PAPER DREAMS

A beautiful old wooden table

with scratches smoothened by age.

T’s heart shot through with an arrow shot by J,

jostling for space with 25.8.1973.

a butterfly and a faded pyramid.

My journal on top, waiting

for me to pen secrets, hopes,

poems, petty thoughts, and some lonely stories.

Five cubby holes to stack paper clips,

erasers and those sticky notes, I never seem to need.

A special honoured place

for that smooth grey veined pebble

from Beas’ violent, rocky bed

each vein a secret tale just for my ears.

On a panel below it a happy picture of us.

A raised platform on my aged table

to hold my favourite books and those old

jam jars enjoying their second innings,

as home for my pens, pencils, a leafy twig

and a ragged peacock feather – a gift from the kid.

An open window to look out at greenery

that spills, vulgar in its excess.

To be able to breathe

the fresh fragrant mountain air

as it wafts in, lazy on a morning breeze.

A lonely, winding path  

through tall mountain trees

the fog a not-so-distant dream

as the sunlight trickles in, warming patches,

even as the moss reigns in the shadows.

The sound of crunching leaves

as I make my way through a lattice

of light and dark; spinning ideas –

tall, shy and fantastic, to spill on the pages

waiting on my beautiful old wooden table.

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My Pinterest board has about 31 images of my dream writing zone. They all have a few things in common – the tables are wooden and old, they are placed near a window and the view outside is green. The value of greenery is only truly understood when you live in a desert city. I tell myself that I would be a better, more prolific writer if I had the ideal conditions. By ideal conditions, I mean at least 4 to 5 undisturbed hours, endless supply of tea, and perfect, inspiring surroundings to write.

Reality is far from it. If I get an uninterrupted hour, it is a very good day indeed. With regards to tea, I am luckier. Mom and dad are visiting, and I do get tea on request. As for inspiring surroundings – on a good day I can see the Arabian Gulf in the distance, but on most other muggy, dusty days, all I can see is a chain of under construction high-rises, and empty construction plots promising more of the same, and I want to scream.

This poem is an ode to my dream writing zone, which is more than just a writing table. 😊