Ode to Rishikesh

These meandering paths and roads,
conjures up memories of an ageless painting,
where imperfections are all put on a canvass,
like moss filled walls that wakes in winters with moisture on its face.

Here the air that fills up the lungs lift weights from the drooping shoulders,
Here colours run free, a place where all emotions packed in the colourful bottles wait to pour themselves out in the holy water.
Here bridges bridge the separate worlds of humanity.

Here candles light up even the hidden corners of an aching heart,
melting the mountains of miseries,
wiping the cold tears of sadness, breaking the prisons of guilt.

Here the constant hum of the Ganges can put the tired soldier to sleep.

The sun soaked morning breeze here can heal all bruises of time,

Here faith survives the icy chillness of an uncertain future,
last embers of life float here half-submerged in this tranquil water,
boats here can reach out to the islands of hope,

they are free; no anchor tries to bind them to the shore.

Here the hazy eyes of the afternoons hold tales of wisdom, they speak stealthily in your ears, half-asleep while you bask in the sun.

Here time ages slowly, like the scars of that mother who lost her child to the Ganges on a stormy night.
At the twilight, here souls set their past and future sailing with a candle on silent nights, The ripples spill bag full of memories, the breeze sway the curtains away, as our breath knits a new story.

Here soil smelts like home, the streams dances in the lap of mountains, sparkling like diamonds in the fading evening hue, here mist falls like dust and brushes off the rusts that covers the soul and stones stores stories of an ageless time. 

I can't live like this,
hanged like a calender from the walls of capitalism,
I feel like a daily wage labourer, who breaks down numbers, sheaving datas, blunting the sharp edges of words. 

Like a photoframe of a different time, posted in an oblivion corner of existence, plastic smiles, meaningless euphoria, like dust pile on me. 

Everyday I feel stuck in a Freudian dream, circling the semi-circles of my life, like strewn papers and polythene bags floating under the summer sun on lousy afternoons, taking half flights, in and out of the loop of sanity.

The smoke that fills my lungs, unwinds those caged birds, old and young, opening doors to the dreams, that run like water in the maze, wafting in the vacuum of an utopian world and melting like tears in the morning ray that illuminates this dystopian world, where everyday I find myself drowning without a trace.

Ashes pile up everyday,
remnants and residues of philosophies and ideologies,
turning into dust that rest over the books, left to rot like these words in some unnamed draft of my gmail.