the bloom smiled,
the waft breeze apast,
the muck layered the stone
the shrivel of the snail
with the dead skin of the snake..
the woods were silent today
only the bees buzzed..
the dark of the night
camouflaged the rustic trunks..
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
the spoonful of full moon
its grace,
a marvel to trace..
its beauty reminisence
of thy presence..
greatness
in all its milieu
glory
with its ivory renew
a marvel to trace..
its beauty reminisence
of thy presence..
greatness
in all its milieu
glory
with its ivory renew
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.
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