Works of RK

Long flights dredges up lost memories from an otherwise sunshiny life. They come from all the corners, steadily, like coyotes, biting away small bits, from my otherwise well preserved sanity. From my childhood, comes echoes of laughter, and playing in the sand, and jumping off trees and beautiful looking Didi's and school teachers and sir Raj, smoking charms , endlessly. The laughter bounces off my brusque facade of professional chicanery, and chips away some paint on the go. Right from under the starched white shirt front, I bleed blue, as I remember myself and my sis, playing, alone, under the guava tree. We were young once, and our life was full of each other, forever. From my youth, my grand uncle calls out, in a voice unheard for a decade. I see myself grinding arecanut for him to chew, in return of cardamom treated raw tobacco. I see us painting the front lawn red, together, three generations apart, chewing home grown betel. Some bit of that red betel haunts me again, sparkli

To be caught in a moment And in it find Surprisingly Entangled Eternity. To shine bright In another's light And still look beautiful From every corner Of an otherwise fickle Life. We will all die With the morning sun Eventually. Trodden, ridden, burnt, Ignored, unloved, sad Ugly, old, young We all die Anyway. Even meteors do And oceans And seas And life And pastures And grandma And uncle And Krishna With the morning sun All that we do Somehow will By magic Or HIS will Will get undone. To find eternity Unsung Glowing bright And getting it right Just once Would work just as well As a lifetime Of burning bright. Don't shun the moment Just because you believe That there is too much light And makes you feel That it does not belong To you Just yet. Hold on. Burn bright.

The train that I was on stopped at a small station on route to its destination. There was a sudden silence that fell like a velvet robe across the train. The station was absolutely empty. No guards visible, no vendors, no beggars, no dogs, no dripping of water from leaking ancient pipes... Absolutely nothing. It was almost as if the visualizer had morphed a train full of tired people into a 3d postcard. Right then there was a shudder on the other lane. A train thundered across the rails at a speed that for me was incredible. Such was the speed that it did not allow me to count its bogies. Such was the speed that I almost forgot to breathe for about 30 seconds. Now I knew why my train was halted at this junction. We had to give way to the faster train. Our journey was about to end in an hour, this one's had only begun. I see my little nephew raise a storm at our ancestral house even as his grandpa looks fondly at him, loving the coiled energy in the child. The young are in a perpetu

I just finished this book. It left me disturbed. All the hours spent lovingly turning the pages came to a naught. There was no poetic justice. The villain was not caught, the hero did not get the heroine. It opened up so many loops that never closed. It was like a dream interrupted, a limb torn off. Stories have no right to end this way. But some stories are like that. They are quite like our lives. Half lived. Like a dream interrupted and then lost to everyday living.

I miss many people in my life. I miss the dead but I miss some of the living a lot more. I can see them going about their daily lives, and their everyday lives look just as good without me. I miss a lot of people in my life. Those whom I miss, rarely miss me.

The next station is New Delhi. Gates will open on the left. The constant crooning of announcements lull me into a trance. As I consume time and distance, I don't want this ride to end. Everything is so clean. Everything so much in control. Each of us sit silently sullenly looking into some point on the roof that is really not there. Nobody catches my eye. They don't want me to remember them. Nobody wants to remember me either. It's a ride. And it is all paid for upfront.

No. I am not in a shell. As I grew older, I grew myself layers upon layers of skin. Each time I found a vulnerable corner, I covered it with a cloak of invincibility. As a child, I was lighter, I could fly. Now, I barely hover. Growing up, I used to plunge into every stream and sea. I was not afraid of the sea, its darkness and it's depths, for I believed that they would not sink me. I am not sure of that anymore. My being grows heavier, and I am afraid of the sea, afraid that now,  it might drown me. The road that I have taken, was only mine to take. The paths, good or bad, were mine to tread. This journey is mine and I cannot loan it to you to cover these distances for me. If your path crosses mine, and it feels right, you can travel some distance with me. This is your choice, your freedom, my side is free. The slight droop and the drag that you see is from the heaviness of my being. Is from the seeming continuity of this never ending journey. Some day my friend, I will rest this