Chaitanya Srishti Sinha Some Poems
This page presents some poems of Srishti.
The Jungle of the Mind
There were inroads between the toes and then there were rail-tracks drawn on the sole of the feet. Stop after stop, story after story.
Standing at crossroads, clinging to each other, and still, leading to each other.
And then there were conversations between the lines. They were witness to all of it. Everything that was ever felt.
A lover’s kisses. The sun’s wrath.
Mother’s care. Running water’s soothe.
Sore of the heels. Burden of heavy steps after the cumbersome departure.
And what not?
Foot on foot. Own, and that of the stranger’s.
Feet between the sheets. Feet dancing in the air.
Feet so shy, yet dressed with flair.
Feet that took pride in what and how they were.
Yet, knew of the reality that they were mere followers of the great instructor.
But here is the thing. The enormity of hierarchy predisposes the mind to slavery. And while the feet had their own mind, they looked up to the giant stack of cells that housed the sophisticated, the wise, the ultimate, human mind.
And all this while, they hid what they thought, in the darkness of ignorance and blueberry nights,
in anticipation and fear of being laughed at, they followed what looked for its own independence, what craved for its own freedom and its own two feet.
The human mind has had enough and now it craved running amok after giving up responsibilities. But no one knew of this.
And so the feet had learned to follow, and the mind to lead.
Some times at crossroads, and at other times, leaning into each other, leading to each other.
Sometimes like a master and her slave, other times like clinging branches.
The two had met strangers and had seen many a rail-tracks.
The two had lived for life and its chances.
The two had secretly woven stories that others would never know, all the while craving each other’s role.
Look again at the enormity of the hierarchy. It functions on dysfunctions.
But the inroads keep rising and widening, stop after stop, story after story.
The sophisticated human mind was, yet again, burning down all the wrong jungles.
But how we love to feed ourselves with the narratives of false glory!
***
The Moon, the Lover
The moon looks particularly handsome tonight.
I am not a big fan of full moons.
They signify so much perfection, and all the glamour around it scares me.
It’s like the romance that has rekindled after two weeks’ time.
Hopeful. Yet, temporary.
In fact, full moons remind me of how I both crave and fear intimacy.
Makes sense?
It does in my head.
I like incomplete moons.
Waning sights.
Reminds me of the incomplete conversations;
Those incomplete memories;
Discontinued half lost-half won arguments.
There is beauty in discontinuity.
Everlasting beauty.
I would like to personify today’s moon as a lover who is lost in his thoughts,
unaware of the fact that he is under my steady gaze,
for minutes, that seem like hours.
That I am absorbing every little detail.
How he scrunches his nose every time I nag him while he is working;
How he scratches his forehead;
How he runs his thumb along his jawline when he is reading something important;
How he smiles and shakes his head when I act silly.
That he looks absolutely stunning.
So beautiful that my heart aches.
That every time my gaze meets his, my heart skips a beat.
But I’ll never tell him that.
I’ll never tell him what he means to me.
Right now, in this incomplete moment, everything is perfectly intimate.
That’s how it’ll stay in my heart.
Forever.
***
Rise in Petrol Prices Amidst Rest in Peace
through the virtual media,
and through the newspapers,
through the channels,
through and through.
I saw what stung me,
stung me like a bee native not to my land,
saw what tugged at my heart, for days,
and rummaged through my heart,
over and over, through and through.
not me, but so much like me,
not mine, but so much like mine,
all standing in the middle of time.
the cries, the wails,
the tears, the pain,
of mothers, kids, and soldiers,
of artists, teachers, and lovers,
and of musicians, and doctors,
of leaders, and anchors.
not mine, but so much like mine..
hands, departing,
lips, locking,
blood, soaking,
clothes, lying,
all storytelling.
clothes, some of which were gifted,
others bought from the fairs,
fairs that were held in fields,
where men and women danced,
matching footwork, hands in hands,
drunk on passion and beauty,
youth and glory,
with flowers, and balloons, and ribbons,
all flying high, on the promise,
of freedom and laughter,
little kids running around, chasing each other,
goofing and guffawing,
today everything on the same field,
lies in dust, on board with special bond of trust.
and rummages through my heart,
shards of glass from broken photo frames,
and of wood from the window panes,
witness to the horrid testimony,
lying alongside
human blood, and flesh, and spirit,
and remnants of a grenade.
a grenade so powerful,
it could decide borders and boundaries,
where people from both sides,
wished for summer rain
standing on fresh snow of the winter-land
and under the heavily smoked skies.
for they were willing to
skip spring and autumn,
as these seasons only transpired
after the human souls had battled.
they told the summers and winters
to not to retire,
because spring and autumn,
brought with them Hues and Hopes,
and here they slept
hugging their guns, remembering their loved ones,
in houses, with toys and dolls, forever abandoned.
when the world was furious
because fuel prices had shot up,
these kept fighting
with very little that was left
lying in enemy way, as hiccups.
and let the world cling to their
money and diplomacy,
their petrol and diesel and gasoline,
these people had promises to keep,
and there were no blank spaces
between graves and dreams and memories.
the world had the option
to cling to the furies and miseries,
when these had to cling
to their angels and their demons,
and everything that made way in between.