One Christmas evening..

A Christmas of blogging cannot go without this one. I wrote this back in class 7 and needless to say I absolutely love it.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!!

The sky glowed with the stars at night,
The moon smiled splendidly adding to the sight,
The land hid under the blanket of snow,
I found my spirits suddenly rise and glow-
The echo of the jingling bells,
And the melodious carols sung by those dressed like fairies and elves,
As if the winds whispered in my ear,
Wishing me luck and prosperity for the coming year.
The Xmas tree was decorated and the gifts were exchanged,
But I waited for the moment,
When through the chimney of my room-
Would come my dear santa with a zooooom
And would put my gift on the bedside,
Perhaps even ask me for a ride.
While I was living in my thoughts,
I saw a streak of light travel across,
I shivered with fright and fear,
But it was a sleigh run by a reindeer,
I stared a while-
At the man who greeted me with a smile,
He flung a hand and bade goodbye,
While I still stood there wishing 'Hi',
Then away he went into the depths of moon,
Promising me that he would come very soon,
I kept staring with a long pause
‘coz I just couldn’t believe I had met a real Santa Claus!

A familiar place..

More than 5 years it’s been since I last set foot here. Nothing has changed, yet everything has. The king has left though he looks upon and would so forever, I know. The Queen knows he will never return but still she waits. The ring on her finger has been intact since the past 60 years. The sheen has not faded and nor the love. And yes, the king visits her in her dreams, she tells me, so she does not complain much.

The same destination where we longed to spend our summer vacations. The king was our master story teller- He told stories of far off places, of angels and demons, of how the hero struggles through oceans of dragons and snakes to get hold of an emerald that saves the life of his love, of how the stars at night turn into our guardians so we are safe at our homes. He would address all our new found fascinations about Urdu, Punjabi, Pakistan, Painting, God, reincarnations, aliens and what not. He would never tire. Never. He was our hero, our learned one, our King- Still is.

The “mohallah” is not all the same. New houses have sprung up. The all-pervasive pigs have miraculously disappeared and thankfully so. The grocery store “Bille ki dukan”, just a meter away, has been closed. He now makes bags and sells them, I m told. The residents have changed, some replaced, and some have just grown older. Our house is being painted after aeons it seems. As I sit in the drawing room on the first floor, I can hear the workers shouting. But more prominent is the gossip of the inhabitants- The Queen reminiscing her time in Multan, Pakistan; the kinsfolk scandalizing the remotest possible hearsay, the kids talking about how school went- all at the same time. White smoke comes out with every breath, as I speak through my clattering teeth, replying to their inquiring calls of where I have been. Sun has finally conquered the foggy morning- Time to soak up the sun.

As I sit in the car to head for the railway station, I look for a familiar face to peep out of the wall on the other end of the house as we speed past it, but he does not show up this time. In my heart I know, somehow he is still there, teary-eyed, saying goodbye, like always. I do not, however, know when I would return. I hope I do soon- To the most beautiful Queen, whose features I wish I had inherited, to the town that is never silent- The town of fairies at nights and kulfies and chats and loads of play during the day- The town of my childhood- The land of Yamuna. Yamuna nagar.