The glittering words of hope are mere,
a few letters arched with a tip of pen.
Forced to live the relativity of a temporal life,
itched with the redundant barbed memories.
This throbbing pain is real while the golden
hope exists in a realm of a dream.
An autumn leaf
you slowly withered
away….
Carried on the chariot
of the cruel winds,
the pigment of life
eventually faded.
Stretched on the pyre
of sandalwood clouds,
you looked peaceful!
Wish could keep a
you a leaf, in a glass jar,
a souvenir forever.
With my hands clasped
in yours, we will
laugh together at
the frivolities of
this world.
RIP my beautiful
Man! RIP!
I stole a kiss from the crimson Sun,
an embrace from the sickly tree,
a smile from the fading flower,
humility from the burdened Earth.
A spoon-full of water from that dying,
river, its gentle waters relaxing one last
time and taking a deepest sigh!
I leaned in my insatiable greed knowing
that it’s spirit just departed.
Today a melancholic evening , I decided to
take a walk in pristine white snows wearing
gloomy leather boats trudging heavily on
eerie icy paths leaving behind a
place once called home
While on way, I am met by a withered skeletal
tree standing his ground despite the havocs
caused by ice and water waving at me with
his trembling Parkinson’s branches,
grinning at me in a peculiar
fashion of old men.
Crescent moon shining like a soothsayer’s
crystal it’s whites reflecting the whites of
snow prophesying , that moment of
redemption is near revealing a
vision through it’s translucent
lights
A puny little squirrel trails along may be
looking for some company chirping about the
the loveliness of weather while nibbling
on a decayed nut, playing
hide- seek with me.
Northern wind like a nagging aunt blowing
here and there doing her wintery chores, with
careless locks of snowy flakes on her forehead
poking in my affairs and blocking
my way ..
Exhausted sat at the banks of a frozen creek,
from behind a mist a limping shadow in pale
moonlight comes forth, I realize he is the deer
I hit last year with my silver car, his large
kohl eyes penetrating mine, in an act of
forgiveness he gracefully allows me to
share his space,
The gloom nestled in me dissolves, I know
on this evening I am touched by the
diviner as I went home
carrying the nut!
Out of the many sad events that unfolded in the last couple of weeks, the passing away of literary Giant, Sir V.S Naipaul was perhaps the lowest moment in the literary corridors. The Nobel Laureate was born in 1932 in rural Trinidad in a Hindu family with Indian roots. I can’t think of any other writer who wrote so extensively and blazingly about the post-colonial reality. Naipaul not only created but actually lived that dual post-colonial existence. His fiction and non-fiction brilliantly explore the complexities and paradoxes of individuals juggling between two worlds, like himself. The master of wit and humor, he didn’t shy away from criticising the third world countries for their own plight. It was a stance which was to attract a lot of flake especially from postcolonial writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
Naipaul’s own personal life was controversial too, his misogynistic behavior towards his first wife, Patricia Ann Hale Naipul. A woman whom he cruelly abandoned for his mistress for twenty-five years and his subsequent marriage to Nadira Naipaul. Despite all the absurdities of his own life, no other writer came close to his mastery over language and twist endings. He was the master of wit and dry humor and played so brilliantly with the words. Some of his memorable works are, A House for Mr. Biswas, A Bend in The River and Miguel Street.
Well if there is one writer that I feel could do justice to his style of writing was the great American writer, O.Henry who like Naipaul was exceptionally gifted when it came to twisting endings and sarcasm. Both Naipul and O. Henry narrated stories of ordinary human beings and mundane chores with heightened awareness and observational skills. I can’t think of any writer in the contemporary world who can uplift the level of language as did Naipaul and O.Henry.
Naipul’s demise is a personal loss, for an aspiring writer like me. If there is one writer I wish to write like, it is Sir V.S Naipaul. I yearn as a writer for Naipaul’s dry-humor, clever endings, and the exceptional observational skills. May his soul rest in peace and his work continue to enlighten and entertain the readers for years to come.
