Old age-a paradox of long life (From the perspective of an old woman)

“Happy birthday to you; many, many, happy returns to you. May you live long!” As I read on the face book wall of my friends, it takes me to the time I have seen old age is more of a curse of the wishes than the wishes of blessings. Long life is not a synonym of a happy life; rather long life is a repercussion of good wishes of the well wishers that fate takes the otherwise. Everyone wants to live long but I know a very few will have thought of the paradox of long life.

Smooth skin on the beautiful face that once shone becomes folded in many wrinkles. Your cascade of hair that you once maintained and added to your beauty gradually falls. Your head gradually marches with the speed of time into being barren. Your gums that once grasped your beautiful teeth that polished your smile will fall off. Your smile will become less attractive and what you used to be will be long gone. The beautiful and dynamic torso will succumb to the curse of nature-your back will curve like a bow. Day by day, your height seems growing smaller and your age, bigger. Infact, life is like anti-parallel line-as age ascend, your height descends.

Your brain cell will gradually start dying and once again you go into childhood. Your thinking capacity will deteriorate and you can barely remember things. Your act will become an intermediate between that of a child and a matured person. The same you, who once grabbed the hands of a child and walked as if nothing is burdensome, will become tired with a little walk. A small step you make forward will tire you to death. Panting and puffing, you will curse yourself.  

As you sit on your bed and calculate your age by bending your fingers, you will feel that you have reached to the peak of life. The dried pillow on which you lay your head for the comfort will become drenched with the silent tears-the tears that fall off at the thought of how you used to be once upon a time. Perhaps, then you will have been one of the people who could catch a flying bird or one who could run a hundred miles with ease. Perhaps you will have been one of the most beautiful persons of your time. Life, like an ebb and flow of a sea, keeps running forth, never to be back again.  At the mere thought of your death, as it is sure at an old age, will make your night sleepless.

At times you will feel like talking with others and share your emotions but you become too alien for them to understand what you wanted to say. You will talk with others at some occasions but no one will pay any heed, rather you will be laughed at. You will want to stay with others when you fee low but they will not bother to have you by their side. Everybody will neglect what you speak.

My grandma back in the village, whose sons and daughters are scattered all around the world, must be going through a series of painful moments. I can assume it but all I can do is sympathize with her. I often remember her feeling lost and at times smoking. I know the kind of burden and the paradoxical situation one will go through. I wish a good health of my grandma and rest old people around the world.

i miss it

I miss my village

In whose womb rests my house
And In whose heart relaxes my home-
The home where my parents dwell
And my entirety survives,
I miss them.
The terrace of paddy field;
The ephemeral stream that churns
And flows right in front of my house;
The winter on whose lap egrets play
And incessantly hunt meals,
I miss them.
The summer which invites patterns
Of Scorching heat
Of Fluctuating down powers
And scaring rumbles on the sky,
i miss them
The autumn that turns nature naked,
With greens crying beneath the trunks
Of trees
Of shrubs
And grasses,
i miss them.
The spring decorated in blooms
Like a well dressed lady,
In green
Blues
Red and
With various pattern of hues;
Whose beauty the bees consume
And angels envy their beauty,
I miss them all-
I miss my village!

Disparity among siblings

Disparity among siblings

Of one womb housed in one mother,
We are born;
On the same luxurious lap
Of a mother,
We wept and moaned for further warmth.
Of the same home
We have been the same kids
Fate has spectated,
Lord has bathed in his wills and
Time has brought in its pace.
Like the fruits of the same tree
We are the extension of the same parents;
Yet in thought
In deeds
In dreams
And in the daily schedule of life
We seem different-
Like the odd option among
The order of a logical question!
Beckoned by our own conscience and intuition.
We run after our own muse;
With the hunger of our own desire
We seek our own meals of goals.

Ode to a beautiful face on the street

Ode to a beautiful face on the street

The skin depth soaked in

Divine angelic visage with falling cascade

Of silky hair down the shoulders;

The fragrance of a perfume

That diffused through me into my nose

Drove me mad.

In flashback as I move back

When my sight collided with her moves

And bruised my feelings

Thousand children of craze are born

In the warm womb my imagination

And expire

In the grave of my sensitive heart.

Now I just gaze in thoughts

To look for her

To embrace her tight

And feel the slippery cascade of hair

Again

 with the fingers of my mind.

Where are my dreams

Where are my dreams?

Where are my dreams

That once dwelled in me

And showed me a way to stroll?

Where are my dreams

That once inspired me

And woke me up to realize it?

Where are my dreams

That once stirred my entire childhood

And made me sleepless?

As present merges into the past,

As today becomes yesterday,

I seem living with hollow pipes

Of hopes

Trying to fill the water

Of vanity into it.

I loved you

 I loved you

I seem to have loved you

Year after year;

In times incalculable;

In numberless forms

And numberless ways;

In immeasurable measure of unit

I seem to have lost myself

In your thoughts-

Night and days,

Morning and evening

Winter and summer

Every time!

I know why a tethered goat bleats

I know why a tethered goat bleats

Controlled by the length of a rope,

Yet greenery for a better meal in its hope,

It reaches in vain to touch it,

And within imagination it salivates

And then suffocates in reality-

Suffocates with desires of a good meal

Suffocates with a struggle

And with the vanity of its efforts.

As starvation strike it like the lightening,

It bleats;

As thirst parches its throat

It bleats;

As scorching sun lashes it with cruel rays

It bleats;

As the dampening shower fall upon its body

It bleats;

Indeed, for myriad reasons,

It just bleats.

Happiness or sadness

Pain or pleasure

Hot or cold,

Those  don’t matter

For it just bleats!

Concealed in its dumbness

Blossoming are the flowers of a reason

Within the audibility of its voice;

There is a speech it conveys;

There is a talk it talks

But who cares?

Bleating is just a bleating

And it is the stupidity of a goat

But I know why it bleats!

It bleats to embrace the greenery

That its sight touches;

It bleats for all reason

And among all,

It bleats to herd the owner that tethers,

It bleats to remove the reins of rope

And walk

Jump

And graze as it wishes.