Passion

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Passion is universal humanity. Without it religion, history, romance and art would be useless.
-Honor? de Balzac
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Passion

Pervading through the crowd,
Swimming across heads, caps and shoulders,
I recognize a flower blooming amidst all.
As I reach for it, the crowd thins out;
Then I catch beautiful eyes, eyes of a girl-
I hesitate to talk, yet push the hand
Brushing the cloth over her slender waist.
My eyes dive in the mysterious eyes,
Send a kiss for her beautiful and delicate lips:
She-reluctant, still steps up to me: me alone.
Again I kiss her; vibes connect our hearts.
Lost in the perfume spread on her body,
I trace the clothes end, moving with her skin,
Returning to her ever-mysterious eyes.
Hand in hand, I push the legs backward,
Then forward and sideways too,
Which she, catching the rhythm, follows.
The harmony prevails-steps brisk up,
We take turns; hands press the soft hands,
And we push each other to the other side.
We retreat and pull each other near,
Complete circles and all other geometries.
Audience applauds. They are gone again.
We sweat. As she conquers the ambience,
The particles fly off her body, off her delicacy.
In single, in blush, she remain bar her innocence.
I catch her, move into her steps, and then
Wrap her with my courtesy, passing robes
Across her thighs, her waist, amidst her breasts.
I stop at her yet-mysterious eyes.
It takes two to tango-As she turns
Her back brushing me, I catch her waist.
Her anxious eyes turn towards me,
The cheek and the lips as innocent as before-
I stoop down dive into her eyes.
Vibes connect us, the harmony prevails-
We conquer the ambience, particles fly off.
My lips touch her delicate lips.

The gush of optimism

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toQuote: The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true. - James Branch Cabell
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The gush of optimism

No moods, leisuring on the long corridor:
A sweet breeze, a gush of optimism.
I turn around in a wink of an eye,
And see him passing by, sliding away.

There's more to him than his lean body,
The faded shirt on his back, shows.
Time has permitted to us closeness.
During this he has consumed liquor once,
Has thrown the fag end a few no. of times.
Has often made his eyes prurient, yet often
Comes up with a pose that touches his heart.

-Nothing is bad until the thing becomes the habit,
Nothing injurious when taken through heart,
Nothing prurient when the sensation
Satiates the heart and remain there.
-It seems he has a good understanding
With those bad things; I do not.

Another sweet gush, of optimism,
The faded shirt fades in the dark stairs.
I am again left in dilemma whether
To believe in him or the bad things.

Fighting Problems

Have you ever thought what helps you
At a Gurudwara, Mandir or Masjid?
Is it really God as you call It,
Who comes to rescue, to your help?

-'God' strengthens you to fight yourself.
You learn patience standing for 'God's' blessings,
You learn faith confiding yourself in 'God',
And you learn hoping and believing too.
Patience avoids expanding trouble,
Faith does things which skill cannot,
Hope drives away fear and lessens tension,
Belief helps power creep into you;
And thus you get strength to fight your problems.
Have patience, faith, hope and belief
To eliminate problems and have a smooth life.

CoFFee - Short Story

Even the delicious of food is sawdust to the senses when having alone. I would have preferred to deny this had I not felt it myself. I sat at De Cafe having hot Coffee, waiting for Sonam to arrive. The taste is for the senses, starting at one and moving at the other four. The otherwise delicious Coffee seemed not so - spreading the uneasiness to the sight and the thoughts too. Generally there's no room for blank thoughts and such explicit boredom. This seldom scenario arises when I want to relax through a hot mug of Coffee, and end up having it alone. Only the smell of the powder coffee, pervading through the mildly blowing breeze, seemed to be comfort for a while. Even it too transformed into a forced comfort. The thoughts were random with uncertain conclusions; rephrasing the ending note of the speech I had given 15 minutes back, planning an half an hour golf session over the weekend, wondering how long Sonam would take to come, tuning to the poetry written by some Rupani that I had chanced over the net surf, the similarity that she bore to my style of writing, pondering over the article that I had read about four days back on asexuals. A very rare chance that Rupani may be one among the dozen of women present in De Cafe, I thought. Yet preferring to consider the chances as high.

I looked at my watch, time skidding around the disc, and sipped the Coffee, removing a layer off its mass. I concentrated on the wave movements. The voices around me grew louder. A boasting male, chauvinistic, expressing in a high pitch the desire to move out of the loops and the function calls of the piece of code he was proclaiming to be efficient in. "I want to move into Designing". I decided not to let my thoughts interfere into his desires and lot. Otherwise I would have to explain him what all comes into consideration when designing modules. Other voices were sweeter, too sweet. I began to eliminate the women who were speaking more. I believed in a threshold of the pitch of women voice above which it becomes evident that she is a tricky lady and unaffected by the sincere concerns of life. And I personally believe that considering that earning money or benefits through ethically unfair means is not a sincere concern of life. It becomes highly impossible to fall for such woman how much ever charm she carries on her face (of course when she's not speaking). There was a woman who was speaking few soft words then looking into the eyes of the person before her, and resuming after a pause. She was giving as much time for the person listening to get the essence of the matter yet restrain from divulging into the thought process immediately. The head opposite her was dancing to the melody of her talk. Every pause followed by an expression on her face that she had delivered it right, and the gesture while resuming her task was of beginning another wise phrase - a deeper breath and the eyes rolling over the innate objects collecting wisdom for her speech. I assumed that she was talking sense. Some of words were audible - Chaos, Decency, John.

I was getting into a streamlined thought. Her lower lips were moving faster, dropping at every stress on the vocabulary, and retreating quickly before the next letter was let go. I tried to get at what she could be speaking. None of my concerns and not that I had assumed that she was Rupani, still an illogical way to drive the boredom insinuated by the Coffee's taste, smell and the inexplicable burden of not having it with Sonam. There was a rare chance of reading the lips, as I am no expert in the same. A sudden discovery, not of words, but of the similarity in the lip movement; an out of the blue moon thing. It was similar to my wife's. I had an unintended sip of the Coffee, the minute's hand reassuring me to continue the flow of my thoughts.

The lady's lips were too prominent unlike my wife's. Whenever her lower lips fall, the cheeks change in color, and add to the effect of emphasizing verbal expressions. Her lower lips also fall when she is in disbelief of my statements, and just before she is to finalize her opinion towards me, the twist in my eyebrows, impacting folds on the forehead, imparts some unique sincerity. The sudden slight contrast to her belief hangs her lower lips. It is then that I would feel like ending the discussion with a soft kiss on the lower lip. Our relationship has always grown smoother, eradicating such discussions from sipping into the tender pores of the threads making our bond. I could hardly remember the last time when I had gone for the kiss on the lower lip. I kiss her whenever we meet. It's a pure kiss, a touch on the delicate flakes, floating up readily to the custom of meet, and accepting my possession over hers. My lips gallop to taste the sensory mate. Then it's a competitive situation and the performers keep winning alternatively. There's lot of fun, in the process. It is conquer over the soul and the body. But attempting a walk on memory lanes, prove those moments as stale, unable to implant a milestone on those lanes. There's no conquer over situations, over petty matters. They no longer add to the panorama of the moments collected as memories to relish during low times. The momentarily satisfaction does build up a strong asset while departing. And when we are on our way to respective homes, the rhythm of the proximal resonance gradually mingles with the routine noises of software, modules, Coffee mugs in boredom, and efforts to manage the life alone. The Coffee is less hot now, more lukewarm. There's an additional layer formed by thoughts delaying the frequency in which the attempt of the Coffee to chill down is disrupted. The delayed sip was much more uncomfortable then. I again had a look at the watch.

My wife is a chanced thought, though she can bet that I remember her always. I do but out of habit. As a matter of fact I am into a habit of meeting her once in say three weeks. We are separated by bundles of international boundaries, and often get connected over phone calls. Some years back, when it was a fresh discomfort, living apart, there was fun in spite of the long distance. Every available weekend led to an eagerness, followed by purchasing of expensive air tickets, flying down to either side, and spending the short while together as the best of moments that could be remembered and missed at least for a few weeks. The departures had a depressed tone, building up an hour before the flight check-in time. Those eyes never cried, in spite of her being a very emotional person, yet there was a feeling as if she would cry out the moment we depart. Infact I never investigated whether she really did cry after our departure or not. But I would rather believe that she would have dived into her silence to let the internal tears vaporize in its infinity.

Sonam arrived, standing before me, to replace the infinity of the turbulent thoughts, gesturing in a loud manner, that there she was. As she lowered her shoulders, collecting her hands, I offered her a seat. She had different eyes, not very impressive but dull. They always attract the male society, and leave a warning, dare you think about me! Her eyes are not meant for me; I prefer to look at her eyelashes, the amount of coating around them. I ordered for another cup of Coffee, plus one for her. My thoughts fighting with the feminine invasion left a confused gaze on my face. Her words seemed unclear amidst the fray. Her expressions soon began reflecting mine. She seemed uncertain, whether she was speaking to me or to my eyes. Hope your eyes can hear! I replied with a smile. She is not a vigorous romanticizer, but can chat on any subject. I love the way she offers Coffee - the right mixes of sugar, milk, coffee, gaze, smile and time.

I consider Management of all scales to be important for a better life. It is not necessary to be an MBA graduate, but there should be a natural inclination towards managing time, people, preferences, routine tasks, etc. If I ponder today on these parameters: I have been managing Time well, there are appointments, meetings, training sessions, discussions, meeting my wife. Most people have been erased from the lot, in achieving efficiency in managing them. And the preferences have developed so often that they has nullified its meaning. Yet amidst this generalization, there are rare moments that I can share with only my wife. Then there's a call made outside the scope of the developed habit. One can speak about anything with one's spouse, any silly thing, any outburst of your mood, any illogical concept. The other person will lend a sincere ear. We get used to each other. Its like before she opens up her mouth to speak something, I know she's going to talk something. We get used to each other over the time. We learn the other person's expressions. Then there are things that we can discuss with nobody else. We also behave in a different way; unlike we do before others. We play pranks on each other becoming children sometimes. Yes, relationship is meant for such things.

Sonam offered me the Coffee. Her smile may be considered as intoxicating, if her eyes do not interrupt the romance being sprinkled by her lips. But generally they do interfere putting some urgency of the question that she might have asked a few minutes back. Then she might have been jovial, but now her mood changes and the eyes demand it, and she seriously wants the answers. Her eyes had gone demanding. And whenever her dull eyes portrays what they are best at, she retreats her friendliness, starts calculating her words and being aware of the public around us. It's then that I feel it might have flashed onto her that I am married. And this thought also reminds me that neither is she single.

The second Coffee was different. In a split of second, I had conjured up my wife preparing Coffee and serving to me. I am not sure how she prepares Coffee; I prefer to have tea with her. We started a mild discussion on RFID, a newer technology finding way to the software world. With every sip, I looked at her eyelashes, her lips. She represented the silicon city, which has shaped my life to this lot. The smell of the Coffee powder brought by the mildly blowing breeze, was now being obstructed by, the humanly mass called Sonam. The fragrance diluted by her aroma, mixing well with the taste, brought a distant joy to me. She burst out in laughter and her eyes hid behind the lids and the heavy eyelashes. Our fondness has grown over the years in a very calculate way. Distance makes the heart grow fonder.

Poems on Soldiers

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There cannot be a better emotion than for your land.
Demarcate your land -
your home, your city, your state, or your country.
Where ever your draw the line,
you need to become a soldier for that land ...
- Anon.

I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.
- Nathan Hale.

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Poems on Soldiers
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(1) Dark complexioned
Scarred face-the experience;
Attentive eyes,
Gun towards the pass-way-the vigil;
A picture of a beautiful lady
In his pocket-the sacrifice;
The love
Towards her-the motivation;
Legs always at a start.
Crores who have faith in him
Behind him,
Him-the soldier.

(2)
Of thousands born on a land
One loves and leaves his love,
hates and forgets his hate,
smiles and learns not to smile again,
weeps and wipes away the tear,
To build up a strong emotion for his land,
A strong patriotism for his country.

You can't separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom - Malcolm X

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The Freedom Lost
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Having her sons call-'I love my India',
'Mera Bharat Mahan' and 'Vandey Maataram',
Mother woke up after a long five decades.
Her faith dived deep inside to search her God
While her spirit rose high towards the sky.
She shrieked more thundering than the thunder
For the contaminated molecules hurt her soul.
Again she shrieked on viewing her retired body.
How pale and stricken it lay! How old it had gone.
Innumerable outgrowths had her skin where germs abounded.
Still she cheered for the channels she possessed.
"Oh my body's glamour! How art thou infected."
Still she was happy on the respect given by Monsoon.
Again-"Oh my pure white Ganges! You've perished."
Yet she cheered because people still prayed in it.
But-"Oh where would I yawn and bathe!
I am again chained down, by invisible fetters.
Where should I live now." Vapours left hers eyes.
She dived back into her beating heart
Below the bosoms that stood as beautiful,
As bold and brave when she was young.

The world saw the spirit that had rose
But failed to look through that Mother
Whose soul had condensed in her heart.

There cannot always be wise words for every possible thing in the world - Anon

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On woman

An inquisitive child asked me
To define perfection. Lemme try-

Strokes as to a painting- curves in skin;
Sensing out a passion- artistic touch;
Spasms and convulsions- in thoughts;
Art knows no limit, neither does thoughts,
But heart does, perfection does.
Beautiful sex is perfection,
Yet much to this perfection.

Back from skin to clothes, to curves,
Back from hips and chests to eyes.
Back in a second to lustful desires-
To eyes- pool to quench the thirst.
A moment's thought-
If you fail to combine
Sex and woman, you fall in love.
Strokes fade, passion fails, spasms die-
Perfection and woman go together.

When you fall in love,
Try describing your woman,
Try painting your woman-
Art knows no limit,
Perfection does- your woman.

A poem is never finished, only abandoned - Paul Valery

Here are some more beautiful quotes on Poetry.

Most people ignore most poetry
because
most poetry ignores most people.
~Adrian Mitchell

The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood.
~Jean Cocteau

A poet's hope: to be,
like some valley cheese,
local, but prized elsewhere.
~W. H. Auden

Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
~Robert Frost

Here's my Poetry.

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Poetry

This piece is poetry written by me.

A naked woman livened on canvas,
A drop of water left on her skin
Off the tip of the ornamented brush;
Bloom of a flower out of a being
And wildness of tiger in another-
Is poetry to be read by the eyes.

Tunes awakened by impatient strokes
Shrugged off the metallic strings,
Or pulled out of the stretched membrane
By the retreat of the hand,
And music resonating the foot to taps
Is poetry to the hearing nerves.

A butterfly sucking nectar,
A drop on the flower's petal
In a gelid dewy night,
A sudden ripple towards the shore
Due to a sudden strong breeze,
Is poetry to persons in bonds of faith.

Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist, but you have ceased to live. - Mark Twain

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Illusion

Wonder you may say to
The movement of the clouds, the blooming of flowers,
The rise of a wave and its fall.
-Be not a flower peeping out of its vesture
To behold beauty when itself stands much more beautiful.
Look at the most wonderous thing,
O teenager! Look at your beating heart;
A moment it glides with the favourite bird,
Next it beats on the lines of your best book,
It also stops at the texture of a flower,
But again and again returns
To the most lovely flower that never bloomed-
Whose eyes blink in the moonless nights,
Whose fair body lays in the blaze of afternoon sun,
Whose lips smile from within the red roses,
Whose hands tickle while a breeze blow away the locks,
And who embraces while Sleep is at work.
-She is the creation of all beauties on earth
But when you go to embrace her she's none.

What a blind person needs is not a teacher but another self. -- Helen Keller

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Was It Gay or Sorrow

"Happy Birthday to you,"-the trees, the bushes, the shrubs;
The ocean, the sea, the lake; the sky, the clouds, the air-
All sang up in chorus. The river came down running,
The tree bend over me and wave-not a bit proud,
The sky made way for happiness to reach my heart,
The cloud traveled to reach my zenith; all were animated-
The leaves stared at me, the waves tried to rush to me,
The river turned towards me, yes, just to annotate.
A tortoise crawled from a basky heap, the fish jumped
Higher than the waves and mingled in it duly,
A bird flapped its wings to let pass the air, to wish me,
A monkey chattered on a bough-I loved them all truly.
Even the rays tried to pass through the leaves to reach me.
I was measuring every move of every soul, I wasn't an animist before.
I could see the birds flying, fishes swimming, tortoise crawling.
They were many before, then score, but now only four.
Now I really felt their paucity. Even the sun did make way.
The waves did sedate, the leaves though present went to sleep,
Darkness spread over the vast sky, happiness seemed to fade-
All went far away leaving me alone to lament, to weep-
The trees, the bushes, the shrubs then, but now only darkness;
The ocean, the sea, the lake then, but now only darkness;
The sky, the cloud, the air then; but now only darkness;
The fishes, the birds, the tortoise then; but now only darkness.
I could feel a weak current of air on my left, rays on my right.
I took my stick and waded away with the hope of light.

"There is a boundary to men's passions when they act from feelings; but none when they are under the influence of imagination." - Edmund Burke.

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THE BOUNDARY

What feelings do I have now?
-Choked voice, repentance exploding the face muscles.
-Names explaining some events,
And events defining those names and myself.
Had I not grown, I would not have repented.

Why do I feel them now?
The stone has turned to sand.
I am driven to a threshold,
Between Saturation and normalcy-
The boundary, that emotes to me.
Sincerity would saturate the emotion,
Diplomatic faithfulness, lengthen the process.

I stop at faces;
Ponder about similar levels of saturation.
The faces catalyze my memories
As solutes of the watery flakes, of panorama.
I catch them before they dissolve;
I never caught them when they dissolved.
I can see them clearer and better,
As the flakes sublime before my eyes.
Two films characterize my eyes-
One makes me cry,
And the other is tears.

Neither can the flakes be collected,
Nor can the film be touched.
The solvent is also abstract,
But the solute is real.

I am pulled down by gravity
And I bring down the boundary.
Now I have it at the horizon
Rather behind the sky.

I never have found the perfect quote. At best I've been able to find a string of quotations which merely circle the ineffable idea I seek to express.

- Caldwell O'Keefe
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Picture is one of my favorites. Its because of what it portrays. Its just not a framed picture, but represents people who dont get their dues (in relationships). It is so common that it goes unnoticed, thats why it has been portrayed through a simple thing as picture.
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Picture
Framed he remains glued to the walls-
So much as he does make it, he breaks it;
A companion sweet he is to me-
A friend indeed: a friend in need.

A trophy in my hand, the face rejoices
Whispering a smile-'congratulations'.
A mischief I play on the aunt
He giggles from behind my back.

A pain in my leg, he assures his presence
And the pain is really gone.
A lack in confidence and he
Gesturing rises my spirits.

-Even when I stare complainingly
"How rude Aunt Zende had been?"
He beats into my heart to tell
That she really loves me;
-Or when, "it was his fault."
He makes me accept that I actually,
Made that silly blunder.
-And again, "I can live without her."
"No you cannot", he echoes
And stops another blunder from me.

Moodless me lift the eyes,
Without the intention to watch
But the sensation reaching the brain,
-Passes by some frame-.

"No man is worth your tears, but once you find one that is, he won't make you cry" - Anonymous

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Tears

At the cost of tears
I sit down, Sanu besides me.
Not just love; a bundle of smiles-
The type I've praised of; friendship.

Friendship- the more I lose it,
The more it gains Balli.
Hence, all at the cost of tears.

Active drops of salty waters;
Active Balli mingling into
The essence of Sanu.

Dead Balli laid down-
Coarse sand not pinching him,
But active senses.
She does not come to incense my soul,
She is already mingled in the soul.
I feel her dying along with it.

Nature is just enough; but men and women must comprehend and accept her suggestions. -Antoinette Brown Blackwell

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Its all for them
Blame not if on some night
The sun continues to shed light
Even till the dead of the night;
Blame not if wise men do not sleep
But sit down to laugh or weep
Or talk about some mystery deep;
Blame not if a beautiful red rose
Remains still in the same pose
(Superfluity is as bad as paucity);
Blame not if on some night mid
The air fails to make the atmosphere gelid
The warmer air still being able to bid;
For who knows some fine night
True lovers or spouse may fail to meet.

The philosophy of one century is the common sense of the next.-Henry Ward Beecher

A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR to all.
__________________________

When You return from your journey,
some lingering thought shall bring you here.
This is different from the macro of the microcosm
of the knittings in your dream,
which you might have savoured of late.
I make you sit through a panorama.
Its a frame or a window;
you can know only when you touch it.
It is the best of its kind
because it is "With You".
__________________________

With You

She sat by my side
Laughing her expressions out,
Drooping over me as my
Philosophy captured her soul-
Her simpler philosophy
Capturing my essence.
She brings in her absence
Thoughts about the future,
Yet time didn?t bother
To write some history.
-The thoughts question me
Shall the future ever come?

I look into her eyes-
Dunno what she saw in me.
Aims to characterize myself
Faded long back, and she
Attempts to bring them back.
Maybe she knows more
Than I know about myself.
I fear her knowing
How frequently I change,
How quickly history gets written
To which future is unable to refer.

She opened the odour of life
That defeated the troubled senses.
-My odour of life was philosophy.
I delved deeper in definition;
She in the matter.
My beautifying objects- the stars,
The moon, their dark support,
Had vanished before her.
All that remained was silence.
-No moon attempting its beauty,
No sea rippling to the shore,
No noise vibrating the drums.
She riding on that silence,
Daggered into bloodless-me.

Her soft hands applying
The odour of life brought
To me a similar silence.

When I observed her face
No peculiarities could be drawn.

In loneliness, I remember
Her name- the index.
Friendship defines the content.
Her understanding defeats
All practical definitions.
Her frankness gives to me
A responsibility to shoulder.
Gracefully she steps up to me.
-When the enchantment dies
I see her observing me,
Dancing to the tunes of life.
Unknowingly her rhythm
Is filtered by mine.
Unknowingly she becomes
A subject of my poetry.