Works of RK

If I could string together What is now broken and lies uncared I would wipe the dust off our faces And help rediscover the music That we lost Traveling Through the hinterlands of our vast Untamed minds.   The title is in memory of Kim Sowol, Korean Poet

I was sitting by my window and watching the darkening of the horizon. It was only 5 in the evening, but it looked closer to 7. I could see an ant like hurry among the poor returning home. Those who had cycles leaned into the wind and pedalled faster and those who were plodding home, hastened their steps. There was the smell of sulphur from the lightings and petrichor from the surroundings. Somewhere, it was already raining.  She called me just then. Ever since she decided to get married again, she would call me more often. As if the joy of being a missus was raging a war within her with the golden shackles that it comes with. R2 (she called me that), it’s raining here. I so absolutely love the rains. Imagine, it is raining in midsummer! I am going on a drive with Roohi (her daughter). It will be awesome na? I looked out of the window. The first few drops from large drizzles had started hitting my windowpanes. My weather wane with bells by the window had started ringing in the

And as darkness came upon us it were the same colour As our sullen souls. And as we waded Into this ocean of despair We had already lost our oars. Courtsey : The Guardian

The little lies I tell myself To stay afloat amidst the storm and the sea Are like bright lights from lightnings Bolting down on me All this thunder and the waves All this anger and their tales And I float still!

In the translucent wobble of my memory I see a familiar face fleeting by. Barely a moment And then the ripple of pain distorts What this eternal lake remembers. From Tim's BLOG

As I grow older, I can see my shadows from autumn grow longer.  The dull dry leaves of my loved ones continue to fall to ground relentlessly, eventually they become one with the roads that carried their souls on this journey for so long.  The trees are barren for longer. Shorn of leaves, I can see them more clearly now, all their parched boughs and branches, crisscrossing all over, reaching out to the Sun, as if in a prayer for easy exits, or maybe a wail of despair for winds of change. I like autumn. It is less busy than spring, and a lot less noisy than Monsoons. There is only the rustling of the dried leaves and the dull, muted protests of the green ones that fell off anyway.  I like autumn for I can see the forest through and through. I can see through the pine and the deodar and the neem . The big trees no longer block my view of what lies behind them. For as long as I can see, it is just the same thickets, and thorns and leaves and empty stares. It’s the canopy that was leadin