melancholy
Whether it is a line of  geese, against the blushing sky
Or an intrepid bald eagle returning home
It is really difficult, to just get used to the sunsets here. 

Press Skip?

Hey there, little song!
What on earth are you doing in Michigan?
You are clearly lost, you are not supposed to be here..
You belong to the Jacaranda lined streets of Queensland..
That shine shiny black, after a tropical storm
With lavender carpets on either side, to welcome me home!
You belong to the golden beach, the hot, helpless sand
With turquoise waves dancing to all your sitar and tabla

You belong to the time when I was ten pounds lighter
And undoubtedly lost, in an extensive soul search
The time I used to match my fantasies
With the songs on my play list (What a juvenile thing to do!)
You don't go well with the pale ales here
Neither do I like your sudden appearance in my Yoga lesson
Distracting me, taking me back to the place where we first met

Not that you make be nostalgic (You wish! You little imp)
I have met new songs here (And I am still struggling with fantasies)
They are all red and pretty in fall and walk with a crunch in their step
And then, shiver happily in their mittens and snow boots
They chase paranoid squirrels to the top of trees
And they remind me of the worst kind of coffee, that I have come to like..

It would be too much of an effort, to get used to having you here
So, no hard feelings, my friend,
But I am just going to have to
Skip you!

In Transit

Between the paranoia over security

And the head rush of take off

Lies a fragrant corridor, of tax free scents

Where breathing suddenly becomes easy

Like clouds after precipitation,

We look fluffy and light

Old ladies, with wrinkled hands

(How do you fit three rings on one finger?)

Open paper backs with mascara eyes

Bored dads with empty strollers

People sitting around power points

Like baited fish, giving me odd looks

As I write with my ball point

In a totally organic, three dimensional notebook

Eyes everywhere, locking and unlocking

Sometimes, predictably, turning into a brilliant smile

It is easy to make friends in transit

Perhaps because we all share that feeling

Of a deliciously suspended and utterly aimless moment!

Facebook and self esteem

Oh how she is always smiling
Sometimes by a picturesque river bank
Sometimes engulfed in overflowing hugs
Sometimes a bit demure, in what looks like
A quaint little bookshop that also sells coffee
She is always, always smiling in her pictures
And you flip through them one after the other
Caught in a little eddy of bored procrastination

How come some people have these smiling lives?
What am I doing wrong?
I wish I could see my life like that
A series of smiling pictures. Taken all over the world.
Some people just get it all *sigh*
Albums from everywhere..Paris to Rajasthan..

Somewhere, on the other side of the world,
Someone is going through an exact same loop
Looking at your pictures.

Storytelling

Storytelling begins when the story is over
It is always accomplished by turning around and crossing your
Nerve embellished hands behind your hips
With a deep sigh, after the once-upon-a-time.

Try looking at your story before it ends
It never makes sense
You never see the long conveyor belt
On which you were placed as a baby
Winding down a long, tedious assembly line
You can never identify the age when you were
Ready to be packaged and stamped..

And to make things worse, when you try to look forward,
Everyone on the belt seems to get ahead of you
But don't worry. All of them are equally confused
And everyone is relatively successful
Or relatively retarded.

If you are doing something unusual, be prepared
To become one of those examples (I told you so!)
Depending upon how your story ends
(Or how your chapters conclude)
It is inescapable. Utterly inevitable.

Your journeys would never reach
The people on the conveyor belt
You would only be judged by the standard milestones
The miles in between are all yours to cherish
Don't bother translating your joy into any other language

No matter what you do, you will have a neat little story too
You will be able to turn around and then,
Draw a belt for yourself in retrospect. It would be funny.
Because you will realize that no matter how different you are,
You can still tell a very standard story with your life.

But that is not important.
What is important is whether you are happy
And that has nothing to do with the belt, the miles
Or the milestones or even your story!