its grace,
a marvel to trace..
its beauty reminisence
of thy presence..
greatness
in all its milieu
glory
with its ivory renew
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
of voices and echoes...
These voices of strenght
and meek,
these voices that prun silence
and spur distances,
these voices that crave,
to more say
than rave..
These voices that
are heard,
when inhibitions strike
the mid night oil,
these..
voices..
are..
bereft of..
hope..
hatred and brutality,
war in its magnanimity..
voices,
lost
and some
unheard..
voices..so unpredictable..
voices..
cry
and not a soul comes to soothe..
they burn in their ashes cold,
grave their live bodies..
kids and women and men
and brothers...
and then when all's done..
voices that heard in the silence
are voicing how it all should not have been done...
and meek,
these voices that prun silence
and spur distances,
these voices that crave,
to more say
than rave..
These voices that
are heard,
when inhibitions strike
the mid night oil,
these..
voices..
are..
bereft of..
hope..
hatred and brutality,
war in its magnanimity..
voices,
lost
and some
unheard..
voices..so unpredictable..
voices..
cry
and not a soul comes to soothe..
they burn in their ashes cold,
grave their live bodies..
kids and women and men
and brothers...
and then when all's done..
voices that heard in the silence
are voicing how it all should not have been done...
Friday, February 19, 2010
the big tot..
There comes a stall sometimes when the interaction between you and something comes to a pause but when you revive them, they come to your memory like they had never gone before.
Not many times have I confessed to this blog, yet everytime I sit to write in this corner of the net, it brings me back the reasons I think I should write.
There comes a whole medley of things about which one wishes to write. A whole lot has passed which needs words to live their memory coz if they dont they will remain like flittering pages that will fling open out of a rustic book clasped by loose threads of memory.About one, I am going to write today...
I saw this child in the train one late evening. His clothes tattered with the city's dust clinged to it. A basketful of things he seemed to sell and while selling those, he was selling his soul. His eyes had experiences to say and his face showed an age much greater to his physicality. He threw his basket onto the seat and carelessly flung himself over the footboard. Even tried a few acrobatics on the handlers.A typically street story I thought his must be.
When he had looked outside the train, his face showed an all knowing look.No place seemed to be unfamiliar to him. He seemed to be tired but somehow his will longed for somemore work..strangely..
Somehow i struck a conversation with him and he spoke to me about how he had left home in Rajasthan..he spoke about his lost childhood, his lost parents and how he was finding all that was lost to him in this already lost city of ours..
He seemed to pace with the run and managed himself all alone. To me and you he would have been a child of twelve but he knew much more than a lifetime..and the price that he paid for this was his lost innocence..
Not many times have I confessed to this blog, yet everytime I sit to write in this corner of the net, it brings me back the reasons I think I should write.
There comes a whole medley of things about which one wishes to write. A whole lot has passed which needs words to live their memory coz if they dont they will remain like flittering pages that will fling open out of a rustic book clasped by loose threads of memory.About one, I am going to write today...
I saw this child in the train one late evening. His clothes tattered with the city's dust clinged to it. A basketful of things he seemed to sell and while selling those, he was selling his soul. His eyes had experiences to say and his face showed an age much greater to his physicality. He threw his basket onto the seat and carelessly flung himself over the footboard. Even tried a few acrobatics on the handlers.A typically street story I thought his must be.
When he had looked outside the train, his face showed an all knowing look.No place seemed to be unfamiliar to him. He seemed to be tired but somehow his will longed for somemore work..strangely..
Somehow i struck a conversation with him and he spoke to me about how he had left home in Rajasthan..he spoke about his lost childhood, his lost parents and how he was finding all that was lost to him in this already lost city of ours..
He seemed to pace with the run and managed himself all alone. To me and you he would have been a child of twelve but he knew much more than a lifetime..and the price that he paid for this was his lost innocence..
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
To live...
Interplay...
The silence of the mind
the chaos of the noises
all around..
Interplay...
The innocence of the flower
the treachery of the thorns
Interplay...
The peace and the glory
the war, the blood and brutal plays
Interplay...
The flowing crystals
The piercing sand dunes
They interplay...
nothing exists in isolation...
in its own form,
they adapt to the other...
In adaption
lies their survival
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
a midway railway platform
Reading is the best cure for ignorance.But, its such an intoxication that you begin to dwelve in the atmosphere of your book. It makes you go back into the dusty roads of memory and relive those days. Books are lumps of time in themselves. They carry thier own history, their own culture, their own civilization, habits and mannerism of life. They are the windows to thought of their times. It reveals through author's narration; lives in themselves. Inside, they are the author's fantasy, his inspiration and sometimes a bigraphy or an autobiography. Outside, when we read them, we pass them as we pass the stations mid way to our destination on a rail journey. Some chatty, some lazy, some silent, some quick witted, some suspicious....
Reading a book is like opening a lunch box in the afternoon when you dont know what was packed. It comes with surprises. Sometimes laden with delicacies and sometimes as boring as it can be.
Reading is like fathoming the depth of the deepest ocean or measuring the rainfall in a storm. You cant get close to its approximation, however hard you try. Its like a clay you can mould it into different shape and size but will never be the one originally formed. I remember reading Premchand and Rajagopalachari when I was a kid and when I read them now I have different observations and inferences to make. I have forgotten my Enid Blytons and Nancy Drew or The Famous Five. I cant recall their slightest memory. I distinctly remember Tagore's Kabuli wala and a few of H.G. Wells.
When I sit to clear my closet, I find ignorantly a book or two tucked with open pages and book marks flittering about and I endlessly dive into it again.
This one is R.K.Narayan's Malgudi Days.
It has a story of a road side astrologer who escapes a tragedy with his quick wit and street- smartness.
This astrologer is just like those who sit unger some banyan or tamarind or some corner of a railway platform with his wierd collection of photos of diffrent God and Godesses and hosts a collection of gems and rudraksha malas which he claims will soon make you rid of your grievences. But actually "he is as good a stranger to the stars as are his innocent customers". With practice and a bit of monotony he gives answers to those who pay three pies for every answer.
On one late evening, as he was about to leave, he somehow cajoled a person to sit down and show his palm. The customer, a shwerd one said he was ready to pay eight anna provided he answered satisfactorily else the astrologer would have to pay the double. Some how, the parties accepted albiet the astro with some hesitation.
Shivered to the soul, he said that somebody made an attempt to kill him in the past. Astonished, the customer showed stab marks on his chest. The astro even said that he was left for dead in a well. To that he replied that it was due to some kind hearted passersby that he got out of that well. He agreed to both the answers but was still insatiable. He asked where he could find that person who attempted to kill him. To that the asrto replied that there was no need for killing him as he was already crushed under some lorry. This time he even called him by his name, gave him some ash to rub on his forehead and return to his home northwards and never some back southwards again!
On returning back home, the asrto thrust the eight annas to his wife, good enough to silent her lamentations while he breath relief that a great load had beheaded from him. He thouht he'd killed somebody and had blood on his hands- the very reason why he migrated from his ancestral village. The wife shocked in despair asked for further explanation. Very calmly, on that he just mentioned that it was a thing of past as a silly youngster when he got drunk and gambled. Then yawning and srteching his legs over a pyol, he pocketed those eight annas from the very same person!
I close my book and grin an all-knowing smile. When my mom passes me she calls me a maniac who grins on everything and anything. On that I grin again, this time conforming my mom's prediction!:)!!
Reading a book is like opening a lunch box in the afternoon when you dont know what was packed. It comes with surprises. Sometimes laden with delicacies and sometimes as boring as it can be.
Reading is like fathoming the depth of the deepest ocean or measuring the rainfall in a storm. You cant get close to its approximation, however hard you try. Its like a clay you can mould it into different shape and size but will never be the one originally formed. I remember reading Premchand and Rajagopalachari when I was a kid and when I read them now I have different observations and inferences to make. I have forgotten my Enid Blytons and Nancy Drew or The Famous Five. I cant recall their slightest memory. I distinctly remember Tagore's Kabuli wala and a few of H.G. Wells.
When I sit to clear my closet, I find ignorantly a book or two tucked with open pages and book marks flittering about and I endlessly dive into it again.
This one is R.K.Narayan's Malgudi Days.
It has a story of a road side astrologer who escapes a tragedy with his quick wit and street- smartness.
This astrologer is just like those who sit unger some banyan or tamarind or some corner of a railway platform with his wierd collection of photos of diffrent God and Godesses and hosts a collection of gems and rudraksha malas which he claims will soon make you rid of your grievences. But actually "he is as good a stranger to the stars as are his innocent customers". With practice and a bit of monotony he gives answers to those who pay three pies for every answer.
On one late evening, as he was about to leave, he somehow cajoled a person to sit down and show his palm. The customer, a shwerd one said he was ready to pay eight anna provided he answered satisfactorily else the astrologer would have to pay the double. Some how, the parties accepted albiet the astro with some hesitation.
Shivered to the soul, he said that somebody made an attempt to kill him in the past. Astonished, the customer showed stab marks on his chest. The astro even said that he was left for dead in a well. To that he replied that it was due to some kind hearted passersby that he got out of that well. He agreed to both the answers but was still insatiable. He asked where he could find that person who attempted to kill him. To that the asrto replied that there was no need for killing him as he was already crushed under some lorry. This time he even called him by his name, gave him some ash to rub on his forehead and return to his home northwards and never some back southwards again!
On returning back home, the asrto thrust the eight annas to his wife, good enough to silent her lamentations while he breath relief that a great load had beheaded from him. He thouht he'd killed somebody and had blood on his hands- the very reason why he migrated from his ancestral village. The wife shocked in despair asked for further explanation. Very calmly, on that he just mentioned that it was a thing of past as a silly youngster when he got drunk and gambled. Then yawning and srteching his legs over a pyol, he pocketed those eight annas from the very same person!
I close my book and grin an all-knowing smile. When my mom passes me she calls me a maniac who grins on everything and anything. On that I grin again, this time conforming my mom's prediction!:)!!
Friday, April 10, 2009
golden touch of vaccum
Why the pretentious smile,
Why the polished façade,
Why the empty words,
Why the tacit overt?
It’s useless sometimes.
It’s voiceless sometimes.
Khali badal ki garaj dekhi hai kabhi?
Koi sukha khaliyan dekha hai kabhi?
Jaise bin beejo ke podhe sichte ho,
Jaise bin tinko ke khet ginte ho…
Why the void occupation?
Why the vacant care?
Why the bright darkness?
Why the hidden show?
It’s foolish sometimes.
It’s imprudent sometimes.
Khokle vaade sune hai kabhi?
Swarth ke meethe bol sune hai kabhi?
Jaise soche duniya sochti hi na ho,
Jaise mane kisine kabhi jaana hi na ho.
Why the polished façade,
Why the empty words,
Why the tacit overt?
It’s useless sometimes.
It’s voiceless sometimes.
Khali badal ki garaj dekhi hai kabhi?
Koi sukha khaliyan dekha hai kabhi?
Jaise bin beejo ke podhe sichte ho,
Jaise bin tinko ke khet ginte ho…
Why the void occupation?
Why the vacant care?
Why the bright darkness?
Why the hidden show?
It’s foolish sometimes.
It’s imprudent sometimes.
Khokle vaade sune hai kabhi?
Swarth ke meethe bol sune hai kabhi?
Jaise soche duniya sochti hi na ho,
Jaise mane kisine kabhi jaana hi na ho.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
a melange of ponder and wonder
days all begin with sun-rise and sunset..they have the approximately the same time lenght..almost all creatures on earth perform their mundane chores, i wonder then what causes each day to be so different than the earlier.there are so many living creatures on the earth..multiply those creatures with their respective living age and multiply each ones' living age to 365...all these days: each and every day, each and every moment is so distinct..so varied..each minute proponent of time represents a different hue and a different shade of life..this 'life' is an composed of so many elements both internal and external. External elements represents the environment with agni, jal, vayu, prakash and internally there are so many rasas and emotions- anger, grief, dispair, happiness, joy, bliss, greed, satisfaction, frustration, agony..and then to operate all of them lies a life current which we call soul...
some times you sit back and wonder whether the atman was made to operate these factors or whether the karma of the atman intimidated the universe to accomplish these duties..stars, comets, sattlelites, meteroids- why do they exist?..and how come their nakshatras determine our future(to believe that they do or not is a personal opinion and it also depends upon the your own faith and your environmental circumstanes)..and in this entire cosmos- where are we? what is our significance..may be we are just a miniscule element of this cosmos..or may be the strenght of the entire cosmos lies in us but we like buffoons, our pseudo thoughts limits the zenith of the knowledge of our existence...
'existence'..this term is also so quirky.. how do you know whether you exist or not?one might say a death od a person is his absence or if the creature is not dead he is alive and so we prove existence..but the world of spirits?what about them? those instincts- what about them..one cannot prove their existence or their absence..
there are so many questions lying above us..so many of them below us..so many of them around us..and we are still ignorant and reticent..this contra attitude itself shows the depth of our true strenght of the spirit..
i havent done any thesis on physics, but i some how feel that there is a law behind this..the negativity of a person is also indicative of the positiveness a person can harness..and similarly, if a person is capable of doing immense good, he/she has the equal power of destruction..personas now depend upon the way they scale their attitude on the barometer of these extremes...sage valmiki before he wrote the great epic was a daku of a very ill repute..king ashoka captured an warred and enslaved a plethora of people, but it was the same man who after realizing his error bit his conscience and turned to principles of buddhism and closer to religion(in its real sense)..i have observed so many people with such same balance of powers..i think i can call it the 'equilibrium'(oh yes...this reminds me of market equilibrium and intersection of demand and supply forces)...so this an equilibrium of the two forces of positivity and negation..creation and destruction, war and peace...love and hatred..evil and goodness..all manifest in this equilibrium..But it must be noted here that great people(i dont mean celebrities here..but people who have strived hard for the welfare of other people, those who are legendary and almost hero worshipped) become great not by simply doing great things, but by commanding control over their other negative and destructive powers..by gaining a contol on their own senses..this makes their character deep, profound and the realm of life comes true in its own essence..it is such people who are close to getting nirvana or the bliss of enlightenment. to speak little but kind words that dont hurt any one..to be equally resilent in moments of highs and lows alike- this is a characteristic of a great and nobel human..i do not wish to sermonize anything..or give a lecture on moralism..but it is with some circumspection and introspection that i've come up with this conclusion..i will be oblidged if anybody who shares a different stage wishes to explore the medium of dialectics (the greek method of discussions over arguments..albeit theirs were political ones)..i think we all can benefit from this..
some times you sit back and wonder whether the atman was made to operate these factors or whether the karma of the atman intimidated the universe to accomplish these duties..stars, comets, sattlelites, meteroids- why do they exist?..and how come their nakshatras determine our future(to believe that they do or not is a personal opinion and it also depends upon the your own faith and your environmental circumstanes)..and in this entire cosmos- where are we? what is our significance..may be we are just a miniscule element of this cosmos..or may be the strenght of the entire cosmos lies in us but we like buffoons, our pseudo thoughts limits the zenith of the knowledge of our existence...
'existence'..this term is also so quirky.. how do you know whether you exist or not?one might say a death od a person is his absence or if the creature is not dead he is alive and so we prove existence..but the world of spirits?what about them? those instincts- what about them..one cannot prove their existence or their absence..
there are so many questions lying above us..so many of them below us..so many of them around us..and we are still ignorant and reticent..this contra attitude itself shows the depth of our true strenght of the spirit..
i havent done any thesis on physics, but i some how feel that there is a law behind this..the negativity of a person is also indicative of the positiveness a person can harness..and similarly, if a person is capable of doing immense good, he/she has the equal power of destruction..personas now depend upon the way they scale their attitude on the barometer of these extremes...sage valmiki before he wrote the great epic was a daku of a very ill repute..king ashoka captured an warred and enslaved a plethora of people, but it was the same man who after realizing his error bit his conscience and turned to principles of buddhism and closer to religion(in its real sense)..i have observed so many people with such same balance of powers..i think i can call it the 'equilibrium'(oh yes...this reminds me of market equilibrium and intersection of demand and supply forces)...so this an equilibrium of the two forces of positivity and negation..creation and destruction, war and peace...love and hatred..evil and goodness..all manifest in this equilibrium..But it must be noted here that great people(i dont mean celebrities here..but people who have strived hard for the welfare of other people, those who are legendary and almost hero worshipped) become great not by simply doing great things, but by commanding control over their other negative and destructive powers..by gaining a contol on their own senses..this makes their character deep, profound and the realm of life comes true in its own essence..it is such people who are close to getting nirvana or the bliss of enlightenment. to speak little but kind words that dont hurt any one..to be equally resilent in moments of highs and lows alike- this is a characteristic of a great and nobel human..i do not wish to sermonize anything..or give a lecture on moralism..but it is with some circumspection and introspection that i've come up with this conclusion..i will be oblidged if anybody who shares a different stage wishes to explore the medium of dialectics (the greek method of discussions over arguments..albeit theirs were political ones)..i think we all can benefit from this..
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