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. 🙂

Musings

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“आधे तुम
और आधे हम
चलो कोई एक काम पुरा करे”

“Aadhe tum
Aur aadhe hum
Chalo koi ek kaam pura kare”

English translation: (By Himanshu Bhatnagar)

“Unfinished halves are we sundered
Let us together be completely rendered”

I Wish You Had Bought The Train Ticket

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Sometimes I wish
that you hadn’t had to buy the plane tickets
to go back to the city
that will make you run throughout the day
and will give you some peace only at night
that still might not be enough for you.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because that way you would have got more time
to recall each moment that you lived while you were here,
how you disentangled all your worries
without even speaking about them;
how that night you didn’t have to hold a pillow to sleep;
how you didn’t have to put an alarm to go to work;
how each hour you spent seemed to scamper;
and how when we sat under the sky late evening,
you could just brought few pieces of your stories,
(maybe you could have completed those in the train,
and I am sure that with your poetic soul,
you would have inked the pages you haven’t spoken to for long)
I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because while unfolding the letters
I had written to you few hours before you had to leave,
you would have known that
I picked those pieces of your stories,
to save them up for the time
when nobody would be in a hurry
to reach the airport, or anywhere.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because when you look through the window
while the trees and clouds pass each second,
you realize that the sun is still there
moving with you;
and while you leave everything behind,
you carry poetry and songs
written only in your head
about how the distance could never make you love someone less,
and a few questions about yourself –
questions whose answers lie in not knowing.

Now that you have boarded the plane
to fly back to the city that awaits you, but never misses you;
soon you will find yourself as
another lonely soul among the crowd;
however, the waves at night
would definitely listen to you;
and while the wet sand
offer some comfort to you,
I wish you find the answer to
how we always try to save time,
but end up having so little,
that it just slips with the thought of having some more,
and then maybe
book the plane tickets to return before winter arrives.

– Kritika Vashist