Freedom ?

The bird waves its tired wings against the caged door seeing the open blue skies.
The fish in the net thrashes desperately trying to move to the water it sees.
The bull pulls the yoke, as its eyes go up in the strain.
The man in prison sees the single beam of moonlight that reaches his room
dreams of his lover and sings.

--- Srividya Srinivasan

The pebble in the hand ...

Oh, the river seems to flow the way it has always done. It looks pretty much the same as it always did. You sit on its bank and look at it and slowly, ever so slowly it casts its spell on you. Your rhythm slows down and you become one with the river and its pace. You put your feet in, one at a time and squeal in surprise. Was it always this cold? And, as you stand there in absolute stillness allowing the slow currents to tease you, to touch you and to envelop your feet … in a few minutes, you are cold no more. You delight in the rush of old forgotten joys of the familiar that were pushed into oblivion with time, crowded with experiences of oceans and seas that were faster, bigger and more dangerous than a silly old river.

You walk facing the small currents, indulgent and complacent in pandering to an old river’s whims. Did it always run this way before? It seems to have changed its course. Did it narrow down to just a trickle at this point? Is it the end of the river? Curious you walk on and discover that just around the corner, a little almost after you gave up on it, when you thought it almost done, it picks up its strength and gathers itself about and you progress on to find it running to its full majesty and silent strength a little later on.

Your feet touch the pebbles and you pick one up. Smooth, glistening and glowing. Perfect and rounded. How many countless wear down by the river before the pebbles gave up fighting to reach this state?How much the river fights with those yonder rocks relentlessly pushing before it wears the rocks down? Was the current this strong always? The branches of the trees beside the bank lean over and seem to whisper to the busy river as she runs past asking her to pause and converse for a while. The butterflies and bees are abuzz with the news of your presence excitedly running about and the blue skies look on, the clouds lazily floating about indulging themselves by looking on at the scene.

The river is not the same. You ‘see’ it has changed. You can ‘feel’ the change. There are things you see now that you did not see before. It just seems the same. When you actually go with the flow, slow down your pace or speeden up to match its course, the river is not the same any more.

You caress the small stone stolen from the river, smoothened over countless wars with the river, cold initially and now warm in your hands.

--- Srividya Srinivasan 18.12.2010

Thank you.

Two simple words.
And I am saying it with all of me.
They mean a lot.
You have wiped away a million moments
of pain and loneliness.
A million moments of being read wrong.
In that few moments of being understood
you have given me something most precious
that no one has ever gifted me.
The gift of being just understood.
I am special in my eyes today.
Linked to myself and my God.
You have made feel proud of journey.
About being 'me'
Thank you.

This one moment...

If one could choose between one glorious moment of honesty
to a million inner battles of conventionality,
I am glad we have chosen this one moment
to be true.

A moment that would stand beautiful and pure,
stuck between
the years of the past and the years of the future
both not given to us.

Let us not get into dangerous waters
unless we are both ready to swim.
It is enough that we feel the same way
and finally saying it true.
Meeting each other on equal ground
and holding nothing back.

And so, only this moment is ours, my dear,
precious in our declaration of love.
For the beautiful people we are this moment.
Not for censorious eyes or waggling tongues,
and not even for our own narrow doubting selves
that would return after this precious moment is past.

Let us hold on to this moment a little longer,
It holds the beauty of a million moments
that never was and would never be.

------ Srividya Srinivasan, 7.9.2009

To a first love...

If I could turn back the clock,
I would hold your gaze until eternity,
and hold you tight and not let go.
I would write you letters of my love
and get replies to them too
and not wait in vain.
I would know my answer true
and know it hadn't been all in my head.
Your grin is fixed in my mind still
just as my youth is fixed in yours.
Should we ever meet
I wonder what we will find?
Soulmates that missed their way
or a silly relationship that never was.

--- Srividya srinivasan

Deep Down

Deep down my dearest, nothing has changed.
Deep down my dearest, is the magic,the hope and the connect.
Deep down my dearest, beneath the layers of pain and triviality,
beneath the wrinkles and the years,
fresh and beautiful, pure and untouched lies our love.
As young as the day it was born and, as innocent.

I see you are wearing your mask, and I come wearing none.
Let me be gracious in pretending that deep down there is and was nothing,
For deep down my dearest, both of us know
I can't ever wear a mask and you can never take yours off.

------- Srividya Srinivasan

The lone eagle flies

The lone eagle flies

high above. 

reveling in the height,

the sheer joy of the view.

Seeing the world far below.

Proud of its aloneness.

And ruggedness.

The feathery white clouds

stealthily enroached 

and enveloped it

in its white softness.

Wonder what became 

of the eagle ?

BIRTH-DEATH

A second passes...
And a moment is born...
and a moment dies.

Suspended between both am I.
Suspended between birth and death.

Should I rejoice for the moment to come
for the birth of new Mes ?
or
harp on fond memories ?

They say that
everything that ever happened is in the air still,
in time and space suspended somewhere in infinity.
I wish I could bottle up all those I treasure,
draw all events unto myself ,
Capture its essence like a fragrance ,
like a glorious piece of music,
to open at will
to feel the same emotions wash all over me again.

Then, I could go ahead with living,
and rejoice in the birth
and not mourn the death of the moment past.

- Srividya Srinivasan
1997

INTERLUDE

A bubble forms...
A haze takes shape from the smoke.
A lazy air of content creeps in ...
as one half-listens to the scraping of plates,
the stilted attempts at conversation.

The smoke swirls around one bringing along with it
snatches of conversations.
One is only partly aware of the surroundings,
Eyes take on a dreamy look as the rain
pours incessantly outside.

Then, suddenly the noises cease.
The smoke clears.
There is the scraping of feet against the clean floor.
The spell is broken.
The reverie carefully packed up as a golden memory,
A brief interlude amidst a crowded tension filled day,
The bubble bursts.

- Srividya Srinivasan
July 1996

Black Magic

When does the magic enter one’s eyes?

The promise of love and pain, laughter and tears enter one’s soul?
When does a familiar face become a dear visage?
When does every natural movement invoke a sense of awe?
When does one become so tuned to another’s scent and shadow?
To another’s frown and smile, yearning and sorrow?
When do two twin heartbeats resonate as one?
When does the music so slow between souls become heartwrenchingly beautiful?
When does one wait with bated but sure breath for that single look?
When does a mere footfall have all one’s pulses racing?
When does distance seem a mere statistic and no place too far away?
When does the promise of a fairytale seem achingly close?
When does the magic die and the curse begin?
When does the reality of hatred and pain, tears and loneliness pierce one’s soul?
When does a dear visage seem too distant to caress?
When does a familiar movement begin to irritate?
When does familiarity breed contempt?
When does music turn into cacophony?
When does the single look become an ugly mask of confrontation?
When does the hand raised is not to caress but to strike?
When does distance become a statistic between two minds?
When does no place seems far enough to run from one’s tears and fears?
Whence this curse? 
Whence the lifting?

- Srividya Srinivasan 13.11.2005