THE CHILD’s ALIVE…

Those old times have gone by...

And all that I have is a chest of memories kept aside.

There’s a frail presence of faith and hope;

Objects in the light seem to disappear as I mount the steps,

And reminiscence decides to summon as I write…

The poet’s pen kept in a locked cabinet;

All that’s remained is rust and dried ink.

I wonder if words will follow the course of thoughts.

Nevertheless, it’s worth a struggle…

Caught up in Yesterdays and Denver’s music,

Sunday Mornings come to my mind.

Waking up to the tune of the singing bird and Mama’s embrace,

Playing hide and seek all throughout the day;

Cousins and acts of mischief, and punishments;

Those were moments filled with glee!

Never will I forget those bicycle rides and falls;

Getting drenched in the monsoons and Dad’s scolding,

Half days in school and afternoon sessions of mental math;

Evenings and games of chess with Grand Dad…

The roof top, a favourite spot for chit-chat,

Or just waving out to the wayfarers and cars.

Fascination with dogs, cats, fish and butterflies;

And that’s how the dog became a good friend.

Dressing up with mom’s make up and shoes,

And the lingering scent of dad’s Old Spice bottle.

Nostalgia plays on and on...

So much to remember and smile about;

Yesterdays and Sundays have gone by,

Still reminiscences remain to keep the child alive.

Kept the memory

It’s again one of those moments of solitude…
A room lit with dim, late evening light,
I lay there in that quiet moment,
Looking at those crisscross lines in my palm…
They say nothing which I understand perhaps
But the fist makes better sense I gather…
Gives a feeling as though I’m holding something inside
Love, power, secrets, anger, pain or more like a memory.


I wouldn’t let go of them, I decide.
Suddenly faces appear to my left and right,
Maybe it’s of Satan and my God…
A race or battle like scene, enemy lines, uncivilized crowd to the left;
Contrasts with images of those smiling faces I love, a home I guard,
With the sound of music echoing amidst the green fields of freedom,
And a hand reaching out to me, as I face the right.
Right looks beautiful and I smile to myself…


Satan still stands there, pointing at the loud tick-tock noise of his clock;
Luring me with wealth, status and all that I ask for…
“Many have joined my side, the race.
They’ll fight; they’ll kill, at my beck and call!
And I’ll give them all the worldly pleasures…
So why would you want to lag behind?” says he.


I desire victory, power and fame,
But do I need to be a part of this slaughter?
There are other ways to get there and I’ll find them…
Maybe there’ll be more of disapproving faces as I walk that way
That’ll barely change my mind though…
For those who have to leave, will go away
And perhaps only a few will stand by me.


So I refuse the war and will take that hand,
The hand feels warm and familiar.
It will take me where I’m meant to be,
Somewhere far, somewhere I can think free.
So I held my fist tight , kept the memory.