The bird song

The main door was left open, the one made of wood

The netted one that opened to the outside remained closed.

There she stood, blocking ones way

waiting one way or the other

And here I was, hoping

that she stays, but not too long.

She stood there all day

her body as if nearly paralyzed

I would steal a glance once in a while

But with the hope

that i show no compassion.

I left as per my usual routine

Still not bothering myself with her thoughts

And I came back

to find her still

sitting at the doorstep!

I stared at her for a long time

persuading her to make way

so that i could get in

She seemed adamant

She budged no muscle,

made no movement.

Until a friend arrived

and took her in his arms

The miracle that followed was hard to believe.

She responded to his tender affection

and moved every way to portray the same

It was then that i took notice

of her and her miseries.

Her eyes were hidden

by puffs of white puss

Her head was shaved off her fur,

exposed in the worst possible manner.

I felt no pity but love

and hope for a speedy recovery.

And that she did exhibit

when she gulped in sparse food and water

And jump she did, on the stairs

To partake the joy of convalescence

with a stranger, unseen and unheard...

The unstoppable journey

Disclaimer: The content is as insignificant as its structure, so please do not read with the hope of finding any unique element in this piece of writing. You can call it a prose or a poetry as per your convenience, but read through for the sake of joy, if you find any!

Two legs

Walking towards a destination

It is a twenty minute journey.

These limbs are affected

by the cold

and weakness the rest of the body has to bear

or has been bearing for that matter

The soles are covered by fragile slippers

new and already repaired ones

The slippers have already accommodated tiny pebbles

somewhere beneath the cloth covering them

It hurts

but the legs have to keep up with the rhythm anyway

The pain is bearable

but evident

Especially when the rhythmic march takes place

The time period between each cycle is too much this time

It is not the pain

but the numbness that is spreading across each limb that has reduced the speed to half

The legs have to continue to keep up with the rhythm anyway

Five minutes seem like fifteen

every minute passing by... with only half the distance covered of the usual

Calves contract...to sustain the strength

There is another five minute journey to cover

But the legs are now getting used to the cycle

and five minutes don't seem to be that long

Until the white building appears...marking the end of the journey

And the arrival of the destination.

A hand that speaks...

A hand must never be compelled to work for the heck of it; hollowness is all you will find. It must be allowed to explore, experience and embrace that which is in avail around. A hand must love what it feels and must therefore continue, if and only if it loves to do the same. Let it not be imposed or enforced upon an object, an instrument or a person it is not inclined toward. If it chooses to remain silent, then silence it is that permits the best out of it. If it shivers in vigour, give it time to get back to what it is meant to be; self will always welcome it with open arms. Never push it to a path that leads to an aspired destination, so much that it should lose its sense of direction. Let it flow like blood in your veins, perpetual and uninterrupted. Make it your companion, not your enemy. Encourage its talent but never detest the impulsiveness that it reveals at times. Listen to what it says when it does, hear it out and respond to it as a friend for all that you wish for is happiness and contentment that you would get through your faithful mediator-your hand.

Today I shall write...

Today I shall write, with no definitive affirmation that I should ever write again although I look forward to doing the same with every minuscule attempt. I am probably not making sense at present but I am sure I will as and when this narration unfolds. While I am doing this, I shall focus my energy toward the personal self, what the self within me truly feels, only hoping that this attempt does not go unnoticed and futile. It must not be necessarily taken as an inspiration (the attempt to which, to my opinion must be avoided) but simply as an easy read, for I shall bear in mind that this piece of work must contain fewer complications. Therefore, I promise you a simple read but that it should be straightforward cannot be guaranteed. Today’s narration is an attempt to achieve something hazy and indefinite, yet a goal that ought to be accomplished to clear my conscience. Call it an idle mind or liberal uninterrupted thoughts; I can only hope that this one grabs your eye till the end.

Human mind is webbed amidst a closely entwined network of thoughts and feelings. There is no beginning or end to that, but there is definitely some substance that explains the purpose of its existence, in other words, the ‘how’ and ‘why’ behind such a traffic. To follow a structured pattern throughout to organize such a haphazard network is next to impossible for there are external factors that are in constant attempt to choke the uniformity, some of them including time, situation and reasoning. One cannot exactly slot such influences into one single category because these influences may or may not be related to one another. Talking about influences, there is another inevitable factor that enhances further entangling of thoughts: Relationships.

I don’t remember mother swaying me in her arms and telling me that she loves me; I always felt I was the neglected one, being the second child of the family. But I do remember her staying up for nights to ensure that I slept well, adding onions to potatoes just because I hated them plain, buying my favourite brand of edibles and clothing and at times, watching movies and sitcoms that I truly like. She has always been lenient and calm, yet her cool and reproachful attitude towards things she detests is a sight one would regret having witnessed. She worries, not to the extent of expressing them; she hates it when I spend more time with my friends and less with family members. She complains of my ill health and lack of immunity but keeps it to cribs and murmurs. Like every worried Indian mother, she fears that I may trip off the track and lose my sense of direction if I involve too much in peer activities and relations. But there are too many things that resist her fears and stand as a hindering obstacle between us: the generation gap and our obligations toward the roles that we play in our respective lives. As helpless as it leaves us, there is nothing that can be done to ease out things between the schematic mother-daughter relationships.

This is as much I care for maternal relations, as also other relations that I consider important. The word ‘maternal’ itself implies to very touching emotional aspects of nurture, love and care. Imagine when you have lived to this day where every moment of your life apart from your responsibilities and obligations, has been spent in nurturing a relation as tenderly as that of a mother and her child, the latter who grows to be an individual from a delicate infant. To this aspect of motherhood I empathize, but I must also point out aspects of it that often reflect in non-maternal relations for instance, friendship. For people who have witnessed profound emotions while sustaining a relationship as close friends, it is a fact that must not be overlooked. Relation is like a seed, it has to be nurtured; its sustenance has to be taken care of in order that it grows into a closely knitted one. This sprouts to what we term ‘unconditional affection’ between the people involved. However, such relations have weaknesses embedded within the strength and its essence. A delicate cord that it is, once snapped into exact half, takes greater time in either healing, or burying the past. The trouble hovering is the aftermath of such phases, a searing pain that resides in memories painful and even otherwise happy ones. So, no matter how hard you try to move on, one leg is stuck in the quicksand of past and the other dangling, struggling to live up to the future. You may either accept it or you may not; you are the mother and your once best friend, a child who either cares little or is not aware of the fact that you still care. Such is the tragedy behind your benevolence and your futile affection that is unseen, unheard and perhaps, even uncared for…

Good deed

Something stimulated my humble mind to do a good deed today. The usual college crowd encompassed the tiny juice stall to imbibe refreshments. Adjacent to the stall, the bakers’ corner peered at us while I along with few other friends chatted over cold coffee and fresh lime. The street seemed to be partly occupied by two huge vans surrounded by few dozen, probably preparing for an endorsement shoot (from what we could see, there were young boys in ‘undies’ walking across the street). There was nothing much that we could truly admire about the shoot set up and therefore we switched topics. On their usual time, the begging toddlers came around to grab a couple of coins for some food. One of them jumped and fell at our feet, danced till we got irritated and handed over a penny to him. But he wouldn’t stop! He evidently wanted more. He danced and jumped till he tripped only to injure himself. There was slight irritation in his tone when he groaned. He sat next to the bakers’ to gulp air through his mouth. His body had finally succumbed to fatigue and exhaustion. One of my friends offered him a glass of lime juice. He drank, took tiny sips; but something about his face told me that wasn’t what he wanted at that moment. He was hungry, to be precise, famished with hunger.
The wound on his leg caught my eye. There was an awful mixture of semi-solid pus and blood oozing down his leg. His face grew frail with pain and he could no longer bear it.
“Is it paining bad?” I asked
“Yes”
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“Five days back” he moaned.
I poured water over his wound and asked him to wipe it with the cloth he was holding. But that wasn’t enough. He was badly bruised at several other areas on his leg, previously acquired on bumping into a bike. I rushed to the medical stores to purchase an antiseptic cream and handed it over to the boy.
“Keep it, don’t throw it away” I said. He nodded.
“You seem to be hungry”
“Since morning”
Without giving it much of a thought I brought a packet of biscuits for him. Some of the other girls seemed to have sympathized with him too, because when I returned, he had a small pack of cake in his hand.
“You turned lucky today” I said, giving him the packet.
“Thank you” he said, in the best possible way that he could.
“Anytime” I said with a smile.

Frustration at its peak

One of the things I am sure people would love to abolish forever from their lives; an irrevocable phase of prolonged frustration doing the rounds till it naturally wears off. But the tale doesn’t end there. The core of frustration could be anything, lack of jobs, excessive workload, study pressure, family problems, and social conflicts to name a few. One of the most severely doped cases of frustration is the torrential threat of unemployment, basically referring to no proper commitment to external work. A recessional phase as such where people are being royally kicked out of jobs is a sad sight in this era. Possible reasons could be boredom, an ingenious seductress tempting multitudes of unemployed candidates with inundated time and leisure. The most unfortunate consequence of boredom is that it sticks to us, initially as an unwanted guest and later, becomes an addiction. People smitten by lack of work find it extremely tedious to come out of it, partly finding safety in its shell. The secondary symptom of frustration is desperation which is purely psychological, reason being a frustrated soul is bereft of taking proper actions to eradicate his problems, let alone finding alternatives to keep the mind occupied. Free hours often stimulates the ‘devil’s workshop’ to rotate the wheels of pessimism at full force. This is what makes us think that nothing can be done in life; at least till we find something that captivates our interests.

The power of sacrifice

Some of the greatest classics ever to be portrayed on the silver screen moved me to tears yesterday. I do believe that words have a penetrating impact on people who are vulnerable to sentiments but, to get carried away by something you have known for years is a rare sight. Passion of the Christ had a language of its own, the language of sacrifice. Although major portions of the movie highlighted blazing torture and blind faith, there were soft, reverberating words filled with love and selflessness toward mankind. Jesus of Nazareth was tarnished with guile accusations of breaking temple laws for which he was expected to pay the price of mortality. Therefore Jesus, ‘The lamb of God’ wholeheartedly accepted His commands and embraced death as a gift of Paradise. He was no philosopher or priest of a higher order, but the benevolent son of God who resisted every element of sabotage to spread His loving message. Every bit of bread served at the last supper was a part of his preaching to his followers, the humble yet scintillating power of sacrifice. Every ounce of blood squeezed out of his battered flesh integrated to form a river of forfeit and tolerance. He was crucified in incarcerating darkness, only to be resurrected in enlightenment.
The milking tenderness of self sacrifice indeed breaks worldly barriers and limitations, opening several windows to a season of pure heartedness and peace. It is one of those qualities that tangibly defines humaneness in itself or, the epitome of humanity that rules all other qualities that escort us to Him. It is believed that a person, who procures the quality of being selfless throughout his life, finally finds his place in serenity intervened by fleeting activities of mankind.

The Jewel of faith and hope

Wish I could call this a fictitious miracle, until it chose to show up in real life, that too in front of my eyes!

Having retrieved my knowledge of Christ’s resurrection at Mt Mary’s church, I walked past the pathway leading to the main entrance of the Holy abode to get to the other side. I climbed the spiral stairs of an open church that escorted me to a bigger version of the Crucified saint. A wave of remorse swept through my mind when I realized that I had offered all my candles to the main cathedral where one is bereaved of lighting any within the church premises. I quietly put forth silent prayers and rushed downstairs to join my friends at the end of the lane. A partly molten candle grabbed my attention for few peaceful moments, the meager time period that allowed me to take up a very sincere yet precious decision. I finally had a chance to light a candle as per my wishes.
I lit the candle at one end of the open church. I was tad unsure of its consistency for the wind blowing northwards had a violent rush that could easily defeat the tiny source of light. I cupped the flame with my palms to ensure that it keeps burning. The candle constantly kept me on my toes with its flickering and fluctuating flame. The wind grew strong all of a sudden, blinding my vision completely with cluster of dust particles encircling, rising above the ground. I was amazed at my own determination of protecting the candle from the powerful gush of air; this was one of the moments when I could feel the presence of continual faith and hope. I found myself profoundly concentrating on two things that mattered to me the most at the moment; the flame and the crucifix that I felt deserved such humble offering. To my own surprise, the candle continued to burn with brief periods of weakness and alternate spurting of tall thick aglow. I stayed there for what seemed to be really long in accordance to my watch; all focus diverted from the flame to reality. At the spur of moment, I was barely aware of the fact that all this time I was guarding the candle from the destructive winds. Eventually, one hasty move from the candle diminished all the faith and hope embedded within the flame. Ultimately, the gleaming epicenter of light lost power to natures roar.

Freshmen foes

At one corner of a family restaurant, my dear friend was shredding the eatery bill; not wholly, just the edges.
‘This damn thing should be in pieces by this time!’ her frustration was clearly evident on her face when she said that. I told her to proceed with her current activity without spoiling her surroundings but she wouldn’t listen. In a way, it was tough for her to imbibe anything because she was tormented by the kind of work she is now forced to do, for the next two months. I can hardly forget her excitement when she told me about the workplace.
‘It’s a huge posh glass building with a sophisticatedly dressed watchman at its guard. Plush furniture, classy sofas and peaceful work atmosphere; everything adds to that place! I am in love with my work already!’ she said.
‘But you haven’t even started with your job. Looks like that place has boosted your confidence to accept your work as they give you’ I added. It was good to see her in such cheerful spirits after several days of undue pressure due to a mandatory job quest. Little did I know that I would receive a call from her on the very first day saying ‘My job stinks’!
A freshman’s life takes you to the peak of rippling anguish at the time when gathering work experience is extremely crucial. For somebody who hits the bulls-eye on the first few attempts is considered the luckiest in contrary to those yet struggling in the quest. An employed fresher has a typical outcome toward his job. To begin with, if anything touches the delicate chords of self-esteem and ego, it stimulates the lava of frustration to spurt in disdain. We youngsters are so accustomed to being pampered back home that any kind of authoritative imposition bereaves us of a positive outlook or optimism of any sort. Boredom royally seeps in, uninvited and finds company in an already demotivated soul, one of the predictable symptoms of a fresher surrounded with nothing but work and little or no friends at the workplace. Ultimately, with all the loneliness and annoyance creeping in, the fresher is left with no choice but to accept that life is not all kudos as it seems from the surface.
I don’t know what is in store for me in the near future but I can already see myself slogging like a pig in the next few months. It is then you will find me at the corner of a family restaurant shredding paper...

Evil Influences-Part II

You and I are witnesses to the dark pits swallowing humaneness from our souls. Most of us are even deliberate victims of intoxicating drugs and booze, leading showmen of black markets and masterminds in milking money out of illegal businesses. If none of the above has managed to influence you, then a part of your past life is certainly playing the cards of mounting frustration, anger or disdain. People who don’t belong to the categories mentioned above are passive scapegoats of untimely displaced aggression. What stimulates evil minds at work is yet a mystery left unsolved. Several homes are mutilated of their bearers and strangled to death without a trace of their reminiscent. Cases of rape, robbery and ransom are amplifying at an alarming rate. Ordinary working class men are left shattered with dispair, wallowed in the darkest possible feelings of inutility and distress . The world is no longer a safe place to live now. ‘Revenge’ has finally seeped through intellectual thinkers to make way for uncanny greed, fleeting desires and sadism. Such is the expansive nature of evil whose vicious elements have poisoned every aspect of nobility in men.
I have a tale to share with you. A newly wedded girl comes home to a skillful doll maker, a dutiful and ambitious mother-in-law. The daughter-in-law is caressed and tended like a blooming delicate flower, providing her with abundant leisure and comfort. She becomes an obsession for the doll maker and a subject to the old woman’s only passion in life-carving dolls out of wood. The girl fails to understand the reason behind her eerie possessiveness and suffers in silence for doing all that is not expected out of her- cooking, cleaning or working at home. She is a living doll with no expectations or life of her own. She tries to discuss it out with her husband but he turns a deaf ear to them. One fine day, she decides to put an end to all her issues and weeps for vengeance. The girl from hell arrives at her doorstep and invokes vengeful motives wrapped in a red string. The string of vengeance, once untied brings about fateful consequences for the person you choose to punish in return to your sufferance. The girl is left with no choice but to get into a contract with the hell girl which says, if you pull the string you will have to give your soul in return. After your death, your soul shall be taken to hell…
The girl seeks her revenge and the old woman is escorted to hell. What turns out in the end is even worse than expected. The girl’s husband turns out to be an exact replica of his mother, clearly intending to make a perfect doll out of the young lady who has suffered so far and is destined to suffer still. And after all this, the young bride is yet to pay her debts off to the hell girl by delivering her soul to the demons below…

"When a person is cursed, two graves are dug..."

(courtesy: Jigoku Shoujo-Animax)

Evil influences-Part I

Disclaimer: The inputs of the content given below is inspired from the book 'The unseen world of angels and demons.' May I add that the content means no offence on religious basis and contributes little for its implementation of any kind. The subject is purely a reading matter and should be considered nothing else but the same.

For many long years, our ancestors struggled to unveil the mystery of life put forth by the Supreme power. It called for a surpassed era of profound research on religious grounds and evoked religious beliefs encoded within the history of mankind. It was only in the recent years that Basilea Schlink, one of the ancient philosophers of the kind, inferred upon the very purpose of human existence and the cause of perpetuating battles of morality. ‘The unseen world of angels and demons’ grabbed my gaze for its fortifying concept and the enraged letters that threw fire in every sentence against the evil. It rightfully justifies the genuineness behind the good against the deceitful intentions of the treacherous. With the growing devilish influence in many million minds, we can now believe that the world thrives in semi darkness.
It is believed that the court of God makes way for thorough goodness and purity. Angels who serve God serve humanity for human beings are considered to be a superior creation of the Revered one and an immediate imitation of God himself. One of the first angels to be created in his court was Lucifer, a bright, angelic prince, also known as the ‘light-bearer’ in paradise. He was the epitome of might, honourably bejeweled with every precious stone that one can manage to retrieve. He had only one flaw that shattered all expectations of divinity and glory, the hunger to rule over heaven. Albeit being aptly punished for his wrongdoings, Lucifer roasted through negative emotions and spewed his anguish upon the inhabitants of planet Earth. The fallen angels who fell for his tyrannical motives were from that day onwards named ‘demons’ and the ruler ‘Satan’.
The book further plunges through the redness of guile and sinful practices that are making us hollow and bereft of true humaneness. The author claims that the blanket of crime surrounding us is nothing but scheming motives of the devil. It dives through the concept with varying instances of the present day world. How far you can go on to believe this is only a matter of choice, although it makes us think and rethink about the mysteries of life and the many victims of cruelty and deceit.

Yet another thought...

It hardly matters on which day of the week you choose to walk down the moderately filthy streets of Pink Corner to eavesdrop in budding gossips or informative conversations. Every evening you will find chain smokers and occasional drinkers coining their grief and happiness in effervescence. These are undeniably top notch executives or well-to do undergrads grinding cashew nuts and work pressure with utmost pleasure. While most of us tend to become passive smokers thanks to the continual transmission of soot, it helps us to get acquainted with first hand information (not the front page headlines of a major newspaper) of any workplace in particular. Most of the time, their topics are confined to jobs and job-related issues, otherwise, discussing gizmo's and entertainment and back to business. This is because working class heroes have hardly any space left for other thoughts; they can hardly afford to live multiple lives. Competition is sucking out soulful lives yearning for a slice of success, intoxicating many ambitious minds. As a result, money and money alone invades and rules the thinking factory, closing all doors of peace and happiness.
Look down from your window and you are sure to find the youth dominating your streets, either rushing for classes or suffering under the hammering heat on a quest for jobs. From a distance, they all look like ants marching to and fro your locality. Walk down the stairs and try being a part of them; their eyes reflect events waiting to confide themselves, elevating spirits swaying in merriment contradicting famished hopes withering in unpleasant memories. Each of them is taught to think big, materialize their visions and slog to procure a PhD in survival tactics. Naturally the youth is fenced with added responsibilities blinded by the colours of educational perks and prosperity. The aftermath of seeping through premature exposure to the world of diverse work culture and milking money is irreparable. The undying thirst of earning easy money fades away with time when consequently boredom creeps through hollowness and monotony. The lucky ones who employ themselves at the right time barely have a choice but to thoroughly imbibe their jobs and inject the resourceful nuances of work through their veins.
The very concept functions like a melting ice-cream; lick it before meltdown, eat it before the flavor fades and devour it whilst it bears unique essence and mellow. The world thrives on changing spheres and trends, gradually increasing rapidity and pace, making survival an uphill mission to accomplish. Echoing the words of an underground musician, that day is not very far when fellow humans will be left quarantined of all providence's of Mother nature, only to die in nestling hunger for more…

The Grimm tales-king of fantasies!

With the Potter mania racing up the entertainment bulletins, fantasies have once again surfaced brilliantly raking oodles of fame and credit. The glamorous film world, as big as it gets has umpteen laurels attached to it thanks to the parallel universe of miracles studded with magnificent castles and majestic beasts. For this, we must offer a vote of thanks to the Grimm Brothers who created a whole new world of queer magical events, a base for the glorifying progress in every possible field of entertainment that would have been least possible without such marveling thoughts.

Ever thought of getting nostalgic with bedtime stories? How about walking through the miraculous woods where trees glide along your path, giant geese swoop down to drink water possessing magical powers to turn them back to four legged creatures of our creation, ancient rock designed to form enormous castles gravely embedded with creepy greens…? If that is what you grab for light reading, then brace yourself with many more Grimm’s tales of the fairyland, this time, stories that you have only heard of. Don’t be surprised if you are slightly gripped with curiosity and hunger to know more about the tale even after it ends, that is how Grimm brothers chose to curtain the climax. After having journeyed through the paradisaical territories of Royal Kings and gorgeous looking Queens, charming princes and distressed yet breathtakingly beautiful princesses, there is more to it before you can call it ‘stupidity’ and shut the book with that statement. The Grimm brothers depict the good taking over evil with god-like fairies battling with ugly looking witches. In the end, after a horrifying phase in the lives of good men, every living being is destined to live happily ever after…

If you are too tired to churn the wheels of your imagination, then the Brothers Grimm is an easy access to their stupendous ideas. The movie has a unique way of depicting miracles, clubbing tragedy and comedy with ‘Grimm’ plots. It is an interesting summation of almost all the fairy tales with every possible element of evil associated with it. The theme revolves around the Grimm brothers, fooling people with their tricks, little aware of the fact that they were only inviting social and political complications. The fictional fantasizing world of Jacob Grimm comes true and the siblings find themselves being carried past a jungle of haunting episodes, all the way to the sky scraping tower in which an arrogant princess sleeps her way through beauty and obsession of power. She uses fleeting strategies of the swallowing horse, the gingerbread man and the forest dwellers (i.e. birds and animals) to ransom a pretty looking girl in red, Gretha –a sister to Hansel; eleven such girls for a seasoning of their youth to nourish her parched physique with warm blood and glowing skin. The princess with her seductive instincts captivates men who come along her path to make them her slaves. Her pride that lied in the reflection of her own image (i.e. the mirror) is ruthlessly shattered to bring to an end her tyrannical motives. The movie of course ends on a happy note, the usual one of the Grimm’s with an ironical uncertainty: and they all lived happily ever after…maybe not!

I don’t mind people calling them children’s bedtime stories; they have deeper messages in between the lines. For example, the ravenous beasts serving the devilish enchantresses and witches depicts their evil mindedness and no matter how beautiful she is, her attire always reflects her wrongdoings, that every tale ends on a happy note is an assurance that it is good that prevails in the end etc. To me it is all of this that yet captivates my interests in fantasies. Now I would like you to tell me what interests you in fantasies and if it does, why and how…It’s high time I put my readers to work!

Just an emotional outburst...Part 1

Honestly if there is any room for global welfare, a tell-tale for fellow humans, it is just the way we have moulded it to be. We are so boisterously absorbed in our interpersonal dealings that nothing apart from an ideally normal life seems to have amused us. The holistic protests and outbursts, military bombardments and mass mortification are no big deal, just a part of life in this seemingly vast biological world. We seem to have busied ourselves into setting up fences around us, an illusive wired entourage shielding against such perilous events. Generation today believes in practicality and rational thinking, for it is equally important to live a commendable life. Look at the world around us, a mass victim of global recession, a scapegoat of constant man-made sabotage and a mere puppet dancing in the hands of fellow nations teaming up to make a peaceful planet Earth. The melody of harmonious and peaceful foundations that some of our ancient leaders have laid is undergoing a disdainful transformation. Soaring sea levels have inflation as one of the most loyal companions , which has only recently tumbled down in recent times. However, there has been a despairing slow down of global economic progress, that scarcely justifies hiking retail prices of goods and services.Why should vendors continue selling tomatoes for twenty bucks? Speaking of retail prices, why is it that dropping recession rates have little affected vegetable and oil prices?

Direful Destination

A gloomy paradise is blessed with inundated showers of bliss. The soft chattering gets aggravated to thick sheets and lashes out in rage, only to sabotage the glorious and timely inventions of the revered one. Enormous boughs and rattling branches slowly descend and shatter the pride of widened barks with violent dancing and swaying. The day succumbs to a thick blanket that leaps to encompass the atmosphere with swallowing darkness. The night feasts with great exuberance on triggered fright and frail of many a beast thriving on the delights of daytime. It is a cursed boon of which a young teenager becomes an unfortunate part, tripping and trotting her way back to the local city bus on a highway.
The girl is lost for sure and pays no heed to her grizzled hair and heavily dampened jacket. Her eyes are absorbed in self-sympathy and eagerness to seek shelter, now that she is nowhere close to a network of fellow humans. She maps her journey with every possible way that could lead her to a small town or an octroi. After covering a considerable distance from a spot of nothingness, she is back to where she came from- dense greens and lifelike trees staring back at a pair of perturbed eyes.
Albeit grappled with fear, the girl manages to spot a cave to the left of an old trunk. The cave is huge and appears gravely ominous. The girl rushes to the cave and walks further into it. Her quest for light and warmth is seized by a tug on her leg, a thick rope entangled on a horizontally placed wooden slab. She bends down to get a visible picture of the entwined rope and the wood only to discover a broken iron latch at one end of the slab. She unties the rope and pulls open the door that makes way for a flight of stairs descending downwards into pitch darkness. The girl tumbles into the doorway, although intimidated by her sudden discovery. Her curiosity however, compels her to follow her instincts, at the same time, allowing them to engrave her destiny.
Timelessness descends the wandering teenager to a place where stairs cease to exist. With every reluctant advance, a torch-light comes to life from either sides of an aisle. The aisle directs towards numerous doors sandwiched between a pair of torch-lights. The girl walks with greater pace and rapidity, intrigued by the series of ongoing events. On realizing the perpetual horizons of the aisle, she chooses to enter into one of the doorways, hoping to spend the night and kill time discovering creepy and unusual things. The door opens to a huge brown shelf full of thick leather bound books, ancient oak furniture and a webbed ceiling. She seats herself upon a comforting couch and fixes her gaze upon a pile of books weighing down a mystic brown table to her left. She picks one of them, a fairly thick black book to entertain herself through the night. The book opens to the following words…
‘… She is accompanied by an entourage of young boys and girls of her own age, chattering into the day with juicy gossip. The city bus comes to a halt and the teenagers jump out of the vehicle for some fresh air. The gang gets carried away with jittery talk and gradually drifts away from the highway to a nearby forest. The youngsters race amongst themselves only to be terminated by flashes of lightening followed by patter of raindrops. Almost every teenager manages to track down the city bus with the exception of a young girl who is left behind. She is trapped by the vicinity and is confined to dense greenery surrounding her from all sides. She walks deep into the forest and enters a huge cave for shelter. Very soon, she discovers a secret passage underground and walks into the doorway. She strides down the aisle and is benevolently guided by the torch-lights through the door that preserves a storehouse of leather bound books. She sits down and begins to read the story of her journey from the city bus to the mystified aisle. This book depicts her destiny and the place where her life will come to an end. She is soon to be devoured by four ravenous cannibals, eyeing her for a lavish feast comprising of succulent flesh and bones…’
The girl gives out a violent smirk to resist the adrenalin captivating her insides. She diverts her gaze from her book, to stare into a pair of jet black eyes coupled with rigidly cracked lips. The ferocious being seems to have replicated into three of his kind to leave the girl faltered with immense terror. They crouch towards her, craving for a rush of warm blood behind the pinkish epidermis and a bite into the flesh of the victim. They stare into the caricatures of the nerves that make up her terribly aghast face. Their propinquity swipes her ability to scream for help. There is little time left for her as the cannibals with their huge claws are almost ready to make her written fate into reality…

Daddy Dearest!

I remember taking giant leaps to keep up with his pace; walking with him always meant trouble to my skinny legs. He would take me to a nearby sports club for some exercise which was always of primary importance to him. Being a kid, I had trouble focusing on his explanations; sports talk is something that demands tremendous amount of patience. At the end of a tiring session, he would playfully lift me up and jog back home to get me dressed for school. That’s daddy to me, a sports champ and a thorough athletic package. Apart from that, one of the greatest time freaks I have ever witnessed in seventeen years of meager life. (That’s because he’d get started for our 10 minute journey to the educational institution an hour before its commencement!)
Biology being his favourite subject, he’d enjoy giving sermons related to the subject even when least required. One of his biggest lectures was on the external structure of heart and its internal functioning (which dates back to 1998, when I was a confused fourth grader). His knowledge was finally put to use in a science project which apparently turned out to have a great impression on my teachers. Those were one of the few, rarest of occasions when I acknowledged his affection as a father. A staunch believer in educational qualifications, he inculcated principles of basic knowledge and its significance, yet we (i.e. my brother and I) were never confined to academics. I was always pampered to a degree greater to my elder brother, who unfortunately, was the innocent one amongst us. He took pride in our achievements in a very queer manner; a manner that stood completely invisible to us till the time we were made to realize of its existence.
There came a time when it clicked me of his introvert nature, gradually enfolding itself. Being an exact replica of him myself, I despised his ruggedness and conservative conduct. I rooted various reasons to burst out on him, yet, he guarded respect, never stormed out directly to prove his point and till date stands out to be extraordinarily consistent in preserving that quality. Today, I feel extremely remorseful, never having acknowledged of his pertinence, protectiveness or even his mere existence without which my presence would have been practically impossible.
If the above sketch is a dry imitation of his own self, then let me clarify that the potential emphasis lies in this particular phase of his character- duties and responsibilities, all of which comprises of his shoulders that have abundant strength to fulfill them and immense practicality to perform them rightfully. His love for his family is in every way, as ordinary as anybody else’s could be. Yet, he has the power of doing what people are fretful to consider as one of their responsibilities- the power to initiate duty for the sake of it, not as a means to achieve anything out of it. The only reason that saddens me of him is, of all that he did for his dear mother, he was left with little or no time to grieve for her. I couldn’t help but feel proud and sorrowful for a loss that affected him more than it did to anyone else. It was as If the stretcher carrying her was the entire world crashing down on his shoulders. He was broke, yet he fought his grief to accomplish final rituals, a traditional quintessence for the soul of the dead to depart in peace.
How much ever I write about him, words are still few. This is one of the little ways of appreciating his support and his love for us. WE LOVE YOU DAD!

A thought to remember...

The International Monetary Fund yesterday issued a warning that record oil prices will stunt the growth of global economy next year….

“Post graduation in management studies would mean minimal investment of ten lacs. Can we afford it in times of recession?”

The state government’s decision to end the stamp duty amnesty scheme on February 15 led to considerable confusion among flat owners who….

“Let us assume that I obtain a degree in Mech. Not considering campus interviews and job opportunities, is it practical enough to opt for an MBA after that?”

…threat to boycott SSC/HSC exams if the state government does not clear salary sheets. Fully-aided schools…

“Your cousin sister is excelling in academics and is due to receive an offer letter from TCS this year. Well, she’s a nine pointer after all…”

Rewind: few years back
“…and don’t forget to carry your Tiffin-box. The least I expect is that you starve all day unnecessarily.” There is a single slice of toast left on the plate, half emptied glass of milk and bits of bread scattered on the ‘bearer-of-all’, our loyal furniture (table i.e.). You are half choked with a sickening combination of omelette and few gulps of milk. Prepare yourself for a single- warrior combat and get set to play the hero who gets defeated in the end! Mommy dearest will ensure that you are showered with the deadliest of whacking and an elevated spirit to be welcomed at school. You are taught very well to walk up a miles distance without relying on anybody; your back is embellished with a two kilo bag lazily slumped over your shoulders and a pair of dragging feet. Pretty much to your advantage, you have a half hour’s time to flush out your frustration. Eating breakfast is such a waste of time! I am fed up of being stuffed with bread and milk every morning…That old school fellow..! He’s too full of himself; I will beat him in marbles today. Forget homework, I am yet to finish my class work. About the book that I am to submit today, I don’t remember keeping it in my bag….
Such events bear major importance within them, equivalent to a minister’s appointment with his fellow cabinet members, a celebrity interview with a news channel and a mid-life crisis. Every morning greets a play with a protagonist encompassed with petty jobs and too much load, the responsibility of fulfilling his/her parents expectations by religiously walking back and forth to school, completing homework assignments and attending to additional commitments that people often mistakenly address as ‘multi talent’. Amidst all the haunting tasks, the ‘star-kid’ speeds off to hit a couple of shots or pick up a ‘toy’ fight with neighbourhood tots. The joyride is not confined to concrete school grounds and brick red open spaces; there is constant chattering by the seas, getting defensive off the giant water bodies, munching on peanuts and feeding spicy red ‘pav bhaji’ gravy to already dirt smitten clothes. There are huge monuments and sky scrapers looking down upon the bearer of innocent eyes widened with wonder and excitement. Every moment of exhilaration is an outcome of- the right time to grab an ice cream, a race through wet streets washed away by the showers of first few drops of rain, a giant alien ‘toy’ loitering in the streets destroying thick ‘rubber snakes’ dug beneath the earth, our dear samosawala’s arrival and discount toy stalls set up at the neighbourhood grounds, to name a few. The carrier of such innocence and half knowledge is yet curious to know why, with a zillion things worthy of appreciation, is the world around him/her unhappy and tensed?
The protagonist is a toddler who appraises the gravity of any situation like we do, today as young adults or experienced elders. The innocent ‘five and something’ will grow up to evaluate every circumstance in a manner he/she is taught to, lest there should be a reason with enough pertinence for an exception. The basic difference lies in the changing degree of appraisal with passing time. In other words, what may have seemed to be challenging then is now a part of sweet memoirs of the past and is therefore, no longer a challenge. The innocence in procuring joy out of cute and cuddly events is swiped out with growing maturity. Once the burden of responsibilities is bestowed upon us gracefully by the older generation, we fail to gratify those moments which add up to our lives, our age and the individuality that develops over time; the little reasons that carved gradual smiles on our faces, the tearful ones and those that brought immense happiness even in times of grief.
As much as we wish to have those days of dashing bicycles and ‘galli’ cricket back in our lives, technically it is said to be an impossible dream. For all that God has left with us, let us live in harmony and spread happiness with this thought in mind: the privilege of living through childhood, the greatest of all gifts granted to mankind.

Random thoughts

Writing is the toughest job I have ever come across. If I consider every minute of my routine, I have a hundred jobs to perform on a daily basis. There are times when I feel like pouring out each passing moment on a piece of paper which is far from being possible.Sometimes I can feel my head throbbing, overburdened with random thoughts, trying its level best to channelize its priorities and ultimately, failing to do the same. It is only when I am walking down the street or preoccupied with important commitments of the day, I am struck with a turbulent flow of thoughts worth putting on paper; which is when I am stuffed with frustration with layers of disappointment piling up. After going through a series of emotionally vibrant episodes, I have drawn an inference: I write only when I feel I should and if it is good, it happens only once in a while. It has nothing to do with my emotions, my mood or psychological elation and tribulations. I am in a stage where I could bring out issues never intricately considered or thought of. Yet, I lack the ability to let the flow descend without obstruction. If you consider writing as a learning experience, you may jot down points for framing sentences in accordance with the topic chosen, the body construction and the impression one can make upon the reader by projecting a wacky introduction. In that sense, it is an uphill task to perform, an added responsibility for passionate readers and those who aspire to make it big as writers. The most peculiar aspect of being a part of this race is, you can always back out whenever you want to, but you will always have a mark of your own to remind you of your role as a writer. You will know your importance as one when you choose to opt out of it. Escaping or making giant leaps towards resignation from writing could be an easy option altogether, but one of the most difficult situations to deal with. If you are heavily doped with thoughts and have had experiences with ink and paper, then writing is certainly meant for you. If bad writing makes you feel low, remember one thing: writing is an art of playing with words, juggling them and putting them in the right places. It is synonymous to building a new outlook towards life. In the process, you are always learning something new from your own literary work. It is a skill acquired by few in this world of teeming millions, mastered by a handful. Bad period should never be mistaken for lost talent, it is something that develops and diminishes with passing time…