Moonglade

You gave me no answers when I called

You gave me no reasons

I stepped down too many times for ya

Look now,

It just landed me too away to hold ya.

I am in pain can't you see

Did you closed your love for me?

Were those the hours in vain?

That I spent together with ya.

Smiles, your voice, those songs you sang

I am drunk and into you again

Groaning or wiggling on the streets

I pass by your memories till l sleep

You gave me no answer when I called

And once again we said some cold words

Frosting the warmth that generated

In past two days..

Again we made ourselves so hard,

That diffusion of thoughts is impossible

No matter how hard you tangle our

Droplets of different colours & consistency.

How did we set in past, so calm like winter wind

that shakes the window chime making every

Wish come true. Your love vanished.

I am still searching the ashes of old happy days

Like a fool am I ? It wasn't a phoenix.

Our love wasn't the phoenix.

The high pitched different familiar voices

Voices of loved ones

It's painful. Yet dare I to speak a word, everyone is so fill with themselves being the head ..

Understandings gone.

Tears on flow.

✿✿✿

It was exactly six in the morning of humid August days, I heard a siren, the same that I hear sometimes when its two hours past midnight. My friend told me its the incoming call of vehicle movement or start and end of shifts for working-class labor in the nearby construction site. Which for me was new.

I grew up in a small district which is approx. 80 km from Lucknow. My mother works as a staff nurse at the district hospital so, we were provided government colonies for living. The colonies here are attached to the hospital so close that the quarters of doctors are just beside the emergency ward, separated by a wall. A wall separates patients and doctors.

Whenever there comes any state of emergency in the hospital preferably in the emergency ward, the watchmen are given a command to activate the siren. I remember one such incident. On November 1, 2017, there was a blast in the thermal power plant of Unchahar killing at least 25, and several were injured. My mother told me that as soon as the officer got the news that the patients are being sent in our district hospital, with the shrieking sound of siren all the employees were informed to report at the addressing point of Unchahar patients. Even the private doctors joined for their services. The whole staff waited with more than 20-25 stretchers, ointments for burn, and all necessary equipments. As they arrived every one gave their best to save lives. Several were referred to Lucknow and few to Delhi, after the basic treatment. It was horrible.

I always connected it with war. A blow of siren, soldiers taking their positions followed by the restlessness of common citizens.

Both doctors and soldiers have a resemblance in their duty ’to save lives’, with weapons. So, the sound of the siren for me from the day I started noticing it has been an ‘alarm of emergency’.

The first time I heard it in my hostel, I literally thought several reasons, which would have taken place including violent conflict among students; fire; maybe flood -you know the climate is changing; an explosion perhaps? but I didn’t hear any boom sound; don’t tell me A TERRORIST ATTACK!. Yes, I am a pretty imaginative person in the panic sector. After being aware of the purpose of the prolonged sound I felt relieved. And that was the last siren when I overthought the situation.

But I still connect the threads of labor class lives with war. The repetition of all events curtain by curtain, only with a slight change in duties, which for them is to protect their family members and themselves from hunger, cold, poverty, sickness, homelessness, and illiteracy so that they can ‘Dream’. Difficult.

It was beautiful, before the war.

It was huge, covered with green grass, naughty weeds, and heroic trees.

Seasons used to blossom in the form of flowers. Dandelion flights with the breeze beautifying the whole landscape.

And though the nights were cold, we used to go there running, barefoot just to see those fireflies and listen to the beetles.

In this corner of the world, there was alluring peace and love.

…

But then the place was shadowed by the government letters. It didn't take them a week to cover the whole area up by the war machines, army camps, heavy vehicles, and armed humans.

After that, we were not allowed to go there. And the last thing I could see before leaving was a bent dandelion, afraid, in search of a breeze to fly away, but it could not because of that war machine.

…

Years after we went there. As I hoped, it completely changed.

It is silent.

Grass, weeds, trees all vanished.

The breeze smelled ashes and deads. It felt mourning, a mourning of dandelions, fireflies, and beetles, which were no longer there.

Now, it is grey.