Thursday, May 27, 2010

अ फोरेइग्न country

A foreign country

The flat was on the third floor, three flights of wooden stairs
deep groves from generation of people walking up and down.
In the living room I sat down. Had been away for long no one at
home. The autumn wind blew, the house swayed and creaked
like an old schooner meeting the Atlantic swells.

A simple living room, a few family pictures and an amateur
painting of a row boat in a fjord, boathouse, blue sky and sea,
a far hazy silhouette of a mountain range. The painting was
ominous by its deadness. I got up went down the same stairs;
I had entered, the past and those I knew had gone.

Sunday, May 9, 2010



Freedom is hard work
Hard work is too hard for some,
And let hard men rule.

अ लव story

A love Story
The country road I walked on was gritted and plants on its verges were full of
white dust. It was a warm summer day and the wind from the North Sea had
stilled. There were few cars on the road and the few that came weren't going
my way. I was thirsty, up ahead a small farm building, I turned right and walked
up a cart wheel lane, knocked on the farm door, a woman opened, and asked
for water. She took me to the well hoisted up a bucket of cold, clear water
and gave me a tin ladle to drink from. She was a woman with an open face,
warm brown eyes and full red lips, her hair was tucked under a green shawl.
Told me her husband was a bee keeper and away for the day and since they had
no children she often felt lonely. When she had finished talking I kissed her lips
softly turned and left. At the end of the farm lane I looked back, she was still
standing there by the well. The tin ladle, in her hand, glinted like a holy grail.
We both had a dream to cherish till old age erased our bond to roadside dust.
Feeling strong now I walked fast and reached my destination before nightfall.