Les Fleurs du Bonheur

And the poet asked “Who will buy the garden’s sweet shivers? Who will buy the blissful mirth on dawn’s smiling lips?”
I listened to how my mother sang these lines, and for a moment I saw the young girl she was. She was too young to be a mother. Forever. But she was already one. Too late. How do one pay for someone’s lost days?

Confessions of a boy

Those were days of struggle ; each leaf added to the tree. I waited each night, outside the trembling hut, waiting to see a lonely traveller in need of food or accommodation. “A man can sleep outside”, I remembered my mother’s voice when I initially started sleeping out, shaking and screaming at night in fear. That me doesn’t exist anymore. Of course, that mother too. Living alone, I had to fend for myself alone, but living-in all my life, I didn’t know the kind of work other men did. All I knew was to take care of the house and surroundings, to weave baskets out of wires, and to knit baby clothes. “What woman would like you?” my old mother would ask during her last days. I’d sit there like a good daughter-in-law, listening to the taunts at her husband’s home. Sadly, they expected me to bring a wife home. How do I tell them, that I’d rather be married off?

Note : New Series

I’ll be starting a new series where I’d use a picture and a corresponding story excerpt of my own. Of course, the picture would be mine too. Please feel free to give me your responses

Love-carbuncle

Goodbye, Summer.

Goodbye to your needless persuasions, goodbye to the foam left on the coffee cups, left to dry over the lonely hours of togetherness.

Goodbye to the windless, closed rooms behind which love never bloomed, goodbye to a spring that forgot its way home.

Goodbye to the roads that led to long winters ahead of toil and daily tussles.

Goodbye to the fallen winter flowers and the moist eyes which closed not knowing the weight of autumn.

What does my rain smell like?

Newborn leaves,
Baby winds,
Luscious mud beds,
Vinyl whispers,
Two dancing feet,
Cooing bird heads,
Nuzzling cold noses,
Trippy skies,
And
Greens.

©nandinipradeep

Myrrha

“When it rains it is broad daylight in my mind, Krsna, even in the dead of night. “

In another day he was your man, standing on a brick,
A lotus that bloomed out of the mud—
But so miry is love that it made a God out of your man and a seeker of alms out of the woman.
Irony is when he is lost upon references and she revered in each thought.

“Long have I admired her, dear man, O but how, Krsna, have I become her without knowing it.”

I have waited on bricks in vain, I have written love in a thousand hymns, all upon a name,
I have fallen without bleeding, I have wept without tears,
I have bathed his shadow with the best words lest he fears,
I have drawn colors out of winter,
I have stolen swaras out of the winds,
I have made ragas out of my womb,
I have tuned each drop of my blood to play his lyre.

“But listen, Krsna, not he, only she could tell me about the future—”

Not the God, but the barefooted lover.
Not the ranks but the cracked, blood-dried heels know the way out of this vyuha,

“But how would you know, Krsna, you only know how to destroy in order to make anew,
She created the universe out of your broken bits,
Even a toenail would become a shell, each shell an ocean.”

©nandinipradeep

ഉത്തരം

മരണം നിശബ്ദത ആണെന്നു പലപ്പോഴും തോന്നിയിട്ടുണ്ട്. പക്ഷെ ഇപ്പോൾ അതോടടുക്കുംതോറും ഒരു ബഹളം അയി തോന്നുന്നു. ശബ്ദകോലാഹലം. ആത്‌മാവിന്റെ കലഹവും ഗേഹത്തിന്റെ വിരഹവും ഉൾക്കൊണ്ട് മുന്നോട്ടു പോകാനുള്ളൊരു ബഹളം.കണ്ണടയ്ക്കുമ്പോൾ നിങ്ങളെ ചുറ്റിപറ്റി എല്ലാവരും കലഹിക്കുകയാണ്: ചിലർ സമ്പത്തിനെ  ചൊല്ലി, ചിലർ ശരീരത്തിന്, ചിലർ മാംസത്തിന്, ചിലർ നിങ്ങളിലെ പ്രേക്ഷകനു വേണ്ടി. അൽപം പഴംചോറും ഉപ്പും പുളിയും മുളകും കൊതിക്കുന്ന ആത്‌മാവ്‌ അവിടെ മൃത്യു വരിക്കുന്നു, നിങ്ങളെ ഇല്ലാതെ ആക്കിയ ആ കലഹങ്ങളുടെ നടുവിൽ നിങ്ങളുടെ ആത്‌മാവിന്റെ ശവം മണ്ണോടലിയുന്നു. നിങ്ങൾക്കുമേലുള്ള അവകാശങ്ങൾ മാത്രം വേണ്ടുള്ള , നിങ്ങളെ വേണ്ടാത്ത നിങ്ങളുടെ ജനത നിങ്ങളുടെ  ആത്‌മാവിന്റെ ശവക്കല്ലറ പിഴുതെറിയുന്നു. ഇതോ മരണം? എന്ത് നിശ്ശബ്ദതയെക്കുറിച്ചാണ് നിങ്ങൾ ഈ സംസാരിക്കുന്നതു? ഒരു “സാധാരണക്കാരനു” നിരക്കാത്ത ഒന്നിനെക്കുറിച്ച് , അല്ലെ?

Celeste, Mi Amor

Fever worn eyes trickle with the innocence of vulnerability-
The mellow weakness of being alone.
Stars cross for no reason-
Lovers do not exist;
Only vulnerable, feverish moments. .

©

Dear Gabo . . . .

Addicted Soul

To you who sculpted words, I can give nothing but wordless silence . . .
Blood-red, dreary silence . .

Dear Gabo . .
May Peace Be With You . .

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Thalia / Abundance

Every twig, every leaf 
Shall rise from the Dead;
Even Destiny shall only behold.
Death shall have no word over Life-
Heaven shall only be a tree,
A twig, a leaf.
Words shall resurrect Words
Of yore ‘n nigh.
Night shall reunite with the Night
And Life shall have the final Word.