The bird sings to wake up,
The bird wakes up to sing.
Pale mornings in light golden
Sunshine bouncing off ground, wind intertwining hair
Breezy sky in pastels
Shadows in the sunlight, following wherever you go
Heavy footsteps, light conversation
Deep seas in eyes, look deeper
Afloat on the surface, fluctuating with the waves
The heart stiffens, evening sets in
Cold and blue- fading slowly
Leaves fall, the sun drains out,
Only to be replaced by moonlight
Shining bright against the dark.
Freezing air in pitch black
The heart relaxes.
The bird sings to sleep,
The bird sleeps to sing.
With the glorious gift of Language.
The multiple movements of chords in the throat
Produce sounds that provoke
Thoughts and ideas in fertile minds.
Came to terms with the fact that
gift of Language does not always equate to something profitable.
My chords stumbled
While I searched for words
Stuck somewhere in broken, incomplete, incorrect sentences.
Tongue tried to speak a language,
Mind thought wistfully of another,
The language of my struggles, my stories.
The language of my passion.
The language of my mother, my glories.
The language- now lost in translation.
Just like those sentences,
Was I broken, incomplete,
How one dresses ostentatiously for the world,
And then changes to comfortable clothes behind locked doors.
I switched to the ostentatious language for the world,
And then back to Hindi at home.
Like a child trying to play with a lazy dog in the sun,
I tried frantically
To engage myself with a language not comfortable with me.
Words heard in childhood echoed,
“It is international tongue,
Speak it or fade away”
Hindi of my heart, Hindi of my home, English of the eagle-eyed.
I had come to love my language.
I had come to miss my language.
“Have I seen you before?” I say
With a half apologetic, half bewildered smile
Spread wide across my face
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not really good with names”
I retaliate, as my brain
Filters back to the thousand letters and syllables, thousand faces
That’s it’s tried miserably to retain in the past few days
My eyes, accustomed to seeing known views and familiar faces,
My ears known to heard voices and listening to similiar cases,
Break down, build back up again
For I am the earthen clay,
And life is the hands
Molding me, shaping me, making me who I am
I see people with fire in their eyes
Fury in their veins
And it’s all disguised
By a gentle, carefully curated smile
Floating above sea tides
Ive seen people like the tips of the iceberg
I can’t help but wonder about the depths they hide
They say when God closes a door, she opens a window
For that’s all I see, windows and windows letting light in to what was dark before,
And the doors of ideas which existed before break open
Comfort zones become borders which need to be crossed
And my social anxiety sits like a demon to the right of my shoulder
But what’s different is that I have the courage to say “Not today, Satan”
When someone asks me “Have your ever travelled outside your country before?”
I’m compelled to say no because I have no tickets to flights to act as evidence
But what about the time my Canadian friend painted the picture of her small town to me over tea?
What about the time me and my Swedish friend talked politics while we were waiting for the laundry?
What about the time me and my Colombian roommate stayed up late talking about culture, religion and love?
What about the time I talked about backgrounds with people who don’t live in the same side of my country as I do?
While I haven’t physically been present to any of these locations
The words spoken from the voices of those who have
Echo in my mind, resonate in my soul
Through the words of their personal anecdotes
It’s almost as if I’ve imagined and understood
How the wind blows in their town
How the grass feels
How the sun shines
And it seems to as if I’ve lived there too
They teach you things about yourself you never knew
They make you reach out to the darkest pits in your mind you’ve always been avoiding
They empty you only to fill you up again
They make you look in the mirror and see a new person
They make you realise being reborn isn’t nessecarily a bad thing
If you open yourself up to New beginnings
They start making you feel belonged
Start feeling familiar
Start feeling comfortable
And start feeling
Have you looked at an old picture
and lost yourself,
in nostalgia and curiosity?
As your fingers run along the smooth photograph, which you just pulled out from a rusty drawer.
Have you ever felt estranged?
Have you ever not recognised the person in front of you?
though they possess your skin and bones,
they’re not you.
have you ever looked at an old picture,
and in the dusty frame,
Observed the mind and body you’ve outgrown?
Are you ashamed?
Are you proud of how far you’ve come?
Does the picture symbolise progress?
or does it stand for something,
much more significant-
maybe, it stands for simpler times.
Have you ever looked at a picture
and felt a sting in your brain,
almost as if a voice was saying,
“How times change”
And have you pondered about how life was back then?
But, the idiotic grin on your face says,
That you sympathise with your old self in the picture,
Who you now consider a fool, and mock gently,
Have you ever looked at an old picture,
And then looked in the mirror
And called that split second “Evolution”
Or a marker of increasing wisdom.
Today, click a new picture.
And realise that with some time,
You will feel the same looking at it.
The next time you look at an old picture
Not as pride to have outgrown the fool you were,
but to acknowledge the fact that you
change every day
and grow everyday.
I shall be with you,
Building slowly, from a spark to a fire,
I shall burn with you,
Like the bud evolves into the flower,
I shall bloom with you.
Like the moonlight illuminates the sky, like the stars glitter and beam,
I shall shine with you, I shall glow with you.
Like the bird flies, to soar greater heights,
I shall rise with you.
Like the desert sands contain the warmth of sunrays,
I shall absorb the good in you,
All this I’d do, until it’s time to go, like the sea pulls back, away from the shore.
But till then, like a pupil with a fertile mind,
I shall learn from you,
I shall be with you.
An essence of Revolt hung about in the air.
Filled with voices of anguish, bent down himself the Sky
Alarmed with the upsurge, roared herself the Earth
And they all danced to a rhythm,
A rhythm of hands raised all together,
A rhythm of voices chanting in chorus,
A rhythm of feet stepping down collectively.
A rhythm by the children of the nation
A rhythm for the countrymen, for the infants, for the elders, for the world.
For together they sang the lullaby for Change
Their motherland was quite acquainted to this lullaby,
Having heard it before through the mouths of martyrs,
She was pleased to see her children, fight once again for a different type of a freedom,
An important one nevertheless
And an essence of Revolt hung about in the air.
Not ignited by soldeirs or guns or swords,
But fueled by the Youth,
With their voices, their hearts and their souls,
Being their only weapons.