In the Basement of My Heart

I climbed down 

the basement of my heart,

dusted off its corners

and made a little home:

Good old days!

I can smell its fragrance;

its aura feels familiar.

Whenever going gets tough..

and world feels weary..

I come to fetch the life-drink

in the reservoir of my adolescence;

a magical potion concocted by time. 

When misery engulfs..

I visit the old times. 

The high-spirits of the Old Love:

How I want its unflinching faith!

its resolute hope against all odds!

that strength of a fragility

to let go...

yet hang on to 

dear life!

there! 

the tonic I was looking for..

Saravanan

In the Graveyard of his Heart

Years ago,

When he spoke to her,

She wouldn't speak much;

She never cared as such,

that it's hurting.

Much water under the bridge.

These days,

Whenever he spoke to her,

She wouldn't speak much;

fearing what words can do.

that it's still hurting.

Emptiness of words 

Enigma of her silence - both 

hardened his heart,

he wouldn't even cry. 

The earth looked at the sky

so broken, asked: 

Are we forever...

this doomed..

to be distant? 

Sarva

Echoes from the Past

Whenever she was around

She was a happy song;

Sang she a lullaby.

Her memories persist

even after she's gone

like a sad song stuck

in my head- a lamentation.

Sometimes when I think of it

a melancholy of grief plays;

Yet, she was a sweet melody

like a song from long time ago.

It's rhythm fresh even now,

my heart still pulsates to it.

I don't know if she's, huh?

What do they call it? 

a soulmate? Nevermind!

She was but a songmate!

And that's something! 

Tell her when you pass by,

That I miss her

Like an old soul misses

his radio box;

Like a lonely sky misses 

it's nightingale,

Like a....

Sarva

Chrysanthemum

She walked all over his heart's carpet.

Upset, the love of her life wouldn't bloom.

He still blossomed everyday-alas!

Only to be crushed under her feet.

 By the thoughts of her moon, 

She was frozen all the time.

Ceased he not, to burn his soul

To keep her warm, to keep her warm.

He carried her prayers

to the gods, he knew not.

He summoned the stars

to keep her nights charmed.

Waiting for her Water Lily

She could see him smile- one day!

The cosmos cried with the rain,

the wild flowers though withered.

What she wished for 

was under her feet!

The Chrysanthemum went

To decorate the dead. 

Sarva

A Nation Flagged!

This country is no place for women;

Every quarter an hour a rape condoned.

It's people shut their eyes;

It's police closes the case.

Feeling pukish? Here's our flagcloth torn!

Sarva

Strange Love: Together, Apart!

 

She was a hill top;

I was a foothill.

What a rollercoaster ride!

She was not my cup of tea;

I was not her filter coffee.

What stirred our little hearts?

She was a lightning flash;

I was a wild forest.

Did she set my youth on fire? 

She was a Saffron Princess;

I was merely a Wayfarer.

How long am I sentenced in love? 

She was an action sequence;

I was a musical play.

What climax awaits this show?

She was my prayer; No!

I was not her wish fulfilment.

Whose plea would the gods pay heed? 

She was my harsh truth;

I was her beautiful lie.

Are we a work of fiction?

She was my eyes;

I was her tears.

Is this how it ends, without a bye?

She was the Cross;

I was the Christ.

Whose sins are we bearing?

Sarva

Emotional Journey of an Unread Book!

There were times when he was ardently in conversation with her. He never thought she would vanish into thin air like her spoken word. She was so busy reading a book of her choice. He remained an unread book in her shelf. He was so waiting to be read by her. But that day never came. If he's a book worthy of its content, he realized he doesn't belong in her world. It's better to be unread than to end up being mistaken or torn, he calmed himself like a true book of wisdom. 

     She scorned at the book for its unique approach and alternative ideas quite different from her's. She was scared she'd like it. Since she always limited herself to her own kith and kin, she decided to get rid of him- an outsider, potentially a bad influence. 

      A book would rather wait for a reader who appreciated it's worth. That was his new readership engagement policy. After all, self respect is its first chapter. Very few crossed to reach love, it's second chapter. 

      He was a book unnoticed by many. Some glanced through; Others eagerly turned it's pages. A few got lost in between. Only one lasted. She picked up the book. 'This book belongs to Mythili Annadurai', she wrote on the first page. He was happy he could finally belong to someone. 

      Are you a book waiting for your reader or a reader waiting to pick your book? 

Sarva