in mood for poetry

coming to office on a holiday has some convenience of its own. i choose my own time, the route to take and the mode of transport too. there are no daily hassles, only the one focussed work that one is supposed to finish. and this is how the saturday has been, so far. but the work has been a little too much.

the day starts with the alarm ringing at six, being switched off, for five more minutes of precious sleep. they turn out to be ninety minutes long. “oh shit! its seven thirty and i’ve to meet her at eight.” life doesn’t give you much time to remember and be grateful for divine grace at this point of time. call her up, she’ll be reaching faculty by around eight. now the people who know me know that i can’t get ready before two hours have passed since my gaining consciousness. i choose to take the shortcut. “will go and meet her first, will get ready later.” its her third paper today, and the one she is really creeped about. “can’t afford to leave her alone in this one.” reach in time to greet her on the way towards faculty. nice pyjamas and crumpled tee shirt look. she is reading. we hug and feel good about it. man, she looks good in black. okay, looking good while walking and reading and all one can do is to walk beside and steer her away from obstacles. like a pole or a car or other human beings. we reach faculty, choose a spot away from distractions and i listen to a constant stream of coleridge’s thoughts on poetry. my time will come too, but that’s still a month away. till then am alive. swati comes, visibly ill, i listen to some of aristotle now. dee shhh’s us up. anu finds us, no more of listening, she is irritated by abhinav, am relieved. nitin comes, all the way from naraina to wish swati, everyone is happy, particularly the little urchin who gets an unexpected ten rupees from him. dee’s up, its eight forty five, time to go. i wish her, kiss her on the forehead, make her smile with some silly stuff. “hope the paper turns out good,”
after all am also tense about her.

proceed towards home, take all the time to get ready, leave by ten thirty. read, dream and think all through the way. see, hear, smell, touch, taste, every sense alive in the true way. compose poems, write them on air and leave them to the wind. thoughts, so many, like children assembled to play.

life, in all its hues. a disabled child, walking with sticks on the way to school. a pretty young lady, dressed in a skirt, off to some outing with friends. words stuck on a page of the magazine, and floating off as thoughts. stories written on faces, numerous, and varied. the auto to office, tiny wheels carrying me and the driver along. gulzar’s poetry in form of songs, kishore da’s voice, and lata di’s spell. people carrying out a living, oblivious of life, osho suggesting my existence is futile, that it’s not life. a man carrying a trapped mouse to release it some place away from home, an eagle on ground, hopping off with its feed. the city of traffic, of pollution and fumes, and the city of trees, of sun shining from the green. the bougainvillea flowers on a concrete wall, the trees being felled for construction of bus and metro corridors, i long to become a gulmohar flower, to brighten somebody’s summer…

…i’ve to write and desperate i’m to reach office, switch on the computer and start, which i do as soon as i can. and now, when i’m at it, i can’t write that poem.

all i can tell you is that this morning, there was poetry in the very air i inhaled, in the blood that ran through my veins. wherever i looked, whatever i touched, it was poetry. it somehow was not limited to verse or words anymore, and suddenly it is everywhere. am so in the mood for poetry today.


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