Just in time

Posted on by paridhij

( I woke up at 3:20 am, wrote this poem and went back to bed. My dreams were too discomforting to dream till sunrise.)


In my sleep, I travel
This muddled world.
In loud rain under moonlight,
All drenched in memories;
Of how it was.
Narrow lanes and wide energy
That swept through them, like
Vanilla on your choicest cake;
Vanilla slipping through your fingers,
That you wipe away the next morning
From, places never reached by you.
Breathing heavily at
every curve on the lane.
I stretch, roll over
To hide, from the light that
Marks the end of my travel.

The River That Runs Through The City

Posted on by paridhij

Right in the middle

Of this rattling city,

A river runs through lands

From the break of dawn.

This one river,

Begins and ends in countless places.

Oh river! Do you have a course?

For, all men want to traverse it.

Birds and breezes are few

In the city, the burbling water is plenty;

Splashing faces, covering places

Through hearts almost spent.

The river water is crystal clear,

One can read minds through it

Like, the God of the heavens;

Where, such a river doesn’t flow.

The Herculean ripples don’t carry pain.

They are laden with the longing,

 For a river with floating fallen leaves

 And pebbles underneath.

For a river, that flows outside you

And outside me.

For a river, that journeys from

The mountains to the sea.

Where do ideas come from? Where do they go?

Posted on by paridhij

I am in labor; the delivery will be anytime now. The contractions are very strong. This time I imagine the baby to be heavier.  Now, five hours later the contractions continue. Circumstances suggest the birth of excitement complemented with extreme fatigue. This engagement is not new at all however, the length varies every day.  Yes, you read it right! I am in labor every second, every day for quite a few years now.  We are a big institution; would have been a family only if the babies had stayed with an emotional closeness.

This is an institution of ideas, with their home addressed as: my mind.

The process of labor is simple though never ending – constant, erratic fission and fusion of thoughts. You can therefore, never envisage the face of the new baby (idea) for the parent thoughts are unknown. Over time, I have learnt to not expect much of the baby but I am hoping that it works out this time, that it fulfills my desires and stands out to be that one child of my mind, I can be grateful and proud of.

My mind might be one of the largest homes but all homes have boundaries. It is therefore safe to assume that over these years my ideas migrated or perished. The ones that stayed have manifested into this life I am living.

I get hysterical when I begin to think of places my ideas might be. Did they choose the mountains (like I prefer) or the plains, oceans, glaciers? Where have they gone? Where are they now? Did they ascend to heaven or do they lie in purgatory? Are they in hibernation, in some corner dug deep in my mind? Or are they a member of ‘The Subconscious’? The possibilities are – more ideas.

Some propositions lead to another idea that maybe I am not the birthmother of at least some of these babies. Subsequently, my mind becomes an unintended foster parent or guardian. The likelihood of the above brings me back to the question I began with: ‘where do ideas come from?’ and the uncertainty of the life of these ideas leaves me with the question: ‘where do they go?’