The Zero

Yes, there are countless numbers
That exist in this vast Universe.
Some are sought for bank balances,
And some for rankings and scores.

But the number that I like the most
Is that which is nothingness – a zero.
Now you may think it foolish, almost
Imbecilic, ludicrous, and absurd.

But listen carefully when I say
It has more value than anything else.
On the face of it, it might look worthless,
But it’s a point from where to commence.

It holds innumerable possibilities
For the end, and also, the beginning.
The entire Universe was born from it.
In a zero, there’s space for everything.

Its emptiness is extremely powerful
And, you’d agree when I say so –
A true student is one who lets go,
For enlightenment is in the state of zero.

The Armageddon

The threads of memories
In myriad vibrant hues and shades
Create beautiful tapestries.

Or so, you’d think.
Sometimes, these tapestries
Turn into something different.

Threads wind around one another
Forming tight and gnarly knots,
Color over color replacing each color.

The mind struggles to make sense
Of the changing memoryscapes.
Faces once familiar now seem strange.

The constant tugging and pulling
Leads to the strings snapping.
This is a war in which everyone’s losing.

The tapestry tattered,
Some threads lie scattered.
Precious images are forever shattered.

Like a withering autumn leaf,
Battered by the elements, on the tree,
One by one, the memories leave.

Nothing overcomes the inertia.
A blank space forms like an empty shell
In the armageddon of dementia.

Confessions of an Insomniac

Silently, the day takes flight.
Across the dark sky, the Moon glides.
Through the curtains, a ray of light
Makes a shape on the wall as it slides.

Silently, I lie awake
Waiting and waiting for sleep to overtake,
But like a falling snowflake,
With a fleeting touch, it does forsake.

Silently, I remember
Lullabies that drew me into slumber.
Your voice that only in memories I hear
Is lost now in the autumnal zephyr.

Your gentle song guided me
As I voyaged to the realm of sleep.
Each night, it was the keeper of my dream
And a sign of your love for me so deep.

I long to hear that cradle song!
To sleep ensconced in its warmth!
But, the silence stays with me till dawn
With a sleeplessness that feels so wrong.

The Candle and The Wind

Once upon a long time ago,
A candle burned alone.
Its tiny flame spread the light
In the pitch black moonless night.

Soon, the wind picked up speed
Tossing away the fallen leaves.
Towards the candle, it rushed
Eager to swipe it with its gusts.

The little flame clung helplessly
Flickering wildly in the breeze.
But, with a sudden cold gush,
The solitary candle was snuffed.

The wanderer saw everything –
The battle of the candle and the wind.
But, in his mind, a light had been lit,
And he scribbled in his manuscript.

“A little candle; A little wind
Is what’s needed for the flame to be lit.
Too much candle or too much wind
Will unleash a power that’s destructing.

If both of them are just right,
The path would light up at night.
And just so, that mind is enlightened
In which the candle and wind are balanced.”

I Wish

I wish I could wish for a wish
And wish for that wish to manifest.
O wouldn’t it be splendidly lovely
If I stumbled upon a wish tree!

I would sit in its shade in the glade
And watch my wishes come true all day.
If I was hungry, I’d wish for a pie,
And the tree would bake for me a slice.

If I was thirsty, I’d wish for lemonade,
And voila! I’d get it in a glass on a tray.
If I was sleepy, I’d wish for a bed,
And on a soft mattress, I’d lay my head.

If I was bored, I’d wish for a story,
And the tree would narrate one to me.
If I was lonely, I’d wish for my friends,
And on the leaves, they’d all descend.

But here I am, in this war-torn city!
With screams and sirens all around me!
I’m frightened, and all I wish for is peace.
But I’m just a child without a wish tree.

Happiness

Happiness is only for a chosen few.
So don’t try to argue that
I can be happy just as I am.
Although you may think otherwise,
I can’t afford luxuries.
And it would not be false to admit –
Only the rich own palaces, cars, and gold.
As I ponder further, I see –
One can never be happy without money.
It’s also hard to accept that
Happiness is in the little things.
And, it is a fact –
I can’t really be happy just as I am.
So, I refuse to believe –
Happiness isn’t about being wealthy.
For every day really gets me wondering –
Is happiness only for a chosen few?

PS: This is a Reverse poem. Please read the poem from top to bottom first, and then from bottom to the top.

The Red Coat

The red coat hung in the display.
It caught her attention at once.
It was a deep yet bright red,
With shiny, black, round buttons.

On one side was the price tag.
The figure was her year’s salary!
Now, her interest really piqued
And she quizzed the shop lady.

The coat was made in a village
In a faraway and foreign land.
It was created by craftsmen,
Over many days, with their hands.

As she went to bed that night,
She thought about that coat.
Yes, she loved and wanted it.
It looked every bit its worth.

As she pondered further on,
A question arose in her mind –
What was it about that coat
That made it one of its kind?

Was it the warmth and softness?
Was it the color and buttons?
Was it that it was all handmade
In a faraway village by artisans?

But, wasn’t it just like… her quilt?!
The thought came so suddenly,
She turned on the light to see it –
It was her old grandmother’s gift.

Years ago, her grandmother
Had hand-sewn this cozy quilt
With cloth pieces in varied colors,
And patterns, and a cottony fill.

It had warmth and softness!
It had colors and buttons!
It was definitely all handmade
By her grandmother, like an artisan!

The coat was then just a dream
That looked perfect in the display.
Even if she bought it, it seemed,
She’d never wear it every day.

She turned the lights out to sleep,
And yet, her mind was clear as day.
For the thing she desired so deeply
Was something she already possessed.

The Day

An ordinary day.
Busy with countless chores to do.
Cooking, washing, folding, rearranging,
Dusting, and in all this, you overlook
Everything that’s extraordinary, like
Flowers, sunshine and … being alive.

PS: This poem is an Abecedarian.

Seven Sisters

Seven sisters in a box,
Handed down over generations,
They can cook up a storm
In every Indian kitchen.

Be it a daily meal
Or grand, festive celebrations,
They are always ready
To create magic on any occasion.

Just a pinch or a teaspoonful
Brings great satisfaction,
And all the items on the menu
Become artistic creations.

Experts they are
At instant gratification –
Blending aromas and flavors
To turn foods into delections.

They are my friends for life
Melding me with traditions –
The box with seven spices
In my little Indian kitchen.

Flowers

When I was a little girl
I loved plucking the flowers
Growing on the side of the road.
Drawn by their fragrance and colors,
And their soft petals and buds,
I loved crushing them with my fingers.

When I became a teenager,
I was enamored by the flowers
That I received as gifts in bouquets.
I would put them in books and papers
Leaving them to dry between the pages
And marvel at how beautiful they were.

When I grew into a woman,
I was mesmerized by the flowers
That were woven into garlands.
I would wear them in my hair.
The air would bear their fragrance.
I felt it enhanced my beauty for hours.

In the autumn of my life,
I am reminded by the flowers
Of the moments of bygone times.
Yet, I don’t pluck, crush, dry them in papers
Or for beauty, yearn for their sacrifice.
I’m just happy when they bloom…in bowers.

The Box

I had a little box.
It was made of marble
With carvings on the top
And a small, metal handle.

No, I don’t recall
If I got it as a gift,
Or if it was bought
From the local market.

In that little box
I kept my tiny treasures –
Shiny stones I came across,
Shells, beads, and pictures.

With the passing years,
I forgot about the box
And all the tiny treasures
That in it, were locked.

One day, it did appear
When my room, I tidied up.
It was lying in a corner,
Amongst the other stuff.

I opened that little box
With a smile on my face –
For memories, it brought
Of another time and place.

That box is my connection
To my younger self.
It’s my oldest possession
As it sits on the shelf.

I love that little marble box
And the treasures it contains.
With it, time seems to stop,
And I become a child again.

Not Meant for Me

My heart is heavy
With the sadness inside it.
Outside in the sky
The crescent moon shines
With a smile not meant for me.

I am in the park
Walking with my memories.
It’s a summer day
A small child plays on the swing
With a smile not meant for me.

Spring has arrived
With melodies in the breeze.
Colorful bouquets
Peek from the florist’s window
With a smile not meant for me.

I pick up the shells
Strewn on the golden sand.
Every ocean wave
Curves as it bobs up and down
With a smile not meant for me.

PS: Each stanza is in the 5-7-5-7-7 Waka format.