Nupur Chaturvedi

At every crossroad, a choice
And there are many crossroads
And many choices
So why the panic every time?
Doesn’t practice make perfect?
Or does it make me less accepting 
Of wrong turns and fuel burns?

Once the choice is made, there must be rest
Or a sense of relief that the lump is gone.
But no, a little of me is lost after every decision
An erosion of innocence
Another layer of writing on what was once a blank canvas.

Is the loss of innocence tragic?
Of course not.
It merely means that ignorance, the lazy recluse
Must also go. 
Floundering ahead is no longer an option
A clearer path must be forged.

At every crossroad, another chance
To set course for new adventures
And new alliances
For the innocent babe has no friends
Only comfort and protection suppliers.
Shared experiences make for sympathetic co-travellers.
The journey must be made, crossroads and all. 

For a long time I watched it
Stuck tenuously and tenaciously
To the tip of a leaf
A perfectly formed drop of moisture
And till I watched, it remained
Unaware of the certain fall any instant
I, on the other hand, was aware
I knew this was just time standing still
I knew the fall was imminent
But for now, it seemed to stretch to eternity
A moment suspended, a thought suspended
Hope suspended, beauty suspended
Life itself suspended
Then I turned away
And when I turned back, the drop had fallen
Splat on the floor
The drop was gone,
My moment snatched
Because I had looked away for a second.

I could forget
The language we created
Words only we could understand
Meanings that only we could derive.
I could forget
The places we marked as ours
Roads that only we knew the way through
Monuments that we erected and we visited from time to time.
I could forget
The rivers we bathed in
The oceans where the waves rose and ebbed for us
Boats we made to survive whirpools and tsunamis.
I really could forget all those juvenile attempts
At making our love immortal, unique.
It isn’t, ask the hundred million others who built the same dreams.
What I can’t forget is you, me, us. Can you?

Who am I but the last leaf
In a four-leaf clover
Unaware of the power
I could yield, if only I knew.

Who am I but the vacant house
About to be occupied
Unaware of the dreams
That I am about to fulfil.

Who am I but the rim of a cup
On the verge of brimming
Unaware conduit of succour
For the waiting lips.

Who am I
If not possibilities
If not almost there
If not for that one gentle push
If not perfection minus one?

I am all that and more.

Another note strikes odd, 
Broken keys or trembling fingers?
I try again and again,
I hear it in my mind, 
But in playing it’s not the same,
Years of perspiration come to nought 
Struggling to control motor skills 
And surrender to masterful art
But the body wins over mind,
Or does the mind lose to the body?
Mortal concerns versus divine timeless harmony
No David and Goliath this,
The fight is equal
Because in the end,
I am the music,
The music is not without me.
And so the odd note stays suspended in the air
While I hear the penny drop.

Deviating from the immediate
I look past faces, drapery, windows
To the rolling waves outside
Predictable patterns soothe me
But also lull me into somnolence 
Illicit movements escape my eyes
And I let them,
Because really, who wants to disturb status quo
I am awash with a sense of paranoia,
Because I have let complacence take over 
So what do I do now?
Stay frozen, staring at the view outside
Or pull myself back? 
For how long do I have a choice
Should I not let time do its thing? 
The paralysis has passed, 
I wrest control
I rest controlled.

Diminutive men
Try to stretch themselves 
To fill large shoes
Left behind
By giants
After a bloody war 
With gods.
Courage won’t help
Strength doesn’t count
Fortitude? That will only lessen the pain
Then what will make men
Rise again to become giants that challenge gods?
The power to dream.

What is that? 
Yes, under the foliage,
Turn it over,
Shake off the mud,
Dig, scrape..oh, that was a distinct clang!
Dig some more, I see the edge…is it a box?
It is, a big one. A chest.
Is it locked? 
Oh no, the latch comes off easy. 
Look inside, quick!
Wait, let me see.
A shroud covers it all
Embroidered with intricate patterns I have learnt over the years,
Each warp and weft carrying an experience, a memory.
My hand trembles as I lift it
A glint catches my eye,
A drop of tear that had escaped when I first felt heartbreak
The shape still intact 
The passage of time has hardened it, it no longer changes shape or falls unbidden.
To the left, a string of pearls
That I was wearing when I first felt like a woman.
Almost hidden underneath, a piece of cotton,
Stained red when it touched your wounded lips,
I had bitten it in a fit of rage. I don’t know who felt the deeper pain.
A pretty miniature framed in gilt,
He is looking at her, she at him, no, not him, the other him,
Paint colouring emotions they don’t feel,
But it’s faded.
Then a crumpled paper, crushed before being touched by ink
Unused, unfulfilled, unsung.
A musty odour breaks free,
Reminding of laughs lost, smiles cracked,
And then, beneath it all, at the base,
Brocade dreams. 
You can close the lid again,
A glimpse was enough
Some chests should just be aired once a year
And then forgotten.
Past can’t be present, nor future.

A flame,
In it flickers my resolve
Swaying this way and that
Trying to stay resilient.

A sparkle,
Exuding brilliance but hiding
A dark core
An inside out black hole.

A shimmer,
Consistent yet fake,
A veneer of brightness
Over a burnished layer of sweat.

Will they come together to spread light?
Can they?
But then, you don’t give up hope till there is even a tiny glow,
Even that, given the right wind, will grow to a raging torch
Don’t accept the stillness, then, blow a gale,
I want a blazing Diwali this year!