Ancient Empty Streets

By Anirudh R.P

Path, Perspective & Experiences, I believe these three words constitute the core values of the human mindset. Breaking it just to build it again and breaking it further to create something majestic from the beginning. This is life. This is the path. This is the perspective which results in the numerous experiences that we go through in our life. This book is a compilation of poems that were born from the various emotions I’ve had, beginning from the freshness of the dawn to the silence of the night, and every moment in between. Beginning from the innocence of love to the pain of loss and every moment in between. A compilation of poems that would take you through a path not taken, giving you new perspectives hence giving you newer experiences- The Ancient Empty Street.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zorba Books
• Release date: Jan 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9789395217279

Anirudh R.P

Anirudh R P, is a young writer-poet, hailing from the southern part of India. Anirudh has been writing poetry since childhood, and has learned different styles of poetry throughout his teens and early adult-life. Anirudh has dedicated this book to his favourite music artist-song writer Bob Dylan, and remains devoted to the intensity of his poetic writing styles. He began this poetry compilation in the dawn of the worldwide lockdown, when he was in isolation. From more than 100 poetries, he has chosen his favourite ones and is presenting to you in the form of this book titled- The Ancient Empty Street.

Book preview

Prologue

It was a cold rainy evening of early 2025, when the car dropped me at home. I could see my Grandparents sitting on the armchairs in the veranda waiting for my arrival. My flight was delayed and I had to go through hell to find a taxi back home on a rainy day like this. ‘We were so worried.’ My grandmother walked towards me, holding onto my cheeks gently. She was excited to see me after over a year, she pulled me closer to her and kissed on my head. Followed by my maternal grandfather standing up from his arm chair trying to stand steadily and asked me ‘How was your journey?’ he asked, ‘How are your studies?’ he added, in his handsome baritone voice. ‘Everything is going well Appupa. Right now I’m a little tired.’, he nodded exhibiting the army officer discipline that he had always possessed. I turned around to find my paternal grandfather, walking towards me, I gave him the half hug I usually give, he is particularly inexpressive of love but shows it in many other ways leaving his loved ones to comprehend. ‘What time did the flight land?’ he asked, ‘Around 5:30 PM, Appupa.’ I said, as I walked into our home.

5 years ago, as an ambitious engineering student, with a patchy beard and a naïve face, I walked into the same home. Back then, I had no emotional connection with it. I’ve never been at home for more than 2 weeks until then, and little did I know that I would be inside the home for two years following the dreadful outbreak that I do not wish to recollect. The big and majestic rooms, the expensive interiors and the scenic view from the balcony balcony, my home. Flawlessly crafted to house humans with flaws. The craftsman being my father, the skilled civil engineer with my mother, a hardworking science tutor, as the strongest back bone for all his decisions and aspirations. They definitely are a Power Couple, rising from absolute nothingness without relying on anyone. Inspiring.

Unlike the cold western winds that I’m used to by now, I woke up, the next morning as the heavenly wind gushed into my room through the open windows, the slight chilly air because of the rain from the previous day and the fragrance of nature gave me an energy I’ve been missing from my life all these years. The sounds of the birds and the cock-a-doodle-doos from the backyard, the moo’s and the barks and the sly meows from the neighbor’s backyard woke me up.

‘Coffee?’ My grandmother, had begun the coffee preparations as soon as she saw me walk down into the main hall.

‘I’m a Spoilt Kid’ I thought. My maternal and paternal grandfathers were reading newspapers and discussing the day’s news over tea, with utmost concentration that they didn’t notice me walk past them. I stood next to my grandmother, whom I fondly call Ammuma, and looked at her as she switched ON the stove in an attempt to make the coffee. Her trembling hands made it difficult to hold the cup, so I decided to make the coffee myself. Ammuma is a Hindi teacher and a closeted poet, everyone says I inherited my poetry skills from her, well the works genes do are fascinating.

I grabbed my cup of coffee and slowly walked back into the hall, when I saw a small book stand that was placed unusually in the stair case room. Usually the book stand was kept at the library in the first floor. I walked towards the dusty book stand. It was a small plastic book stand that wasn’t aesthetically pleasing. Dusty hard bound books, worn out diaries labelled 1997, 2001, 2004 and 2013, the pages were damaged and the ends were thumbed in most of the books. Beneath them all, I found a file. Ironically,