Showing posts from 2016

57 times turned over...

It was one of those evenings when the twilight is in love with itself... Like a mistress on prol.. Inconspicuous... So sure of herself...Like flees falling in the web of mystique... That passion which eludes... Twilight was having a romantic time with herself...  The moon felt ashamed to be full today... For it dare share the beauty of the evening with the twilight in passion... The sky gave away its allegiance.. As it refused to turn dark... The orange mist across the horizon spread.. Like a smile spreading long after the waft of her scent had passed...  And there lie the book she was reading....the same page... 57 times turned if in a trance.. Music to her soul...the words danced in her mind... For they were incoherent... There was too much to comprehend for the eyes... And senses alike... For her mind to register the subtleties in between the lines... As the last bird lost from the flock flew close to the unturned page of the book... Searching for her home... Or running

The Passive Observer - On the other side ...

Fear, an emotion; I have never felt striking me with such a strong force before. Like the air gushing out of my systems without my the sound of the unknown shrieking in my a consistent itch...Like I want it to i want to be absolved of the guilt that has been gnawing at my consciousness...paralysed by the fear of the act... I speak for equality...I speak against the acts of horror against women...I speak for a community of men who do not speak on the idea of equal human rights... But I fear...for I am a Man...a Man who fears the ire of the feminist brigade...a Man who fears the rejection from the community of brother hood....a Man who would be questioned on his orientation if he goes too far to support the cause of the "Pink" revolution...someone who would be looked at with queer eyes and questioning intentions...Courage is always the second step to change...the first is the acceptance within oneself, of and from the community

The memory that Faded..

So this is how it feels to be that memory which fades away in Alzheimer.. This is how it feels to be eroded from someone's consciousness.. Like a snow ball loosing it's identity in a downhill fall.. So I had thought it would be.. But wasn't it supposed to be sudden.. Like you wake up one morning and you remember not the color of her Cardigan.. Or  the pattern on his tie.. I always thought it would be like the morning hangover of a poorly thought off one night stand.. I never knew it would be like a wave vying to be the last to be remembered or forgotten in your memory on a beach... So this is how it feels to be looking into the eyes and seeing not yourself but a perplexed look of faint recollection.. Of the scent of his cologne fading away.. Like the smell of her skin after shower fleeting away... Like the change of seasons so confusing.. When did the winter leave... Curling in the blanket... Waiting for the night to never be over... Where did the smell of a s

The Jibe of the Joker

Without tears he could not breathe... For the fears were way too heavy a lump in his throat... With the tears flowing... He only felt more empty... Like the treasures cherished for months had been lost... Like his life had slowly ebbed away... Like hopes had seeped out...but this time not as words which he could keep in his pen... But as water that would dry.. And leave no trace come the morn.. He felt emptier than he had thought he could feel.. The marks on the wall when he had screamed and scratched searing the burning rage forever into his memory... They now screamed on his face...and he felt blank as if it was a different him who had cried... As if it were not his finger marks on the wall.. As if he din know that animal.. He was after all a docile and honourable man... The feathers from the torn pillow smeared along the floor of his room... The laughter of the maniac still echoing from the walls... Between reverberating silences of memory... Are u hurting they asked... An

The Conversation

Child - "What is the strange light, oh father!! which I see each night, when I try to fall into slumber?" Father - " Its a spirit that resides in every soul,my child... As the darkness of the night takes over, it keeps burning like a fire driving the demons and phantoms of fear away !!" Child - "But that's Batman..I saw the movie.. Is he real then?" Father(Smiling) - " Yes my child, you call it Batman or Spiderman or Superman or your old Uncle Harry who keeps appeasing you with those pastries. You can call him anything you want to. It won't mind, because its the imagination of a child, most innocent and the reason your spirit is so strong, undiluted and pure, is because your spirits haven't lost the courage yet" Child - " I like Pineapple pastries the most" :-) "But pa why do spirits loose courage?" Father - " Oh yes you do !! They are like your guiding angels, they never leave yo

The War Dream ...

The night was outrageously humid.. Or were the minute pores of his skin draining out the searing memories he had stored so relentlessly within him.. Over years... Like a coveted prize...his precious.. The moon light tip toed into the cabinet of skeletons.. Had he left the doors open..he had never faltered in all these years.. or had the hinges finally given way... Rusted...his eyes closed.. The vision blurred even when he opened it.. The mist in his room.. He must be dreaming... It was the middle of a humid summer night... Was he having an out of body experience.. He could see himself laughing...abrupt bursts mixed with sudden gush of emotions...uncontrolled..but he remembered.. Now he was lying back.. He had wanted to set free the emotional blockades for a night... But the mist was not so strong as his emotions should have been.. Perplexed he twisted in his mind... The worlds he saw did not make sense... For the future resembled his past and his present was obscured a

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa, First of all I would like to thank you for that beautiful barbie that you gave to me, last Christmas. Martha said it was the most wonderful doll she had ever seen. Mom always says we must thank people for what they do to us But this Christmas, I want from you the only gift I'll ever ask from you. Because I have decided not you ask you anything else, once you give me this,for this is all my world is. On 11 September 2001, Tuesday, dad went to office, but he did not come back home. Mum told me it was the special Tuesday, when God needed the best people from Earth to do a certain very important job..something to prevent the Apocalypse... or something like that...She said it was in the Bible, when the world falls over... So, he sent a plane for daddy to come to him as that i must be proud that my dad is fighting to save the world... But Santa, I love my dad and so dearly miss him. I only want you to turn that special Tuesday into

The Creaking Chair - Part V

18 June 1988 Was it sandalwood or Rose? The smell of incense sticks – a lazy Sunday morning One where I woke up before 1 PM; a rarity The days of youth come with their own little jar of idiosyncrasies Its own set of preformed notions about rules… Just like my grandson frowns at me for being such a pain, as he says Nagging him to wake up early, to do his bed, to not leave food on his plate I always wondered why the flavor of the incense sticks always was sandalwood in the writings And never Rose or Jasmine…or Mogra for that matter Was it because it sounds more imperial or royal Or was it because I read selectively Picked up authors who would never write about Mogra incense stick spreading its scent in the backdrop of an Indian student living in an English household But the ideas was not about the incense stick Or the ideosyncracies of the aged Or the preformed notion of rules in the mind of my young mind I intended to write about my f

The Creaking Chair - Part IV

07 March 1949   Sitting on the patiya on the tea stall corner of the Jamnabai street cigarette smoke having a duel with mental fumes Anger - a newly discovered emotion it felt The blacksmith pounding hammer on red hot iron inside his head explosions of hatred intermingled with fear The sound of the passing train Like the wheels of revenge running in my head 'Why did I never embrace this feeling before, Is there any emotion as vivid as this?' Drop of hot chai fell on my feet bringing him back to the moment sweat drenched face of Golu, the chai wala's son running around dodging people, balancing 5 tea glasses in his tiny hands If only he had known how angry I was Like the simmering heat of the Sahara desert shaking with rage my hands were a rebellious soul The sound of shattered glasses echo in my head even today Poor lad didn't know where did the stars strike from Looking with innocent eyes for explanation Fear finally winning the duel

Writer's Block

The lamp flickered rather ominously, threatening to burn out any instant.. two hours and forty minutes, that is how long he had sat there... Just waiting for some inspiration to dawn, some sensible flow of rhythm in his words to draft them into what he would vaingloriously call Poesy... Winter rains, he was told were a writer's paradise, Did he need to be told? He had reminded himself so umpteen times... Mist for mystique, The patter of rains for music, The algid breeze for thrill, The shiver at its touch for concupiscent arousal, The morning sunlight through the fog for the gentle love... Yet all in vain, there was no cadence, words were as jumbled an expression within him, as were the random spread of vibrant rainbows on the morning dew, each holding multitudinous reflexion, withal lacking speech... 'A slave you would become to verses', he was often told, 'what crime?' , he would argue... only to be