coronation day

I have no name
but you forgo me not,
for I also lug matter within me.
Serenading the dazzling stars,
dodging the vagabond debris out here,
I crept past the boisterous Jupiter.
A dull and monotonous stroll, it was,
the elite octet of the milky way, total desolate
till I was flanked by your prismatic earth
and I halted, not to flirt
but to gape at
the intense crimson, the nation of India
was sheeted under.

It was the day of coronation,
RELIGION was coronated as the sovereign.
A tyrant it was, it had its cadres,
whose rule had spawned unrest.
The kingdom was its sword,
and the kingdom, its shield.
Using people for defense,
and commanding people to attack.
Its rule was a plot of destruction.

knights, rooks and pawns, you are,
the sovereign, poised your king,
a game; a plot, so agonizing,
that you all will win in your graveyard.

Infinities

There was a boy who was confused about this art of writing. He believed that he would just need some dictionary storage and a little flair in appeasing the tenses to reap write ups on the paper. And there was this abysmal depth in him to devour novels, run over the famous quotes, to see a movie just because it had dialogues from the actual novel, to mull over the extended meanings. There were lines which had affected him deeply, “some infinities are greater than other infinities” and that a person who is suffering should justly be blessed with the bigger infinity. These were the lines that would harrow him that how will he ever be able to embellish such lines in his life time. He dreamed to write and just write. He would be happy when his write ups would be published, although on a small scale and would grab some applauds but then that one insecure corner of his heart would thud again whenever he would read a beautifully crafted write-up elegantly juggling with the words to spill out the feelings of the writer.
Yes, he was sinking into this abyss. But he didn’t cease to write, he didn’t keep him away from reading, he didn’t stop to discern the simple feelings of the authors from their astutely crafted lines. Time passed, he kept writing. In actual, he kept mingling with every word, understanding them, listening to them while he would write. He came to know that how we are not bound to always crave for better when we have a beautiful life to peruse at. Its good to make the best of what we have, to listen to the tiniest entities of life because those are the infinities in which our lives are preserved.

He lived while his life wrote the better of him.

* the friend *

Amid the constant chattering of the rain, alone in the impeccable black of the night, he was walking hastily down the road. The mild breeze of the evening had succumbed to the violent air currents in the night. Nevertheless, he kept wading through the restraining tumult.
It was 2 years ago that he had embarked on his journey to pursue his dream of becoming a writer, to personify those lifeless words in his heart to peer at this subtle world.
He would spend hours carving stories out of the world. Sometimes, a gazillion of thoughts would assail his mind and he would lose his story in the delirium and sometimes mere endings to a story would flag off a quarrel. Yes, there were stories on his papers depigmented of their endings.
But this did not deter him; it did not portend of any despondence in him. He would ceaselessly fumble with the blending of words to embellish every sentence, to stuff every sentence with the marrow of life, the feelings. For two years, he reaped stories and etched parts of his incomplete tales together.

-- The road had come to an end. His watch was poised at 11.30 pm. Drenched completely; his jacket was dripping the rain water it had gulped. The street light above him needed urgent repair. Ironically, it colored the night even more raven. He was standing in front of his old friend’s house, a friend who was more than a brother for him, a friend who was both a benign critic and an ardent applauder and a friend who was the ubiquitous observer of every story scribbled onto those pages.

He again looked at his watch. It was late.

Nevertheless, he rang the bell.

* avenge *

I have grown up. But I need to tell you that my life dwindles as much as I live each day. I live each day to mend that one dreadful day, to fuse some moments of stillness in that day. Had that day not dawned, had the clock died before those moments of carnage, I would have helmed my life more diligently. I crave for that stillness in this ruckus of my life. Had my life been serene, I could have framed my dreams, I could have extolled the bliss of my life, I could have exhumed myself of my orphancy. But now, plots to avenge my loss guard my sleep of any fantasy and dream, echoing wails proliferate in the silence of the night.

I hope you remember whose wails barge into the avenues of my sleep. I hope you remember how stoically you sprayed the biased bullets on my parents.  I will never be able to comprehend the extreme callousness sheathed in your soul.

That was the day of revelry. My father had received accolades for something in his workplace. He didn’t tell me much about it. He just said that today he will sit and play with me, that he will listen to my stories from school, that he will be my accomplice in splashing colors on the walls of my room. The air inside the house was more ethereal than ever. My mother cooked dishes that invoked the insanity in me and my father to eat like a horse and the next moment the bell ranted. Yes, you were the one behind the closed door. My father received you. I actually didn’t like your interruption and then further despised you from the rudeness you divulged in your talks with my father. My mother took me to the cellar as my puerile self quivered with fear from the heated altercation you commenced with my father. My mother ran upstairs again.

Few minutes later, doleful wails permeated into the cellar, did you recall the wails that barged into my sleep?  My father tried to dampen your anger but you had been obliterated of your senses of right and wrong. That’s when I came to know that my father had been adulated for uncovering some corrupt deeds going on in his vicinity from which you were being benefitted. The sprouting anger inside you culminated when you started triggering bullets towards my parents. My parents ran all around to dodge your bullets when finally the taps on the floor above were silenced in the room just above the cellar. You still didn’t stop. You searched frantically for me, deranging every decorations of my mother but you couldn’t.

Here I am waiting for you to search me because the plan that guards my sleep is to retaliate against you, to search you from your deepest havens and snatch your breath.

Tragedy - an elegy @ bhopal gas tragedy

That yonder land cries in dirge,
factions of people, all departed into the sky.
Every sight was rued,
their fate had turned capricious.
Progenies, who cherished their eclectic dreams
now slept in the cemetery, innocence all preserved.
The newborns, trailed diligently by death
died by their mothers’ side
and the world remained a mystery for them.
May they meet the angels of the sky,
may their lives bloom, although in oblivion,
may their loss awake the keepers of justice.

* oyster *

-- a bird spilling my emotions --

Perched on that beige twig,

she would not fly.

Peering through my window,

she seemed to daunt me.

Obliterated of every melody

she would never chirp,

abandoned, I sensed she was.

The perpetual sky, till furlongs was her courtyard,

but she wouldn't ramble there,

wounded, I perused she was.

Exagerrated wings, she was sheathed in

but fettered, they all were.

To conquer the yonder mountains,

they would never embark.

Withered, thus I painted her as.

A divulged oyster she was,

painting her, I sketched myself.

Rapunzel

Do you know I look complete with you,
with you, my life rambles in
gaiety,
in gaiety,  now I mock all the odds,
the odds that had once endangered me.

Your puerile chortles caress my soul,
my soul, a silent and sepulchral abyss,
till abyss, I can run just to see you,
to see you is the sole penchant for me.

You anoint sentience to my soul,
my soul, it breathes and dies everyday with you,
my rapunzel you are, I die without you,
you are mine in that sky full of stars.

There are people and there are winners.
Losers are mere poltergeists.

THE ORANGE DRESS (PART 1)

It was 10 of September. I was hesitant but anyhow expressed my desire to her to accompany her in her shopping trek. She knew she needed help and gladly validated my proffer. Out of a thanksgiving or a formality or just out of happiness, I don’t know but she hugged me, a hug that departed me to an abstract world of reveries of freaking but delightful feelings, a hug that appeased my wailing heart. My heart, which I knew had dried up of all hope and happiness, was suddenly recuperated and it thumped harder than drums as if wanting to jump out and dance like a lunatic.

We set out together. My heart wanted to roam with hers on my bike and just when I was directed by my stupid brain to take out the car, came from her a voice , “ we are going on bike, right ? “ and I just managed to say, yes. So, two hearts rolled on two wheels inside bustling markets, through jammed roads and over abrupt speed breakers. I kept a track of every expression of hers, everyone one of them caressing my heart more and I felt more and more happy about her. We barged in many shops and hurried out of many and I kept wondering if any attire could embellish her flaring beauty anymore. Finally, we grounded ourselves to a showroom of some acquaintance of hers. She faked many dresses on herself, discarded many more. I was mum all the time dwindling up every emotion of mine but when that orange attire decorated her, I blabbered out. “This one is for you”. She didn’t muse over much and ordered the orange one and hugged me again. I was stoic this time. Well protected in a rectangular box with the tagline, “dressing up two hearts “, came her wedding dress. I was satisfied albeit my heart withered.

happy

With the wind, he danced today,

amid the chortles of leaves,

he cherished his ditties today,

amicably, he caressed his past today.

memories, today he flipped through again,

some urged tears,

some beget his heart’s elation.

His tears, today he assailed,

euphoria, today he dived in to furlongs.

शुभ दीवाली

8 बज चुके थे| यह पूजा का शुभ समय था और पंडित जी भी पधार चुके थे| सभी लोग अपने नए कपड़ों में खूब जॅंच रहे थे| फिर पूजा आरंभ हूई ओर सभी लोग पूजा की चौकी के सामने हाथ जोड़ कर बैठ गये| बीती दीवाली पर पंडित जी के मन्त्र

पढ़ने के अनुसार राहुल के दादा जी ने पूजा की थी| इस बार राहुल के पापा पंडित जी का हाथ बटा रहे थे| शायद अगली बार राहुल ही लक्ष्मी जी को पूजेगा| खैर वो सभ छोड़िए| पूजा की चौकी पर लक्ष्मी जी, सरस्वती जी, गणेश जी की तस्वीरें मौजूद थी| चौकी के दोनो ओर गन्ने पहरा दिए हुए थे, वैसे उन्हे पवित्रता का प्रतीक माना जाता है| पूजा आरंभ हुई गणेश जी के पूजन के साथ| सबसे पहले उन्हे जल से नहलाया गया, फिर मंत्र के अनुसार उन्हे वस्त्र पहनाए गये, टीका लगाया गया, फूल चडाए  गये ओर अंत में नैवैद्य के रूप में मोदक ओर सिक्के गणेश जी की तस्वीर के सामने रखे गये| इसी तरह वरुण देव ओर फिर नवग्रह की पूजा की गयी| लक्ष्मी जी ओर सरस्वती जी की पूजा के समय सारे चाँदी के सिक्को को नहलाया गया, 4 कलम ओर एक डायरी को सरस्वती जी के रूप मे पूजा गया, पंडित जी ने डायरी के पहले पन्ने पर स्वास्तिक का चिन्ह भी सजाया| फिर सभी खड़े हुए और कपूर ओर घी में डूबी 5 बातियों की रोशनी में आरती गाई| पंडित जी को दक्षिणा के साथ विदा करने के बाद सभी ने अपने से बड़ों के पैर छुए, स्मार्ट्फोन से तस्वीरें लीं गयी ओर बच्चों को तोहफे दिए गये| फिर सभी ने मिठाइयाँ खाईं ओर घूमने निकल गये|  वैसे इस बार फटाके जलाने का मन नही था |

-- वैभव

Happy Diwali

As they walked through, people celebrated this occasion of revelry. Diyas lighted up the alley and crackers burst with a flourish, all proclaiming their arrival. Yes, Lord Rama, the most beautiful Sita and the valiant Laxmana had returned to Ayodhya ending the term of exile. The air lumbered in ecstasy, the night sky shrouded itself in gaiety while the benign smile embellished the visage of Lord Rama. He had emerged victorious of his exile, vanquishing the king of Lanka and gutting down his realm of evil and darkness. But he was not alone, he was allied by the ‘vanar sena’, a battalion of valiant comrades that is still remembered with profuse pride in one’s heart.

-- Feelings --

The leaves, bullied by reckless rains,
never do they wail.
The scorching sun, acting haughtily
vanquishes their young tender green
to old fragile yellow.
But the leaves bear all,
sans any feelings, they die to nothingness.

O God ! acquit me of feelings or I will fear my death.

The river, connoting strength,
zooms through its path
laid down by our mother earth,
fearing never a capricious fall
or a duel with the boisterous rocks.
The river flows eternal
sans any feelings, it bluffs every failure.

O God ! acquit me of feelings or I will succumb to failures.

The flower, fostering in the bind
of mother earth,
its affable fragrance, cherishing the wind
plucked by many,
never did it retort back,
never did it concoct a revenge
sans any feelings, it delights everyone.

O God ! acquit me of feelings or I will bow to the Satan.

The stone, playing the nemesis
amid this realm of bonding.
harrowing every testimonial of strength,
breaking ties, kindling fire
never will it delude from its duty,
sans any feelings, it turns harsh.

O God ! acquit me of feelings or I will divert from my duty.

GAME

We were guarding our side.

The guns were our allies,

and we aligned our aim

with their sight

to obliterate the other side.

The demolishing war had rendered

gory sands of killings.

We heaved shells to the other side,

whispering them to void the

resuscitation of our enemies.

Our rivals had been battered

but they retaliated

and blood seeped in through the

altruistic wall of our comrades.

Smoke shields were diffused,

artillery shells were aimed,

percussions reverberated

and we enjoyed playing our game,

never envisaging

the real pain of a war.

Remembering you

The boisterous waves were mingling into each other. I gazed at them, trying to find if they portrayed you and me. They did. They entwined into one another to plunge back into their abode. I too wished to disappear in my abode but you were not there. The jolly waves sketched scattered portraits of you in my heart, all in which you had a delightful smile embellishing your face. The gusting wind seemed to disguise as the playful nudges of ours. I wondered where they came from; I wished you were hiding somewhere, waving the wind to me, to tingle with my coiffure. I just rested my eyes to embrace their presence. But you were nowhere; solitude escorted me to my every side.

HALF GIRLFRIEND

I must say that the story imparted a simple plot but the 260 pages compiled some intriguing and pleasant elements for a good read.

'his' overflowing desperation as portrayed in the plot actually provoked me sometimes to punch him. But the knack in him for making a difference for the country and incessantly pursuing his dream with the line " all people in india are busy making their own cut while the country loses as whole" raised the ante for him.

'her' descriptions etched with imagery rendered undone sketches of her in my mind. Her quiet self revealed less but the element of 'journals' pulled up the vigor and made me skip the need to stop reading. Her support in his preparations for speech with references to great steve jobs added seriousness in an event as small as a speech.

and finally, the exclusive virtual BOOK TOUR OF NEW YORK and the spices of 'lithhi chokha' only reflected the hardwork and dedication of CB.

The night

Attired in its   

shimmering and serrated stars,

the solemn night sky

turned to haunt him tonight

as he smoked earnestly

sidling against the window sill.

His room darkened,

night had diffused in.

His was a room,

silent like a lifeless bird

and

chaotic like a burnt jungle.

The night perceived it all,

those torn and scattered

Interview letters

portraying his world of dreams,

those astute glass bottles,

those empty ones,

the ones with whom he travelled his failures with,

the ones which had obliterated

his world of dreams,

his world of happiness.

The room dimmed darker

when dismal fumes rose

from the window sill

and the night feared,

it feared the dark in the smoker's life.

The night left,

lugging its fear

and once again

the sun pervaded.

POOR

Today was no different,

his battered and rugged attire

still draped him.

His pale somber face preluded

the starving flesh of his body.

Today also he was obliged,

bound to heave clay bricks on his

frail and dangling clavicles.

Today also he built for others,

the walls of their mansions

while his dreams like everyday

etched into delirious fantasies.

Today also his belly ranted

and again today his hunger wailed.

Today also he plodded back from his work site,

sodden in sweat

and hoodwinked of his wages.

Today also he sung lullabies to the night,

escorted its black solitude and

then embarked onto his  fantasies.

But again today the vast sky canopied him.

Today also he stayed poor

BLIND

Sauntering in the garden, she was,

dabbing her wet eyes once and again

but the tears wouldn't appease

to not deluge her pretty face.

At last the wind whirled, only for her,

and the provoked vertigo rose to her face

as the tears seeped deep to dry.

Then it was the emerald grass,

stooping down

just to embrocate her tender feet.

She had fondled both,

the unctuous nudges of the whirl

and the affable tingling amid the grass.

Nature was acting parent

and the trees appended to the family,

exfoliating themselves

to beget the diffused smile of the girl.

Their leaves lumbered down

kissing the girl’s cheeks

and eventually laying beside her.

Nature exhorted her to smile

And she didn’t repel.

Yes, her lips curved to smile

But her soul wept for the nature

She could feel it, she couldn’t see it.

* by a traveler #5 *

This is for all those who cast their faith in the truth that life, when lived in the 'raw' style cherishes you the most.

By 'raw' style, I imply that we remain permeable to every single taste of life without shrouding any veil of faked emotions, without masquerading as the one who will wake up every day garbing that single false emotion to dodge the intermittent difficulties of life and incidentally, the profuse happiness also.

When we start living that way, when we assimilate every moment of this gifted life, it is then when we penetrate deeper and acknowledge the fact that we are the mentor of our own, we are the sun in our own darkness, that we know the way out of every problem.

It is your life, it will never betray you.

HAPPYSATURDAY

Scripts of success

The evanescent night bid goodbye
as dawn peered through the raven.
Tingling with my tiny eyes,
it indolently pervaded over my belongings, as if a spy.
Disdainful of this spy, I was awake.
I grew enraged and I despised dawn,
after all, my treasure was lost,
not in the benign night, but in this compelling dawn.
Yes, I lost my dreams to this  nasty spy.
I was engulfed in my puerile delirium,
when the green rustling leaves,
the high flying garrulous birds,
the humane chaos,
the scattered yellow rays
and the pristine blue sky
exhorted me to embrace the rising dawn,
to mould the realm of my ebullient dreams into scripts of success.

Good Morning

The cloud and the river

The cloud waded through air,
to adore his love down
where a river frolicked amidst the meadows.
Their love suffused to depths,
It was in the agitated chirping high above,
In the violent swaying of leaves hitched to twigs
and in the evocative redolence of lilies.
Inamorata, his river was frisky,
It bullied with the pebbles,
and peeped through every fault in the rocks.
The cloud was somber and silent
Resting on the pinnacle, it serenaded, albeit a coarse voice echoed
High above, it embellished the blue vastness
The young love Thrived
The river rose, then the cloud drained
and they mingled into each other
casting a  cycle of eternal love,
A cycle of ubiquitous love.

--dream--

The night had pervaded,

imbibing hues from chattels clustering me,

when my eyes closed, turning opaque to the chattels,

and I embarked on a dream, a walk with an angel.

Under the raven sky, jostling the grass,

along the illusory blue pines,

we strolled, the tranquil moon following us.

She was adorable, the glimpse of heaven.

Attired in white,

she dimmed the raven, along with the moon.

The night darkened, her divinity glistened,

the moon kept behind, as if

painting my dream sans brushes.

We came down the lane,

the blue pines still in sight, when a serene lake halted her.

She drew closer, the water rippled as if greeting her,

a lotus in yonder had bewitched her, desisting my dream.

i convinced the lake to devoid of its lotus,

the lake conspired and I felt her skin, the lotus exchanged.

She smiled and I felt an eternal impulse.

We moved again, the lotus embellishing her beauty,

when she stopped again, kissed me goodbye

and disappeared among the twinkling stars.

* destiny *

I was agitated,
why am I not perfect,
why do I stumble down,
why do I've to rise up,
when my heart whispered low,
and it throbbed for long,
disarming the chaos eating me.
It started off uplifting me, mending my impaired strength.
It peeped back in the past, popping out a bevy of jiffs when it was elated
I saw my smile curved along with my heart's.
The chaos had collapsed, only the debris left,
when I slipped into my reverie,
thinking of them who had tied their emotions with me,
who bore the thorns of my destiny with me,
who wished to see me on the pinnacle.
I rose up again
To foster the smiles of some,
To enrich the trust of some,
I rose up again,
Intrepid of all stumbles,
Embracing every day of my destiny.

fight

the sky had an uproar,
conflicts thundered, not clouds.
it was a fight of importance, betwixt the moon and the sun,
the tranquility of sky, all pierced.
neither the moon nor the sun bothered, they only seeked their distinction,
chasing a vote of distinction, they moved to the wind,
alas! they engaged in futile arrogation.
the wind placed its bias for the sun,
as it collected praises only when it blew to soak sweat.
enraged, the moon barged in the cluster of stars,
and ferrying a cluster of votes, the moon emerged the winner,
when a loud cry echoed and the sky looked down,
chaos had strewn all over
and Earth was a mess
with no day and no night, earth lost its distinction in the galaxy,
and monotony engulfed the 'blue planet'.
the remorseful sun shone bright,
and the penitent moon faded to return back.
they lost, they both lost for the win of good will.

priority

they were the days of mollifying glances,
their eyes would look through and then sideways,
heart pumping out loud,
florid cheeks divulging the mental state.
love was true, souls were pure,
so destiny intertwined their paths.
those destined accidental nudges pushed them to a world of dreams, dreams of their clasped selves.
a brief and cagey written proposal from him inspired their bond.
years passed and seasons flipped,
but their world, a world where love flew, love flowed, love sung, love prayed, love acted and love danced, was still.
they were content, together with each other,
when he espied his priorites and he trailed them over her.
he died in the world of love,  he ended everything.

he still yearns for his love,
the love that held him palpable,
but the love, he erred to end.
their love didn't suffuse
and the world of love remains in solitude.

habit

Yes, I am tired of failing once and more. I loathe myself for being alike the weak leaves that come to ground in the face of a strong wind, they don't even show any strength to hold back, to survive the blow. Now, I am too effete to confront any nonsuccess. You saw, I wrote nonsuccess? I am too obsessed to succeed.  Every time I venture out to succeed, my cloud of past failures besiege me and I also allow them, just like the weak leaves, no resistance, no strength. And then, I wait for a new day, a new sun to commence my success re-run. The left day, I drink my failure, I immerse in it and alas, i am always soluble. I never learn from my failures,  I never decode them, I just accept them.  Actually,  I am tired not of failing but of starting out again and again and at every start i am still a novice. So at every start,  I fail, yet again. Its not tiredness, its a habit.

enlightenment

He is not weak now,
his eyes reach deep with self faith.
vibrations of the world, he does not heed to,
voice of his heart, now he listens.
dreams of his, which he had quelled,
now he enlivens them with each rising sun.
failure is not haunting anymore,
now he stumbles once to evade the next.
he now embraces the world he once loathed,
for now he believes his soul, the actual world.
I know who enlightened him,
a book, I know he possessed a book.

eagerness

His father was the senior manager in a private company. He was a child. It was false that his father was a too inclined towards his professional life, he did showcase an equal balance, he did love the boy and his sister, he did conclude all their wishes while he did make them contemplate over some of their affected demands, demands affected from their ambience and he did make on him, their ' best father '. But the boy was not content. Yes, he was perceived to be content but his soul bore the truth. His soul and not he was always waiting. He babbled with his father in eagerness, he sat beside him in eagerness and he recited his problems to him in eagerness. Amidst all this celebration of his life with his father,  sometimes he conceived the elixir for his eagerness and. It was that cluster of seconds when his father babbled with his 'beta', when he sat with his 'beta' and when he lifted his 'beta' from his problems
Yes, he was a stranger to be 'rahul' for him and too eager to be the 'beta' for his father.

serenade

He was in his school and she was his classmate. She loved mingling with the folks while he embraced narrowing his sight to admire just her. He was shy enough to confront her by himself. The times she sat beside him for his help on study notes were his golden ones. She would complete her notes while he would capture the charm of her face, captivating gree eyes, raven eyebrows and hair like curled ebony, he cherished being with her but alas, he uttered only academics, no heart matters. The days she sat before him, on the bench ahead of him, he would wallow in the locks of her hair. Some days, he would experience novice footsie with her and his heart then pumped recklessly. He would be left pondering if it was really from her or  they were just accidental foot pokes. By the way, he blushed believing the first. Yet, no utterances, no love preludes. He continued stealing sights of her, during a class, during her incessant talking, during a fake 'head down', during cycling down her school bus knowing she always sits beside the window. These stealings would blossom his day and he would  preserve every glimpse from fading like cupped hands prevent a flickering candle from dying down. She still chuckles with her friends and he lives on those but time awaits his serenade.

* by a traveller #4 *

CB is back with his new book, this time interestingly set in Bihar. For someone who is new to the acronym ( which I know nobody is ), CB is Chetan Bhagat. A David Slater has claimed $30,000 on Google for uploading a selfie of a macaque clicked by his camera without his permission. How human the macaque was! I mean how 'single-handedly' did he pulled down our hyped selfie act to a pesky monkey act! Skipping all other wordly digressions, I write appreciations for our gov. which has planned to embark some funds on the construction of 'milk banks' to acquaint infants of mother's milk at the earliest.  The novel project will have its feet from the auspicious october 2, 2014. Those newborns whose are deprived of their mother's milk due to health reasons will now be blessed but I have a doubt pouncing on me and I refrain from writing it to avoid any leering hypocrisy. Happy weekend

* once again *

and again it poured,
once again the heavy clouds roared.
some lived the effuse gaiety,
some confronted hefty hardships.
the farmer accosted his swaying crops,
he trusted the rain over the
capricious water canal.
once again our nature stretched,
and once again the hued peacock staged.
once again enthralled swathes inundated the terraces,
and once again, oil did the frying.
once again euphoria prevailed,
and once again my pen self wrote.

friendship day

Combed raven hair, tiny wet eyes and a drooped down face lacking poise, he was sitting beside the river, his knees bent to reach his chest and his elbows resting on them. The river was travelling by, cheerful as everyday, motivated as everyday but the boy's tiny wet eyes had sunk deep to cherish anything. He was still a kid and was longing to see his friend. He wanted to meet him and celebrate the day which he didn't know was friendship day. He didn't require any 'proper noun days'. But his friend was not there. The river carried away his intermittent tears along its way when finally, in despair he stood to leave without even acknowledging the river of its unassuming support. His reflection quivered over the water as he stood up and he cornered a glance towards his shuddering self. Something happened. The boy took to his sitting posture again. He saw the face over the water shedding tears along with.him. His tiny eyes noticed the despair laden face over the water and he started knowing the truth, the fact that true friends are a reflection of us, they are never far or close. It was his friend over the water flowing away his tears and dividing his despair with himself. He realised he has met his friend and the despair vapored away to let the boy celebrate.

* my mother *

She loves me so profusely that I will never fall short of her love, no matter what many things I will be bereft of through my life. Her prophecies of my childish decisions dare to go wrong and. Her cooked food works like the science of alchemy, passing a sense of  contentment to everyone. She will cook a second dish just to cherish my smile only because the first dish is nutritious but not my favourite. She also feels happy when I am around, her smile has a broader curve then. Someday she scolds me, actually she awakens me to walk the right path of life and just to describe,  that same love, that same care is there in the scolding but only the harder side is out. She loves it when I talk, or perhaps, gossip with her, she attentively listens to the varied events and chaos of my life. She feels it would be good to laugh with me or to help or advise me and I express my gratitude towards her because gossiping with her actually makes room to host more chaos from my life. She cares for me, I care for her and the interdependence is manifested.

* by a traveller #3 *

Today, I 've a doubt flirting with my mind's lack of dexterity to accommodate many of them. The doubt is linked with the word 'commission'. Commission, amateurishly speaking is a charge that a person imposes on us for his aid in some of our worldly tasks. Thinking of this, it all seems like a positive that someone is helping us and we are paying him but this positivity fades away when someone starts forcibly helping us or actually troubling us just to get his pay, his commission. I am especially talking of our government. Next time, you find any of the schemes initiated by the government unrequired or a waste at that time, try relating their reason with commission that the government might be pocketing and this epigram is not out of cynicalness but pure experience.

boast - a tribute to indian army

The only son, he was,
was profusely loved, for the apparent cause.

Of his parents, he was their pride,
but he boasted of his brother
like a high tide

Yes, he proclaimed he had a brother
unique like the one no one could ponder.

Shocked, I quested more of him,
he stated his brother had perfection upto the brim.

Valiant like the striped bengal tiger, he was
he serves his nation sans any pause.

He endures much agony and pain
but his patriotism is congruent of a rainbow for the rain.

His strict discipline sometimes turns bitter
but his determination is too  strong for anyone to deter

Standing at the borders, his gun is bound to dither,
he is my brother, he is your brother.

By a traveller #2

ByAnjali prasad, permanent representative to World Trade Organisation (WTO) from India since May 1, 2014. Do you recognise her? She is the one who has breached the WTO's apparent weighted decision making and has put the argument to increase the food subsidy cap for farmers which had not been pondered upon since a long time but the production rates for farmers have continued rising up since.
I hereby connote that such interruptions or infact clauses should be encouraged rather than been watered down because I have been taught that conflict management adds efficiency to an organisation.

voyage

This, I pick from my gone years,
from the ocean of my earned memories
when I was immature alike the morning sun,
when emotions could kneel me down.

A cloud of reasons I had,
reasons that inflicted on me, setbacks.
Any change, any chaos, any challenge made me console my pierced strength,
made me restart my voyage of life,
this time sans the setbacks, sans the icebergs in the voyage.
Every time, I bumped on a change,
everytime a test forelooked me,
I'd sneak, I'd succumb and
I'd reroute to my goal,
leaving the challenges, all untackled.
Cursing the diverted path, I'd steer the smoother way, the more travelled way,
a path sans the toughness of iron,
a path sans the intensity of noon sun,
a way sans the icebergs that would drift me away in yonder
and miles away, I could see my goal behind all the challenges, left untackled.

By a traveller #1

Today, while sitting in the porch, enjoying the soothing cool breeze prefixing the monsoon showers, I figured out the response to a nonprophetic interrogation by my inner conscience regarding the cause of mistakes that I make in life and the response was the type of thinking that I accommodate, stagnant or progressive. The contrast between the two lies in the level of comfort that they serve us with. Stagnant thinking is easier, keep nagging about your previous mistakes and never grow, never march forward while the progressive thinking challenges us to bypass our mistakes from our success, to write an obituary for them. The decision is wholly ours

*rain*

Pulling down a blue tee
wobbling over plain white shorts,
I athletically belittled the stairs down
to poke my pals, three atop one bike
and off we sped, now four atop the bike.
Below the tires, died some water drops
and on our head, knocked some new borns.
My blue tee, soaked to saturation shed tears when squeezed
as I lived my euphoria, gazing in the sky,
water drops moulding locks of my hair
and the wind busy chilling them
while the bike burned its fuel.

Euthanasia

So, should this intentional killing for humane reasons be legalised? Should the sufferers have a right to die when they have been adjudged the right to live? The second clause seems reasonable to me that if a person does not want to bear his sufferings any more then he/she should not be flanked by any form of emotional oppositions and of course, this legalised suicide should be performed only after all the medical interventions have testified that the sufferings of the patient cannot be cured. Here, I want to connote and appeal that any form of economic intervention in committing euthanasia should be fended by the hospital authorities or the government

'tried'

Everytime I tried to be impeccable,
mistakes ferried my success yonder

Everytime I tried to walk till the end,
the road only rose to its balking steepness

Everytime I tried scripting a revelation,
I lost myself in a impasse, an abyss

Everytime I tried defying the odds,
the odds bitterly retaliated

Everytime, I tried trusting more in me,
a part of my strength vanished

and everytime, I tried to succumb, to give up,
a part of failures, my failures passed me another chance.

'talks'

Account of some overheard spontaneous utterances of office employees among their cubicles.  The talks are initiated by some pawan who is sipping office provided coffee, the taste of which makes it accessibly inaccessible while glancing at some news items on his computer screen.

Pawan( to Amit ) - oh my god, the rail budget is glittering everywhere. Sadanand Gowda is riding fast on his bullet train and his PPP stuff but
(now talks to himself )
Mr. Gowda, a nameplate with your name written over it in black has been found down under some shoes but don't worry, its no problem. since you have shunned populism in your railway budget, it is just an applause for you. Time has changed, you know

( Pawan gestures to Amit )

Pawan - you know Amit, if today anyone, especially a politician has to know the degree of appreciation for carrying out his due responsibility, it lies all exposed in their opposition's intensity of agitation.

Amit - ( claps )you sit here applauding Gowda ji and there the boss is ready with one of his most dangerous grimace. Are you done with your report, the great pawan ji??

Pawan - ya absolutely brother, I have very smartly adorned the previous year report with a better font and have also increased the font size, all for none other than my respected boss
( to himself ) - respected boss? wow, what an irony!

Amit - ha, great but till previous year, English reverberated in our office and presently our boss has been profoundly inspired to join hands in our home ministry's hocus pocus of demanding all documents
in hindi. So, you will have to work or atleast translate your adorned report !!

( amit whines ) - All is stupidity bro, it feels like halting an already late train at a crossing to wait for the rajdhani. The government work is already tortoiselike and now this hindi chapter will bring only further hitches.

( by this time a boy, in his 10 or 12 from a stall at the other side of road enters with 6 cups of tea )

Pawan - are chothu, aaj fir late ho gaya, yaar ab to india mein bullet train bhi aa gayi, tu bhu jaldi aaya kar

Chothu - bullet train to theek hai lekin jis din vo pass wale uncle ki pension time par aa jayegi na, us din aapki chai bhi time pe hogi.
( pawan and amit exchange dumbstruck faces )

Chothu ( waits till every employee takes his glass of tea ) - vaise sahib, ek joke sunau aapko, aajkal market mein chal raha hai, lekin mujhe samaj nahi aa raha

Pawan - haan, haan suna

Chothu - ek baar ek function mein sare bade khiladiyon ko bulaya gaya, india se, foreign se, har sport ke. Sab khush the, ek dusre ke gale lag rahe the lekin do log na to hath mila rahe the or na gale lag rahe the, batao kaun?

Pawan - yaar chothu, salman shahrukh hi honge lekin tune bhi to players ki party bulai, tu hi bata kaun the?

Chothu - sachin, Sharapova

( pawan and amit again exchange surprised glances but eventually laugh out a little )

Pawan - yaar amit, indians are strange,  no? I mean today they want sachin, tomorow they will ask, do you know mr. Kejriwal? Ridiculous yaar !

( now to chothu, after citing the sachin - sharapova incident ) - ek baat bata chothu,  tujhe pata hai sharapova kaun hai.?

Chothu - haan sahib, suna hai achcha lawn tennis khelti hai or dikhti bhi achchi hai, aajkal customers bad gaye hain sahib isliye meri jankaari bhi bad gayi hai

Pawan - badiya hain chothu, yahan hamari smriti iraani ji ki degree ka ata pata nahi hai or tu bina degree ke hi sabse aage nikal raha hai
            
             *end*

The line of poverty

So, the Rangrajan report regarding the poverty line and the count of poor in india has been presented.  Statistics bulging out in the report are in total conflict with those holding place in the report presented by Mr. Suresh Tendulkar, one of the finest economists of india. This Rangrajan report was been impatiently awaited after the Tendulkar report had fixed the poverty line to an arguably low level which actually acknowledged the then government of reducing the BPL population in india. Skipping the statistics, I straightaway highlight a flaw, in fact a blunder in our way of working. The count of poor is based only on a poverty line. Did we focus on their actual areas of expenditure,  did we think how much they have to spend on their treatmemt when a lack of hygiene in their vicinity makes them a host to various dangerous infections, did we consider their expenditure on their hectares of agricultural lands? Other counties around the world are al erring in their take on the poverty line. For ex - in Europe, poverty line is the basic cost of food multiplied by three. What do they think, a poor person will eat food three times a day and that's over, will he not have other needs?

Secondly, these benefits and favours for the BPL card holders. This has only diverted from our eventual aim of curbing poverty. Everyone is in a run to catch a BPL card and the laggards in the race are agai the poor people who actually deserve the favors but lose them to greedy with a muscle power.
Here, I appeal to reinstate the strategy once initiated by the UPA government to distribute the favors for the poor based on the their conditions and needs instead of whether they have a BPL card or not.

Among all the other things, I applaud this retake on the poverty line by the Rangrajan report. The previous low poverty marking had left many poor devoid of their BPL cards and thus the favors. To claim all those favora, they would have sold theor agricultural lands to settle in urban areas where the povert line is high. So, this new mark has in fact maintained the agricultural produce, a major contributor in the GDP of the country.

little bird

Placing in the center, her favorite muffin,

she assorted her daughter’s tiffin.

Leaning beside her daughter with a merry grimace

her hands brushed her daughter’s innocent face.

To wake her up, she patted her in succession,

every pat, deluged with love and affection.

She dressed her daughter in a way,

she looked adorable like a night sky, just to say.

Garbed in a red checked skirt,

buckled over a white shirt,

she hosted a headband, glossy, red and bright

over her hair, parted from the right

Her black, polished shoes made her walk with ease

and shrouded her long socks, little short of her knees.

Feeding her a teaspoon of curd,

the mother dropped to school, her cute little bird.

welcome monsoon

like kids wait for a falling star,
your showers, we await,
for they fall, quelling the dictator in the yellow sun.
the vicinity brightens up on your arrival
like colored illustrations cherish a plain text
the leaves greener than ever boast of their renaissance
the roads make way for your showers, enjoying after a long serving for the sun's heat,
courtyards and balconies go crowded with awaiters who admire you, celebrate with you till the sun returns, this time with a seven color pattern.

*antagonize*

in the village, there stood a tall, cemented height.

with a bulb perching on its top,

it occupied the courtyard of village.

the sun bade goodbye every evening

and every evening oil lamps burnt

for the houses had no bulbs but the cemented pillar had one.

every evening came out a boy,

with his companions, a paper and a pen

to lean against the pillar, to wait under the bulb

for the sun will go and the bulb will glow.

and will antagonize the vast darkness

with its small cone of light below which

the pen will write and he will talk

he and the paper will talk long

silent conversations will flow incessantly in verses

between them and the paper will personify a patient listener

containing the verses till the bulb goes cold,

till the sun rises back.

his diary

Today he is sad. He contained in himself a mix of feelings, angry like a tornado with its full might, sad like a beautiful bird refusing to chirp, his weak and tensed face hoping for support like a plain creased paper resisting the punches of wind. It was not new to me. It was a long time ago but yes, I had seen him like this before also. I am accustomed to all his avatars. On somedays, he would be on the top of the world because he had been selected to preside over an important event of the company, then many days would pass normally discussing just the progress of that event, then someday he would talk about how he stealthily popped again and again out of his cubicle just to admire the beauty of his crush!!, any other day he would just nostalgically pen down poems, some day he would promise me that he would be making drastic changes in himself with an immediate effect ,for his betterment,  his success and sometimes he would be completely down just because of a vacuum of confidence of finishing his assigned work with efficiency and perfection. But I have a complete record  of his getting success everytime he was not sure of getting it. I was there for him all these days, even the ones when he talked that he had got another friend like me, when he talked that 'she' was exactly like me. Today was no different.  Today also he is lacking that confidence. Today he is thinking of a resignation from his post because he is not able to absorb the work pressure. Its not different. He will come to me and I will make him reminisce his past accomplishments.  He will take time to think, will keep on putting his views to me but I can handle it. Let him start...
-his diary

"change"

Change is an event that brings a gale of versatility in a squeezed out land of monotony, change bears that marvel which dwells, just for example, when a bottleguard dish tastes better only because you have added chunks of tomato to it. Entering into the central idea behind this writing, I want bring to light an attitude of us, the citizens of a developing nation. I have many a times observed that we, taking the human race as a whole, escape into monotonicity very swiftly which straight away reduces our efficiency in our respective professions. Bitter, but reality and this monotonicity comes because we accept our present as our future and since we do not see any improvement, any promotion, we lose interest in our present. Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam in his book, " Ignited Minds " airs the idea that india, to get tagged as a developed country first needs to believe that it actually can do so. We need to stop flying off the very ideas of rapid development saying them as impractical or as ideologies. We are not made to provide market for FDI or for the foreign retailers,  we are not made to provide manforce overseas, we can't just sit and see 'brain drain' deprive us from talented minds. I know that it is not that easy to just flip our way of living or our ideologies but small, steady steps can really help us and at least we can give our full dedication to our present profession for rapid growth which will eventually develop in us, a risk taking ability to risk the present for a more developed future. So, start afresh having a mindset of more and more growth, more and more development.

shattered - a ballad

today, a month has passed by
of her going to a school nearby

always behind her  bearded spouse, she walked the norm,
the sari being her school uniform.

child marriage, her relation had a name
post marriage, her studies went lame

she cried before her in laws
who didn't realise their flaws

time passed, paint on walls turned light
but atlast her perseverance gave her a delight

for she went to school again
although all her schoolish fun slain

she studied and she cooked
loads of duties on a child's back

today, her destiny left her shattered
a child's emotions,  all tattered

when a lad, her classmate
gave her a rose, an informal date

and all she could do was apologise
I am old enough to take roses, came her faint noise

memoir

I had been summoned by my parents to take our scooter to the roadside repairer to do its puncture. As the sun was out, bright yellow, I moaned while fumbling for the keys of the two-wheeler. All through the stairs, I kept moaning and sported a face with my cheeks drooped down. Anyways, I unlocked the scooter and out of reluctance to pull that heavy steel body to the repairer under the scorching sun, I thought of riding the scooter but then dropped the foolish idea. Reaching the destination, I asked the man, a tobacco chewing man garbed in a rugged up green shirt and a trouser folded twice from the bottom to repair the puncture but he showed me his priorities pointing towards a scooter and a car already parked there for getting repaired. I had to wait. Here was I, moaning loudly of the sun and there was my protagonist, that tobacco man working ceaselessly under the same angry sun, changing tyres, inflating them with right amount of air, sweating in between and doing punctures but he endured all that calmly. I jerked myself angrily to learn that toleration. I learnt how to lose all your problems, all your complaints in the dedication for your work. 

waves

Wandering along the coast,
their synergistic violence, I saw.
with every crest crashing down
the ocean turned less tranquil.
They splashed all over the stretched ocean
and wetted the sand along my amble
They took a toll on the vast blue
like the profound thoughts in me did to me.
leaving me with my pen,  disturbed.
I return empty but ironically, contented
As I lose all my thoughts, all my chaos in this vast intranquility, in the dying down of waves.

Happy Father's Day

you care for us like the sun cares for a plant making it a tree, you valued our well being before yourself,

your guidance keeps fertilizing my mediocre methods into perfect ones,  

your motivation lights up the dark of my despair, encouraging me to rise up once again everytime,

your knowledge is like the endless blue sky, molding our novice thoughts into expert ones,  

your attitude is like a liquid shaping itself for every container, teaching us to tackle every turn and slope of life,

your leadership is a perfect blend of fire and water, a maslin of convention and freshness, making us know the equal value of taking risks and also of following rules,

we ‘ve grown up learning from you, ‘Thank You papa’ 

Honor killing

both have grown taller

old memories still testing their valor,

memories of devilish beheading

or of inhumane burning alive in fire standing,

memories of bhraman ‘romeos’ who craved

for kayasth ‘juliets’, separation they both braved

memories of those who couldn’t validate their devotion

before an invalid custom, a baseless notion

memories of those who never forgot a date

to stealthily admire their love, to meet their mate

memories of those whose eyes reached there

where stood their love in a crowded village fair

memories of those who ran with their love, for their loyalty

only to delay their subjection to cruelty

memories of those, whose parents

found their honor in slaying their own blood

...they both have grown young

stealthily but truly, their love sung

only to return the honor of their creators

of their parents, of their begetters

Questions of a tree

Myself a small plant down here

Wishing thy hand to look to my answers

Beginning from my evolution, I had chaos

Chaos outside and chaos inside

I had questions burdening my leaves

not stopped a single life, but you

A child mudded his hands, I overheard

And I came out

My birthday is the day today

One year up and I didn’t get a brother or sister

Will you embark building my family?

Time comes and goes and

I mourn the demise of my distant companions

For more birds are perching on my twigs

after losing their habitats on my companions.

Will you save them?

+World Environment Day 

Limiting Reagent

The title suggests a plunge into the knowledge printed in the perhaps, brown colored science textbooks which would rather have been stacked for use by your younger siblings. Limiting reagents were taught to us as the compounds which prominently decide the rate of reaction, concentration of products added. Inflecting the actual meaning in the context of the future of India’s oldest and largest democracy, I think that NaMo should stamp the dispersed limiting reagents under his control beforehand to discard any possibilities of giving a limited output to the Indians, who are right now high on anticipations. Moving ahead, we were lectured to calculate the product concentration due to every reactant one by one and the reactant busted giving the least amount of product will consequentially be the limiting reagent. Broadly speaking, the idea concerns individual recognition. Modiji should acknowledge the individual recognition of every cabinet occupant to figure out the personified limiting reagents under him who are a barrier in the making of a world superpower.  

His brother

Today he was first, the sun rose second

The mattress went vacant and the clock hadn’t struck ten.

His rain like inconsistency was fading  

consistency of the sun, more visible in him

he showcased his tie, academics had him today

hosting a disciplined garb

his polished shoes reflected all luster

yesterday he was rain, today he was the sun.

terrorist, his brother had been reprimanded

executioner commissioned, day not yet decided

he had to live for his brother,

he had to right his wrongs

he exercised, he sweated

he catapulted his stronger self

to combat his pledged ‘brothers’

yesterday he was rain, today he was the sun

his parents were weak

but were the begetter of his strength

he studied and he drilled in NDA to

append to our valiant armed forces.  

yesterday he was rain, today he was the sun.

Respect

He was critical, lying on the bed, passive and weak,

The glucose, feeding him bottle by bottle.

But his pen did not give up,

It was slow and it scribbled

but it scrawled words on paper just like a gas fills a jar.

He was a writer and I had immense respect for him copy for everyone.

We aroused hitches out of frivolous issues

he and his pen, metaphor to a knight and his sword

strived to square the macro complications of developing india

we kept trying to convince people and he, he influenced them.

His novels enthralled us, engrossed us like a magnet does to iron,

 they were like accolades for an avid reader .

His articles, columns prevailed over us

his poetries captivated us just like a person

not willing to desert a terrace on a cool breeze night.

We kept trying to change the present, he harmonized it.

he might be lifeless but his work will clinch its readers forever,

his work, which personifies the generations that he will be lived by.

Against child labour

They are the flowers plucked off before they could blossom,
They are the turbulent water forces turned down by the walls of a dam,
They are dusk waiting for a dawn in their life,
They are wilting plants longing to be nurtured,
Yes, they are children, sans any smiles, ironically.

anxiety #absractwrite

Every friday is precious,
keeps the cast and the director anxious.

Will ruppee pace up as profit is precious,
Keeps the shareholders anxious.

Can we settle it, now loss is not precious,
Keeps our Sahara group anxious.

Will Dhoni hit the big one as victory is precious,
Keeps the chennai crowd anxious.

Has the voting been fair as development is precious,
Keeps us all anxious.

Can india take timely precautions as health is precious,
This Cancer day makes me anxious.

Will India learn from Assam riots, internal terrorism is not at all precious,
I 'm worried, I'm anxious.

Will FDI work well as poverty, I think is not precious,
The rapid FDI bill clearances make me anxious.

I love them

A prayer, she is a prayer
that I will keep chanting all my life, me - her son.

A blessing, he is a blessing who has made my life worth living, me - his son.

A reflection,  together they are a reflection of god who has never ending lessons, lessons for my enlightenment, me, a novice.

Wish she was still Geeta...

"Geeta, I 'm back from the fields", called Ram. They lived in an anonymous village in Rajasthan. Ram washed his hands, splashed water on his face, chanted the usual evening prayers and then perched atop the only chair in their house. "So, did the 'seths' agree to buy grains at the market price?", enquired Geeta, loosening a glass of water to Ram. "No, they are still insisting for lower rates. I will try in the markets of our near by areas", replied Ram, streching his aching legs again and again. A distressed Geeta walked to the kitchen, wiping up the summer sweat with her silk sari. "Ram, today I 've prepared your favourite 'moong ki daal' with crispy 'papads' ", said Geeta, her face hosting a calm look over a disturbed one. Ram! Ram! wake up, first eat some food and then sleep, urged Geeta. But there was Ram, not respondong to any call. A current travelled through Geeta. She shrieked, she traumatised but kept sprinkling water on his face. He had died. He had an heart attack. Anyhow collecting herself, she ran house to house but it was too late for anything. Tears were not leaving Geeta's eyes. Her face now hosted a dry look, devoid of all liveliness, devoid of everything. Geeta knew what was to follow after those sympathies of the villagers, she knew she was not Geeta anymore,  she was a 'sati', a divine woman who would be travelling straight to heaven and will bring happinessfor her successors and for her village by sacrificing herself to the gods. All of her prophecy accorded with real time. She wore her wedding day dress, she was made to look more beautiful,  actually more than the day when she got her husband. The orchestra had arrived, the funeral pyre had been laid down with Ram resting on it. Geeta had to accompany him, the ambience was saturated with chantings of 'sati' hymns, people, ironically praising and admiring Geeta's sacrifice as she vanished in the flames, crying and shouting till her breath permitted her to. "I 'm with you, my love", her last words tamed all the hymns, all the orchestra.