Bookmarks

 

You used to remember the exact page,

now you find yourself reaching for bookmarks

and put it down to incipient age –

the wrists a bit stiff, the spines a bit dark,

the sense somehow vague, the words somewhat blurred,

and following the plot requiring more work,

the pristine white of leaves somewhat more weathered.

 

The eyes and the wrists instinctively know

where and when to rest, where and how to stop,

what to hold steadfast and what to let go,

which ones to explore and which to just drop.

The flesh isn’t weak – it can push its limits

but it’s just plain wise, it knows to give up,

to withdraw, shut down and blindly submit.

It isn't really about bookmarks now, is it? 

It's to do with not faffing around. It's about consciously choosing the growth path of the patience quotient. Becoming patient with stuff that matters but ruthlessly uncompromising with how the minutes, even the seconds are used. Zero waste. Tomorrow is not a given, it never was, only you were having too much fun to notice. And ignorance may be bliss but it is still ignorance and it certainly ends up being wasteful. Time's limited, space is too, you are more than halfway, oh, much more than that, to using up your quotas.  

Those few seconds you've just spent in locating the exact para where you left off? Nope, they are not coming back. Therefore, no harm in being lean and mean with how the balance is spent. A little more mindfulness in cutting to the chase and cramming in as much ___ (love, food, fun, laughter, hiking, skydiving, reading, blogging, partying, catching up with friends, etc. - insert as appropriate) as possible while you're at it. If bookmarks can help with that...bring them on!

Have a lovely week ahead. 

Grey city

The skyline doesn’t change much, but underneath
a few doors close, keys turn firmly in their locks.
Never again the same those routes, entire cities -
as hearts and hearths both seep out from crumbling blocks.


Every year monsoons pour down and new vines reach
for a bolder grip, the banyan saplings stalk
the cracks between mortar and bricks, something’s breached
that can’t be made whole again with skill or talk.


The days and nights turn just like keys in keyholes
and they shut me out. Pulverise the bedrock
in rude light, trap me in tangled wires and poles
in broadened ruins of lanes and their aftershocks.


Each visit fewer paths and doors to call on,
no stones to turn, more bridges burnt. More alone.

This one was sparked off by a close aunt, who asked sometime ago - has Kolkata become a city for the aged? 

It hit home harder while I was there last month. A younger cousin was planning a move after almost a decade there. A good few houses in my circle are now locked up or sold off, because the senior generation is no more, and the younger ones have made their lives elsewhere. Each time I go back, there are progressively fewer people to call on, fewer roads to travel.

Kolkata has been greying for a long time now, deindustrialisation has meant jobs drying up. The city was once reputed for its premier institutes of education, but they got riddled with political interference way back and never recovered, with the result that many students today pursue post-16 studies in other parts of the country. All in all, young people are leaving in droves; the elderly are increasingly alone and isolated. Not exactly a brilliant recipe for happiness. 

Thinning

Time has thinned a little. But your words

still like the breeze shimmying in my hair,
grit from the grounds in the crooks of toes,
the planes of ankles sharp and bare
still vulnerable, breathtakingly spare.

 

 

Senses flicker and so the lights flicker too

nothing burns constant, honey-thick time
drops from fingers in solid amber strings
pools at feet making the long looped climb
thinning a little along the line.