of one and many...

The glass door slides shut. Behind it lies a wholesome, throbbing vitality. A roomful of pleasant exchanges, polite noddings and gracious handshakes, drinks in hand, anecdotes on the lips. Out here, a mere glass door away, lies a different world, where the background tattle of etiquette and an almost familiar music, is all but mute. Out here lies a world of unruffled peace, where moonlight plays against moonshadow, unbroken, for once, by the unsubtle harsh glare of a yellow streetlight, a world of serenity and quiet solitude, introspecting upon itself. I stand in silent, enchanted contemplation, forgotten drink in hand, as the moments are stitched together on the greyed fabric of the night, and i am a mute part of the weave. The glass door slides shut. Soft footsteps approach me, carrying the faintest whiff of the discarded room with its smoke and drink and honed conversations. The night swallows it all, as you put your arm in mine, and say, "I missed you..."

If, in the heat of the day, you come to me, I will say no. If, on a night such as this, which has no meaning, yet must go on, you come to me, I will say no. If, in a moment of hesitation, the truth is bared, and unbeknownst to you, you come in a shroud of lies, I will say no. If, in a gentle embrace, sweet words dripping from your hardened lips, where sits wisdom borne of a practical existence, you come to me, I will say no. I have given much. Love needs to be loved too. I must say no.

In clothes that were rich once, Now reeking of the street, The child walks barefoot, With a swaying balance. Meeting every tired, indifferent eye, Hoping to sell his wares –– A score of heavy colouring books. The boy stood in his man’s garb Of pain and reality, Not pleading, not begging, Harsh childhood-less voice churning out words, Meaningless, worn with use. All he elicits, are shakes of heads, And sometimes, a feigned, determined ignorance. As he waits to alight, Hands still a score full, Does he debate – will he beg? No, he doesn’t. The train stops, the child grunts off, Leaving only a Cheshire look –– No reproach, just emptiness. And in the train is left only A shifty-eyed awareness, and denial.

Daydreamer, Daydreamer, Don't make me your slave. Don't take my day from me. It belongs to me, my right. Life has its receipt --- We pay for every day squandered. Time has its count --- Of myriad seconds orphaned in the mind. Amidst this reckoning, Dream beckons, sly and fulfilling; Dream answers to none. Of our uncountable, unnameable masters --- the Dream is one. Yet it belongs to the night, It is the Brethren of Sleep. It fits not in the cosmos of Day, Yet, like the air in water, Dream lies hidden, in the shadows of Day. And Daydreamer wields his weapon. But make me not your slave, Daydreamer, I want my Day, to me.

I was widely read once. People read what I wrote, They fought over the senses my words evoked, And how best to explain them. Be it at a Saturday evening dinner, over wine and cigars, with blushing ladies and emboldened men, or at the weekly theatre, where everything must mean more than what they do --- I was widely read once. Then, time conquered, and life contracted. The novel is now read in commute, on train or bus, or at night, to lull oneself to sleep. The written word now conforms, to a multitude of norms --- and fights for its voice, weakened in the everyday clamour of impromptu authors and hurried nonchalance. Alas, I was widely read, once.