Keeper

Your thinking

Often not, well thought 

You think and you think hard

About it’s role, it’s part 

About it’s start, it’s end, it’s fate

Sometimes, just if it’s too late 
About what you can do to it

About what it might do to you

How deep it may come to dig

Dig deep into your veins and you
You forget the purpose it’s there

You misjudge what it brings with it

It keeps your scattered in check but you
It doesn’t need to suit your style

Your colour it won’t judge

It need not be too showy or pricey

Just comfortable for you, and you will never budge
You cant get over its misty depth
Forgetting it’s just a hairband

Your hairband, On your wrist
You can stretch it, tease it

Stressed too much? Release it

You test it, detest it, but you always do

You keep that one band, the one most suited to you

Sanctuary

I want to escape

From the clutches of the mundane

I wish to fly

Yes, I am strange, unplain

In strange, I find comfort

In strange, I find no glitch

In strange, I like to lose myself 

Yes, strange is no itch

Strange is no feeling 

Strange is a place to be

Strange is a person you confide in

Strange is as strange as strange can be

I talk strange

To a stranger I talk most

A stranger I choose to walk with 

Yes, lose that stranger I mostly do

Still, in strange, I find peace

’cause strange floats my ferry 

In strange, I find cause

In strange, I find sanctuary

You don’t know 

He’s standing by the bus queue, not in it. He’s obviously scared of the pushing, eager crowd. He leans  every two seconds to see if he can make his way to the bus. But he can’t. People. 

“Poor soul!”

He must be over 40, easy. 

“What a coward!”

“What’s wrong with him?!”

A phobia. A disorder. Uneasiness isn’t patented by one. 

You don’t know. 
A grown lady in the metro. Sitting with an unevenly lined eyeliner. Scribbled over her eyelid, way above the eyelash line, trembling in making its way to the ends. Nails painted with loud, mismatching colours; a nail splashed with red, another pink, the thumb yellow. 

“Why does she have to do make up”

“Ugh! Gross.”

Her personal sense of style. Or her 3 years old daughter’s. 

You don’t know. 

Do you? 

Do you care to?

Do you want to? 

Do you have to?

Wave

A train journey

A stranger, I

A mother, saree clad

Her daughter, very shy 

Lost, I was

in my own thought, to notice

Hugging her mother ever so tight, she stood

Her poor mother, drained still stood smiling through her nose pins 

Her smile, meek, intimidated by the crowd around

Her child, a clear opposite, stood passing smiles around to grimacing onlookers

Then buried her head in her mama’s torso 

Not knowing earphones block smiles too

Corner of my eye, I caught her little action

She smiled at me, repeating the shy burial

A flicker of fear on maa’s face, 

of response her child’s innocence might receive

I smile back

She waves her hand as she leaves

She waves her maa’s worries 

She waives distorted boundaries.