Any dream will do

 
It's raining leaves everywhere. From tall trees, small trees, sturdy trees and felled trees. They are felling trees by the dozen, the authorities. To make way for the scores of people and vehicles that have descended upon my land of plenty to suck it dry of all that it has to offer. All in the name of progress. Little cream-walled houses with grey doors are being replaced by stylish bungalows and small roadside shops have had to bow out for the multiplexes and the malls. These new structures lack the one thing that they set out to find in the first place. Character. My city and its dwellers of generations refused to part with it. Nature is angry, too.  I saw yesterday morning that she was furious. She had commanded a big, old grandpa tree to uproot itself and crush the wall of a house she didn't like. I wanted to stay and count the rings of age, but I didn't.

 

Me, an endless journey

pictures in the mind

that refuse to age

a lying mirror

a lull that storms taught me to hold on to 

 

The rains are late this monsoon. They seem to have given my city the go-by. This time last year, the monsoon was relentless, leaving pain and fear in its wake. My city, known for its well-balanced seasons, where the summers aren't too hot, monsoons aren't too wet, winters aren't too cold and spring isn't around long enough for us to enjoy it witnessed a squall quite unlike any other late June last year. I remember the day well for I was cold and wet and had to walk with measured steps through slush and live wires on dark unlit streets for hours before I could hitch a ride back home. But we are well into July now, and there isn't a whiff of rain for miles and miles around. The familiar nip in the air that monsoon brings is playing an annoying game of hide-and-seek. There is dust everywhere, the kind that stings your eyes if you so much as dare open them when you're in the midst of its fury. The kind that sticks to your feet that no matter how many times you wash them, refuses to be washed away. The dust hasn't settled down, thanks to no rain. And for no reason at all, I thought of you today.

 

You, a lyricless song 

the absence of first rain

the missing colours of the rainbow

the soft glow

around the pall in the sky 

The very idea of lost love demands that the days be cold, thoughts be gloomy and tears be unshed to think of what-could-have-beens. It's strange for this is not a warm day in September to remember you and your green plaid shirt by. I haven't walked down the street that leads to somewhere to remind me of the first time I heard your voice. I haven't had a cup of mocha in that dinghy cafe in recent months. Where I first hugged you. Or was it you who hugged me? I didn't read any old mail from you, nor have I listened to...

Follow me where I go,

What I do, who I know,

Make it part of you to be a part of me

...in ages. But something about today made me think of you. Memories fade, new dreams replace old ones, people move on, but some things linger on in their absence. And catch you unawares to bring back the smile that you missed.

Us, a wordless story

secrets never to share

faded yellow leaves

fallen on a lazy puddle

that yesterday's almost rain left behind.