... and what I meant to say is here.
I miss you, I love you, more than I can say.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Hostage Writer
Sometimes, all I have to say is tired of being said.
My poems are pinioned behind my back
And I am in a little space that is constantly, claustrophobically, closing in.
They say, write, write.
Write, while you are young, while there is still so much
So much to write about.
Your life, your strife, your struggle, your strength
That will not keep for much longer, your
Enthusiasm that will soon die, lie
lifeless.
Sometimes, all I have to say,
Is tired of being sad
And out in the rain
Where the ink flows off the wasted words
Like water off a duck's back.
They say write write while
you still can.
And perversely,
I cannot.
My poems are pinioned behind my back
And I am in a little space that is constantly, claustrophobically, closing in.
They say, write, write.
Write, while you are young, while there is still so much
So much to write about.
Your life, your strife, your struggle, your strength
That will not keep for much longer, your
Enthusiasm that will soon die, lie
lifeless.
Sometimes, all I have to say,
Is tired of being sad
And out in the rain
Where the ink flows off the wasted words
Like water off a duck's back.
They say write write while
you still can.
And perversely,
I cannot.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Theft of a Camera
I am writing this to an unknown, faceless thief.
I do not know who you are.
You stole a camera in Paris three days ago.
Out of the tens of thousands of cameras in Paris that day, and the hundreds in Musee d'Orsay, there could have been no other stolen camera so bitterly wept over- every tear a regret for its loss, a prayer for its recovery.
Does stealing automatically make you devoid of any redeeming feeling and emotion? I do not know. Normally, I think, stealing from the rich is considered okay, stealing from the poor a sin. But no one has ever written about stealing from the middle class. The Indian middle class family has few dreams- it saves its pennies for a rainy day, for a house and a car of its own, for its daughter to be married. And sometimes, it dares to dream further (given the right combination of circumstances) of a foreign holiday. A five day trip to Paris.
Five days to be lived to the fullest, to see every great building, museum, basilica and square. Five days of soaking in a culture and a life only read about. Five days of three hundred photographs to be treasured forever, put lovingly in a photo album, shown to friends over tea, secretly taken out in nostalgic moments from the important bottom drawer.
Do you realise what you've stolen?
You will never read this. But you have stolen a piece of my parents' life that I will never forgive or forget.
There are greater and far more horrific crimes in the world, I know. Yet your little theft will leave an everlasting regret that nothing else can match. And nothing can assuage.
I do not know who you are.
You stole a camera in Paris three days ago.
Out of the tens of thousands of cameras in Paris that day, and the hundreds in Musee d'Orsay, there could have been no other stolen camera so bitterly wept over- every tear a regret for its loss, a prayer for its recovery.
Does stealing automatically make you devoid of any redeeming feeling and emotion? I do not know. Normally, I think, stealing from the rich is considered okay, stealing from the poor a sin. But no one has ever written about stealing from the middle class. The Indian middle class family has few dreams- it saves its pennies for a rainy day, for a house and a car of its own, for its daughter to be married. And sometimes, it dares to dream further (given the right combination of circumstances) of a foreign holiday. A five day trip to Paris.
Five days to be lived to the fullest, to see every great building, museum, basilica and square. Five days of soaking in a culture and a life only read about. Five days of three hundred photographs to be treasured forever, put lovingly in a photo album, shown to friends over tea, secretly taken out in nostalgic moments from the important bottom drawer.
Do you realise what you've stolen?
You will never read this. But you have stolen a piece of my parents' life that I will never forgive or forget.
There are greater and far more horrific crimes in the world, I know. Yet your little theft will leave an everlasting regret that nothing else can match. And nothing can assuage.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)