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

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  :)

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

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.

From The Streets of Bihar

From The Streets of Bihar

The streets of Bihar
Are the face of an abstract painting,
Sad.
The colors of history,
It seems,
Someone has washed away.
Or scrapped with fingernails.

A river has changed its color,
And the sky here is not blue
Anymore.
Tired sky and forgotten rivers.

The morning still basks
In an orange glow
Of a lazy suburban Sun
That fades
In the echoes of night,
Muffled screams.
The day is lost
Pretending deaf.

Fantasy poetry of
Unseen revolutions
Have often knocked
The doors of destiny,
In sweaty envelopes,
To be rewritten in blood…

But eyes have failed
To tell impoverished, meager heroes
From shameless, naked demons.
Reality, sadly,
Is a little gray,
Half lie.

I have often seen
A volcano
Walking on the streets,
Threatening to erupt
On evenings of nothingness.
Somehow,
It never does,
As the radio continues
To ramble shamelessly.

Streets of Bihar still believe
In prayers
With eyes closed.
And dream
Ignorant of a fear
That sits all night
By the bedside.

Streets of Bihar
Have lost their feet
In the race.
They are forgotten leaves
Of autumn.

They are the eyes
Of a frightened child
Who is learning to
Drag his feet
To unwelcome tomorrows.
They just stare.
Mute,
Like the volcano
That has remained quiet.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Timeless Love

Timeless Love

I am quiet.
My mouth is filled
With her warm breath,
And a storm
Of passion.

She whispers in my ears,
A fantasy
Never heard before...
"Love"!

Love?
Indeed...
I smile foolishly.
She covers my eyes
With her lashes.
I dream.

Her voice fills
The air around me.
Like the scent
Of her breath.
She says
"Promise."

My heart beats
Are faint and slow.
My world sways
In the gentle breeze
With thousands of butterflies
Of unseen colors.

I promise
To hold her close.
And she is weightless
In my arms,
In my love.

Once,
I slept with her
Under an undressed moon.

Her promise,
"Always or never?"

I wake up,
Every single morning,
In her olive eyes,
An eternal lover.

Timeless.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Words!

To mend that imperfect line,

I look for words again,

A lost poet tries hard,

To dip his love in sea of pain.


If words ever mattered,

I would have found a way,

You walk over the tottered pages,

Where my afraid dreams lay.


My heart beats in stern silence,

I care not for the blessed rhyme,

I have lost my song,

In the noise of indifferent time.


I still love for the sake of love,

And love talks in broken sighs,

Have you noticed the blood,

In my two smiling eyes.


Desperate to lose it all,

I walk to the edge of dark,

I have hoped long to heal,

My wounds remain open and stark.


To mend that imperfct line,

I look for words again,

Why write a poem for you,

Words are destined to go in vain.

(c)Ankur Shrivastava

6 word stories

1.

Dreams floated in her eyes, misty. 

2.

Bubbles of hope..
grow..

shatter!
.
.
.
Survive...

3.

My jeans, once blue,
faded...
Me?

4. 

A candle melts before its time. 

5.

Love invites, passion lures... night surrenders!

6.

Dream inspires, hope survives...

Destiny cheats!

7.
A small-town street-fighter with royal blood.

Dream

Dream...

Through the open window beside my bed, pain comes in quietly on measured steps in moonlight. It touches me in my slumber and my heart is lost in a dream; a dream I have seen many times and have often forgotten in the morning. Rightly so, because the mornings never had a clue. Only the nights had seen me pacing on the terrace of my hostel and stealing a glance at her every time she buried her face in the book, every time her dark tresses fell over her face, and looking away just as she looked up and tucked them back cutely behind her ears.

My student days in New Delhi showed me a view of life that I had never seen in my home town; the way life ran with frenetic speed on the smoothest and busiest roads and I waited endlessly for it under the shed on the sidewalk. I remember losing my footing in the crowd and the fear in my heart that I will be run over. I remember coming back to my cheap, lonely room. I kept tuning and retuning to my favorite radio stations so as to find a familiar voice, a familiar name that I could listen to every day, even if only on a radio. Those were not the days for a romantic dream. And then I found her in the quiet and dusky subway under this road on which life ran. I walked behind her slowly with unhurried steps in my slumber and I lost her just as I reached the other side of the road.

She lived in one of the flats in the building opposite to my hostel. She was perhaps a little older than me. I first saw her when I had come to my terrace in the night to escape the mugginess of my claustrophobic room. She was studying with her friend. In a few days, I discovered she used to study there every night until dawn. I knew her name one day as one of her friends called out for her, "Anjali". I gave the name to my nights, "Anjali". I never stared or smiled at her. I just used to steal a discreet glance every now and then. Her face might not have been the prettiest, but her eyes had a calmness that gently stroked my heart into a sweet rhythm. She smiled rarely but whenever she did, time used to freeze around her; and in that moment when time remained blind I used to smile too, cheating all my pains and fears. I never felt any need to talk to her.

One night, she acknowledged my presence. While I was busy listening to the radio, I felt her gaze tenderly roam around me before settling on my face with love. I turned slowly and for the tiniest fraction of time, our eyes met and shied away leaving a ruby bliss on her pale cheeks and a sweet pain in me. Since that moment, love paced restlessly on that terrace every night, hand in hand with me, aching for her gaze to stretch its tender fingers again. But the distance that separated her world and mine, the silence that floated in the breeze that come to me from her terrace remained. I never tried to transcend it. I let the dream remain a dream for it was so perfect.

Like a day always comes when a little paper boat delightfully floating in muddy pools of sweet rain water has to be lost, that day also came. It was evening and as if in harmony with the moment, the sun was melting into darkness, in the background. She stood on the terrace and looked around, her hands rested on the railings. Her eyes traveled the emptiness of an infinite sky that was losing itself in the arms of dusk. Then she looked at me, I could not have missed as she blinked, a window of dreams opened and closed in her eyes, her lips twitched a little, trembled and love glittered brightly in my faint smile. Perhaps, the longing of the moment could have transformed itself into a few sweet words by its own, if that moment would have lingered a little longer. But... her friend called for her, "Anjali, the taxi is waiting." She went away, forever into the memory lane and she left her address somewhere that could only be reached in my dreams.

Yesterday, those dreams, those nights, the love and the longing broke away the shackles of years and stormed into my office in broad day light. She was sitting across my desk. Her hair were now pulled back and not a single strand fell over her face. Her eyes were a little nervous. I might not have recognized her at all but her old, familiar face smiled at me from her job application that was in my hand. And the first column read the name I had given to my nights, "Anjali". I can't recall how the interview went, my mind only remembers the last question that I put across her nervously, "Do you remember me?". And I continued without waiting for her answer, nervous, without even trying to hide it,"I lived in that hostel, opposite to your apartment in Delhi, 2004?" She shrugged and then smiled,"Ah...hmmm..yes sir, I do. I was doing my masters there.....". As she continued ahead about Delhi and her course, my eyes looked in her eyes, searching. I don't remember what happened next....

Those eyes were stranger's.

I wake up, jolted, tonight, just as I see her dream again. I try to remember where did it go so wrong.

The dream was so perfect!

(c) Ankur Srivastava

I Am a Generation!

I Am a Generation!

Through my eyes,
History changes and un-changes
As in the eyes
That saw it before mine.

And when I look back,
In the pages of history
Will I ponder,

"Who am I?"

I am the one
In the corner of a classroom
Writing poems
On the back of an engineering book.
Half baked poems and
Half learned lessons.

I am the one who
turned his back on temples.
Instead,
I sit on noisy sidewalks
Sipping bitter tea
In plastic cups
And contemplate and reflect
Search for my soul.
In the bitterness.

I often cut my hair,
And color it
In accordance
With "post-modern art"
I am the face on the banners
Who has changed his name
To have some fame.

I forever join in the debate
On the soul of Gandhi
And sometimes,
The poetry of Tagore
The Nehru and the Ambedkar.
I am often caught,
On both sides of debate.

My mind ponders
On why Sukhi died.
(Sherman In RDB)
Patriotism or friendship?
Or was he afraid
Of the meaninglessness of it all
And of his existence.

I wear a secular mask
And I cried
And cheered a certain Mr. Khan
As he walked
To break the greatest boundaries
Of my times.(yes, perhaps.)
And beyond.

But I didn't walk
With Mr. Khan.
I wasn't stupid!

I am the one
Who applauded
A Slumdog Millionaire
As he charmed and amused.
I also slapped him in face,
For the other Slum-dogs
Who were still slum-dogs,
With empathetic heart
And well fed stomach!

All the while,
While, I split my pocket-money
Between petrol and pizza,
I never realized
I am not me.

I am a generation.

I wonder
What will I take to my grave...
A generation that had ambitions
Before it could dream!

A generation that put the blame
On the generations before,
And slipped into the grave.
With eyes shut.

I am scared
How history will be seen,
Through my eyes.


(c) Ankur Srivastava 

( For those who don't know about Sukhi and Mr. Khan.

Sukhi
Sukhi is a character played by Sherman Joshi in a Hindi movie, "Rang De Basanti". He reluctantly chooses to help his friends in killing the corrupt Defense Minister of India who was largely responsible for the death of their friend, the pilot who died in a crash of one of the MIG planes due to technical problems in the plane.
He then reluctantly goes with his friend to confess before the whole nation through radio and is killed by the forces. Through all this, he remains scared and confused and gathers some strength only when the end is near.


Khan

Mr. Khan is played by Shah Rukh Khan in "My name is Khan". Rizvan Khan is an honorable Muslim man from India, living with Asperger's Syndrome in US. When his son is killed by people due to the hatred against Muslims post 9/11, Khan selflessly embarks on a powerful journey through a contemporary America. He innocently becomes that most unlikely act of defiance, one of peace and compassion. In the name of the woman he loves, he wants to meet the president of USA just to tell him that, "My name is Khan, and I am not a terrorist." )

A Poet Died

A Poet Died

"Once upon a time",
On an empty street,
Poetry touched him.
And ever since,
He groped
In emptiness.

He used to sit by the window
In afternoons
His hands shivered in cold.
The sun had no warmth
Just a glowing dot
Like the tip of a cigarette.

Love visited often
The address written
On pale envelopes.
But no flowers ever blossomed,
Poems grew
Like weeds.

He had little ladders
He kept them between the lines
To reach one's heart.
And he wrote with his gift
Many a letters
That ended in trash.

On a sad evening, yesterday,

He stole a poem 

From his soul

And wrote it on the sky.

Dark!

A candle flickered,

Dim...

And melted 

Before its time.

Yesterday,
He read the epilogue
All to himself,
On the same old street
He sat and cried.

Yesterday,
Was just another day,
For, no one noticed it;
Not even the man
Sitting beside him.
Yesterday,
A poet died.

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Love and Longing

Love and Longing

For all the sweetness of love,
And uncountable kisses;
There shall always be
On the tip of tongue
A salty drop of tear,
A thirst unquenchable.

I wait for you

Dressed in soft, white sand;
A little of my shore
Is eaten away every day.
 Such is the hunger of love.

A glorious moon conspires.
Every night,
You leap in passion
To touch the moon.
I wait for you
Every night
In envy and love.

You fall in my arms,

And I hold you.
I am your bottom, ain't I?
You dream of the moon,
In my arms.

  Tides of pain rise and fall.

You, playful and young,
I, Drowned in your pain.
Longing for you
To turn back.
Hoping...
You wont turn away.

A moment...
Still, in time.

Framed, in boundless space.
We stand together
In the infinite sea
Of love, longing and passion.
At the edge of the world.


(c) Ankur Srivastava

Canvas

Slowly, Suvesh gets up from his bed and stealthily walks out of the room. The clock strikes 3 in the morning, it’s still dark. He walks out to breathe in the open air. He shuts his eyes for a moment and his entire life flashes before him. It was not meant to be like this, he shakes his head but there is no escape from that terrible feeling.

Reema pretends to sleep, like every night. She feels unnerved to ask him any questions now. It’s not that things were any better before but now the damage seems to be irreparable. She lets out a heavy sigh as she watches her husband go for his daily walk… in the middle of the night! She feels she is quietly letting him slip into the dark but she can’t help it, can she?

Suvesh left college with just one dream, the only dream he saw ever since he first held a pencil- to leave an impression on the beautiful white canvas of life. It has been a year since his last painting was rejected by the galleries. He remembers when his first painting was displayed, nine years ago when he was 22. It had gone unsold, like his next seven paintings. He sees the portrait of a sad and ugly painter who lived in the illusion of a dream. Terrified, he scraps off this image and tries to splash some new colors but colors are fading now. They can no longer hide the face of the ugly painter.

He still paints, for a living, making posters for a local theater. Most of the times, he is asked to draw the same images, a tempestuous girl with playful eyes. Sometimes, he mixes a little pain with the colors as he paints the curve of her smile. He hides a little anger at the corner of her lips. Often he draws thin lines of worry on her forehead or merges her blush with a light of hope. He chuckles at the fact that no one has noticed, and you can feel the heart breaking pain in the humor. (No one has noticed!)

Reema tries to close her eyes… to life and Suvesh… to sleep. But sleep has evaded her … like smiles and joy… and love? She decides to follow him, instinctively or out of love, she knows she has to. She had known it that day, when she left his father's home to be with him. He wasn’t ready to let her come with him but she had sneaked into his life. And today she has to follow him again.

Reema walks out of the door into the sidewalk but Suvesh is no where. “How far could he have gone?” Indeed, how far could he go? She sees a dim light coming from the guard room. It is strange as there has never been a guard for the apartment. She peeps through the tiny gap between the doors.

Suvesh is standing in front of a huge canvas. The sky is murky. Its darkness is terrifying; layers of black merge into each other and dry like a clot. Shades of gray hint a storm that had died in its stride. Stars have lost their shine; they remain helplessly suspended in the mist; hanged in the darkness. Moon is alone, robbed off its beauty. Its flaws are obvious and grim. Its sadness is like the pain of a yesteryear's heart-throb who is now old, ugly and undesirable. The earth is a huge mass of ice; cold and frozen. Still, a little green twig has grown, staunchly, from its infertile womb. It's fragile but unperturbed by the torture it has undergone, the effort it has made to break the layers of silence and coldness. It wears the green of the brightest dreams, ecstatic joys and undying hopes. It is so unreal and yet when you look at it, you feel that it is meant to be. The painting is a mosaic of sorrow and hope. 

Unaware of Reema’s presence, Suvesh tries bit by bit to perfect the painting, adding colors, layers by layer. His brush strokes not only the canvas but also his heart; soothes and heals it. His heart and soul are, for a moment, in harmony with the freshness of the green twig. 

The painting isn’t an expression of the painter; it is his escape from everything he has been.

 Reema smiles. 

(c) Ankur Srivastava

Loner

I walk alone,

From the forest of dreams,

A tiny wish plucked away..

I feel the wind of desire,

Brushing my hair.

And I hold my breath.

A stare at the sun,

I let it look down at me..

Proud of its light;

Oh dear, beast of light!

However,

you may look down at me,

I will rise again tomorrow,

To stare at you.

My blood has lost its red,

It's now black and white,

Grey,

The color of my soul.

My smile,

a twisted lip on frozen face.

And my eyes will show nothing,

Just emptiness,

So deep,

You wont dare to reach.

I am here all by myself,

Dont know,

Where I will end up,

I run against destiny,

From the forest of dreams.

A solitary traveler,

Lunatic,

Is on the hunt,

Smelling tears,

I love the pain...

Anybody around?

To reach for me?

'Just back off and stay away! '

(c) Ankur Shrivastava

Where is the poem?

"Where is the poem?”
You asked. Your eyes, still so beautiful,
If eyes can be painted in words,
Their color, and sheen,
And the way kohl smudges after a tired day.
And the pain and silent tear
That never falls.

I told you not to talk of poems,
For, poems make us sad,
Rather look out of the window
The rain is about to fall.
The drops are sweet like teenage love,
Oh teenage love! Why doesn’t it last?

May be I will write a poem again,
A poem that won’t make us sad,
Like the flowers in the vase,
Oh! Don’t they look real?
And yet they will never die.

A poem with a smiling face,
Like your photograph in living room,
That hasn’t aged, not at all.
But, then I want the lines of your face,
That remind me how you added a little love
To the everyday pains of my life.

I can’t write a poem.
But may be someday,
I will steal one,
From the way your hair hides your face
When you are asleep.

You can find it in your lazy yawn,
I will read to you
In a sweet morning kiss.

Ankur Srivastava(c)

You and I

I have known you,
Like dreams, like angels,
Unreal, fantasy...
And you call me.

I reach for you,
With the moonlight at your window.
I hide in your eyelashes.
Open your eyes
Let the light come in my world.

For ages, centuries, eons...
I survived
Tucked in the curls of your hair
Falling over your face.

I breathe slow,
In the soft rhythm of your breath.
Let me touch your lips
Like nascent dew on petals
I want to melt away.

My little fingers
Tracing destiny on your palm
I write in the language unknown
My destiny with yours.

I write this poem
In your words,
I speak as you,
My voice merging with yours
And fading in the echo.

My soul is lost
In the halo of your being
I am but you.

Count!

Pendulum of time,
Weighed by memories,
Still swings
From heaven to hell.
And I count....

The moments pass by,
The sandclock races,
To empty it all.
Sands of dream,
Will they hold back,
I count each fleeting second.

Cityclock stuck midnight,
A lunatic traveler
Waits for the last coffee.
And streets will go to bed,
He wont,He has to count...
The cups of coffees gone cold.

As the rain pours down,
I hide in little hut,
By my window I count...
The paperboats lost in drains.

Each day, each moment
A thousand lies,
Broken dreams,
Prayers never heard
And undying hope...
I count them all.

Be Delicate, My Love!

Be delicate, my love!
When you wake me up,
From my dreams.

And save me,
From the harsh sunlight,
Tuck me safely,
In your dreamy eyes.

Be delicate my love,
When you wake me up.
A dreamer I have always been,
And dont tell me please,
That I am a man of empty dreams.

We walk together,
Through this hollow tunnel,
For the sweet lights,
Of mornings we have dreamt for.

At the end of this tunnel,
Grant me one more night.
Where dreams breathes quiet,
And moon smiles,
Silver white.

Let me steal a dream,
From this fading dark.
My heart has lost its rhyme,
Kiss me one last time,
Before I wake up to find,
The dreams are all gone...

Be delicate, my love!
When you wake me up.