That evening on the road.

It must be running late for somewhere,
Or maybe wanted to be there a little bit early?
That big red SUV, as if out to show its colour and rage,
Inching forward bit by bit, hoping for each second it could make.

On the other side of the road, this girl, a brunette,
Patiently or not, waiting for her green on the signal.
More than one thoughts swimming in her head, probing for a permutation of answers,
Possibilities of counters, mentally making note of what all to get.

Another two minutes and a half, phew!
Happened a green light, readying her to race back home to her sweet happy.
When interrupting her thoughts right there out of nowhere,
Came that snarling red monster, shyly trying to cross the road before a red.

What happened next is best not described, but a wife did not reach home with the milk and bread,
And a red SUV, now blue and black, was at the garage next day.
It sees all that, standing tall and high, there on that crossroad, sometimes red, often orange and then green,
Unable to speak but guiding them all nonetheless, that old pillar they ignore, that only object on the road, NOT IN A HURRY.

– Stuti


The lady in red.

The road so dense,
The traffic harsh.
A rain so strong,
The wind hit hard.

Snow pure white,
Laced like cotton.
Wine so nice,
Waiting, not forgotten.

A room with a fire crackling loud,
Setting the temperature at peace.
A brown little cat in the corner,
Warm and nice and meek.

A baby cuddled in a blanket yellow,
Slowly falling to sleep.
Everything dull yet nice,
Tuning in like a melody.

She picked her coat and looked around,
Put out the light and left.
She set the tone right with the colour that winter night,
The young bright lady in RED.


Footprints of my heart..

There far away where the sun shines,
My heart will settle and stay fine.
I may or may not continue to be here,
But my heart, words and footprints shall for forever be left behind.

Effectively my heart still lingers onto memories those,
It is stuck, does not move, will not budge.
But now I hire all the strength in the world,
To push them away, make them go.

And as I pay all the coins I have for this,
I give up my riches and yet become richer.
My poor soul laments in the joy of peace,
But heart sticks onto and pushes for the greeds.

It is hurt, and gruesomely bruised,
My heart sings a song and demands a truce.
It fought like a warrior in times very bad,
It stood like a wall, strong as a dad.

But now it asks for permission to retire, to leave,
It is no so old, yet tired and turning meek.
Where it desired to witness the pinks and reds in life,
It only got blue and green and then turned COLOURLESS.


The couch and the connection.

The red couch called out to her
She hadn’t been on it for some days now
She had fondly always called it her ‘thinking couch’
It bore this tag like a crown.
The couch was seated in the main area of the sitting room,
It looked out to a green park
Whenever she was upset or happy,
She would sit in it and rejuvenate to get her spark.
But now the couch had seen her cross it day and night
She did not stop, she did not show delight
It knew that something was wrong
But what could it do, it was only a couch and didn’t know what to do about her plight.
Then one day after some days,
She came back to sit on the couch.
She was not at ease,
The couch could feel the ouch.
The girl cried and cried and could not stop
Her tears would just constantly drop
And as if the couch had ears and could console her,
She talked to it and talked again
She revealed her story, she revealed her pain.
Her eyes swollen, her voice numb,
She disclosed her pain, her voice barely a hum.
She cried because she felt sad about how she could not help that some things happened
She cried because she could not help that some things anyway happened.
Her story the couch heard patiently,
It wished it could tell her that-
Happening and not are a part of the same life,
One must learn and teach from experiences wide
But just then the girl shouted out loud
She shrieked, she howled, she fell down on the ground
And that is when the couch just broke and fell too
As if to prove that, with every happening, there existed a CONNECTION TOO.


The rose in the book.

She picked up a book at the library
It was yellow and crumpling.
Its dog eared ends spake a story
Its water hardened pages defined its end.
She loved the smell, the aura of an old
She loved the feel, the touch of it whole.
And just as she began to read the book,
Her eyes lighted up.
For there in the pages there was,
A dry red rose parked and telling a story of a lover old.
She picked up the flower
It crumpled like it melted
Threw it away and instead planted,
Another rose but this time pink
For her story this was, and it was a little jinxed.
She read the book and let the flower be
Then returned the book to the library.
20 years thence she re-issued the book in her name
Only to find her pink rose gone
For another reader had now put there,
A red red rose with a big big thorn
She pricked herself with it
and immediately realised
That leaving a pink rose was not wise
By doing that she had left behind,
Hatred and confusion for the next in line.
For the pink flower had to be thrown away
Because it had turned dirty pink black,
Coz pink is confusion,
Coz pink is everything the red one could never have LACKED.