By Sharnya Priyadarshi
I joined them, a crowd disoriented, along the beach, positioned.
A few longed for a shoulder, while some yearned for drinks with a ‘cheers’.
Fragile hands of a seasoned soul invited me for a small deep talk.
Without any hesitation, I got carried to him, as if I had known him all along.
“I lost him yesterday,” he confessed. “My son,” before I could interrogate further.
Picking up the realization, I readily accepted the feeling as he held his own son,
But all he clutched on was my arm; my torso wrapped with his warmth as I felt the gone.
“Is it my fate that I should blame – the lifelines my hand exhibits?” he questioned, as he caressed me.
Sooner than my senses could react, a voice — pretty hoarse — who held with himself his Mrs.,
“Oh, don’t blame the fate, not your hand,” as we both looked around.
Exchanged glances, the four of us, among a crowd disoriented, along the beach, positioned.
“Yet there are those with no hands at all. Do they not own a life?” smiling, he questioned.
My company chuckled, as he watched his hands and then the sky — maybe for a why.
A little too differently did my tea treat me, as I toasted it with some strangers,
Broken yet beautiful; the stories they shared — I sat in danger, but with angels.
“YOU DID IT,” a small group cheered with glasses clinking, and music on top trend,
With their hearts out, as they danced, cried, celebrating a day, extending their extend.
Not just shouts of success, but scars — lighted up, by light, lately.
“You see? Fate? Is it really worth blaming, for finding different people?” Mrs. inquired.
“As long as they are happy, as long as they feel blessed — fate it is, not to be blamed,” I replied.
No names nor connections, I shared none with them, along the beach, positioned.
Yet I watched with them — people who laughed when broken, and wept when not.
A music there was, stretched in miles of sand, which shared griefs and smiles,
With glasses raised at times, and forced to break silence some other time.
As the fresh incomer supported an old lady, not in senses,
With wine in his other hand, ready to be tossed, as his friends led the way.
They joined them, a crowd disoriented, along the beach, positioned.
Departed I, not wholly, but a part of me — partially — which heard the aches,
While the other romanticized the déjà vu.