Red..

           She hurled the books on the sofa, took a quick bite of the tuna sandwich left over from last night and pulled out some change from the little red box to grab some coffee on the way. It was a couple of degrees below the freezing point and she wanted to dance to the music playing in her head. Floyd and Ward, Melua and Katy, all seemed to flow through her head like a gust of warm air and she tapped her feet to every beat as she went around making the room more habitable. There was June's shirt lying on the floor in a lump, a couple of empty tortilla bags on the bed table and then there was his old blue guitar lying in front of his closet.And yes, the bed was unmade and the couch was displaced from its usual comfortable corner and now lay in the gallery blocking the only way to the wash room.

    So,she went on from the shirt to the guitar,the tortilla bags to the couch, patiently. It was one of the very few days when his untidiness and she were best friends. It was a great beautiful day and she had smiled at everyone on her way back home. She had even dropped in at the rude Mrs. Lorde and given the old woman, a warm bear hug. She had also talked to the jerk across the road till he stopped singing one of his ridiculous raps to her.

                           It was a fine day and she did not mind the cold. She did not mind the force of the western wind that...   

In Memoriam..

        She sat on the edge of the brown slipping rocks that smelt of weed and salt. Her feet dangling in the foam of the blue green water,cold after the November rain. She clung to the red old muslin shawl that still seemed to smell like her grandmother.

  The sun was just beginning to come down, filling the skies with a warm orange gaze. She sat there, alone, lost in the winsome flight of the seagulls; tantalized at the vision of the new shores they were to behold. She bent down to play with the splurging water but winced at the first touch of its icy coldness. She withdrew, folding her hands again in the comfort of the red muslin. So, she was here again.

  Again, to smell the sea. Again, to see the waves crash at the foot of the rocks. She was here again to drink in the memories, she had spent her days, making at the side of the shore. Memories, to die in. Memories to kill for.

   But suddenly it hit her, came upon  her like a loud cold wave and she was drenched, head to toe. She remembered why she was here, it was an Escape. An escape from the reality, she had to face in every room, at the front door of her apartment, in the corner of the fresh green lawn and on the wide expanse of the roof.
She had run away, from them, their mourning voices and the stench of the monotony that refused to let from its clutches, the demons of grief.

   Yes, she had run away from Her. Her? Was she gone? So easily and suddenly. Gone away like a sudden whiff of air. And yes, she had seen them bring her in. Seen her lie there,on the ground amidst, a lot of people  who did their best to howl the loudest. And she had not believed it then. She could not believe it now.

 Zehra was sure, she would get up then, from one of her afternoon slumbers and call out her name. She sat near her feet watching her, patiently waiting for her to open her eyes and smile at her. To tell her that it was all  alright and she was alright and that she could still take in the air and throw it outside.

   She waited, ignoring her mother's efforts to make her believe that she wasn't going to get up. Not Now. Not Ever. That she was now a thing of the Past. A Past they could not recover. A Past they must burn away in a ridiculous bed of sandalwood.

The Confessions Of A Non-Conformist..

Bottled Brilliance,

And Measured Smiles.

I will never be a Daddy's Dream come Alive.,

The Devil lazes leisurely in the ravines of my brain..

So together,they reside,

The Black and the White

The yin and yang..

And yet I seethe sometimes..

Succumbing to the Conformity 

That rushes through my veins..

I snicker at this Universe,

Lulled in the stupor of an Existence,

A living they cannot trace..

I am the Non-Conformist,

The Wreck of a Race..

Bibles and rosary,

Pink cotton and lace..

I can smell the facade of your chivalry

Twenty metres away..

Yes, your idea of the petite bimbo..

Is too gross for me to take..

I am the Non-Conformist,

Rough around the edges,

I choose to Shine like Slate..

So, while you sit in your pretty chair,

Painting your face scarlet and doing your hair..

I strut around the world,

Rummaging the thoroughfares..

Chisling through the Mountains,

Ways to get you there..

Smiling all the time, 

Like the world was the bitch up my front stairs..

I am the Non-Conformist..

I left my delicate dress home..

I know all the wrong ways to slurpy  Heaven,

I just know what it means,what it means..

To be Right Here..

Iron and stainless steel..

My choices, to a diamond ring,

I have got all the rainbow hues..

Stashed in my head gear..

The beauty of a Truth lived..

The vivacity of life, in its cold stare..

Yes, I am the Non-Conformist..

I know the Price of A Moment..

I know the Secrets they tell you about,

The Secrets of getting Here..
( Empathy can make one live in somebody's shoes..
With all due respect,Shriya Singh, you're the only Non-Conformist I know..)