The Forgotten Storyteller!

Beneath hovering dust and unfinished structures,

stood a three-legged stool,

the refuge of an 8-year-old,

who holds a worn pencil,

and a torn notebook,

like sacred books of yore.

His hands move, but mind faster,

and with his wandering heart, wanders mine too,

to a decade back,

when I stood outside the same room,
the wall of which I'd been leaning against.

My study, which holds worlds,

camouflaged as books,

finished, unfinished,

and the ones that left me broken,
pulls me in, despite, 

but at its doorstep, I must keep caution,

I must not enter again,

for in times of calling,
a promise had been made.

So as it goes,

I have kept my word,
but seems they have failed,

tip-toeing in my dreams,

queried and complained,

why did I leave, just like that?
one fine morning, and an abandoned hat?

And I wonder, do they not know?

That lay beside them,

a tiny little shelf too?

Next to myriad universes, waiting for my universe too?

The shelf stays still, like an empty lifeless canvas,
just as it was in the rains of '04,

just as it was in the winters of '05.

And yet all this while, 

the one promise I have kept,

the promise is of betrayal,

that I will delude,
and be disloyal.

I shift with discomfort,

and so does my sight,
the storyteller's out there,
his world alike.

These 6 short stories will make your Teachers' Day

From what started in a classroom was no longer limited to one. Across time and over periods, life moved on and so did we, falling, rising, crawling, running and at times flying too.

Here's to all who help us along, in their own solemn ways, to make a leaf in our book in the making.

Happy Teachers' Day.

Source: Penning down the mind

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Between the hops!

One tall tower to the next,

one country touch, a hop to the next,

region to region,

landscapes alike,

he gazed like an eagle,

at what still remained at bay,

much like me,

a guarding shore, I say,

which soaked in a bit of what lay in between his hops

For I vowed,

he'd climb the stairs,

and I'd count them,

he'd sing to his tune,

and I'd record them

In the milieu,

that is today,

and was then,

with the falling leaves and flowing winds,

some compressed feelings,
a burgeoning heart,

mine, not his,

for he only saw a silhouette,

and one tall tower

I took to the silhouette too,

for that won't change,

much, I wish,

but my heart still wrinkles,

still crinkles,

at the very thought,

of,
what if,

my world is that of an adverse scenario

But he'd move on,

and so would I,

to see what lies beyond the tallest tower,

may be me?,
the stretched heart's calling,
not floating to the surface,

but just beneath,

waiting,

awaiting

So when he'll be atop the tallest tower,

I'll take him back,

I'll have him back,

through a journey,

to a journey,

to a land,

where,

he was,

I was,

and wasn't there,

a,

hop step trance.

That monsoon, those rains!

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 55; the fifty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with ​Rashmi Kumar, the author of Hooked, Lined and Single and Jyoti Arora, the author of Lemon Girl.

Because one day, this dancing would stop,
or maybe the instinct will die, you had said,
and you couldn't be more right than that night,
when the terrace became a witness,
to the world of many firsts we were to enter.

Of witnesses,
there was that tree too,
under the shade of which,
I gave you letters,
hand written and kiss sealed.

What about that shop with downed shutter,
two streets away,
where we met as lovers, reunited and love, rejuvenated,
and sipped tea in the enraging monsoons under the cover of howling clouds,
Oh, who'd forget the drops falling in our tea cups,
and I, falling in a bit of you, wishing you'd fall in a bit of me too.

And running for cover in that downpour,
was the maverick painter,
his canvas falling apart as he runs,
and I run too,
I chase,
for the fear of him not returning ever.

He has 'us' painted,
though only in half,
before the rain came down,
and that half is you,
and I'll realize,
only years later,
how the unfinished painting was indicative of a future so true.

And that day has come, I reminisce,
when the rain would happen but dance won't,
when you would happen and us won't,
and I wish you had said something else,
if that night had to be the one God heard your wish bells.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 12. 

Chocolate Ice Cream

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 53; the fifty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with ​Soulmates: Love without ownership by Vinit K Bansal. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

I passed by the old streets,
swallowing nostalgia through my throat,
as I walked down the school building,
and our lovable ice-cream uncle again,

He stood by his cycle,
even today, like those days,
quenching the thirsts of many, like us the other day,
when rain wasn't too heavy,
the lightning not too frightening.

Beyond meeting the eye

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 50; the fiftieth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with ​Soulmates: Love without ownership by Vinit K Bansal. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

She rushed to the mirror to check if the eye liner was put up properly. Meticulous. She ran back to the door grabbing her stole on the way. Running downstairs, she slowed herself down to regain composure as she strolled into the living area. Overlooking her was a life size poster of a God her family fervently worshipped. Escaping her mother's vigil, she threw a flying kiss to the poster. No wonder, she was euphoric.