Pieces

He sits at a corner, looking out the window,

Fingers playing with a paper heart.

He sees the crowds, tailing them shadows,

his hands moving to tear the heart apart.

A slow, ripping sound breaks the silence,

Pieces fall to the floor like white snow flakes.

The wind blows, and they fly out the entrance,

Passersby step, oblivious, squashing them like cake.

He rises, walks out, searching for the pieces,

They are everywhere, scattered all over.

He picks them up, one by one, with a heaviness,

Some are dirtied, others are gone forever.

He knows the undeniable truth now.

He sinks to his knees, head in his hands,

The whistle of the wind turns into a howl,

Try as he might, the heart will never be complete again.

Untold

Letters of debt, newspapers uncollected,
Strewn across the harsh concrete, unattended;
Inches of dust, swirl, in a gust of cold wind,
Covering fallen frames, of forgotten scenes.

All is silent, but for the achingly slow dripping,
Of a leaking tap, and the fleeting whispering
Of an addict or two, in the empty halls scratching
The walls, barren save unruly vines as its lining.

What forlorn past lies within the walls?
The humdrum of office drones,
A grand ball in the masquerade hall-
What is it that cannot be shown?

Perhaps once the multitudes chattered,
Gossiped of all that had not mattered,
Over an aromatic mug of coffee,
Or cultured cups of Darjeeling tea.

Maybe once upon a more prosperous time,
The corridors with chandeliers shined,
Filled with entertainers of every kind,
Jugglers, musicians, and pantomimes.

What mysteries are hidden by the rotten cupboards?
What secrets have been muffled by mice’s chatters?
Is this a veil, behind which a story lies?
Or has this building always been without life?

Sadness fills me, as I shall never truly know
For what is gone is forever lost, water under snow
And all that remains, is this empty building for show,
A grim reminder of the story that was never told.

Fire

Yesterday I dreamily cruised down a river,
A saintly mirror of the stars above,
In the sheer darkness I shivered,
with the rekindling of an undying love.

Together the fireflies shone,
Like stars descended upon earth,
Awakening a desire long forlorn,
Giving to my eyes a whole new birth.

Lights in the darkness they were,
A blessed wonder of nature,
Beauty to be admired from afar,
But not for us to own or mar.

We may attempt to recreate it,
To acquire and change it as we see fit,
But alas, it is not something to be owned,
or something artificial to be shown,
It resides deep from within our souls.

And in melancholy, I row back,
Rocking in the recesses of the wooden deck,
I hear the fireflies whisper to me,
You can never possess what is Beauty.

Kite Children

You struggle to get them up the ground,
You pant and gasp, a symphony of sounds,
And you run helter-skelter, round and round,
Then when they’re up you feel like pulling them down.

They rise higher, and tug at your string,
You release more, and seeing them flying,
You can’t help but find them absolutely charming,
And yet the moment is so fleeting.

Finally the string is no more,
You let go, and let them soar,
With their every twist, your heart is sore,
And your soul worries to its very core.

One falls down, the other is torn
A few rise, like fairies of lore;
You may rejoice, or you may mourn,
But one thing is sure- you think of them forever more.

Vacuum.

The emptiness fills my heart,
Nothingness gone in a game of cards,
No pain in my bloodless cuts,
No longing in my ice cold blood.

I live yet I am dead,
I hear yet I am deaf,
I am sane yet I am mad,
I am present yet I have left.

For my voice is but an echo,
My being is but a shadow,
My actions are but a show,
My possessions only a zero.

And the emptiness fills my heart...
O' it fills my heart, fills my heart....

Laugh

I wish I had been born deaf. That way, I wouldn’t have had to hear them for those few moments. Those few moments, in a primary school in 1993, that forever changed my life.

It was in my Chinese primary school that everything happened. I had a friend, my best friend actually, called Nehru. Like any other kids, we played together, laughed together, and never really thought deeply about our friendship. We were children, carefree, with nothing much to worry about. It didn’t matter to me that my skin was fairer and his was a dark ebony. At that time, I didn’t really comprehend the meaning of race or religion. A friend, was simply a friend.

But not everybody was like me. To many others, Nehru was an alien, an outcast, like a black fly floating on top of a bowl of porridge. They jeered at him, called him names, and constantly mocked him. Now that I think back, they didn’t know the amount of hurt they were dealing, and neither did I. Nehru always ignored them, and so I thought if he didn’t say anything, then everything was okay. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

But there is always a limit to everything. And one day, as I walking home with Nehru, It reached that boundry. We passed by the seniors while leaving the school gate. All it took was a moment of eye contact. Nehru’s gaze met the seniors’ and though Nehru quickly lowered his head, the deed was done. The seniors formed a ring around us, and like an executioner tightening a noose, came closer and closer and closer. It was suffocating me.

One of them started pushing Nehru, and making snide remarks about how he smelt. And with every insult he spitted, the people laughed. The crowd grew and grew, and the laughter grew with it. From sine remarks, they were now using direct insults. I heard an outpouring of words, many which my father had forbidden me to use. And they chanted those words to Nehru like monks reciting mantras, except they were cursing him. Shocked, I gasped loudly, and that landed me in trouble.

“Hey you! Are you his friend?” shouted a senior. I stood agape, unsure what to say. “ Cuz’ if you’re his friend, we got a yummy sandwich for you kid!” “Sa..sa..sandwich?” I stuttered back. “A knuckle sandwich you moron!” I was stunned. He was going to hit me. I was so terrified at this prospect, even my parents or teachers had never hit me before. He was coming closer, cracking his knuckles. Crack! Crack! They went. And so, I made the second worst decision in my entire life.

I laughed. “ Friend? Of course not! He’s an Indian, he smells and is black!” But the senior was still unconvinced. And then, I made the worst decision in my life. I punched Nehru. He just stood staring at me, more shocked than in pain. The seniors nodded approvingly, and joined in the savagery. We beat him to pulp. I beat him to pulp.

Two days after that, the whole gang was called to the principal’s office, including me. Nehru pointed out those responsible to the police, but spared one person- me. The rest of them were questioned and subsequently expelled, but I- the cause and coward, was free.

After the incident, Nehru transferred to another school. I never saw him again. And to this day, the laughter still haunts me. Laughter- the most terrible sound I have ever heard.