Ruins

Leaves rustled. Whispering into the dark of the night. A night disturbed by the lonely calls of the owl or the sound of a cricket colony. A wind that carries whispers to the dark clouds. A sense of tranquil. A dry twig crackles under a quadruped that treads the narrow silent path. A path drenched by blood of comfit perhaps. A path covered by flowers of exuberance. A path ending in stones. Stones that tell a story. A story of lanterns that smoked when arrows were fired. When bellowing cries disturbed the watching owls . When man and steel met their match in each other. Where victory was defeat and the vanquished won. A story of war and a story of valor. Of seven foot soldiers clad in iron armors carrying spears drenched in blood of the enemy.

A night that comes alive to the strategists in their quarters watching keenly with wrinkled brows on parchments of maps to decide who next to martyr and whose head to wreck.

A stone creak that must have held a torch, how many hands had smeared blood on it. How many backs had drenched it with sweat. How many cries has it heard and how much has it seen to remember.

A leaf is free to drift apart. The wind cajoles it to fall on the sand. A footprint. That tells the story of burdens unknown. Of a past untold. Of secrets carried forth. A footrprint tired from the world afar, waiting to stop but fearing the still. And the leaf falls in its ridges. A foot that set on the sand of the wars. To rest with irony the turmoils in its own. To seek from the rampants the blocks to build its life and to find dulcets in the heart wrenching cries. A foot that set itself on the mission to defeat, what was won and lost many a time. To scale an conquer what was belittled and bloated in history many a time. When the foot conquered the rampant peak, who was the vanquished and who won the war. When man set himself against nature, who was the victor and who stood in shame.

Until next time ruins, when again I need to build me, I would look into you for the strength.

Face

I complete an year at work very soon. Mumbai, Life, money. Maintaining a house. Paying bills, clearing dues. Did I lose myself to the city? Or am I lost in the city. I see faces in the crowd. A face running to catch the next train to office. A face trying to catch an auto, a face covered to avoid the dust and pollution. A face trying to board her son to school. A face running down the road to go to school and show off his new science project. A strange feeling of familiarity seeps in me when I see them. Strange. In a place I know very few. In a city that would deny doubly as quickly as it besotted me. I still find solace in these faces. Every face tells me a story. My story. A story of every face. A face in the mingling crowd. Strange, my mind thinks. I pay through my nose to find solace in solitude. And in solitude I yearn for company. And amidst all those faces, I find my story, but a sense of detachment engulfs me.

I am trying to be bereft of philosophy. It is too high a standard to achieve such thought. I am merely the inspired observer. Walking to the office, I miss the faces that are over powdered, with crisp white knickers tottering along holding their fathers’ fingers. I fail to notice the faces that are walking with the swagger after conquering the world, not caring much for anything. I miss the faces that are pleading to god that the bus be on time and the boss does not start his sermons again. All these faces telling me their stories and I walk by like I said, the inspired observer.

Nostalgia sometimes strikes. When some stories catch my attention. Like when some young faces laugh aloud in the dusk sitting around the parking lot not irritated by the mosquito buzz, or the face that counts the coins from his pocket to check if he can afford the veg puff. A face that would stare at me when I walk by like I never existed in his world, a mere aberration.

A face that listens to loud music and sings along. A face that fusses about the dinner menu till mom makes something better. A face that tries to explain to dad that 30 rupees is just not enough.

Memories they say are a tribute to times gone by. I pay mine everyday.