Lost !

On her hands, he writes a verse..

always the lost poet

who has told a long story

in broken silence

cryptic.

In his sack,

he carries a brush,

a pencil with blunt tip

and a few sketches

he has stolen from

an unvisited memory lane.

Yesterday,

he wrote about paper boats,

fallen maple leaves

and a rainbow that has faded,

colors blended, blurred...

Sometimes, he looks at her

for a long time,

closing his eyes..

he lives in a fear,

that there will never be an escape..

that the poet will forever be lost,

found and unfound...

I found him last evening,

he looked sad...

but he reasoned,

there is nothing to be sad about.

I chose not to say,

happiness can't be reasoned.

And so he lives,

restless and resigned..

at the same time,

a lover and a loner,

broken in halves..

he tries to smoothen the edges

of what is left of the broken...

(c)Ankur

Shattered

In the deafening silence

Of a hollow laugh,

Something, somewhere is often missed.

In the hundred lies we live everyday,

And the truth that remains

Naked, battered and cold

In an ego that is too proud

To just wither away, choked.

And so I stand on the edge,

Of a sad smile,

Ready to fall in the bleeding pits of eyes

Where a dream remains

Like a shred of glass.

I am ready to fall

To break into a million pieces,

Not ready to die

Without one final rebellion.

Some people reach a breaking point,

Some wait,

Torturing themselves,

Taking it all

And not once asking,

"when is enough?"

They will be freed,

After the turmoil

Destroyed

Without a trace of lie left behind

To wither slow.

There are rivers,

That revolt,

And die in their youth,

No salty surrender for them.

And so I wait,

To be hit real hard

And stand, unshaken.

To fight back

And fall for once

After the fight is won.

Without ever hearing

The countdowns.

Because I have to wait

Through every day defeats

And meaningless victories

To be shattered

With no pity.

~Ankur Srivastava



From Brookefield

He sits at the bus stop

That reads Brookefield,

An urban child with no history

Of its childhood....

Shoulders limp and head thrown back,

He listens to the noise

Of cars and passers-by

That dissolves yesterday's talks.

He flicks a finger, quietly

And turns it "mute".

He walks up to the road

That leads to more such roads.

He holds the road, the grey sky above it

And the city that stretches beyond

Between his fingers

Like a canvas of flowing colors

And moving images

That mean nothing.

He rips it apart.

He spreads a faint-blue canvas

And picks his paint-brush,

A lemon-yellow morning

And eternal sadness

Of many nights

That have not slept.

He paints "waiting"

Of the city-clock

That still ticks

In some forgotten days.

He tosses away the paintbrush,

Without a signature.

He walks away

And carries the canvas along.

(c)Ankur



Love And I

I don't particularly like Bollywood movies. Still, I have grown up watching them. I have often wondered why all of them revolve around a love-story and why half of those love-story reach their climax on railway-stations or airports. What is so special about a train whistling away or an announcement of the departure of a flight? I always believed that there was something special in every cliche but my mind could never fathom the reasons behind this strange liking for airports (or railway stations).

Even before railways came into existence, love had become the favorite cliche of all artists. At the age of 17 or 18, I fashioned myself as The love-poet on Orkut forums. People often commented that I have endless topics related to love to write about and I knew that they really questioned my ability to write about anything else. I wasn't offended by that question. I will tell you a secret. I think they were right. It wasn't a handicap to my limited writing talents, it was an inspiration. Love and the pain it had brought in my life. Love and the other word it had added to my silence: rejection.

I had a score to settle with love. Love, that was always present in my poems and conspicuously absent from my life. On that bronze colored afternoon, she was talking about love and I was sitting near the stairs, listening to her. She told me, her casual voice belying the seriousness in her light brown eyes, that she didn't want to find love, she wanted love to find her, she couldn't take the risk of "rejection". She wanted the perfect love. I wasn't listening to her after that. I was just looking into her eyes and they didn't shy away. She was one of the few friends I had in my new college. I knew the language her eyes were speaking. I thought of my own little tussle with love. Love finds its strength in its ability to catch you weak on your knees. I had a plan. To rob love off the surprises, the sweet tickles, the flush of emotions it can cause. I loved her like I woke up every morning, like I breathed, like I went through the daily chores of my day. I gave her love that she deserved; that I had also deserved... I had decoded the secret of love. I had made it a deliberate indulgence and a conscious decision. Commitment needs an honest will, not a malfunctioning heart.

I know she would never like what I did. But she could never know. She is happy. For three years, I have been trying to make (not "keep") her happy, every day. I tried, not with the blind faith of a sufi-devotee, but with the consistency of an honest bank-clerk. I mingled my love with thousands small  insignificant moments. I failed too, at times, but, only briefly. I made sure every night to say everything she wanted to hear before she went to sleep. It worked for us.

And then the time came for the college days to be folded neatly and to be hidden in the photo albums and telephone directories. I told her not to be sad, that the distances don't matter, that we would stay "in touch" and that we would meet (for the perfect ending). She kept fearing, she cried often and time kept slipping between our fingers. It was time for "the" good bye. I hugged her tightly. I stood smiling as she went into the airport. She looked back from across the glass. My voice couldn't reach her. I touched the wall of glass between us but I couldn't hold her hands. My mind had gone blank. My calculations were blowing in some unknown storm. I could hardly breathe. And then she disappeared to collect her boarding passes, to catch her flight. And I sat down on the sidewalk. I cried silently and love smiled. Now I know, all the while, love had a plan too. To make every insignificant moment of my life wholesome, magical and love-like. And what better place than an airport for me to end this war and accept my defeat happily.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Dreamer

He made a paper-boat

Of the wrinkled tissue paper

The emblem of the coffee-shop

Gracing its sail.

He smiled at his new masterpiece,

"It's not about this peach colored boat

It's about the lost childhood,

Rains are coming..."

He tried to explain,

Honestly, for once..

They mocked and left.

The paper boat stayed a little longer

On his table and in his mind,

Before it was swept away

In the tide of the nothingness

That filled his days.

A few clouds of memories

Passed over him,

Under the endless blues

Of a sky stretched across the times,

He looked at the marigolds

Their sun-kissed yellow

Like her evening dress,

And his bicycle tripped,

Again in front of that wrought iron gate.

Another sun melted away,

Another unforgiven day dragged its feet

And her giggle still floated in the air.

Sometimes, he talked about

An unforgotten love

A school girl who never grows old

An old rickety bicycle

And streets of a forgotten town.

Sometimes, he looks at them

And a smile shies away

They understand not

What he says.

He smiles, nevertheless,

And the birds stay back with him

Even after it's dark..

A dreamer...

A loner?

Is he?

(c) Ankur Srivastava 

Thank you Kirti for giving me this muse  :)

On A Day Like This

I have tossed the afternoon sun,

Down from my terrace...

Through the dusty air and city smoke

Somewhere.. i don't care.

I like the evening,

Its grey color and tall shadows..

I like the way it rushes

To its end... in evening trains

And rain-washed streets.

In the little pocket

Of my sweat stained shirt...

Time lies still..

Beating slowly with my heartbeat..

And just as meaningless...

I have peeled the layers of grey

From the aging face of sky

And left an ugly scar

On the naked beauty of moon.

This is my night..

And i own it..

Its every moment

Is held still in my breath

And released with a shy..

The distant Sun conspires..

What do i care?

For the brick red mornings...

The school going kids

And their stolen innocence..

I close my eyes

To the haste on some bus stand

Breakfast news

Crisp white uniforms

And the city clock...

My time sleeps quiet

With my dreams..

And we dream ..

Beyond this tired day.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Silence

In the deep well of thoughts, 

words have dried up somewhere.. 

I can still stack up sentences 

And give you my story.. 

With a pinch of lie 

Some secrets dressed up..

But then i have taken the other way.. 

To scrap away every little line 

From the paper 

And make them stand 

On that riverside 

where i waited for her in my half dreams.. 

I tried to give words,

a voice, a song 

That could light up 

The grim darkness of a lonely 2-bhk. 

Then i discovered 

like the cuckoo in the nest.. 

This world is not mine.. 

neither is this my story.. 

and no, my dreams were too inspired.. 

I have tried too hard, 

Won too easily 

And lost so narrowly 

in love and life.. 

on a blank piece of paper 

i put my signature..

On the bottom

that's how i like it, absolute silence .. 

no prayers, no cries..

no half-lies

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Merchant of Dreams

Photo: courtesy Kirti.

PART 1

It was that time of the day when people came back from offices, tea shops became abuzz with discussions and women rushed back to their kitchens after what had initially started as an afternoon gossip. The hard sun had wilted in its own heat and fallen in the dust which was in the air, on the street and in the silent sobs of one more ordinary day coming to its jinxed end under the scrutiny of large street lamps. In the old park of the neighborhood, last ball of the last cricket match had been bowled; the kids, covered in sweat and mud, though were still debating over something. A group of elderly men was going back to their homes after their evening walk. A young girl on the footsteps of teenage was sitting on an old wooden bench and still blushing about something that happened in school that day. A man, not older than 40 but certainly not too young either, caught their attention. He stood near the entrance of the park, smiling at passers by. There was something ridiculous about him, something that was intriguing and fascinating too... Something other than his dark red jacket with large metallic, golden colored buttons. Something other than his thin and dramatic mustache. It was the serenity in his eyes, the grace with which he held up his hands to greet everyone, the all-knowing smile he flashed.

They waited for him to say something. There was soon a little gathering outside the park. Men and women, young and old, and a few kids looked at him with intrigue. After he was convinced with the size of the audience, he started his speech. His voice was child-like but sounded convincing, "Good evening my beautiful people! I once lived in this very neighborhood when I was a little boy. When the grass of the park was greener and the flowers smelled sweeter, I played here too. You must be curious where I had been all these years.. Why haven't you seen me? In my childhood I was an ordinary boy, like the ones you see everyday on the bus-stops, traffic lights and side-walks. Do you remember their faces? No! And so you have forgotten me too. My name is Salesman. I am here to sell you something."

A man in suit-coat and trousers wanted to turn away and go but he saw that the Salesman was looking straight in his eyes. Instead of going, he asked the Salesman,"What do you want from us?". The Salesman replied with a sigh," I don't want anything. I am here to offer you something. But since my experiences with this world tell me that for something to be worth having, it must cost something to own it so I want to sell you something." A bespectacled young lady in her neatly pressed shirt and trousers interrupted him," Look, we don't want anything and you have no bags or catalogs either...". The Salesman turned back sharply and climbed on a small rock near the park. He raised both his arms and cleared his throat," In the times of insurances and money-back guarantees, all I have to offer you is a dream. A dream that you have lost, a dream that you need. A dream that you have ignored, a dream you have once talked about and cried upon. A dream you can't refuse. Do you want to buy your dream? I am here not for you but for the dream."

To be continued...

...................................................................................................................................
PART 2

An old boy in his twenties sat in the grimmest layer of the darkness and quietly allowed himself to do the unforgivable sin of being weak and cried. Nobody saw him crying but we all knew. He was left stranded in the race of everything. He had been dreaming for a little too long and now he was left in the cold silence of being oh-so-alone with his dreams. He wanted to buy death but he had nothing to buy it with. Life is cheap but death?
He had nothing except a fragile hope in an unvisited corner of his mind. He knew what had to be done. That very day which has been now erased from our memories, he sold the little hope he had and bought a small slice of death.

End of part 2.

.......................................................................................................................................
PART 1 continued...

The crowd looked bemused. A man whose eyes looked as dull as the muddy waters of a drying local river asked the Salesman,"What is the price of my dream? How can I buy it? And how do I know that you aren't fooling me?"
The Salesman, now looking like a monk dressed as clown, closed his eyes and spoke out,"You have to trust me here because I have been in your shoes. I have sold my dreams to buy me tired days and sad evenings like this. I have bought them back when I could, to light up my nights. You have to pay a dear price too." He thought for a second and then paused  so as to hold the secret, the price.
The crowd, tired of this game now and reluctant after guessing what the price might be, asked in a hush, "What's the price anyway?" The salesman, now looking like a boy who has just got a new gift, said,"The price is hefty as it should be. You have to give something you have held so close to your heart for all your life. You have to give me your greatest fear....

The crowd dissolved, knowing too well that he was trying to  trick them. There had to be some conspiracy in it. It was late too and dinner had to be made, works had to be done. What a waste of their precious time?

But a man stood there, thinking. The same man whose eyes looked as dull as the muddy waters of a drying local river. He asked silently, "How does it work? You are talking as if there is some.....". The Salesman smiled and completed his question,"..... as if there is some MAGIC? " The man nodded his head,"Yes, how do I trust you?" The Salesman said,"There is a Magic. You have been seeing magic all you life but you have never believed it. You have dismissed it as a trick. You have been wrong. You can trust me... For one, the shine in your eyes is back...

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Loner 2

 

He was tired

Of unending days of gray.

Smoke-spitting evenings,

And dark silence of nights.

He had once read

A pretty love poem

In a sad, sulking twilight

To lit up its face with a kiss.

He had watched ever since,

The afterglow of his love

Dimming with every stroke of time

He had remained silent,

Trying not to cry.

He was told,

There are things more important

Than love and love poems.

And the sorrow of this twilight.

So he wished every night,

For tomorrow to be a new day.

With pastel hued mornings

And glittering afternoons.

A beginning often marks an end,

The whispering dreams

Of these dear dark nights,

Had to be muted.

So he did,

Silently sucking the life

Out of a burning love

And letting out the tarnished warmth

In little clouds of smoke.

He looked back, for the last time...

As far as he could

And saw nothing.

When they all waved,

With misty eyes,

He knew it was time.

He picked his bag, confused, and left...

The sadness of the end

The joy of a beginning...

He could not feel it

And tried not to pretend..

He was, as always,

A lonely man.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Eraser-dust

Twinkling stars shined and faded,
And in the moon kissed winter night,
I tried to leave you a note,
All I could manage was "eraser dust"

I looked at the white steam
Rising and fading, from the coffee mug.
The end is near,
The ritual of looking back and saying "goodbye"
Can I skip it?

I promised
"A letter when we part our ways,
I will write to you."
And you had asked,
Your voice soaked in love,
"A poem?"

"Where is the poem?"
A poem for a friend
Who has refused to listen,
To my eyes that hide
Pain in anger.
And a poet who has tried
So hard to remain silent.
That he has forgotten the words.

"You are my poem."
I had said,
I have written you slowly,
By playing stupid tricks to make you smile.
By pretending to be angry
To make you cry.
By being not me,
But better, better than I could ever be.
By trying so hard every time,
For the perfect words.
That you think
I had faked it all along.

You are my poem,
The only brilliant masterpiece
Of a writer of junks, drafts and trash.

My poem has fallen apart,
Word by word,
It has erased itself
And my pain has lingered
In the eraser dust.

"Where is the poem?"
A poem that would make you turn back
And wave at me...
Your eyes that look stranger each day,
Your smile that I keep searching.
And a poem that's missing.
And memories like eraser-dust.

Sometimes, it all seems
Like a dream that ended so soon.
Like none of it happened.
Like you were really a poem
That someone erased.
Took the words from me
and left me a paper
With eraser-dust.