Mirage

The cool desert wind,
I could feel it with eyes closed.

Looked down, I could see the stars,
Reflected in the water at my feet.

It was an oasis,
after miles of trudging.

I caught up the water
Saw the reflection in my palm,

Only to realize …
I was looking at a mirage.

It was the spring of one year

It was the spring of one year
A spring so untimely, yet so pretty
There was no rain
Yet everything seemed fresh
The same old sun shone upon the earth
Yet everything seemed brighter
The winds that blew were no different
Yet they carried the fragrance of headiness
The waves that washed over our feet had touched millions
Yet they were special as they united our steps
Spring was around us as we stood upon the rocks
In the light of the setting sun
The cool spring air that ruffled your hair
As we walked back home
The spring that had come and gone for centuries before us
But had never seemed so close to heart

It was the spring of one year
That was destined to be so short-lived
The winds no longer brought with them your fragrance
The sun shone, but I could not see your face in its light
The waves still lapped at my feet, but now they walked alone
The sun set in the horizon, but there was only one person on the rocks
A spring, that would be followed by a winter endless

Springs, that came and went
Would come and go for time eternal
Springs, that brought with them new experiences
New people, new places
Springs, that would never again be so unique
Springs, that would never again be treasured

Black

Black, the color of dark; darkness, a heralding of the unknown. As the dusk fades into darkness, the world is slowly enclosed in the envelope of night. An eagle flies across the setting sun. A single bat flits off into the horizon; a few crows still cawing away in the distance; the last of the sparrows flying off to their abodes in ones and twos; the sound of all machinery reduces to a steady hum. All sounds fade away into the gloomy silence, all colors replaced by a never-ending black.

An old man threads his way slowly through the foggy, dimly lit streets of the city. White haired, stooping under the weight of his own body, he walks lost in his own thoughts, unaware of all that is happening around him. The stick in his hand and the whistle at his breast is the only indication that he is a chowkidar. A passer-by may wonder how someone as ancient as him could be given such a task. But this thought does not worry him. He knows there is no threat to him or anybody else for that matter. He knows he does not have to worry about thieves or prowlers. No, all those are no longer his jobs, as they were at one time…

Those were good, old times, when he could demand an extra something from the residents for having caught a dangerous robber and then boast about it over a drink in the local dhaba; when he valued and took pride in his responsibility of looking after the whole village. He would sit in the center with a complementary cup of the best tea that the dhaba owner’s wife could stir up and a crowd of people around him, waiting for him to pour forth his tales of bravery. Mere eighteen years old, he was already the favorite of every idler, the center of attention at every late noon gathering under the village peepul tree and the idol of every boy in the village, who wanted to grow up as strong and fearless as him.

But times had changed now. The small village had slowly grown into a town, the town into a city. The crowds had grown from a thousand to ten thousand to lakhs within a span of sixty years. With the growing populace, the number of people in his profession had also grown. Soon, even they were pushed into the background as technology came in. The bizarre contraptions, so tiny that you could never find them, but which somehow saw everything going on and miraculously allowed people sitting in a far away corner to watch it too; the strange devices that beeped whenever someone unknown walked past it. No longer was he required to safeguard the lives of people. He knew he was nothing compared to these apparitions. They were far more efficient than him in all respects. He merely existed now, as he had done for the past couple of decades, as he probably would for a couple more years; the only static in the changing scenery around him. Till one day he would slowly fade away silently into the shadows. Like the night setting upon the day, death would slowly set upon him; the colors of his life would slowly be washed away with the black of death. Till then, all he could do was wait silently for the inevitable and final darkness.