The Imperfect Memoirs

On the occasion of a meet with few arsonous and incendiary people and the other half, here’s the glimpse of a one day visit to Bhopal (inaptly The City of Lakes).

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Out from the sullen Delhi time,
A surprise in Bhopal was my plan,
Which, as for usual us, sold in for dime.

The incogitable timings were marked,
The expensive tickets were booked,
The Kingdom of stay was sorted.

As a failure, I aim for a bull’s eye
And always end with a burning sigh.
As a coward, I aim for perfect shores
And always end with waves of Imperfect memoirs.

So much to say, so much to share,
So much to do, so much to care,
But with restraining chains,
Of times, of places, of people and more,
So li’l did we say, so li’l did we share,
So li’l could I do and couldn’t even li’l care.

A mundane coffee date and a starving dinner to end,
Is all that Imperfect that I sound and pretend,
Is what I cherish and on which I depend.

These Imperfect times and incomplete stumbling meets,
These Imperfect memoirs and complete you and me.

 

The Bedside Vindauga

Staring out from a window besides my bed during my short and sophisticated time in Pune, these randomly clustered verses are very tantamount to equally random thoughts.

​Gazing  the old myriad of invisible stars,
Glaring pollution of the edifices far,
Oodles of endless moving errant cars,
We lay besides the bedside Vindauga for hours.

The Spectacle-less bokeh of befouled lights engrossed,
With an incongruous music of several crickets tossed,
The dark theater from where we stared quite obsessed,
We lay besides the bedside Vindauga blinking a li’l relaxed.

Nigh, our pysche wandered,
Old memories left brain thundered,
Yet new thoughts left right unhindered,
And we lay besides the bedside Vindauga clamer than relaxed.

Thoughts of solitariness are comrades in arms,
Thoughts of forlorness thrived next to none,
Thoughts lost to the macabre  platoon of haunting war,
I lay lone, lost besides the bedside Vindauga tranquilized than calmed.
The foredawn I sit besides the bedside Vindauga wanting more.
The foredawn I sit besides the bedside Vindauga desiring more.
The foredawn I sit besides the bedside Vindauga admiring more.

Room No. 341

A small piece based on my life in a hostel’s single room, numbered 341.

Just a room for
the classic rock beats
and the roller coasting seats,
the heavy bass
and cheery rhythm,
the sessions of solos
and the solos of sessions,
together.

Just a room for
jumbling together assorted spices
and stumbling with scattered pieces,
together.

Just a room for
the smokes to turn into ashes
and cash that turn into elixir and stashes.

Just a room for
the huge dreams
and endless thoughts,
the exquisitely simple designs
and no ways of their outcomes.

Just a room for
sitting alone and laying together,
standing alone and staring together,
burying milestones that count.

Just a room with
bull’s eye on the head
and cat’s eye on the ear.

All in all its just a room,
Is it enough or is it sufficient?
Is it a need or just the end?

Those Two Months!!!

These verses long back from sophomore-junior year transition when I had a major “Intern-slip”.

Its just two and a half that did the job,
standing, still, stark naked,
shivering shower with twinkling firebugs,
define my state of bleak.

Its just two and a half that did the job,
sitting, stiller, half peeled me,
with mushy eggs, crunchy chips and flat fret boards,
sound my bleak state to reality.

Its just two and a half that did the job,
the next day came after a week
with some smokes that made me weak
but still couldn’t light for my own.

Its just two and a half that did the job
A Diarum Black after a liter of water as luncheon,
endless was “The Rain Song”,
It was a call from my mom,
I tapped the ashes to find my lit Black gone,
Solitude, alone.

Its just two and a half that did the job,
Its just those two months and that’s all.