Fight.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

Midnight passed in fight. It’s night. Morn, some say.
The room’s tube bright, Lata fills the back ground.
You sleep: for mother waits at break of day!
(Here I wait for you to make any sound.)
I am dark and you seem to be light.
Each consumes the other – no middle ground.
Do we wait for chaos? The Last Day Fight?
For Nature to let us loose? Hold us bound?
I write. Lata sings. You sleep – or do you?
I don’t move to check. Each seized already
In wicked persona struggles – flu, too.
Emotions are far from being steady.
You grunt, I sing. I dance, you look away.
Love has come. So how do we make it stay?

26th January.
5:00 a.m.

It Knows.

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I heard something – probably my heart again.
For a thing that is busy all the time
Fostering emotions and fighting pain
It sure has the time to think about mine.

I hear it all the time – like its beating,
I feel that all the time. So I wait,
Place my hand over it and think of cheating
By saying, “Not faith, I tell you, it’s fate!”

No, it can’t be hoodwinked. It doesn’t slow.
And I sigh. It is faith. I know it . . . do I?
My mind smiles – just to show
That nothing is mine – not even that sigh.

My heart beats faster. I remove my hand.
I look at the carnations – red.
They are all around me. One fact I understand.
After a matter of hours they will be dead.

Their fate?
My heart slows.
“And yours,” says my mind,
“It knows.”

An Idea of Love.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia3 Comments

I thought Love would be all the things the Poets said:
Sunlight on the Face, red roses on the Bed.
It came in with Grandeur accompanied by Hope
Who my last love left behind, after he eloped.
After him, it seemed sane to give up and turn away,
But Love always seems to come with the intention to stay . . .

[Or so I thought in the vaguest of fantasies –
Dreaming of a Love carved with brilliant fancies]:

He would do this and He would be that;
He would say this and He would feel that;
He would cherish and care a hell of a lot;
He would protect and – you know, all that rot.

He came and He loved in a manner not Mine
And I have grown enough to give up on Time.
I love him, too,
But one thing is true:
The Love is never your Love,
When it happens for you.

30th July.