Keepers

People with memories,

Primarily sharp, but also deep-

Repositories of histories;

Forever close, we must keep.

 

He happened to be,

At an old spot,

Where they used to sip tea;

A monument, long lost.

 

He feels some things,

As if it were all happening live,

Oblivious of other beings;

Although, he wasn’t high.

 

He notices though,

A plugged speaker,

In place of the usual radio;

Takes the phone from the shopkeeper.

 

Types something into the phone,

The song ends abruptly;

He stands at a corner alone;

As now hums Ghulam Ali-

“मुद्दतें गुज़रीं पर अब तक वो ठिकाना याद है”

 

Whoa! What words!

What life! You beauty!

What times! Those hearts! 

What setup! That tea!

Makeshift

 

Art is birthed in solitude,

As everything good needs

People who can first see,

Inside their own souls,

And then pierce others’ veils.

 

Rarely but surely,

That solitude comes,

When we are not alone.

Being at peace within,

In someone else’s presence.

 

And in rarest of rare cases,

Art is birthed in turmoil.

Like torrential rains,

Forcing the unnoticed moving,

Of an arm on a shoulder.

 

But where are those rains?

Those people? The time?

The rain and the people-

Outside our control.

Time, we must find.

 

Time’s been scarce here,

But intuition says,

It’s only a matter of little time,

For time to arrive- with solitude,

So, we can reassess who we are now,

And our relationship with words.