Cobbled Path

That cobbled path shaped your destiny,
It journeyed down to a little shop,
Where along with coffee and eggs and bagel,
The owner sold some dreams.
Some were bought and nourished,
Most rusted on the dusty shelf
Behind the cookie jar...

On the flight of fantasies you took off,
Fueled by drinks and smokes, some impatience
And a little love-
The risks were taken, as the winds were fast,
You closed your eyes...
But the unforgiving mind was unshackled.

The path chooses the walker, maybe,
That cobbled path chose a few desperate souls-
When the dreams rose to the ethereal sky,
Some watched them fly,
Some paid to fly along
With a little bit of love and coffee and smokes,
And some just could not afford...

The cold hands lit a fire in your heart,
So you swam the fathomless skies
With some bits of clouds and a few drops of rain
To soothe your parched veins,
The Real sank in deeper and intertwined with your dreams,
While you hesitated at the edge of the cobbled path.

That cobbled path will choose her lover,
And hand in hand they will confide to each other,
And such a day when the stones shall shine,
There will be no rush, no sorrow, no pain of life,
No religion, no deceit, no words, and no lies-

Sid

My Last Song

Baby, I'm lost up and high,
When the now seems just another time,
To let you know, I only meant the right,
But days never turned out the same anyway...


Just so you know, this song ain't for you,
Though the world thinks I still got your blues,
The people, they judge, they don't have a clue,
I'm gonna let it all out someday...


The times were wrong and I could take it no more,
I had to tell you somehow it wasn't you anymore,
That smile had faded when the waves hit the shore,
'Cause when I saw her eyes, I knew there was no other way -


So maybe she would risk it all and come this far,
Maybe I would love her blind, like she's my star,
'Cause I never felt such so long in my heart,
But the dreams they hold on or they're washed away...


To another night, another dawn,
To another life, without her seems so wrong,
I'll sing once more, she's my last song,
So I could wake up to see her everyday ==


Sid.

A Pinch of Salt or Otherwise... (A Series)

Time is a strange phenomenon. It has been defined, re-defined, constructed and de-constructed through the ages. It’s strange that sometimes decades seem less than a second and seconds which last you a lifetime. The realisation is daunting. It is huge. The final bell rang at last, maybe about a minute late. Miss Lahiri silently heaved a sigh of relief. She couldn’t possibly show the children that more than them she desperately wanted to hear the sweet melody of the final bell. No, she was definitely more dignified than that and it was this very dignity that kept her in check when she so nearly felt like breaking into a run to the modest scooty of hers and speed off from the confines of this prison-house. Keeping an eye on the children as they rushed out to their freedom, she methodically and not too slowly began collecting her books and with measured steps walked towards the staff-room. The staff-room at St. Michael’s School, New Delhi was adequately furnished, snug and comfortable and yet not so much so the teachers might settle in for a good chat over a hot tea or coffee. Krishna, the gardener asked her for a tea but that was more out of formality, suspected Miss Lahiri. Not that she was complaining because at 1.30 PM who would really want a tea? Most of the teachers were in a hurry to get back to their kids, pamper them, scold them, feed them and thus begin the whole dull story of parenthood. There were a few younger teachers, who still lived with their parents and most of this lot still had the mirth and energy to get together after school for lunch before heading back to their respective homes. Many a times had they invited Miss Lahiri to join them for lunch. But Miss Lahiri, even though not too old, had neither the intention in joining their endless discussions of some teacher or the other who happened to say something (which was then dissected and analysed) nor the time or energy in discussing how handsome some father looked when he came to drop his kid to school (or worse still, how he might be in the sack). Miss Lahiri was above all such immaturities and pettiness. Many of her colleagues mistook this for her haughtiness and snobbishness. But the few who somewhat knew Miss Lahiri, could vouch for the fact that these two adjectives could in no way be identified with her. Gathering her bag as Miss Lahiri walked towards the parking area with slightly impatient steps, she was interrupted by Mrs Chappell, who came slightly out of breath behind her. This interruption, however, was a pleasant one. Dorothy Chappell was one of the few people in this prison-house, Miss Lahiri was fond of. ‘Hi Dorothy, what kept you so long? Do you want me to drop you home?’ ‘Oh yes, that sounds good. Where do I begin? I again had an argument with the Georgina. You know how Reshma needs tea to be made separately for her without any sugar for her diabetics. There is absolutely no logic behind stopping that. Too much gas is wasted? Is she even serious? I mean, what kind of cheap behaviour is that? Being a principal doesn’t give her the authority to take such stupid decisions. This is really too much now.’ Mrs Chappell blurted out without stopping. Quite obviously she was very angry. ‘Calm down, Dorothy. You know why the old girl is doing all this…

YOU…

Well, You hold my hand
As I sit beside the thorns
You are worried I might not sleep
Well, You can go in deep – so deep
You lose Yourself in me,
You can still wake up to smell the burn
You can still burn the hand You held…
Yes, You held when I was there
When I was busy – so busy
So busy in this crazy fire…
You’re drunk tonight,
You were drunk that night,
You run with open hair –
You float in the sky, feather light
You still dig the place I’m buried.
My fierce life, Your warm hand
You knew the way, I’m sure
Unscathed You were,
When You came out of water
You let the waves push me back…
Yes, You forgot to hold me back,
Just as You forgot to hold my hand,
Just as You forgot to put out the fire
The one that burnt all night and day
In the forest which made me lose my way
Yes, the wind was gone,
The leaves were awry
The birds were scared of some Unknown wrath
But You were drunk that night with fiery eyes
You ran, You flew with open hair
Yes, You knew Your way, I’m sure…
Dark times they were
Dark times they are,
When You forgot to hold my hand,
When I sat beside the thorns
And I got drunk
With the Great Unknowns.

Siddhartha.

The Rise

When raging winds lash out at sea,
When dark moon mocks the sky,
When the child dreams of severed limbs
And the Devil screams in delight –

When man pours another drink
To toast the fiery sight,
When the Lakes of life drown the dead,
Is it then O Lord, you shall rise?

When sweet joys will forever die,
When songs and laughter on deaf ears fall,
When the sense succumbs to untold greed
And the righteous man shall crawl –

When the good suffers a crushing defeat
And light gives way to the darkest night,
When the Devil dances in maddening glee,
Is it then O Lord, you shall rise?

When the tears of phoenix no longer heal,
When a brother takes up the fatal gun,
When love is tainted with rains of blood
And curtains hide the shimmering sun,

When the little girl smiles no more,
When life strangles her silent cries,
When evil rapes the very soul of faith,
O Lord, is it then you shall rise?

In the forests dense, Your light shall shine,
Your touch tremble the mighty kings,
Your glory forever shall reign the mind,
Your tears shall wash the sins –

When the Devil announces its victory march,
When scared and bruised lies the lonely girl,
Its then we plead, with desperate hearts,
Rise, O Lord, Rise!

- Siddhartha

The Girl

Still hope seems just a mile away,
Still dreams fly high and low,
She treads a path not known to every man,
Her struggle lies in her sorrow –

A while ago, when the sun was up,
A happy time it was –
But fleeting joy, ye quicker than the sand,
A strange enemy, a mere shadow of Loss –

Her eyes reflect the glory of her little girl,
Her charmed glory, her murdered child,
The one who never saw the light of the day,
Who would never know the man who took her life –

And thus she burnt in the burning fire,
A mother who never got the chance of being one,
And in such times we live, the times are wild,
Where no one sees the rising sun –

- Siddhartha.