Raindrops

The light in the room was dim before he entered and drew the curtains. The weather outside seemed pleasant. 

He sat adjacent to me, picked up his diary lying on the table, and pulled out the pen tucked in my hair bun. The curtains were blowing by the wind outside. Clouds were moving, some near to each other, some far away. 

I closed the book I was holding, and looked at his thoughts wandering around the corners of a page. A few raindrops fell on the window pane, to gently meander.

The rain had started to pour down few seconds later. Raindrops fell on the muddy ground, on leaves of the plant kept near the window, and a few tiny drops fell on the page of his diary. 

My eyes could no longer trace raindrops falling on the window pane. They fell on the surface and got merged. While a few on the leaves got pinned, the rest glided themselves down. 

The sound of quiet was broken by his “damn.” The raindrops that fell on the page were slowly merging into the warmth of his words. 

He closed his diary and I closed the window. 

– Kritika Vashist 

Unwritten 


I’vee left all important details

at the footnote of my half breath  

while all the little details cover my pen, 

that rests somewhere inside my diary,

like flowers of gratitude on a gravestone. 

But it’s in creases on the bedsheet 

that can take you to the story

some of which I lived,

and some I couldn’t.

– Kritika Vashist 

In The Woods 

In the woods,
I could see green trees,
and feel the embracing wind,
while hearing the music of our footsteps
as we walked together, at the same pace,
holding our hands firmly,
like the leaf holding its branch.

I remember you telling me about spring
under those filtered bright sun-rays
in the sound of silence.
I remember feeling like a butterfly
on the most beautiful flower.

In the woods,
a season passed and autumn came.
I stood under the almost bare tree
when the unfiltered sunlight fringed me.
I remember you loosing the grip, walking fast,
crumbling the fallen leaves, abstractedly.
I remember feeling lost in that noise
on the trail leading me nowhere.

In the woods,
I waited for the spring you told me about,
but it never came.

-Kritika Vashist

 

After being away for so long, I realized that it requires a lot of dedication and efforts to maintain your blog and write something regularly. Also, during this time I lost track of a few friends here, but I hope the rest (I still see them here) are doing well. So, in case you remember me, here is a hello from my side. 🙂

The Routine

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Color of the sky changes
from blue to grey to black
the wind that had resting
like a hope in some corner of the room
finally blows and swipes off the grime.
I had reached home late tonight
I did it all again, like everyday
I tried to ask the routine
and wondered if that is
how it is supposed to be
I walked a bit slow,
waited to catch another train
I passed a smile to the woman
who seemed to be doing
all again, like everyday
Her stiffness in expression
told that she had learned the routine
unlike me, she was prepared.
A few drops that earlier fall lightly on me
are now dripping down fast without spaces
I hear their sound,
I wonder if they are trying to hush the wind
I notice the wind pushing them
but each raindrop together
makes the dust to settle down, and now
I have this sight in my eyes, not the dust
But it doesn’t rain everyday.

-Kritika Vashist

Every Night When I Am Bewitched By You

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Every night when I sit to write
a word or two to tell you
about this loneliness I despise
I end up turning the pages
one by one of our memories
as I cry
as I cry
and when my eyes get tired
and I finally to go sleep
I hold you closer than
my own heartbeats
and I see you there with me
in my dream
in my dream
lying next to me
running hands through my hair
singing me a lullaby that
you’re always here
you’re always here

-Kritika Vashist