by Anupam Patra
In the fragile serenity of an endowed adulthood
I long for what has flown past in a juvenile brook
memories collect around my conquered temperament
like restless motes of dust within a solitary ray;
an ageing room of darkness they brave,
a sudden juvenescence dawns upon me
the melancholy of maturity illuminates
like the morning of a lively day to come
madness to cycle for seventeen days in a row to Durga Talkies
to fathom what loving in the heart of hatred means,
grit to embrace the insecurity
of a future in the stadium
instead of stagnating inside a syllabus of convention;
youth was way more than frolic;
‘twas purity, courage and foolhardy cocktailed,
garnished with passion to act from the heart
rewarding it was to lie and look at distant stars
weave stories about many an unseen universe
to bury my face in a tangible cosmos
that spanned the world of her hair,
drink from her embalming stare, paused by blinks of faith
wonder at her incredible softness
hide in her mollifying scent,
kiss her passionately on a boat
drifting by a sun ready to set
on a borrowed moped we roamed
greeting the warm uncertainty of an unknown turn
our eyes and not status updates
were maps to our hearts
when within my home’s walls,
commitment was breathing its last
when around dinner table, Divorce was a catchword
dramatic promises still made me happy,
even with its aridity, true love felt surrender worthy
our lot never tried to believe, we simply did
there was heartbreak sans annihilation
hatred shorn of malevolence
in fifty directions we were pulled but never shattered;
somehow, we always came back, healed
youth was not personal – it didn’t care for boredom such as privacy
it was everyone’s sky – shimmering with aurora of seasons
dazzling young hearts for a lifetime of faith
around forgivable irresponsibility young years roamed
when tempting vices we heedlessly owned
each was but a guised soothsayer
of what battle lay beyond those pre-nubile years
youth fixed friends like tetrapods on Marine Drive
to share the onslaught of waves of heartache
and the hurt of follies that no one else would take
when the spring of life gave itself away,
its multihued sky dimmed
only a relic-like, parallel world remained
the gradual recognition of whose fallacy
skinned the heart of sanguinity
buried its skeleton in a graveyard
fed by the manure of pragmatism
the counsel of immature years has endured
even though its bright confidence has yielded;
the portrait of youth teases from the wall of time
colours of its artistry provoke nostalgia sublime
the more the world keeps pressing
to settle, to reconcile with adult peace
the more youth longs for me and I,
for its wild dreams
