Another milestone.


She lives in that moment and refuses to move,
Very firm, right there.
She breathes every moment, and lets it all settle on her,
Breathing in all of it, content that she does.

They came and she saw them coming,
Still determined to stand against the tide they were.
They called for her, out loud there,
She heard them, not really understanding the meaning of all that was said.

This- her story, her plight, her life,
Surprisingly, she accepts and expects no sympathies or smiles.
Having no regrets to the slight, she strides on, slinging on her purse high,
Walking away, to yet ANOTHER MILESTONE, ANOTHER STORY.

– Stuti

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We and them.


We, and our broken stories,
Our entangled destinies,
And our bundled lines of life.

We, our complicated existence,
Our times, our melodies,
And our broken chords, still making music.

We, our smiles and tears,
Our coordinated reasons for them,
And our un- coordinated notes of reason.

Despite all this, sometimes all that matters is ‘them’,
Their stories, their tunes, their reason,
And yet strangely, some ending knotted & twisted, all amongst themselves- IN SYMPHONY.
 

– Stuti

An evening.


They loved theatre,
And went for many too.
The thrill, and yet the reality,
All spun together with glue.

They laughed at the humour,
And sometimes cried too.
They enjoyed it every bit,
The merry, the slow, and now and then as intensity grew.

For the drama wasn’t all that was lovely,
There always also followed a handsome discussion and tea.
Then strolling around a bit,
There were many a exchange of their own stories.

Though some evenings were planned,
The uncertain ones better chilled her spine.
For there was some unsaid sparkle around those,
Just like a scene from a drama, newer stories around an old bottle of WINE.

-Stuti

Dared.


She attempted that she write a superb story making sense,
And each time she sat down to write,
She wrote pages and pages together,
All superb, all better than the other.

Her words, her compositions,
All stupendous, all pretty,
They made her happy,
Jolly very.

Then one day, about an year later,
She sat down to re-read her own.
She spent days and days reading them and then reading them again,
Connecting all words she had once sown.

It surprised her and no wonder why,
That she had in fact written her life out there,
Shared her joy, spread her sorrow,
In an undercover, of a poet who’d so DARED!!

-Stuti

White pages..


One day she felt the need,
To write on white pages.
About her life, her stories, her nothings,
Her delights, her all, her musings.

She did not wish to exaggerate,
Nor did she under tone it.
She wanted it to be a happy book,
No parallels, the work was going to be her spirit.

And yet when she began to scribble,
Only mysteries flowed endlessly.
She did not know where to stop,
Surprised she knew so little of some of her own stories!

It started happy, then going slow,
It translated into a story of sorrow.
She went on and on, and wrote some more,
Hoping it’d transpire into something with more highs, less lows.

The purpose of her book,
Was not to inspire anybody.
She only wished to reduce to ink,
Her life, her medley, her parody.

She decided not to read it again,
Because too much pain it had given her in the first place.
Once she had lived it, second she wrote it,
And now reading it will only ruin the compromise her life had made her MAKE.

-Stuti

In the crowd.


As each minute pulls her back,
She struggles more and takes one step forward.
As each second retaliates with pressure,
She shouts loud and pressurises even more.

Her story, an untold epic,
Is as if ready to be immortalized.
Her story, a charter unexplored,
Is now as if raw and exposed.

She uses her strength and understanding,
To disagree with what is told.
She portrays her denial in all manners,
And vows with ideas untold.

Her voice she realises is too small to be heard,
The crowd she realises- too big to notice.
So she decides to grow and grow some more,
Till she gets bigger than that crowd.

But then she realises that,
That crowd is not the only one.
The crowds more than one,
All bite into her flesh.

So she calms down a little
And gives her thoughts some rest.
She decides to start afresh,
This time in some other location.

The story same,
She grows restless there too.
Changes her stand,
Comes to a conclusion after thinking it through.

She’s alone and so the crowd instigates her,
The crowd is big and so she feels alone.
They are many, and she only one.
She starts looking  for a solution (and maybe she knows it too)

After nights of deliberation but no conclusion,
She concludes there is only one way.
She’ll close her eyes and go to sleep,
And wake up next morning, hoping it to be a BETTER DAY.

-Stuti

A painting at the museum


Her inspiration inspired,
She gazed at a painting in the room.
Her imagination ignited,
She observed how the painting was groomed.

There in the painting sat a man with his arms folded,
His eyes at the onlooker, he as if stared at nobody,
She looked back at him and tried to understand the look in his eyes,
Which as if talked to everybody.

She asked him some questions,
None of them he replied.
She told him some stories,
Hoping that all of them he’ll memorize.

Next day she again went back to the museum
To look at the same painting,
Second painting from left it was,
And there it still sat, untouched, unrelenting.

She again told the man some stories,
Asked him questions more,
She stared at him for some time,
And he stared back some more.

This routine, it went on for some days,
And the manager started being amused,
He but chose to ignore the matter,
He started observing the girl bemused.

One day after a month,
A pretty lady in a red dress bought the painting.
That evening when she walked in and did not see the man,
She closed her eyes, prayed, walked away, ran.

The manager went behind to understand this all,
Went behind her and caught up with her around the mall.
She stared at him
Then told him her story at once-

She only hoped the man in the painting,
Would see a beautiful wall in a big drawing room,
And witness stories big and small,
For that she thought was his destiny, a reason for his gloom.
Her stories, she said, were just a practice for him,
For the world was big and scary,
Her questions to him were only a rehersal for him,
For the world was filled with queries.

Confused, the manager walked back to the store,
And saw a little boy talking to a lady in another painting.
He smiled, beemed, and winked at the lady,
For now he hoped he knew the story and the sequence WHOLE.

-Stuti

Dots connected…


A memory, a fairy tale
A thought process, a wish.
A hope, a despair,
The ecstasy, a bliss.

A girl, so pretty,
A feeling, so deep.
An idea, a nitty gritty,
Two tickets, one empty seat.

A prayer, so silent,
Yet wishes, each true.
The plight, so painful,
Each soul, paying his dues.

A friend, a listener,
His patience, a virtue.
Advice, so simple
And rules, bind you.

These words, little random,
But intention, rightly aligned.
Trust me, all dots connected,
One’ll get a story very very FINE.

-Stuti