The river is finally running dry. I heard someone rejoicing to hear this. What is a river without it’s water? I am told it is money, it is development, it is more money.
Another colony, dozens of businesses springs up. There is nothing to be sad anymore. I walk on the roads trying to trace the skeleton of what is lost.
Now, I know the names of few more rivers that are nowhere to be seen on maps.
The numbers of such ghost keep increasing.
There is a language that no one cares for. There is a city that forces everyone to leave. There are words that don’t sound fancy anymore. There is an accent that needs to be exorcised from tongues- the identity of what we are is a secret, something we can be killed for.
But it is the season, the world where rivers dry out beautifully, where aches turn into anger, into revenge, into art, into denials, into search for something new. But rarely does it turns into tears.
How is it we have so much to lose, so much that is already lost and yet have so little to grieve about.
I regret to tell you this that the blue sky that you died for is not longer blue. It is painting its face with remains of our greed, with the colors of our wars. But it is still sort of fair. It is trying hard not to choose sides, not to become the flags that unites only those whose favorite words are ‘future’, ‘safety’,’money’, ‘greatness’, while they clutch in their hands the fate of people they don’t identify with- ‘burden’ they call them. ‘Fear’ is another favorite word of theirs. They don’t speak much of it, but it is most useful or at least that’s what I have heard from the ones we are no longer allowed to call out or even mock. I have lost every bit of my passive aggressiveness. Life has become more bearable now that my skin is not broken for making too much noise, now that we have learnt to hold each other’s tongue so that we may not lose more friends than we already have. I regret to tell you that your dreams will remains dreams and you might be one of the last to know how dreams felt in your eyes, how tomorrow used to change by effort.
As she places her coffee cup on the table, her eyes sting and ribs hurt to see the beautiful vase of her life dearly holding onto the oldest withered flowers of her life. Flowers were not meant to do this, she knew. She also knew she need not be like this, things need not be this way. The market is just 5 minutes away. When she has enough money to buy new gardens why lament on handful of roses, why think about people she can now never love. But the decision to forget or remember was never in her hands. And now she cannot step out and face the world – the same world who witnessed her pride and confidence in another human whose faults she refused to see till the end, the one she called her love. She felt she owed answers to every one- for loving the wrong one, for loving the wrong way, for seeking a new love, for saying yes to someone better than her, for her dissatisfaction that eats through every heart she tries to love. She didn’t want to go out and apologize for wanting.
There are pockets in my shirt
where I occasionally find
some money I forgot to spend,
some scribbled paper
which seemed important
but was not.
I find ghost of your hands,
that I forgot to wash away.