One Life To Live

Thursday, January 29, 2026

Unwoven Dawns

Completion — was just what has always been aimed for.

Though paths went on, dwellings were always onshore.

A desire to perfect things beyond perfection,

Was stitched into every sweater in her collection.

The winter that existed once, is nowhere to be seen,

Every cashmere strand there, still preserved, holds its sheen.

They smell of fresh sea and lavender of the yesteryears,

Treasured in the oak chest of drawers, in neat tiers.

The spring now— jubilant in bursts of blossoms and blooms,

Dances to tunes of velvet and songs of colorful plumes.

But there's still a teal scarf for the yellow-scented autumn breeze,

Left imperfect (knowingly unfinished) for the salt of distant seas.

The unwoven thread has been a solace for the breathing heart,

In aches of unendings, beats promise of a dawning start.

/ 14

: 133

Monday, January 26, 2026

The Cheese No One is Looking For

For as long as I can remember, I have been inclined to visit museums and galleries over almost any other attraction. Whether traveling alone or with family, I always prioritize art galleries, museums, and local eateries. While the latter two categories typically enjoy high footfall, galleries are almost always devoid of a human presence. Although history museums, science centers, or specialized pop-up attractions attract considerable crowds, art museums remain sparsely visited, often hosting no more than ten people at any given time.

Generally, galleries are the least successful crowd-pullers. People do turn up for opening or closing events when a specific exhibition (by an individual artist or a curated group of artists) is launched. However, the days in between witness few visitors. In this beautiful (yet risky) calm, a profound silence resonates, shaped by the communication among the displayed art pieces and the dance of light and shadow on polished floors and textured walls.

Recently, I visited one such exhibition during peak hours on a holiday. It was saddening to see no one there — and mind you, the entry was free. I have never seen more than five people in any gallery I have visited, and I have been to many over the years.

I usually spend anywhere from two to five hours in a gallery, depending on the scale of the space and breadth of the collection. Only twice have I been the lone person in a gallery during my time wandering the halls—once in India and once abroad—but those instances occurred when no active exhibition was running. This time, just three days into a new show, the silence was a first. While I am not suggesting that no one else ever visits, or visited this particular exhibition, the sparse nature of the audience is often deafening.

I wondered how the curator must be feeling, how the artist must be feeling. Standing there, I felt a wave of shame and found myself hesitant to make eye contact. I wanted to ask the curator if there was anything I could do to help pique interest in the exhibition, but I just couldn't find the words.

I rarely take photographs, but I did this time to help publicize the event, even though my reach on social media is extremely limited, laughable at best. Even friends and acquaintances are not particularly inclined toward visiting galleries and rarely accompany me, even when invited. I wish I could have done more, or at least had some idea of how to bridge this gap. Perhaps only then could I visit an art museum or gallery with a sense of happiness and pride, rather than guilt and shame.

Friday, January 23, 2026

ANTIDOTE: a whisper

So many lifetimes forged

into a glimpse of lines,

a mere encounter with words,

and a whisper of souls,

that existed

beyond today

and what is known

of yesterday

or tomorrow...

possibly even more...

Yet not a single heartbeat glances,

never a breath wasted.

/ 12

: 44

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A Little Something:

A "whisper", though not a literary category per se, is somewhat of an ontological state, that might fit an essence (or soul) into any form of literary category, be it a poem, an aphorism, a fragment,or anything else for that matter.

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Still

A thousand storms rage in the soul,

Yet not a single hair shall stir;

Among the greys of howling wind,

A single blossom begins to bloom.

/ 4

: 26

Thursday, January 1, 2026

Blooming Bliss

A dew-kissed blade of morning grass,

Embellished in shiny drops of liquid glass,

In the field of earth-scented golden daisies,

Opened up to the shimmering misty skies,

Unravelling hope as the sunrays dance.

There are glimpses of paints from distant lands,

That have color of sands from the brighter strands,

The sweet sublime fragrance now fills up the air,

Scintillating glory so radiant and rare,

And sings of the bliss across seas and the sands.

/ 10

: 75

Wednesday, December 31, 2025

Echoes of the Glimmering Slate

I would speak of things that matter,

And of the many that do not.

I would tell of moments worth preserving,

And those better left forgot.

But the glistening hands

Of realms beyond us

Change and mutilate —

Worthy and unworthy alike...

Sometimes from the remnants,

Sometimes from a clean slate.

Time erodes both -

Particles and essence,

The glimmering or flickering moments

That have been,

Only to return the fragments

When they are least expected, or seen.

So what is precious and what is void?

This dusk has drifted past at last,

Eagerness stirring in every heart...

Some awaiting a dreamy dawn,

Others, any light a beacon might impart.

And then there are those hearts

Where dusk and dawn were never apart.

Where what was and what could be,

Are cherished as one within the heart.

/ 25

: 135

Tuesday, December 30, 2025

A Flicker in Pink

In qualms of one long, breathless night,

My breath spoke out with mirthless might,

With oxygen nowhere to be seen,

How long has this night really been?

The shrouded fog has found its nest,

Yet knocks glass panes just as a test-

To see if I know dusk from dawn,

With rose-hued glasses still kept on.

The shadowless roads are gloomy ghouls,

That dance in pools of learned fools.

My stumbling breaths shiver in frozen haze,

The shriek of silence — loud for calming daze.

I wore the smile my lips held close to my core,

But it condensed on a glassy, eclectic shore.

The skies outside were stained with smoke and ink,

My night light flickered, soft in pink.

/ 16

: 119

Saturday, December 27, 2025

The Final Alchemy

I let a tear drop roll down my eyes

To witness the path it carves;

It rolled down as smoothly as it could

Through the soft, lit terrain of my cheeks,

That housed decades of memories—

An ode to the archive of smiles.

I awaited —

As it would fall down on my chest,

That caged my heart.

But it slowed down...

Just before it could trickle down,

As if hesitating,

Assessing the strength of the heart that beat

Thousands of layers beneath.

Would those chambers be free enough

To accept the stories

That stirred in that tiny drop?

Would the DNA in the blood

That pumped through their doors

Identify one of their own...

And question the tearducts

For the betrayal of the veil?

Or would it be spellbound,

To finally witness a silent dialogue

And pause for a while?

A moment or more passed—

And the teardrop had its answer, perhaps.

It can't risk the fall

The cushioning might not be strong enough

To take the plunge.

Why risk the roads of the teardrops

That bear a hundred other addresses?

It curved and took the rougher slope,

An unmapped lane,

Among the shadows of the horizontal track

Glistening parallel to the chin,

And waited there for a while.

Until it evaporated

From the warmth...

Radiating from the lips adorning a smile.

Until it evaporated, slowly,

Into nothingness.

/ 42

: 228

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