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This Boy, This Man

 

 

This boy,
This crooked eared, half toothed smile boy,
His shoulders so broad,
With this tiny crook for me to rest my head and offload,
Looked quite comfy from across the road,
Those eyes, travelled for years, not yet bored,
Stories and stories untold
Where you going, heart? Hold!

This boy,
This honey eyed, silk voiced boy,
He moves with such grace,
Leaving me in a daze,
How can he maintain such a casual poise ?
His fingers entwining in mine like the most exquisite lace,
“I mango you too!” responding in all earnest, he holds me in the softest, warmest and safest embrace.

This boy,
This animal taming, baby stealing boy,
Melting hearts of man, woman, child and pet with such ease,
Smiling his big smile, it’s a clean sweep.
365 days without crease,
There there Vijoy! You got me! Can you just stop it please?
He holds me tight, “ it’s alright! I am here! Don’t be scared now. You’ll never forget to breathe”

This man,
This protective man, this nurturing man,
He gave me a prescription with a ring recently,
Tight unbreakable hugs for the anxiety,
Tall strong shoulders against the jealous eyes of society
Eyes of conviction for self-doubt no matter how mighty,
Calm soothing voice for the times the voice inside is too flighty
From now to infinity.

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Shh

Shh let’s not say it,

it hurts but why express it.

its killing me and you,

but the roads were different for our blues.

let’s not think it too hard,

because its not approved until its an Archies’ card.

 

Shh lets wipe off those tears,

it doesn’t matter, those years.

that my shoulder was once your home,

but suddenly its an abandoned zone.

Was my love not enough?

or his or his or ruff?

 

Shh stop it already,

lest it be known to the wary,

that its as absurd to me as them,

that you left me in absolute mayhem,

without a message or a note,

you left me with a tragic anecdote.

 

– For Vijoy

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Home of the Nomads

There is no place like home. A phrase used quite often. The United Nations Human Rights Commission stated that around 100 million people in the world have been classified as homeless. This homelessness is based on the parameter of having a roof over one’s head. For all those children and adults suffering from abuse and domestic violence home is not where they live either.

There is no place like home indeed. But what is home is left to one’e own personal definition. It cannot be restricted to walls and roofs or any other tangible structure. Then what is home?

For me its a manifestation of utmost comfort. Some don’t realise they were home until they leave it. Others don’t realise they were never home until they leave it. Home is a state of mind then. The shade of a lonesome tree becomes home and the safety of a fortress ceases to be one. What is worse is when the home you had once loses its homeliness.

In that context I think I would rather be a nomad or a gypsy who live as they go. The road is their home . It doesn’t matter if things don’t turn out that good, they can always find another home. Are they escapists? No. They are just adaptive. They might not let their roots grow deep, neither do they let setbacks stop them.

Maybe we should all be nomadic. Harness the camels of our imagination and set out and find that elusive peace of mind. If nothing else we will always have the road.

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