Of Wisdom and Wonder

Twisting and turning,

Like a sweet, unending melody,

On the lips of time,

A divine parody.

Melting in that brown gaze,

Like a an ember caught in a flame,

In burning fields of ice,

So much different, so much the same.

 Like a walk in a waking dream,

There he was, like a god descended.

Twisting the fabric of time,

Playing again, a song I thought had ended.

The final blow to a dying man,

Like mercy, delivered too late. 

His eyes wandered over me, questioningly.

And I sat just there, at heaven's gate.

A ravine separated us,

Uncrossable, unfathomable in its finality.

And yet, I saw him looking,

For a favor upon fate's venality.

A platter of what might have been,

Has been fortuitously served to me,

But why do I watch paralyzed?

Why does my heart foolishly fill with glee?

But here it is, the forgotten dream,

The lost beauty of it, beckons,

And I sigh, rooted.

Spent a second there, or eons.

Melting in that brown gaze,

In burning fields of ice,

My fumbling mind, in a daze,

Still wonders if speaking was wise.

The Conflict

A beautiful moon, a starlit sky;

All the best things of things gone by.

A laughing face,

No worries, not a trace.

What happened then to those days?

Why did you leave that beautiful place?

So eagerly, in search of more,

Looking behind door after door.

And one day you circled back,

Feet weary, hauling a torn up sack;

You came back to where you started from,

Couldn’t walk back in, but lingered some.

Watched through the glazed window,

The warmth inside, memories of long ago;

You yearn, you moan, you try to recreate,

You try, you fail and curse your fate!

You ask yourself why, and where and how,

Your tears fall free, and head bows.

Was it wrong to leave that moment behind?

With all its perfection, will there ever be another of its kind?

Look down at the fog that is today,

Carelessly, stepped into while your eyes were astray.

Looking back, unseeingly, at that memory long gone,

That perfect moment, that day, that dawn.

Now do you blame Fate, who can only lead the way?

What could She do, if you were looking away?

Another dark thought, that of guilt,

Hanging over you like a leaden quilt.

So it’s my fault, is it?

That in my sadness I sit.

Wondering where all the light went?

Those angels, those smiles that God had sent?

Don’t pause, don’t stop!

Go on and on, chop, chop, chop!

Have you never looked back and seen how far you have come?

How much you have walked, flown and swum?

You looked, but never looked away.

You walk backwards and sway!

What point is it, looking forward?

Am I not blind to what comes onward?

And please don’t beg me to live in the present!

Enjoy every minute that God has lent;

When each minute is busy ticking into the past,

Walking backwards, indeed! All too fast!

So what do you suggest should be done?

The past, present and future are one!

I walk backwards, I can still see someone,

Moments I loved, even if they are done!

Walk forwards, head held high,

Drink in every sadness, and let it out in a sigh.

Those were beautiful moments, unforgettable were some!

But always remember the masterpiece is yet to come.

-me

The Supermarket

I don't know how I got there. I'm not at all sure what I was doing there. A loud beep woke me out of my pondering.

"Staff announcement.. Request clothing department team to report to sales head immediately.. I repeat! Staff announcement..."

The bored voice that was speaking was fading into the background as I noticed my surroundings. I was in a supermarket. A loud red and green sign caught my eye.

Correction.

I was in a 'Hypermarket'. In the dry fruits section. I was also suddenly aware that I was holding the cold handle of a grimy shopping cart with one hand and a packet of cashews in my other. Looking around I noticed that everyone was busy bustling around picking up items, debating prices, talking on their respective mobile phones. I let my eyes wander around, following a toddler enjoying a ride in his dad's shopping cart.A teen was staring out of zombie eyes, pretending to listen to his mom through the loud blaring of black metal on his earphones and consumerism at its best, in general, was in action all around me. It occurs to me that everyone around me is buying stuff. Ergo, I must be here to buy something. D'uh. If only I could figure out what it was.

I might as well get the cashews, I thought and plopped them into my cart. Probably moving through the store would jog my memory. The next aisle had chips, eateries, canned juices, juices in tetrapacks - the whole snacking deal. A couple with a baby was here, comparing prices between two juice brands. I moved on to the next aisle just struggling to steer my cart around theirs.

Two minutes of oh-so-exciting suspense and voila! I'm at the breakfast aisle. Cereal, bran flakes, oatmeal, idly mixes, instant dosa mixes, dehydrated fruits? Ok, we get it. The WHOLE deal. But do I need any of that? I decided a little cereal couldn't hurt.The next minute I'm having a staring contest with the 20 something brands of cereal that were gathering dust a good few metres into the aisle. Spending 15 minutes in the breakfast aisle, I have narrowed down to 2 cereal boxes. I grab them both thinking I'll filter it down later and row my cart further down.

Half an hour down the line, I realise, the breakfast cereal drill was repeating all around me. Move. Stop. Look. Compare. Get Confused. Buy or chuck a couple of options into the cart to decide on later. Move again. Its like the whole crowd is enchanted by the same spell. The same expressions flitting on each and every face over and over again, aisle after aisle.

My companion, the shopping cart, which was getting quite full by now was creaking ahead of me. Clearing my path, bumping into obstacles now and then and making me stop to think I need another item I suddenly spot near my right hand or my left leg that I had not thought of a moment ago. Waiting in the line for the weighing scale, I had a sudden unexpected moment of clarity and I wondered for a second, who or what was I shopping for? The thought suddenly depressed me and made me feel sad, lonely and tired. Exhausted. The whole dance of walking through never ending aisles of items from a kazillion brands that seem all to be the best of their kind, not knowing which one to choose, not knowing which one is going to be a blunder, comparing confusedly and finally squinting at the products blank minded, and hoping badly that humans were able to see the future or make decisions in a split second was -well - exhausting. I was drained, lost, and not at all sure whether I had made all the right decisions. Sure, there was that sweet girl who helped me pick out the *perfect* curtains. But doesn't she get a commission for that work? Its her job to make you pick something out. How do you know which ones to really pick, which ones are really good and even if they are all the best, whether you really need them or not?

"That would be about 1.6 Kg, ma'am. Would you like me to make it 2 Kgs?"

A handsome man at the weighing scale was pointing to the set of oranges I had picked out. Oh, it was my turn already. He seemed so friendly, with his crinkly eyes and the simplest smile I have seen in the whole place. I refuse his offer, though, thanks to my recent reconsideration.

Creaking on forward, I find the travellator. There was a small line forming to get on to it. An old lady was having trouble absorbing the fact that this here was a piece of sloping floor that moved by itself. "What if I slip? What if it swallows up the end of my dress??" She demanded answers from an exasperated attendant. Finally, people started moving around her as she gripped the handle of her shopping cart as if holding onto dear life. Murmurings, laughter and  looks of pity went out her way. I'm not sure what the expression was on my face.


At the end of the travellator, and at the end of a long series of advertisements pasted all along the two walls, a man was helping everyone get off safely with their shopping carts. How strange. I wondered if this was his job all day along. I could envision someone arranging the various items on the aisles, ordering them, billing them, cleaning everyone else's messes, but just standing around helping..? That's very rare and unbelievable!

On the way to the billing counter, I found so many products on display it was almost painful. It was as if there were 'strategically positioned' to attract consumers on their way out to being tricked into feeling like they needed one of those. I think I my brainwaves caught an echo from one of the marketing meetings held in some unseen conference room in there. Or its that glaringly obvious. Maybe a little of both.

At the billing counter I see the couple with the baby from the juice aisle, a cute looking guy I bumped shopping carts with at the fruit section and a really bored sales executive. The cute guy was just collecting his purchases and looked at me, a one last look before leaving. Why'd I meet him, never to talk, just to exchange a couple of meaningless looks and wonder forever as to what that was?

My eyes follow his back to the exit. A man sat by the exit, recently billed, he was looking intently at the bill. It occurred to me that he was counting the items he had purchased and trying to figure out whether he had been billed for something he had not carted. He was now counting on his wrinkled fingers and squinting through his thick reading glasses trying to figure out whether the total was correct or not. A sudden wave of sympathy went out to him in my mind. Did I even think before I carted even the most expensive item on my cart? Would I one day be sitting there in that seat, wrinkly eyed, shaking hands, trying to save an insignificant penny?

Beep. Beep. Beep. My billing had begun. The items I had carted were being fished out and passed through a laser. Tags read and entered into the bill. Accounted for. Next the items were all collected into a polythene cover and handed to me with a smile. I walked a few steps and looked down at my bundle. My collection. My bulging shopping bag full of stuff I did not know whether I fully needed. It was slowing me down as I hauled it to the exit and handed my bill out to a sinister looking security guard who punched it through ominously like passing a sentence. I looked back at the hypermarket before I walked out into the bright daylight. Shiny marble floors, full of choices, befuddled and lost people that you met randomly, who took away a lot of things that they really did not need and some others who couldn't even afford what the needed and, bored attendants who could not care less, an ever increasing sense of burden, a vision of the future and finally an exit sign glowing bright green ahead of you. Every SMS joke I had ever read about life being compared to ice creams, potatoes, tomatoes and what's nots came to mind.

The best joke ever? Life's a supermarket.

Correction.

Hypermarket.


-me ;)

The View from the Other Side

Evening dawned. Lacy veils sailed across the Sun and the whole world blushed a delicate pink. In all this drama, another epic of a different kind played itself out like clockwork. A grey office building, quiet and seemingly abandoned sprang to life like a nocturnal animal rousing itself from slumber. People milled out like bees from a troubled hive. A hoard of buses stampeded into the campus and stood staring at the crowd rushing about to find their seats. They awaited the arrival of their occupants impatiently, growling. Vehicles whizzed in and out of a poor gate that stood by and wondered what the hurry is all about.

This was a daily scene to my eyes. I watched as the watchmen blew their whistles; I watched as people watched other people run about from the high bus windows. I watched as my bus got fuller and fuller with every hurried step I took.

As I jumped up the last step that propelled me into the bus which was picking up speed, I knew it was already late. My seat by the window on the right side, with just the right amount of wind, and the right distance from the exit was taken. I always thought that the phrase “Shakespearean tragedy” was meant for something that involved a lot of funny sounding words and a sad thing that really wasn’t all that sad. But somehow, minus the funny sounding words, here was one. To my further dismay, and a small (very small) percentage of relief, I found a seat on the left side of the bus, at the very end, next to a permanently yawning window.

I sat by my new discovery, quite tired. A whirlwind of thoughts blew as a tycoon in my mind. The most prominent one being that this was the wrong side of the bus. As the road flew past, with all the buildings I knew, on the other side, I grew even further vexed. I closed my eyes in that next second, cursing inertia that pulled and pushed at me, in all the wrong directions.

Cue 1: The honk of the bus horn by an irritated bus driver at the first traffic signal.

I heard it from afar. As if from in the dreams I had almost slipped into. Or perhaps it was just the distance from the engine that made it seem so. (That was so wrong!)

 Opening my eyes, I saw the familiar haze of smog that escapes a traffic jam. Trapped within it however, the many vehicles around me floated in the miasma. Quite as helpless as plankton caught in a current. From my vantage point, I saw what was left of the sun shining out onto the traffic, smiling. Maybe it was amusing for him to feel superior enough to never have to face a traffic jam himself! A glint of reflected light caught my attention. It was coming off a handheld mirror in the auto next to me. A girl, or a woman maybe, was touching up her make-up. She wore a pair of blue shorts, a pale yellow shirt on top and a lot of beads. The tips of her hair were curly but that’s about all I could see of her head. Trendy blue nail paint on fingers and toes and rockster slippers completed her outfit. No matter how hard I craned my neck to complete my vision of her, I was left stranded without the advantage of an adjustable seat like the one I normally occupied in office. All I saw of her face was a blue-smudged eye liner and a glistening tear sliding down her ear phones..

And I closed my eyes once more.

Cue 2 : The jerk of brakes at my favourite traffic signal.

I had been tracing the route in my mind. We had arrived at the fabled café of yore. The one I always saw from the other side of the bus. Strange, it had always seemed so far away and never quite as high-resolution as now. Twilight had arrived and soft red lights were hanging over tables in the café. I found it deserted. Even the television inside seemed to be on mute. Only one table was occupied. An old man by the counter was eyeing the table. But blissfully unaware of this and everything else, the couple there sat immersed in each other’s shining eyes. A steaming coffee lay in between them, untouched, holding it’s breath. The tissues, the spoons and even the useless forks and knives were gallantly playing out their parts as excuses for hands to meet. The silly little napkin spread out its wings at the first opportunity, to play cupid. Both of them fell for it. In the dive to save the napkin, they banged their heads against each other. And suddenly, the café was echoing with laughter, and the old man was smiling reminiscently at the coffee machine.

A vein seemed to have taken to throbbing by my temple by then. I retreated once more into my tycoon of thoughts, closing my eyes on my way in.

Cue 3: Water from god-knows-where struck my face, quite rudely jerking me back from my slumber.

 I remember thinking that this was really the most horrid side of the bus. It was already dark by now, and the bus was following another vehicles bumper at a snail’s crawl. I saw a house right beside me. So close, I could have stepped in if the window allowed it. It was a small house with no space even for electric lights. Shrouded in darkness, a family sat by the footstep that lead in. The mother and her daughter sat pre-occupied. The former being busy with her motherly duties of worrying after her daughter’s beauty, was combing through her hair diligently. The father and son had their hands busy at a pottery wheel, moulding and shaping a beautiful pot out of thin air. Wherefrom they had the light to see how their work was turning out was beyond me. I squinted and squinted to catch a closer sight of their handiwork. All I could see was a warm little light, a flame: fed and protected all night, I’m sure. And I watched it burning away in front of a shrine: a small glass frame, a tiny photo of God, a couple of flowers in a small dark house by the side of the road: all from the wrong side of the bus.

Cue 4: My stop.

I stood up, stretched and observed the general etiquette of waiting impatiently by the side of the engine as the bus drew to a halt at my stop. I got down to almost step on the broom an old lady was using to sweep up the debris left behind by the wind. She looked at me with her wise wrinkles and sighed away. The bus ride having ended, my feeling of unfamiliarity with the world ceased. My head was oddly clear and silent. And as I stood there waiting to cross the road, watching the old lady gather troops of leaves, looking at an old gentleman sitting by himself at bus stop, a newspaper in hand, I realised something that not everyone might easily understand. The whole world rushes about busy with its own sense of being busy, quite unaware of things around it. Sometimes, a meaningless array of unconnected images, incomplete and yet, potent in their own right, can inspire an infinite calm of understanding and familiarity.

 A few drops of rain began to splash down upon the road. The old lady hobbled up to the bus shelter. The man unfolded his newspaper and shelved it into halves. Handing one half to his broom wielding neighbour, he sat back down on his seat settling to watch the world again. I smiled as I glimpsed my seat on the wrong side of the retreating bus. With my new found eyes- the gift of a bus ride that was supposed to be all wrong- I walked off into the rain.

  

Elements

[attempted haiku :)]

a strong current of deep clear blue

flowing incessantly

words from my pen

a star studded summer's night

scented grasses nodding drowsily

ingredients in a love potion :)

curled fingers in the cold breeze

brown ones melded with honey coloured softness

autumn leaves on a moss blanket ;)

cavernous and dark

bright white daffodils, dancing to the breeze

tulips with sparkling dew on her arms and neck

at the gala of your words ;)

bowed heads, silence and peace in lowered eyes

and angry faces withering away; i pray:

do not awake me, i just lived a dream

a bright sun and a starry night

in the deepest corners of the sea

hope :)

A little learner

I think the saddest thing in the world,

Is an empty book.

A lifeless shell, it is

With no mystery to unfurl...!

Like a stage deserted by the actors,

Void it is of jovial and somber characters

As a dumb girl tries to speak,

So look the blank pages, morosely bleak…

And as it collects dust on the shelf,

I dare say, it has never felt,

The fragrance of fresh ink on itself...!

Moist fingertips, aquiver with excitement,

Have never touched its yellowing parchment...

Its gray cover, torn and peeled

A great fate sadly sealed.



What once should have held wisdom immortal,

Now lies empty, tatty and tired.

On my shelf, like a tarnished coral,

Neither sought nor admired.

And yet, when I asked the poor thing,

Staring at her kindly face, worn and withering,

What she thought of her pitiful fate,

She gave me, very jauntily, a jejune reply

Which reminded me strongly that she hailed from a century old date..!



But now, pondering about it cuts off my word supply

So, I shall simply tell you what she said.

[See if it sinks in - I certainly doubt it- it’s almost as heavy as lead!!]



"You are mistaken, my lil friend," was her word,

"As a not yet does not mean never,

My state maybe pitiful now, but it needn't be so forever!"



So, she was and is, as a book ought to be,

She played a game of words with me and I simply couldn't see..!

But when comprehension dawns on you,

Do remember to light my corner,

For you see, I am as I shall ever be, just a little learner... !!! ;)

Of Reality

When I told her the rubies were fake
She believed me, for believing's sake
And I told her the words weren't true
She said I know, 'and so do you'.

The silk was cotton through and through,
There were no flowers, no fireflies on the dew,
The butterflies were of paper and confection,
The blue sky was just a cheap reflection.

Fluffly clouds, bought at their billowy best,
Were just dusty dandelions and all the rest;
Aimless markless, flying seeds,
The pearls were just shiny beads.

The clasp of the emeralds round her fair neck,
The golden dress trailing along the deck,
The sight of the night on the moonlit sea,
All a dream, a fantasy.

Never once did she believe me.
Not a single accusatory look, or plea.
For the bare truth that I gave her ,
Wrapped shabbily in glaze and lacquer

The day came when it could no longer be,
And all she did was smile at me.
A silver tear leapt at her cheeks,
'My dear', she said, 'all these days and weeks',

'I patiently listened to you tell me of the end
But by the river, at the road's bend
When you left me alone at the foggy fork
It was very much my real heart you broke.'

-Me :)

The Strangest Melody

It may just have been coincidence that had brought them together. Or was it fate? But to me, it was most certainly the music- the music that melds the various rhythms of different lives to give birth to a whole new tune which is strangely magical and yet, so earthy. In our case, the music was the soul and the progenitor of the story; a passion all of us shared. It was very clear each day that the eight were getting closer than ever. What I saw, however, was a wholly different perspective, now. One I have learnt a lot from although even that knowledge seems too feeble a weapon for defense in my most recent personal war. Like I said, it’s the music that brought us together and it held us together like a magnet. Sometimes, there was nothing in the world except music that united everyone but other times were different. Youth is a strange melody by itself. It was deeply ingrained in us some time ago; especially the five boys. But it was not the only beat that made the songs then mystical. Each one of the eight had a beautiful tune to their souls. Every single one had a power that spoke to the other with such intensity that I often wondered what would happen if, one day, all the whispers became loud and clear. Of the three girls, one was always the centre of all attention. The lark’s song and the bear’s hum was she; an intimidating beauty with such energy as to shame even a lively spring. She was the prime singer. Her accompanist was also much the same, although most of her charm lay in the admiration of her friend. Ever the companion, she was already spoken for, and hence, her beauty was veiled and sometimes, unnoticed. But it was the other girl who brought with her the mysterious beat which changed the sound of our lives to actual music. She was the new singer, a talent everyone coveted and a quiet charm that held all in the vicinity speechless. It was not that she held any particular beauty. No fairies wove her hair into gold and no flowers lent their petals to soften her skin. It was the smile that captivated any beauty she possessed and yet, her silence stole into everyone’s mind. Who knew that silence, too, was such a haunting melody?? The spell had slowly descended on each young man.
Smitten first was the lead guitarist; a dark, handsome fellow with words like warm, molten chocolate on his lips and the eyes of fire. Each time they spoke, everyone knew, and yet, all they ever talked about was music. It had all started with whispers and then, a gale had rushed it on. Now, the drums were beating a steady drone. Only the pianist seemed unaware of the new notes discreetly filing the air. Perhaps, he was too lost in her deep brown eyes to notice? He drank her words in and his eyes danced at her sight. Every question she asked was abstracted by the guitarist but the pianist filled in all the gaps. He answered all her questions, gave her all the keys and surrendered completely like a vine on a tree, in complete faith during a lightening storm. The girl was puzzled, the staccato beats of her life were beating, now, too fast and her heart silently wept. The guitarist, you know, was not very considerate. He was also very moved by the prime singer. He swayed to her tunes and danced in her sunshine, sometimes forgetting to whom he bequeathed his heart. Harsh cymbals were his lips, to the girl’s ears, each time the prime singer was in the room and our girl still spoke to him tenderly. Her song faded and her silence stopped breathing the fire it normally did. But it is not to be forgotten that all the youth in the house was already charmed by the silent beauty. Her soft brown eyes and her lively ways, like that of a child, held their hearts. This did little to console her, though. All she saw was the guitarist, his words, his intellect and now, his silence. But he was too enchanted by the prime singer. He went so far as to tell our lady to stay away, in less subtler words than you would imagine could pass between two people who are so smitten by each other. She smiled and stepped away but all she thought about was his sweetness and missed, each day, the words he had said, like feathers on her ears, in times of pain. Her only comfort was the fond friend she had found in the pianist. Slowly, they grew closer. Sometimes, a sharp note form the strings, would remind her that she was bring watched, but she couldn’t care less. The nights she had spent with lonely songs on her lips, the beating of an aching heart and the whispers of the winds of change were all she heard. She only saw the times the prime singer and the guitarist spent together like lovers who could not see or hear anybody else. She felt slighted, hurt and avoided, like notes in a melody he had skipped to make his song better. But what use was the song he sung now which would but last a minute? Our girl had seen the prime singer talking thus to many young men. She was a common note in many songs and one that often destroyed those who depended on her. She pretended that her life was an open book but, in fact, the hidden notes of her life were only heard by those who were not smitten by her loud exterior. They were raucous like a crow cawing in the middle of an orchestra and the orchestra itself was contributed to by too many young men for it to hold any remote beauty.
Time passed and she learned to slowly look away from the guitarist and his wily betrothed. She saw much of the pianist now, but there were things about him she never understood. At times, he was a soft melody that lingered near her with warmth that touched her heart. But mostly, he was a discontinuous song. It was like listening to a tune that suddenly sky rocketed and then died down, only to rise again a moment later with the right stimulus. Still, she felt her life was not completely empty. Sometimes she ached for the fullness of the guitarist’s words and cried her heart out to her pillow. But more or less, she had learned the ways of the song she lived and learned to burn quietly when in the prime singer’s company. Once in a while, the piano keys struck up a lively tune and she smiled away the minutes and hours. The rest of the time was spent with her friends, with the thought of the guitarist always at the back of her mind. She hated attending gatherings now, to watch her love being played with. But she had to and she did, thus, bleed.
One such fateful day, at their last-gathering-to-be, the pianist playfully handed her a rose. Innocently, she took it with a sparkle in her eyes, right in front of the others. It did not matter to her as to who was looking, in her opinion; the guitarist cared not for her. But who knew a rose was such a terrible curse? Maybe its pouted lips that burned red were frozen in an eternal song that spoke of an unrequited kiss? The skies descended on our poor girl that very week. The guitarist was now open about this cold war with her. He refused to talk to her. It pained her so much. The secret of her silence had been the wounds of all the years that had scarred her heart. The worries of home, the absence of friendly prayers and now, this new tragedy was pulling her further into the dark abyss of pain than she had ever been. She tried and tried to convince herself that if he skipped her notes, she must not worry about his. But somehow, she cared too much for him. The pianist was ever present, all through, like a visiting tune.
One morning, our girl finally plucked up the courage to write a song for her beloved and sent it to him through a messenger. To this day, she awaits his response, listening for the slightest note in the absolute silence.
On my part, having heard her tragic tale, I wonder, as I stare at the pictures in my hand that had brought back all the memories to her like an eternal song waiting to be sung.
My wife’s beautiful face was peaceful on the pillow. She had just poured her heart out to me, including the details of her long wait. After twelve years of marriage, I found out who truly held her heart. “Love is a strange malady”, she had said before falling asleep. Suddenly, I found myself thinking back to our special moments and wondered if she had said all those things she had then to me or to her lost love. The wind blew in a draught and a lock of hair covered her face. There as a tiny tear on the edge of her eyes, waiting to drop softly onto her cheek. The trees outside hummed their lives away in a tune no one seemed to hear these days. As I looked at her and the song that she is, the rhythm that had breathed life into my eyes, I heard the beats change and mingle with her laughter. “What a strange melody love is”, I whispered to the trees as I bent over her eyes and kissed her tears away.


-me :)

The Polythene Leaf

Pictures speak a great deal of things that exist and things that may not tomorrow, things that may fade to remain just as pictures. They may tell tales, sorrowful and joyous; of struggles and wars, for winter food and shelter; of every leaf that dries up in a sacrifice to fall exactly when and where it should to make this world serenely picture-perfect. They speak of each tree that hides a mark of violence upon it (for our matches, paper and trinkets) and still, smiles down with its shade. They whisper of the crickets that chirp goodnight to every child in the world without fail, night after night and the breeze which exposes new jewels of sand and stone for man to see and covet. They usher into our imagination the winds of the night that lull the world into a warm, dreamy sleep; the fireflies lighting her path as she helps each new sprout grow in the moonlight and the tender leaves that burn a bright red at her touch; vines that snake their arms onto the snoring trees, lovingly stroking each wise bough and tall grasses nodding in agreement with the sway of the world, or the frogs gawking at their toes.
No wonder each morning we wake up to a foggy sky, each leaf nestling a sparkling dew. A mother’s tears at the beauty of her own child: every blade of grass that’s new.
I find that many such splendid sights pass me by everyday. The serene lichen-patched trees humming in content in a breeze that struggles to maintain its flow through the dense thickets and undergrowth of concrete. A rustle or two here and there announced a bird, a cricket or a laboring insect. At the height of a few hundred meters, a breathtaking view fills my senses with a joy that drains my tiredness away like a magical elixir. It's easy to believe when surrounded by a few trees that there's only a silent, watchful forest and nothing beyond but for the harsh reminders left around by fellowmen. A blue patch here, a white one there and sometimes a used bottle of energy drink- telltale signs of human invasion.
Inevitable, though our venture into the lands around is, the urge to see all, know all and conquer all has always been the rise and the fall of man. It is true that there might not have been cross continental culture today had there not been the spirit of exploration and conquest in men. But to win over a land, and to invade it are two different things. Our ancestors were reverent of nature and treated her as as a mother- a giving hand and a soul that lives around us and through us. Today, Lucifer has subjugated all hearts, and in the darkness whispers for nature’s soul. Hammering axes, screaming saws, toxic factories spewing plastic every second are not the end of it. The pollution meter is running out of control with the charts and readings going berserk in overpopulated cities-and yet, that is at least expected. But who would expect to find, in the middle of a beautiful jungle -that makes you feel like you are living the best fairy tale ever written- a phantom handbag- a polythene leaf- floating like a ghost of a littering past, a horrifying present and a possibly worse future??
The irony of it all is that such incidents are more evident even in the hearts of the biggest cities where they are ignored fiercely. But turning a blind eye becomes nigh impossible when the all green surrounding you is suddenly violated by the harsh contrast of a dirty polythene cover or a plastic cup: an alien in a divine land of waving leaves and twinkling sunlight, of loving caresses from knee high stalks of ribbon-like grass, bespectacled with yellow, pink and purple flowers.
Any writer could romanticize the beauty of nature as I have. But no bard, even, could erase the memory of the harsh realities peering in at the window of our futures. The only solution to the conundrum is to let the animals back into the jungles. It goes a long way in preserving what is and paving the way for more beautiful and glorious tomorrows. I feel the ‘Use Me's' around every corner and the 'Stop Littering!' signs have long been neglected and the slopes I walk up send a note of alarm, as high as they can, and as far wide. The blue of the cliff-side stones seems like frozen tears on the face of the earth.
Heed them; stop littering!

The Fiend That's Time..

If you stand still long enough, you'll hear Time flow past. Ruffling your hair in his silvery hands, as if you were just little child in his path. If you stand still long enough, you'll hear his footsteps echoing off walls, long lain down to decay. If you stand still long enough, Time will stop, hold your hand and watch the world with you; walking past, blind.

- Me :)

The Autobiography Of A Watch

This was a story I wrote when I was very young... Thought I'd share it..Enjoy..!

“It was time”, or rather in human words, I was born on December 3, 19:34, 16 seconds. The great HMT manufacturers made me. They gave me a sleek body of golden color, a brown strap, and golden needles with Roman markings on it. My siblings and I were then immediately sold, to a dealer but since that fateful day, I have been lying here, in this glass box. Many children came and tried me, admired me and at last discarded me. For about 3 months the same had occurred again and again. Being a watch is not all fanfare and fame! There is a lot of competition, always like your shadow! And if you are not sold for 5 months you will be demolished to make a new model. Well, as they say – “Sweet are the fruits of patience”. After long last, a pretty girl chose to buy me. She took me home only for me to find more competition. All around in her room were about 10 to 20 watches! But I was carefully looked after for the first week, when my novelty lasted. Later she began wearing another watch, saying that I ‘bored her’. Later I was pushed away, scratches came all over me and my polished strap lost all shine. But one fine day, again she wore me to a party, but here my worst disaster was yet to fall. My worn out strap slipped out of her hand and I fell into a mug of water. The water entered my system and before I knew it my needles stopped. My mechanical heart also stopped! After that I don’t remember much, but later at the “Time doctor’s” shop I heard him say, “I’m sorry, he’s gone”. The pretty girl was sobbing all over and then I realized I was not in my golden brown body but in an aluminum one! And once again, I realized - it was time!

An ode to those gone and wisdom for those left behind..

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me.
The Carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality
~Emily Dickinson


Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men. ~Herodotus


I knew a man who once said, "death smiles at us all; all a man can do is smile back." ~From the movie Gladiator

For death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life center.
~Edwin Arnold


Someday I'll be a weather-beaten skull resting on a grass pillow,
Serenaded by a stray bird or two.
Kings and commoners end up the same,
No more enduring than last night's dream.
~Ryokan

If every..

I hear a thousand words,
Sprinkled here and there;
Whispers of humming birds,
And murmurs of the grisly bears.

A shiny tear drop on the window,
Splop! Another on the back of my hand,
When the night is young and the sun is low,
And an eerie mist shrouds my land.

Then I think: if every laugh was a fairy!
Lithe, petite and bright,
Contently sleeping in a lily,
In the softly fading light.

If every smile were an angel!
Flying daintily on wings of pink,
Footsteps like a gently ringing bell,
With a knowing smile and a wink!

Thus, my thoughts travel realms unknown,
New even to me;
I think of the past and the sown,
And the dolefully pay the fee.

For every if every I come across,
A thought is born in the depths of my mind;
A picture, the truth or a toss?
Or just a thought, a worthless find..?

The only if ever I ever loved-
That a thousand words could not describe,
Which no birds or butterflies avowed,
And no grisly bears would part with (even for a bribe!)

Only when the world grew immeasurably huge,
And one felt smaller than ever,
Not even the mind seemed a safe refuge,
Everyone else so much clever'r!

Only then, it was to be found,
A pearl in the yawning chasm;
Silently, beckoning without a sound,
Splop! yet pretty loud in the abysm!

It says: if every sad heart were a rose,
Shedding its petals like tears,
Then in that act, it invariably chose,
To plant a seed at its own feet, my dears!

If every seed grew into a plant,
Tall and stately with ruby pears-
Angels and fairies from some far off land,
Will surely come looking, all-ears..!

And then the humming birds just sing,
And grisly bears turn away, roaring!
They may find elsewhere: eyelashes on which tears cling,
More plants waiting to be born, and petals that needed shedding..!
-ME :)