Chasing Sunshine

The black cat
Slinks down into the sewer,
Eager to escape
The tense curiosity,
Of the little onlooker,
Who has been warned
By every well wisher,
To avoid every cat,
But particularly any that’s black –
And to stay clear of every path,
That a black cat
Sets foot on.

The little girl,
With wonder in her eyes
And in her tiny heart,
Goes on,
Looking back
Every now and then,
To see if the cat
Pops out of the hole,
Which seemingly stole
Its very being,
As it went in.

What is so bad
About any cat?
And specifically,
About a cat
That is black?
She wonders,
Why is it bad?
And if it is,
Was it born so?
Why would anyone choose,
To stand to lose,
The abundance
That life has to offer,
By being born
As a bad,
Black cat?

Would it not,
If it had any say,
Choose any day,
To be born
White, orange or grey?
Any shade,
But the deepest black,
To keep at bay
The hurtful stares,
Sticks, stones,
And much more
From angry humans,
Trying to go about their day,
With as little
Of bad luck
As they possibly may?

But whose fault is it
That some cats
Are just born black?

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The sparkle in your eyes,
Lit by the power,
Of the fire
In your belly –
Your purpose,
And your dreams,
Blinds the onlookers;
They use their hands
As weak shields,
While they flee from the lands
That have embraced your footprints,
But even in their retreat,
They fail not
To fling the rot,
As best as they can,
On you.

For all they want,
All they ever did –
Was to rule.

An inglorious reign,
That you ruined,
With your mere presence,
That brought with it,
A wave of truth –
Of seeking answers,
And of finding the essence,
Of being human.

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You start with flour –
Two cups of it
Heaped in a mound,
With a well in the middle,
To which you add
A cup of water,
A spoon of yeast,
And a pinch of salt;
And then you commence
The mundane task,
Of bringing it all
Together.

Thereafter,
You proceed
To knead
And prepare
The dough,
Which you will later,
With a rolling pin,
Roll.

What started off
As two cups of flour,
Ends up on your plate
As dinner rolls,
And as you dig in,
Savouring the taste,
Of this freshly baked
Magic borne of flour and yeast,
Drenched in delectable gravy,
You forget,
For the briefest moment,
The torment –
The torment that had assailed you,
The minute you entered
Your kitchen,
And contemplated –
Whether to eat
To your heart’s desire,
Or to resist
The urge to feed the fire
In your belly,
The one that seeks to live
In order to thrive,
Beyond merely exist.

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How does one become bad?
Whether a man
Beaver, badger, dog or cat?
Sure, they can all do things
That could be
Abominable, reprehensible, bad-
But they are not a batch
Of boiled potatoes
That you mashed,
And left outside,
On the counter overnight,
In the throes
Of a dreary summer,
That they would go
Completely bad.

The world’s view
Of good and bad,
May not make sense
To you;
Each step you take,
Would not make
Any difference,
To their perception;
For you would
Have strayed,
Farther from
The threshold
Of being good.

And so it happens,
More than often
That people go bad;
Progressing from,
The one breach
Of the goodness threshold,
To many ones –
So what once,
Might have been pardoned,
Can no longer be condoned;
And you go from being
Not quite right,
To being downright
Bad!

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Sometimes,
There is no answer
For why things happen,
Whether good,
Or downright bad;
And when it’s the latter,
One tends to wonder,
Whether one matters,
In the larger scheme
Of things
As they stand;
For if one did,
Would this have
Come to be?

Sometimes,
The things that happen,
Are not just bad,
But they are also
In essence,
Quite pointless;
They serve no purpose,
Not even
To teach one a lesson,
There are no stepping stones
To success,
Or even a semblance
Of peace.

Sometimes,
The best one can do,
Is to let go
Of the things that happened;
And one tries to,
One hopes,
That like sand
That slips through one’s hand,
Leaving no trace behind,
The bad
Will disappear;
But one may find,
That it sticks
Like mud
Instead.

Sometimes
Things happen,
At times for the good,
And at times for the bad;
It’s so much better,
If one steps
Into each new day,
Knowing that always,
There is something
Waiting to unfold,
Something waiting to happen.

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Resist
The urge to intervene,
It may appear insane
Not to,
The bridge may seem
On the verge of breaking,
The crack across its centre
Ever widening.

You believe you possess
The bonding glue,
Magic woven into
Its very essence;
In your effervescence,
To make things right, to mend,
You fail to see
The crack expanding,
Spreading its presence,
Across the length and breadth
Of this doomed bridge.

Sometimes a chasm
Isn’t meant to be bridged,
It exists,
Because the ends
Fail to meet,
Because they
Resist.

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The four seasons

Each have their own hue,

The temperate ones

By far the most vibrant;

They deck up in every shade

Of red, orange and yellow,

A sight to behold,

In tiny gardens,

Or on either side of the road.

The harsh summer sun

Does wonders to the lawn,

Enhancing the sheen,

Of its carpet of green;

While the biting cold

Of the dreary winter morn,

Brushes the landscape

With the whites of frost,

And the black of the bare limbs

Of despondent trees,

That await the return

Of the sparkling green,

As also the chirruping birds

To herald the advent

Of a promising dawn.

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There are few things

That I treasure,

As much as I do,

Watching the lit windows

Of cozy, warm homes,

That are in the process

Of winding down.

After a busy day,

Doing chores

Around the house,

Or running errands,

A 9-5 or some more,

The tired folks

That return home,

Kindle the hearth

To prepare a meal

Or get a frozen one out

To thaw,

Turn on the TV,

Or maybe the music,

While the younger humans,

Settle down to homework.

As I walk down the street,

Or the village lane,

Wherever I am,

In the whole wide world,

I see variations

Of these warm scenes,

Play on repeat.

And so it is,

That I love so much,

To watch people

As they go on living,

To wind down yet another time,

Before giving in to sleep.

A lit up window,

Is so much more

Than just that,

It is uniquely human,

And always has been.

From the time that man

Made friends with fire,

He has lighted up his life,

To quell the darkness,

To keep it at bay,

Until it is just the right time,

To give in to it

And rest a while,

Before it’s time

To live another day.

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I

When the maiden returned,

With a skip in her step,

Just like on the day,

When she had first been set

Out into the realm

That lay beyond;

At that precise moment

Of her return,

The sun set,

On the world

She had left behind.

II

They lit candles galore,

As they sat vigil,

Bemoaning the loss,

And of

Her gruesome, untimely departure;

But the light that had shone,

Was truly gone,

And the flickering flames

Of the candles they carried

Couldn’t quite tame,

The darkness that descended,

When she ascended,

Into the light

That stretches beyond,

And into the expanse

Of the world from whence

She had come

Not too long ago.

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I

Had I looked at the horizon,

At the rising sun –

And taken off into the distance,

Leaving behind my absence,

Perchance,

Nobody would’ve noticed

That I was gone;

But I chose not to,

Although it made sense,

To have traversed

That path,

Instead of the one

That I eventually did.

II

When in the pitch black,

Of the tumultous night,

I fumble for a smidge of light,

And finding none

Grope around in the dark,

I’m seeking to find,

Any path that leads

To the exit.

III

It would appear that

The path not taken

Back when,

Has left its vestige,

A stubborn remnant –

One that seeks to send me,

Incessantly down the trail

Of finding an escape.

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