Beyond the Rhymes

Drawn by the heart’s irresistible pull, That day I returned to the past. I have returned before— Many times— In sleepless nights. The day of separation Turned into months, Months into years. We did not stay in touch— Deliberately. Yet sometimes The pull grows stronger, Like the rising tide in the sea. Tears dry from the eyes, But the salt remains behind. I remember that day— A Falgun night, A tsunami roaring in my chest, Sleep slipping away. By then, There was no trace of me in her eyes, No scratch upon her heart, No corner of her mind Belonged to me. Her eyes were filled with dreams, Adorned with hopes Of building a golden home. The beloved would board her boat, And upon the pyre named love Sat a celebration— The ritual of vermilion. I possess nothing— Never did. Yet the heart believes Something has been lost. Perhaps an address, Perhaps myself. Lost— I remain Helpless.

Suddenly, the murmurs fall still — as a pond might still itself when breath beneath the water ceases. A hush spreads, a contagious grief, a heart pierced through — its wound burns deeper. I speak softly to those who never learned themselves. Each soul, I tell them, is born again — in another body, in another land, beneath another sky. The stars flicker faintly above; to those who’ve lost their stars, I whisper, “Look upward — there, far away.” Time flows on, and forgetful hearts forget. In the morgue, beneath a dim narcotic haze, the undertaker fails to know his own child. Each lifeless body, had it breath, would ask, “How fares my little boy?” With death, the name dissolves, the warmth fades. Will he never return? The father wonders — his heart as helpless as a child’s. Perhaps with age we search again for our lost childhood. Yet grief never leaves the road; it follows quietly, devouring joy, deeper and deeper still.

Once, perhaps, there lived a home — a jointed heart of many souls. Now each one stands alone, in the comfort of self, in the name of gain. When we dined together, joy filled our bowls, yet envy brewed in the corners of our eyes. When harvests were rich, the weeds too flourished. Then came the split — East to west, a brother unknown to brother — strange fate, alas! The burden fell on the aging pair. Two sons, or maybe more, and daughters too — all waiting for the day their roots would turn to dust, to seize the land, to fight and claim, to curse and blame — their words like knives, their hearts unmade. The parents never knew — the lives they shaped with tender hope, would change their form and wear another face as years grew old. The one never called with love, nor held with care — why do tears fall now in despair? When a new bride steps within, some homes bloom bright with laughter — and yet, some drift away from their orbit, losing all control, their dwelling lost forever in the dark ...

At home, I’ve raised a few doves. Each day I scatter grains for them, and stand watching — how quickly peace turns into a quiet war. Some devour greedily, grain after grain; others only watch, unable to lift even one. From their hollow eyes I learn what hunger truly looks like. Though this house is theirs too, competition is fierce — so they slip away, crossing into the neighbor’s yard, drawn by hunger’s call. And I, who give them my heart, can’t help but wonder — will they remember me if they win and I lose?

Someday, if I ever break free from the restless whirl of this household — even for a fleeting moment — I’ll remember the cries of childhood, the mischief of youth, the laughter of those college days, the teasing of my friends… I wonder where they are now, what they do. Most of them must be married by now. At this age, no one seems left unmarried. A few who once called, who remembered me even after college — they too disappeared while pulling the cart of family life. Even I… lost myself somewhere. Now, in my contact list, there are only colleagues — those I work with, and relatives, my children’s tutors, and a few chosen friends’ numbers. Sometimes, we chat in leisure hours. Though my wife forbids drinking, friends still say, “Come over, just once…” I wish I could. But to one I gave my word — so I sit with them, yet can’t raise the glass. Everyone’s busy building their own world. So many faces crowd the streets — my friends are among them, yet I can’t pick one out to call by name. Their...

I once held the moon In the hollow of my palm — My life bloomed, Eightfold in joy. Time after time I swallowed it all — Even the things I never wished to taste, In wisdom, never… Yet in illusion, I did. We stayed apart, perhaps, But never truly let go — For when light falls upon the past, Only a lover or a wife Knows how bare a man can be. Every love ends When thirst is quenched — Yet none escape The maze of affection And mystery entwined. The one I showed my address, Each hidden corner, The one who knew The secret curve of my waist, Who heard The murmurs of my sickness, Who knew — My madness speaks its own tongue... To her, I am an open book. And when love ends, As lovers burn their letters In quiet flames — Even after the ashes fade, My love remains, Its dust still drifts, Softly, Through the wind...