Works of RK

I think about you constantly. I wake up with your thoughts playing in the foreground. I clench on to you as sleep invades my world and drowns me, one thought of you at a time. The melange of your thoughts continue in my dreams. I dream that I have been in a crash and you come to visit me at the hospital. There is a recurring dream in which I keep crying because I broke your toe nail. There is also this dream of you taking me on a long drive across a ravine, the car chasing the clouds and your hair smelling of wild lilies. There are other dreams as well, the once I cannot write about but you would understand. There was a time when I used to be extremely perturbed with having to constantly carry you in me. I would often pray for a one-time memory wash. My soul would often be heavy from my burden of you. I would often cry myself to sleep, hoping that some bit of you would probably drift away through those tears. I have cried for my grandma too. Earth shattering hollers so that she can hea

Once a wise grey owl perched on a large sullen tree in a garden in ruins. The butterflies hushed their wings, the snakes crawled for a while like snails and the wind that was already tired from all its windiness, screeched to a stop. The owl would now look to the right and then look to the left. It would turn it's furry head all around without a rustle. It's bright golden eyes pierced the low light dusk falling like a shround on to an unloved body. When the night finally drenched this forgotten garden in its mossy grey, the wise owl screeched a chilling shriek, flapped it's giant wings, and through a tear in the fabric of the universe, escaped into another dimension.

Autumn brings in memories of muted grey and flying ash. Memories of fallen leaves gradually letting go of their greens. Autumn paints itself on a desolate canvas. It is that season wherein your eyes draw back your tears into itself. It is that season when your hope falters and your faith waivers like the last of the twigs holding on to some imaginary leaf. Such is wretched misery of this waiting, it transforms your soul into a refugee. You grab on to made up memories from some imaginary springtime and trudge through your life believing that your world is this bleak canvas, and you that grey tramp ploughing your soul through limbo. No. It is not a nightmare, for it is not night yet, just the dreary day draped in grey. There are no dreams, for to dream, you need to get to sleep, and you rarely get to sleep on days that stretches for years and is blatantly grey. But when the first set of silly shoots find their way through sunken craggy gnarly wood, we drench in its first shameless shower

Do not ask me why I miss you.  That answer would come to me, eventully. Some day sometime in the future I will find myself not thinking about you.  And in not thinking about you, I will end up thinking about you just like that. All stories are my stories, but I am not my stories. I am yours. When we are older and our world is quieter than it is now; I will be in those intriguing tales that your heart spins to give you company. Do not ask me why I miss you. That answer would come to me when it comes to me. Why hurry?

The necklace road was just as well lit as any other day. Its park benches occupied by lovers of all hues. The lake was full of sail boats and the Buddha as usual, held on to his smile. I remember that the rain surprised all of us. It came in waves, slightly slanting, beating down relentlessly. I would have run into the car, had you not stopped me that day. That evening, I walked in the rain with you. Hand in hand, you holding on tight so that I don't take a shelter to save my buckaroo leather, and I taking delight in watching you dancing in the rain. That was the first time I got wet in the rain...and did not mind it all that much.

I open my door and almost see you sitting there, angry that you could not get the air-conditioning on. Is that small speck of red on my yellow tea cup a stain from your lipstick? I ride my car and I can see you sitting next to me, glaring at those jealous guys staring at you. There are six strands from your hair that I saved from the last time you were home. A green elastic band sits lonely in my bathroom shelf. A bindi stares at me from my dressing room mirror. So much of my memory is stained forever. I am no longer what I remember. All I remember is you.

As the rains drum down my windows I open them a little to allow a sprinkle Of the showers you so loved Wet me once more. There is nothing that i write That can bring you back once more.