Someone who had wanted to be a journalist and took a degree in journalism becomes anything but that, and is today a sum of many diverse interests and pursuits.
A love for thoughts and words made me a writer, a love for all that exists out there in nature made me a photographer, a love for imparting knowledge and shaping young minds made me a home tutor, a love for the splash of colors made me a painter. I am all these, and yet none of it. Most times, I am just a void caught in a woman’s flowing form.
Photo credit: Asha Kumar
By Asha Kumar
Have you ever fallen in love with a shadow
and sought shelter in its purple haze?
It’s like being drunk on a dream
filled with psychedelic colours
that you reach out in tousled sleep
and wrap around to become a rainbow.
You don’t build nests on a shadow tree
and mar its silent harmony.
You perch on it with cocktail of emotions,
Gently, as if the contours would crack
if you put a reckless foot on it.
And when the leaves murmur in the twilight breeze,
You open your wings and whirl languidly.
As darkness cascades from the skies,
You become the body of the shadow
and the shadow becomes your soul.
It’s love –
that wears no rinds of vulgar skin
around lumps of lusting flesh.
It happens only in tinsel dreams
that toxic nights rarely release from its secret vaults
to the accompaniment of a starry ensemble.
Between you and your love,
there is no wall, no words, no monsoon myths.
Only a sacred emptiness that knows
the meaning of being a shadow lover.