Author: Harpreet Chhachhia

Just me and nothing else but.

To Anand

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In the heat of the sun, you came with me,
Forsaking ties that could bind you right fast,
And all that I could think of, so vainly,
Was if what you feel for me could e’er last.
You looked to my feet, when I looked ahead,
Trying t’see what destiny has in store,
For your thoughts, so simply with actions wed,
Were to prevent my falling down once more.
In the dark, you held me with promises,
Since I wept, for I would not see you soon.
Oh, to make them last! Those words and kisses
And that coolness of that pale, summer moon!
But, I trust you, so I write this in rhyme:
I’ll let my heart follow love one more time.

Myself.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia5 Comments

The swing I sat on, when I was five,
Gave me the greatest pleasure.
I knew happiness as I swung,
Thinking life was leisure.
The wind rushing against my face
Promised that it would last.
Now, I smile, ruefully,
When I remember that swing from my past.

Life is cruel, just as it is kind,
(To be kind it needs to be cruel);
Love, happiness, honour and beauty
Are trapped in its unceasing duel.
I used to love with gay abandon;
Now caution dictates my every move,
In matters of life,
In matters of love.

I still wear my heart on my sleeve,
Though I try harder to shield it,
I have sharpened my brain with experience,
And I have learnt to wield it.
Years have passed and are passing still,
I have lost those I loved and some have lost me,
I have been touched and have been bruised,
Each caress and weal is stored in memory.

You see a part of me now,
Perhaps I shall let you see the other sides of me:
Perhaps you’ll see the boy, with the wind on that swing,
Perhaps the present or some future destiny.
Through all of your judgement know this,
Disregarding every shred of vanity:
You never did, never will or hope to know,
Any other quite like me.

To Rolfe – an Elegy

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(Episode One – 16th November 2001)

I never did like you.
That I think you know.
You must have known,
When we left you in that cage:
Locked from home and things familiar.
Your mind being physically jerked.
You lying there,
Quiet in your vomit;
Lying there and looking at me,
Up at me, with your chin on the floor,
Looking with eyes that don’t see –
But speak volumes:
Liquid, soft, scared – quiet.

We are all brought here somehow,
To suffer somehow,
And survive somehow, with life or with death.
But somehow – somehow – you should be exempt from all of this.

Yet there you were –
As I left for home –
Walking haphazard,
Dry nose against clapped iron,
After three days of fast,
Three days of gut wrenches,
Three days of muted pain.
All rewarded by an indefinite exile in Howl Hole.
(We have it far easier –
At least there is someone
Waiting
Outside.)

I never did like you.
But if they would
I would be waiting outside.
That I think you know.

(Episode Two – 19th November 2001)

Fifth day.
You were quiet and weak.
They were non-committal and complacent.
We were ignorant of all
But your suffering – or were we?
I misunderstood your yells
As you lay immobile – pierced everywhere.
Fed you with trickles of water,
After a five day fast.

Five days.
What were they like to you?
And the nights?
What horror did you feel –
Alone – in a cage – sick to the bone?
My punishment is my regret.
If any consolation
(If one can call it that)
Is when you returned home:
Within mere minutes,
You were at peace.

R.I.P.