Procrastination

the book i started still to be finished
the words still to be written
sometimes words fail
sometimes i fail

but i get up
to write and make sense of the confusion
sometimes i just let others scribble
let others inspire

i pick up to finish 
that book i started months back
reading the previous few pages
from the bookmark
and then give up

i hold the brush
and brush away the cobwebs
but the illustrations are still not done
my palette is full
the colours not yet right

i leave behind the unfinished post
the unfinished painting
an unfinished thought
a conversation is left hanging

tomorrow i shall complete it
yes tomorrow.

Nepal

somewhere an inch moved
a beautiful world lays in ruins
lost lives under rubbles
a child, a man, a woman
a calf, a pup, a kitten

history that had been created over centuries
lies in heap in present
wiped away from future
in a flash of a second

the petulant children
continue to live in complacence
unbothered about the ruin
they probably caused
they shudder for a second
thank their stars
it wasn't them
and move on

angry nature
crushed a country
lashes it over and over
with tears of anguish
people living under the make shift houses
wince in her fury

but hope still lives
strength still lives
in the pained eyes
in the new crops
lush green
in the background

Goodbyes

i do not like goodbyes. But it doesn't matter, does it?

Sometimes i fly away to the skies while i am still half asleep, still dreaming and look at me. From that distance i can see my life. i have moved ever since i remember, from place to place , from house to house.i have nightmares of moving sometimes. of missing my bus, my train, my flight. of being on the wrong bus, of leaving someone special behind.  it's not something i have control over. i'm like a clueless little rootless plant , tossed around from place to place by the river of life. sometimes i like to think that i am the river. when i meet other plants on the way, we tag along for a while and i tell them i am the river. i don't know otherwise. when the river was young, so was i. i was fast and furious like the river itself. When i spoke of river i spoke of myself. At that point i was moving, looking, exploring , looking, touching, looking, moving, looking. looking for the direction, for a purpose, becoming stronger, becoming weak, fighting odds, making friends, losing friends, moving, looking. finding purpose.

the river had its phases, when it slowed down, when it became fast, when it reached the end of the road and suddenly found another way. sometimes it made its own way. i went along the river. i didn't have any choice. i moved with her, fastening my pace, slowing my pace. saying goodbyes, moving, moving. never stopping.

sometimes i made a corner my home. i held on to it with my feeble little arms that i thought were roots. sometimes i wanted to stop. Foolish me, i didn't know i was a rootless plant. i held on but movement had become me you see. i couldn't stay on. someone told me i could borrow its roots, i could stay. i still hated goodbyes, but i had fallen in love with the river. the river that moved. my love was stronger than my hatred. and so i moved. yet again, with the river of life.

It is strange when your nightmare and dream are the same. i have lost count of the places, of the faces, of friends, of lives lived , of pains, of dreams, of laughter , of tears. i sometimes wonder if it is me, my life i am looking at from the sky. then the alarm goes off and i have to wake up and get ready . ready for movement, ready to say the goodbyes yet again. no point , no time to wait and wonder. but move with -move in the river of life.