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City of Lights

It's a chilly night.
I rub my palms together, draw my jacket tighter over my shoulders and hug myself real tight. I am leaning over the balcony of our apartment in Dubai, and I look as far beyond the horizons of the city as I possibly can, just to let the sights and sounds coalesce into a happy place in my soul...feel the cool breeze tease my hair in a whimsical flight of fancy maybe.

I'm mesmerized by the silver linings of the skyscrapers glowing decadently against the ebony black night, the beautiful city lights that run the course of the horizon in a blurry haze, and the tranquility of the night so in harmony with that which is settling over me presently.

The chilly wind orchestrates the flow of my hair, and from a distance, the wind carries upon its wings distant strains of peace and resilience that lull me into a deep reverie of years long past. Faceless faces and beautiful harmonies keep me company for the remainder of the night.

Outside, the city that never sleeps is showing signs of turning in for the day. I draw my jacket tighter over me, hug myself, and lean over the silver rails to gaze at the city snoring softly under the hazy glare of the city streets.

It's nice to slow down every once in a while.
Pretty therapeutic, actually.

Those Winter Sundays

Sometimes you come across poems you desperately wish you'd written.

'Those Winter Sundays' by Robert Hayden, for me, is one such poem.

Here's how the poem goes: 

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices? 

***

Now how beautiful was that?

Dear Stranger

We knew each other only for a day.
And yet, our conversation flowed smoothly, like a bicycle wheel in perfect trajectory. We talked about everything we could think of, completely unaware of the fact that up until a few moments ago we were complete strangers in awe of each others' presence.

So many things still remain to be said.
Maybe we'll save that bit for the next time we cross paths again.
Something tells me we will.

Till then, dear stranger, farewell.

It was enchanting to meet you.

Juggling Elephants

Sometimes you think you can handle everything on your own.You believe that you've got what it takes-the guts, the grit- to go through the weight of the situation without anyone's aid, and come out alright.

But sometimes, though, things can get a little overwhelming. They get too big for you to handle. You'll soon realize that your hands are far too small and weak to be juggling all those elephants; that sooner or later, you're going to be crushed under the weight of it all. One careless move, and you better believe that your soul is going to hover above a dozen confused elephants.

At such trying times, it never hurt anyone to be just a tiny bit scared and ask for directions. Or ask someone they really trust to give their blues a listen.

Hey, you never know.
You might just find the fuel you need to keep your motor running.

Hidden Places

Sometimes
Those hidden places like
That old corner on Times Street
Come creeping into the crowded subway
Of my consciousness, and I
Am once again reminded of
times, happy ones, with you
Walking right beside us,
Cracking jokes about the two
Of you, your booming laughter
Floating above the dust, the smog, and
Past the din of the busy city folk,
More pervading than any Arabic
Scent perfuming  the air,
And far more therapeutic.


Those hidden places like
That old corner in Times Street
Are now no more; dumb,
demolished, crumbled bricks lie in the backdrop
Of new, glossy statures-
A perennial reminder of you,
And all our times with you:
Lost but not forgotten,
Destroyed in reality, but
Fortified, once in so often a while
In spirit and memory; intangible
In presence, but omnipresent
In knowledge.

On nights like these,
Those hidden places like
The old corner on Times Street
Come bursting through the patched up folds
Of my unconsciousness,
Just to remind me that there was
Such a happy time once, not so very long ago,
And pretty soon, if I'm good enough,
There shall be such happy times again,
Only more eternal, more real, wherein I,
Like you, shall be happy, loved, cared for
By your side forever more, booming with laughter,
Shouting in glee, drawing excited bubbles of pure happiness
From the inner most recesses of my heart,
Like never before. 

That Old Woman

She was old and frail, with an arched back. She drew her scarf over her forehead as she waited. When she raised the palm of her right hand over her squinty black eyes to shield herself from the mid-day heat, the long, loose sleeves of her abaya slipped to the sweaty  valley at the end of the forearm, and revealed a hard, brown, bony hand. The other arm was struggling to carry big, bulky bags of old clothes she'd gathered from her begging rounds.

She was exhausted. She had left her sickly children back at home earlier during the day, and had visited some fifty houses or so in under two hours. Some turned her out. Most of them didn't even bother opening their doors for her. But still, she always found one or two houses with sympathetic folks who would acknowledge her presence with a rupee or two. She always left a prayer for them.

Today, however, was not a very good day. Although she had managed to get a few old clothes for her children, she was too tired to continue her long and unwinding walk back home, what with her swollen feet and the blazing heat. She had enough change in her handkerchief to spare her an autorickshaw ride for about half the way home. The other half...she'd think about that later. It was too hot to think. She was feeling dizzy from hunger and thirst too.

An autorickshaw was whirring its way towards her. She picked up her bulky bags, and raised a bony hand to hail it. The driver took one look at her, and sped by. She refused to take offense.

Another autorickshaw refused to take her, and yet another. They seemed to have no trouble offering their service to well-off families or other individuals with bulky shopping bags, though.
The heat was starting to get worse, just as the sharp pain in her back and heels.

After an hour of waiting, she decided she was wasting her time and energy. The old, frail woman with the arched back picked up her bulky bags of worn out clothes, and began her journey back home with swollen feet and aching arms, under the blazing heat of the sun, muttering to herself:
for my children...I must not collapse for the sake of my children...