Works of RK

The dawn was breaking across the horizon. I could see crimson orange streaks of sunlight getting scattered in the morning mist. This was the time she generally got up and walked to the kitchen. The time when, with ruffled hairs and a wrinkled nighty, all dark and broody, she would look out of the balcony and breathe in another day. A day that would be broody or cranky or happy, depending on what mood she woke up with. The Sunlight that streaks across the clouds of an oncoming monsoon would also be shining down her windowpane just now. Just now, she would also be looking up at the sky. Just now, she would also be alive in some other part of the world, thinking about everything but me. I watched the sun hang in there for a moment, as if asking of me to move ahead and stop thinking about her. And then I stopped thinking about her, and the day moved on.

Were you two really close once? I don't know. Never really thought about it that way. I always liked to believe that I was close to her. But then I will never really know, right? And now? And now I know that I am not. I am no longer a moon, and she no longer is my Sun. From where I live now, she is more like a distant star, and I, a satellite, unhinged.

As you move from being an institution in my mind to just another person, all those definitions and all those expectations, too, transition through time. You for me Are like an old world Talkie Where once, small town movies Played to uncouth rustic folks like me. I romanticize my pain And I glorify my losses. All movies that played here In my mind, Were blockbuster movies And all actors Were characters From my little life with you. Once we down the shutters For long enough in time Time would cure me Of my countryside memories Of whistling of the trains And the running in the rain. I will remember you Like I want to You will forget me Like you are wont to.

If a drop could color an Ocean You my dear, Would be that drop And my life an endless                                Expanse of you.

  In the little lies I tell myself Lying awake late into nights Between sheets as cold As your last remembered gaze I find myself thinking about you In endless hellish loops. Wind in your hair The Sun in your eyes The gloss, the glitter And the sudden burst Of laughter... And then everything Turns bitter If only there was one Death Like the last blip  On a matrix like screen And then N.o.t.h.i.n.g...

These Tribal colors are alluring. Bright reds interlaced with dark of the greens. The beads, the shimmer of coarse native silk and the anticipation of making a sale, in Pinky Das' eyes! Madam will be very happy, she said. The stole will go well with the beads . I keep buying stuff Imagining That someday you will walk in And ask for them. I keep living Forgetting That the leather case from last year And the mustard silk batik from last month Remain cocooned in their shells Awaiting redemption From their misery Of being with me.

I looked at the rampage on the pages. Words scribbled in search of redemption And stricken off by sins of despair. Surely, this is not the promised road to Elysium. Nothing would grow Out of these half bled out pages and an ancient pen. I have to go out into the world and seek my redemption. - - - - These open windows Let streaks of sunlight drift in Reeking of her light