Chasing Sunshine

We have shifted –
We truly have,
In the good old days,
The grocer always
Packed grocery
In newspaper bags,
The making of which,
Was a cottage industry!
Those were the days,
When we packed our own
Water bottles,
To carry with us,
Wherever we went,
Bottled water for sale,
Belonged in a fairy tale,
Much like gingerbread houses;
As was a mobile telephone,
That could fit in your pocket
And play songs and music,
Like a gramophone!

When I reminisce,
Of the days bygone,
My children listen,
All agog –
Not unlike me,
When I was five or six,
Wondering at the lack
Of electric power,
To light lamps,
And run ceiling fans,
When my mother,
Was a mere child.

We have shifted,
Indeed we have,
Just as those,
Who’ve come before,
Have done and gone on –
Each generation,
Has their time,
Under the fiery sun,
To do their thing,
And learn some,
And then to shift gear,
And move on,
To the next sphere,
Of existence.

The brook by the house
In the valley,
Overlooked by the hill,
Is as noisy
As it is happy,
As it gurgles by,
Catching the glint
Of the sun ray,
As if winking its eye.

The house in the valley,
Stands still in contrast,
To this merry passerby;
Its red brick walls,
And shutter boards,
Bearing mute witness
To the brook’s frolicking;
Together they paint
A lovely picture,
An inviting abode,
Set amidst bountiful nature,
A spot as full of peace,
As can possibly be.

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One among a million,
And yet, why do I
Feel all alone?
Why do the beats,
Of a multitude of hearts
All around me,
Fail to ignite,
A spark of energy?

Why do some souls,
Drop down below,
Without an anchor
To hold on to?
Wandering this realm
Of perpetual blue,
Looking for a spot,
To rest a while, to stop,
And look in the eyes,
Of another soul,
Or perchance, a few,
And say,
“I’m glad I found
My home in you”

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You sleepwalk through life,
Not knowing at times,
Where you are headed to;
Your hands held out,
Unseeing, your eyes,
You stumble more,
Than you actually walk,
But if you looked back,
You’d notice,
A set of footprints,
Not perfectly placed,
And yet,
Footprints nevertheless,
A motely pair,
Heralding your progress.

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I find myself
One fine day,
Walking down
A rather treacherous trail,
Well trodden nevertheless,
With countless steps,
Built along the way
To guide wayfarers.

We are each,
On our own,
And yet,
Not quite alone;
For we are all together,
In our collective sojourn.

I pause a while,
To catch my breath,
As I stand at the cusp,
Of a steep fall,
Looking down,
On the verdant green
Of the valley,
That stretches out –
Its tallest trees,
Mere footnotes,
In the vast expanse,
Of the resplendent landscape.

And then it strikes me,
That much like the trees,
I am but,
A tiny bit
Of an enormous whole,
And if I would,
I perchance could,
Blend in with,
And become one
With the collective,
Just as on this day,
And in this moment,
I breathe in the air
Of the welcoming mountains.

The walls of this prison
Appear dark, ominous,
You’ve been trapped within,
For years and years;
You didn’t know when,
You were locked in,
Each day, every moment,
Blends in with the next,
And all you know,
Is that you still exist.

You can let the walls
Close in on you,
Depriving you of air
To breathe in,
Arresting your breath,
And nudging you closer to death;
Or, you can summon,
A strength so superhuman,
One you didn’t know
You possessed,
And bring down the walls,
A la Samson,
And finally breathe in,
Dust and all,
The air that reeks,
Of priceless freedom.

Image Credit: Photo by Bernard Spragg on StockSnap

Living is ordinary,
Often mundane,
It is the only way of being,
That you’ve ever known,
As opposed to,
How not to.

Living is taxing,
In more ways than one,
There are places
To go to,
And many things
To get done,
Even the most basic ones;
But together,
They add one onto one,
Leading to many moments,
Of being hard done.

Living is often
Fraught with pain,
As you go through phases,
You would rather not;
Being hard pressed,
For time, action, words, and grace,
You stare into the face,
Of impossible situations,
When you wish to transport,
To another place,
Or another continuum,
Of time and space;
But more often than not,
You persist,
Because that is all,
You’ve ever known.

Living can bring joy,
In the most mundane,
Of random moments;
When you watch the sun rise,
The birds in the sky,
Or a pretty butterfly;
When you hold your child,
And hug him tight;
When you rest your head,
In the comfort of your bed,
At the end of a long day,
Of living and trying;
In each of these pauses,
You come to find,
A semblance of purpose,
To living this life.

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Little children
Are full of wonder,
And often eager,
To try things
Differently;
And this is why,
Countless bugs,
Glow worms and beetles,
Have found themselves,
Trapped in match boxes,
And glass bottles,
Over the centuries,
To satisfy,
The curious sparkle,
In a child’s eye.

In growing up,
We shed the trappings,
Of our innocence,
And as the wonder
Of childhood,
Gives way to adolescence,
We forget our trysts,
With macabre experiments,
On ants, bugs and beetles;
We release our minds,
To soar beyond,
The confines of our homes,
Into distant realms,
Much like the little creatures,
That we set free
From their boxes,
Into the wild,
Where they truly belong.

And yet,
There are those,
Who do not;
There is the child
Who grows,
To relish the hurt,
Of a tiny bug
In captivity –
The child who grows,
To be that person who knows,
To seek their release,
In the cowering fear,
That they see in the eyes,
Of the powerless

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A promise –
Does it include
The sweet nothings,
That lovers choose,
To whisper,
To each other,
As they lie in embrace,
Before the night,
Has given birth
To a new dawn;
Sans witnesses,
To keep record
Of their promises?

A promise –
Is it the gift
Of newfound hope,
That a parent
Bestows,
On a wide eyed child,
Who has just asked,
For a precious little something,
That would brighten up
Their innocent life?

A promise –
Is it the hint
Of a new beginning,
That’s embedded
In the core,
Of the day’s ending,
When the sun slips away,
Quietly into the west,
Leaving the world
Cocooned in rest?

A promise,
Could mean
Different things,
Depending on
Who’s receiving.

The only certainty
Around promising
Is this –
When it isn’t kept,
A promise leaves,
In its wake,
A broken soul.

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The hourglass sits
At its perch,
On the windowsill,
As it always has;
Marking time,
As it passes,
Catching the reflection
Of the leaves,
Of the maple tree
In the garden;
From verdant green,
To resplendent yellow,
And thereafter,
Of the limbs, mellow,
In their nakedness.

The hourglass is mute,
Both as a spectator,
And as a keeper,
Of the passage of time;
As it glows,
In the warmth
Of the summer sun,
And turns frigid
When that orb retreats,
It fails not,
To reflect,
And to mark time,
Timelessly.

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