On the other side of my aged rusted window,
The stories live free,
Some breath in agony, some exhale in ecstasy.
The stories in those indistinct chatters of the drunkards,
who sadly sing a happy song and dance under the dirty, faded yellow of street lights.
They dance to the rhythm of snoring tired bodies.
They dance to the growling of empty stomachs sleeping somewhere near, late at night.
The stories that exists in the binocular of a one eyed old man whose window lives opposite to mine.
And the stories that echos with the hollowness of a young widow, who dines alone every night
But serves for two.
And, then there is another side, to this window .
The undying dampness of this little room .
Where some of my stories are entangled in the creases of this old bedsheet and become a knot every time…
The creases, oh, they do disappear.
But, the stories..
No they do not.
They never die.
Soon enough the truth will fade away,
The truth becomes a song.
A song of memory, and we sing to it the way we want to.
The way it pleases us.
The truth becomes a story.
On some morning, The warm blue smell of human flesh is all that remains in this room.
And on some, a river of stillness sleeps besides me.
The stories are innumerable ,scattered like pebbles on the dry banks.
And the pages I have are so less,
So structured and caged in an order.
How shall I bind all those stories ,
So , I recite them to the hollowness I live in ,
To the cuckoo of sad summer that sits every morning somewhere near the window.
I recite them to the air she breathes,
And to the mellow sunlight in which she drapes her bare body.
And thus, I liberate my stories and set them free.
A part of them goes away and a part of them never leaves.