Of all gifts, one could ask, I never would have written beauty in my birthday wishlist – a mistake I wouldn’t make again Fall colors as far as eyes could see, curving wet roads, red leaves floating on the chilly air kissing my bare face. such bliss; so much blessed this year witnessing to postcard beauty – something my dreams were made of; Best Birthday memory.
Last weekend, I went on a little day trip to Algonquin Park to witness the fall colors. I had only seen some pictures before this online and I was not prepared for the breathtaking beauty that I found myself surrounded with. So blessed to be spending this year in a place that is so beautiful.
I only follow the trees. I walk where the path leads me, away from the noises of the traffic, into the forest bordering the busy roads. The little bridges become my resting stops – taking in the surrounding peace, the music of the water passing below me, the occasional kid on the bike ringing his bell to warn the walkers. I often walk with music plugged in my ears but not when I enter such trails. these trails demand the respect and attention that we humans have stopped paying to nature, not without consequences though. So I walk; different days, different colors, different company but a single thought – I am blessed to be finally able to appreciate the beauty and the uses of being surrounded by nature.
holding hands, together not knowing where the path led love made me see stars
The sallow floor-bed
sighed under my bare feet
as I followed the shadows
hiding the grey skies –
so within my reach,
He reaches the clearing
where I stood with eyes closed,
hugging myself. He holds me
yet I feel the distant calls
of love , longing and the world fades.
how as a kid
we learned of seasons,
food , clothes and sports –
different for each one;
until science created for us
and stretched some seasons
natural it isn’t, nor so it feels,
with seasonal out of fashion,
everything seems so routine.
Margo asked us to use a summer image for poetry. and sadly I could not think of any distinct summer image. while snow makes it obvious winter symbol , what do summers bring us except heat and lot of sun ? considering the pollution and decreasing forest areas , do we really witness that long winter ? or the harsh winds last long ? and thats why this post.
a winding river and
some mountain peaks;
in her eyes i see.
Oddly she stares
at the open skies,
wishing the rains
would wet her eyes
and not the memories,
of the wild she liked.
[ This post is in hindi. English translation might be done some time later]
raat ki kalikh nikli nahi thi poori tarah asmaan se, ki subah apni gulabi rath par savaar nikal padi sunehri kirne baantne .. Is sharmaate hue asmaan se main bhala kaunsa rang chura paati .. Aage badhi to paaon tale peele bhoore patte pukarte hue lage. Main muskai aur kuch ko pyaar se utha kar hawa me chod diya. Wapis is udaan ki khushi unse jyaada shayad neeche pade patton ko hui thi, aisa laga mujhe .. In patton se main kya rang maangti jo khud hi apna rang khoye baithe the.. Laal foolon ka apna adda tha aur neele phool har rah ko mehkaate. kuch peele phool pattos se jhad kar mandir me le jaane ka intezaar kar rahe the aur kuch gulabi phool meri muskaan ki wajah ban gaye ,, un rangeen phoolon se mujhe kya mil jaata ,,
Main ek safed phool ki jhalak dil me basaaye laut aai ….
She would have been loved if people knew who she really was. Dressed always in finest white, Butterflies would hover around her head like rainbow crown. In the middle of the forest was her throne – a swing made of exotic creepers and studded with the stars from the galaxy. Every day she would send out her pet butterflies to the village while she wrote her ideas on the sacred paper – the thin bark from the tree which was touched by a kid. This paper would be later crushed softly within her fingers till it became a fine powder.
Every night she walked into the village to spread this powder on the pillows of the children. New ideas , new paper , new powder , new dreams each night. Every dream carried the magical power of healing – obtained from the paper she wrote on. And each paper in turn was unknowingly blessed with the child who would receive the dream. It was simple – any kid who dared to treavle through the forest trees searching the elusive butterflies would earn his dreams well. The lovely dreams to make you want to turn them true some day. She never wrote dark dreams. That was done by witches of the village and meant only for the adults that sinned.
She was the dream weaver – invisible to adult eyes – but her song could be heard if you dared to dream and believed in them too.
The sunrise was brilliant that morning. Such an odd day for them not to be together – the first too. She wished she could go with him to the lake, The same where she met him, where he proposed and suddenly she remembered it was the same place he supposedly met his new wife too.