And what made you cry?
Which limit you have crossed?
Which height left to be climbed?
Waiting for Spring to take over.
Till they get their own makeover.
And rest will follow with ease.
If not then why don't they quiet down and rest?
They remind me of my inner strength..
If not then why man likes to tame a feathered being?
Doesn't know my flight is my might?
He wouldn't have given him mind to think.
On the day when it snowed.
Only to watch her go.
Getting restless all the time.
Then why did she play with my heart?
Me to face The Broken Me?
Or I myself figure it out?
Inside your heart, inside your mind.
And began in a low tone.
Do you think she never loved you???
Or do you think she did it for a purpose???
Today in a treasure hunt.
It emerged like a song.
For someone to hold over.
Which shined on seeing me.
Like I found a Friend at last.
I felt a warming hug.
And recalled my silent charms.
Touched it gently, being aware.
But vowed to find it at any cost.
Till you provoke my devil form.
The Peace of the Quiet.
A Storm that precedes any Hope.
By the power of Thunder.
A chill to be found.
Hopes of a New Beginning.
They were to die without one another.
And touched him for the last last time.
She said," I'll better die in your arms than die alone."
The sleeping pills which disappeared into her.
To make my wish come true.
Look, how I deceived the Fate.
They said we'll die alone.
I would live in You.
I was always envious of my mother. She was very beautiful. No one could stand her charm and grace, that is what I always thought.On that day, when she stood next to me at the bus stand for my school bus, it was the last time she came out with me.I remember clearly, I was 6 that time in class I. She was wearing a floral printed pink saree, when two men on their motorbike came near us.They had an unusual look of hatred and anger on their faces. Before we could understand, one of them took out a bottle with something in it. In a flash the whole solution was on my mamma's beautiful face.She pushed me behind like she knew what they threw and faced all what fate had in store for her.
Under the kitchen slab, rested the large pickle jar. The old lady of the house was the sole manufacturer of the contents in it. Sometimes raw mangoes my mouth is already sour, sometimes lemons and sometimes I don't know what she added in that jar.
Every 2- 3 days she used to shake the jar and the sound echoed till the roof with us eavesdropping upon the moving delicacy inside. Sometimes I stole a little piece only to find her standing and staring with scorching eyes and lips opening to say,"Don't you dare break the jar. I love pickles like anything."
I loved pickles yes, but not the oil in it for it would always burn my throat and irritate my stomach. Every now and then I would swear that I won't have it again but the greed always emerged victorious, when I saw everyone enjoying it with delight.