Dilip The King

Quiet were his steps
Invisible almost

Colour to paper
is all he desired

Gasped with joy
when he found
sketches, crayons, paints
laid out in invitation
beckoning him
to flare his imagination

Silently he began
every waking hour
A palace he imagined
Bringing it alive
hue by hue

Not a word he spoke
all of day one
disappearing
in breaks
to his still world
filled with colour

Day two we noticed
when meals he missed
consumed as he was
by his art

Feverish in his endeavour
adding layers of depth
to his thriving imagination

He brought it to life
colour by colour
blacks, reds and blues
in stressed richness
adding dimensions
in mysterious ways

Not a word he spoke
amongst forty others
A craftsman he was
still in his art

As colours emerged
so did he

We saw the shift
certain and real

from flirtive eyes
to steadfast gaze

from fidgety hands
to firm strokes

from drooped shoulders
to arched back

from established frowns
to almost smiles

As his art came alive
He came alive

Feverish in his pace
He slept little
as day three dawned

He knew
his time had come

Quietly he walked
Still, he gazed
as forty pairs
watched
with bated breath

'Art I love
day and night
yet, colours
not have I
at home or school

Colours I see
colours I seek
all around me
even in the drab
of my spaces

To heaven
you brought me
and let me be

You saw me
even as I am
hidden from me

Accept my frailties
with grace you did
and here I am
with grace
I say
Thank You'

and with that
he unfurled
a fantasy palace
brought alive
from deep
in his being
befriended with colours
that danced on paper
under his able command

In that moment,
his eyes shone bright
having found their light
from within his heart
steadfast and sure
they made home
to shine bright
for ever more
Never ever
to be shut again

A journey
just begun
for in art
Dilip (the king)
had found
himself
only himself
truly himself

Note: This is the story of 14-year old Dilip who attended a 4-day outdoor experiential camp by Dream a Dream and where he discovered his inner strength through art

Forgetting

A life of familiarity,
I lived for long

I had an identity
as a daughter
a sister
a wife
a friend
a neighbor
a satsangi
and much more

A life of familiarity
a home I called my own
utensils, clothes, bed et al
a neighborhood
with familiar streets and faces
shared memories of
food, smiles and sorrows

A life of familiarity
with a known loneliness
and nurtured grace
where hunger reminded me
of the passing of time

A life of familiarity
with roaches for company
and a cupboard full of memories
that I re-arranged day by day
pictures from a time long gone
belonging in the now and present

Then, one day
the familiarity
began to fade away
into dark corners
beyond my reach

Sometimes
a light would flash
and memories would come
and then the blankness again!

The streets became unfamiliar
The pictures blurry
The faces strange

I roamed the streets
of my life
lost in gaze and fear

Willed my fading memory
to flicker once more
for the final glimpse
of my loving man

Confused I lived
as chaos ruled my day
not remembering
if I have eaten a meal
or had a bath
on this fine summer morning

Once, a life of familiarity
Now I am invisible
to my own being

A care home they call it
a space for me
to feel familiar again
where I get a bed
food and some company

I had been to one
as a young girl
reading stories to them
and sharing some laughter
taking pictures to share
with friends and family
and feel purposeful and content

Those pictures had me
and many an invisible face
with a story I concocted on my own
must be a sad story I believed
How else could I feel good
about giving my time and of myself.
a sad story it has to be

Life has come a full circle
I am the invisible face
in someone else's frame

I have an identity
One more to the list...
Forgetful Ajji
with a toothless smile
and a concocted sad story

The Locksmith

A locksmith I saw today
Content in his trade
A young man
With an old soul

A locksmith I saw today
At the 4th Block junction
A teenage boy
Setting up shop
With love and care

Slow and still
Deep in his own world
Amidst the rising morning traffic

Unaware to the world
Fully present to himself
And his vocation

He invested
His entire being
In setting up his shop

Slow he was
As he removed the locks
Arranged them for display
And then came the keys
Beauty in his actions
Content on his face

Then came his tools
And his work board
Slow and poised
The world slowed around him

A locksmith I saw today
Content in his trade
A young man
With an old soul

Unheard Cries

I am used to early mornings
darkness before dawn

Dhoti and kurta
Empty bag
I left before they woke.

I feared
they would see my fear
Didn't want to
weaken by resolve.

I walked 5 miles
in the silence of twilight
the riot of colours and sounds
beginning to embrace the morning
while the darkness in my life
engulfed me further.

I took the first bus
packed with others like me
they carrying hope
I carried despair

Their bags were full
joy in their banter
sadness in their eyes
Mine was empty
I didn't plan to return.

I avoided familiar eyes
hiding in the morning darkness
I needed to do this.
I didn't have a choice.

I overheard of a girl
raped by her employer
I heard of her courage
and prayed her to be strong.

Another in a city
a name I had not heard
was told it was in India
somewhere in the east
She succumbed
I said a silent prayer.

I wondered
'Will it be worth it?'
I didn't know what else to do.
My children's empty faces
haunted me for months
They didn't deserve this
neither did she.

She gave me her life
stood by me
as hyenas fed
on everything we owned
They took it all away
yesterday was the last straw
my dignity.

The big city bustled
I made my way quietly
Bought my provisions
and waited at the gates

I watched in fear
as the morning workers arrived
Oblivious of my intentions

I wish someone would stop
even if its to smile
for a moment more
give me hope.
Alas!

I hesitated
just for a moment.
my children...

'I need to do this my children.
Someone needs to hear our cries.'

I doused myself
Lit the match
The pain unbearable
flames erupted
it ended quickly.

I rose above
hoping to watch
the march of freedom
to save my children.
There was none. It was in vain.

My name made news
Vitthal Bhimappa Arabhavi.
There were protests
tyres burnt, roads blocked
but none to fight
for my children's hunger
and their bleak future.

I am sorry my children,
I tried, everything...
No one heard my cry
No one...