Fragile Homes

Wrote this sometime back. It was in here saved as a draft. Am posting it now to actually update the blog. Reading it again, the poem does sound dreary but come to think of it, it is more to do with changes that we somehow come to accept and how life just goes on......... 



How fragile are our homes 
They can crack from the inside 
They can break from the outside. 
We raise our loved ones here
We welcome our guests into it 
We hope our secrets stay within it
But always, there is a one fine day 
When the first cracks appear. 
They make us sad, they make us fight
We don’t recognize ourselves 
And then the breakdown arrives. 
The unrecognizable is the new way of life 
And we carry on like before 
inside our fragile homes.........

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

मेरे घर का पौधा मुझसे कहता.......

Hello! It was fun to discover that I could actually write the thoughts that I had in Hindi in Hindi!! So I jotted down what I was then thinking into these lines and well, it was fun. And somewhere along the way I lost my train of thought and out slipped the poem!! Disaster. Although it is not the first time I have attempted writing in Hindi, I might need to keep working on Hindi grammer. Also, whenever I rethink on this topic, I will perhaps edit and re-publish this one again. So this one remains a thought-in-progress. मेरे घर का पौधा मुझसे कहता....... हर रोज़ गुज़र जाती मुँह मोड़ के यूँही न पानी, न ख़ुराक़ देती मुरझाए हुए को मुरझाया छोड़, ऐसे जैसे किसी और की हो ज़िम्मेदारी। बातें होती है, फ़िज़ाओं की दूर देश के हवाओं की मोह लेने वाले नज़ारों की हरी भरी नदियों की; क्या फायदा, अपने आँगन को सूना छोड़ पेैडो के छाओं पे मन ललचाने की।
Read more

Time....

What bothers me most is time. What is it? All it does is pass. Why can't we hold on to it? Would we want to hold on to it? Isn't it wondrous, the constant alterations, sometimes upheavals it causes in our lives. Should it be celebrated? Yes. It is our only true companion during this journey in our world. Seasons change and we understand time has moved on. It has changed us. We can't feel it, we can't see it, we don't hear it, yet we sense it, mapped in our faces. Without it, our journey, wouldn't be a journey at all. Who would keep time? Who would know our beginning, our end, our meaning, our story? Time you mean the most, you are the constant the witness to my life I exist within your books, from start to finish, and you will retell my story when the time is right.  In constant worship, here is an attempt, in Hindi, to say what i feel i may never understand (and while i finally confess my immaturity, it's incomprehensibility befuddles m...
Read more
Sigh, sometimes.... most times.... okay, nearly every time it happens. I feel like writing and I get distracted. It is always easier to blame the external forces but it my own fear, my inhibitions, my laziness and indiscipline that come in the way of my getting any writing done. This one is mostly on the external distractions that like I said are easier to blame. What do you do ? What do you do? When words are trying to make their way out, trying to say something at the wrong time, when you are in the shower scrubbing yourself clean of yesterday. Or when your notepad and pen are in another room, or when the children have a crazy demand or an unresolved fight, or you are thanklessly engaged in a familiar familial need. When the words compete against the pinging phone and a choice has to be made   whether to savor this moment of visit or        to fling   the words in the bed of your soul in the hope of someth...
Read more