Knock, knock
Who's there? Your Inner Voice. Inner Voice, who? Keeper of your mother's sound, that Inner Voice Giver of opinions unsolicited, that Inner Voice Thinker in all your predicaments, that Inner Voice Taker of moral high-ground, that Inner Voice Pleader of sense, that Inner Voice Asker of peace, understanding and forgiveness, that Inner Voice Panic sets in when met with a silence, that Inner Voice.
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Loud and chaotic, words uttered are tense
Such a scuffle to understand the nonsense A thoughtless circus ensues between the two Feats performed, the other they try to woo Acrobatic thoughts that twist the mind Emotions caged, animals running wild Strings of sentiment in grip of the other Being reduced to a puppet is a bother Two minds so disparate, so different Spare the struggle, the two are incongruent Two minds distinct and discrete
Thinking their own thoughts, feeling their own feelings Word for word, sentiment for sentiment, thought for thought, a connection made A compatible rhythm cascades Minds met midway, the bridge crossed over Into a harmonious concord So calm, content and continuous the moment In which they are congruent. Leisurely, ordinary day, soaring kites
Box unhinged, birds taking their flight The windmill turns, the water wheel churns The clock strikes, moment reveals Energy channels through invisible lines Train chugs, connects the two minds Unexpected and mystic all this is too Were you thinking of me; 'cos I was just thinking of you. Ever wonder what the web of lines on your palm says about the kind of life you are going to live? About the (mis)fortunes that have most certainly, undeniably been written into those lines? About the planets, whose varied mood swings are going to bring about winds of change for better or for worse? This cut-work playfully explores those head, heart and life lines that are etched onto everyone's palms and dictate ones' life, love, travel and other fortunes.
They migrate and they crowd, Packed into a city concealed in smoky shroud. Small towers, tall towers, magnificent towers, They pierce the smog and kiss the sky with evil powers. They squirm, squeeze and accommodate, Gasping for air, sealed into their pretentious high-rise walls of fate. The hills dwindle in their greed, The trees do not stand their own stead. The river coughs and chugs around heaps of their sewage and unfriendly waste And that’s the water every day they taste. Mopeds, autorickshaws, Suzukis, Audis and shiny rides, To reach them on time without missing their tides. Little potholed lanes, streets, highways as well as the atmosphere they clog, Testing their patience, ailing their spineless cord, not yet lifting the mind fog. Lakhs, nay crores going down the very potholes, The “guardians of city” guarding their own selfish goals. Educated they are, with big money, diplomas and even bigger footprints in carbon, Yet they turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to the chaos they tread on. Acknowledge and take responsibility before it's too late, And the city whimpers, flails and shuts down before the hellish gate. |
AuthorAn Indian visual artist, living in Pune, who finds her challenge and her calm in the realm of paper. Archives
May 2019
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