Why an exclaimation at the end! Really, why did Famebook choose to call it a wall?
It’s not as if one is drawing a grafitti on the walls; writing on walls is like tresspassing and so much unethical. But it is not tresspassing in FB (as we love to shorthand Famebook, rather abbreviating it).
The users allow contacts to share their walls with. It hardly matters whose wall it is, whether one writes on one’s wall, or writes on another. This concept is so much unimportant considering the sharing being done to have a common pool. Alas, so much freedom we have on FB.
To philosophise – for how can one not want to encash on tempting opportunity to philosophise – it is not so much a freedom as would be in a GLOBAL common pool. [Remember, “Common” is not a subset of “global”. What fails to become global, becomes common]. Technically, the shared pools are infact intellectually segregated and operlapping, so that there are numerous pools and all its own kind of gene.
To simplify the concept lets try to see it this way. Imagine walls as canvasses, on which users can write and contacts can see. Each contact has its own canvas (wall) and a different set of canvases as per the network of their contacts [A view for oneself to see and a different one for every contact in network]. All these canvases, because of their visibility across the association with each individual contact, intersect with other canvases. Thus wholly Fakebook is a very very enormous mesh of intersecting canvases. It is also highly interferencing and complex. Also the reason why it can better be a canvas than a concrete wall.
If imagining the actual structure of an atom is impossible to the human brain to perceive (as explained in his book “A brief history of nearly everything” by Bill Bryson), then this mesh is closer to it (tends to infinity in mathematical terms), unlike the electrical mesh in devices. This is probably an example where the emormous opportunity of computer programming example can be compared to the enormity in nature.
This also brings to my thoughts the complexity required in the software to have a data structure to store such meshy information. Thanks to the repetitive and replicative property that it becomes very easy to implement.
Call FB a membrane, for a canvas is material; for a membrane is non-tangible, but conceptual, and without digging deeper in attempt to reach the essence.
Thus, Faithbook wall is not like the Great Wall of China, to limit, but to share. Yet it does limits disparate set of people. But thanks to the affordable airlines that physically mingle these disparate set of people, which can be seen in the FB. Infact its not Internet or airlines that makes us cross boundaries. These are just medium. It’s the human desire, the inquisitiveness, TO EXPLORE WHAT IS BEYOND, beyond our garden, beyond our cities, beyond our mountains and valleys, beyond our nations, and behind the telescope lenses in the very very dark darkness beyond the skies. The FB thus is a dynamic microcosm of the revolution among the people, the harbinger of the lifestyle to immediately follow.
And what is going to be the future of this Fatebook wall. If FB grows really vertical to ONE FINE DAY having a truly GLOBAL WALL, a single wall where everyone writes to everyone’s visibility, the wall would then be a truly concrete wall, an emblem of such a unity that the whole cosmos can be proud of, and only aliens would be alien. Or would it just grow horizontally to survive itself, with new user additions, and centered around family, friends & acquaintances and the unknowns.
Yet to dream the unexpected is truly a dream.
Author NoteNotes"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
January 09, 2011
October 08, 2010
Music of the Cobbles
(I)
Slender beauties gracefully walk in high heels
Thrumming ecstasies in the bricks and surrounds
Mesmerizing thousands of eyes into racy follies
That scream under wheels as dead-stoned cobbles
(II)
I hear the rustle of dry leaves crawling on blocks
Voices of the goers, rising and fading and gone
Giggling benchers echoing unevenly yet clear
Grumbling tyres climbing unending patterns
Of packed dark cobble-stoned roads of Europe
These remind me of similar roads of old Calcutta
Only that there its much more crowded and noisy
Leaves stamped by pedestrians and lazy vehicles
Their screams overshadowed by the screeches
Their lot insignificant and lost in the multitude
(III)
Whoever lives on these roads, wherever be these
The noise and irregularity sediments over years
As a regular pattern in life, an unnoticed rhythm
Striking a chord to the unknown and the unaware
(IV)
This is not where the story ends, but here it begins
I start musing over the building blocks, of life
As a matrix of people, moments, dreams and hardships
Connected by destiny, gathered in frames of time
(V)
With the approach of twilight I hear them livened
_______________________________________________
Author Note "Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
Slender beauties gracefully walk in high heels
Thrumming ecstasies in the bricks and surrounds
Mesmerizing thousands of eyes into racy follies
That scream under wheels as dead-stoned cobbles
(II)
I hear the rustle of dry leaves crawling on blocks
Voices of the goers, rising and fading and gone
Giggling benchers echoing unevenly yet clear
Grumbling tyres climbing unending patterns
Of packed dark cobble-stoned roads of Europe
These remind me of similar roads of old Calcutta
Only that there its much more crowded and noisy
Leaves stamped by pedestrians and lazy vehicles
Their screams overshadowed by the screeches
Their lot insignificant and lost in the multitude
(III)
Whoever lives on these roads, wherever be these
The noise and irregularity sediments over years
As a regular pattern in life, an unnoticed rhythm
Striking a chord to the unknown and the unaware
(IV)
This is not where the story ends, but here it begins
I start musing over the building blocks, of life
As a matrix of people, moments, dreams and hardships
Connected by destiny, gathered in frames of time
(V)
With the approach of twilight I hear them livened
_______________________________________________
Author Note "Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
September 18, 2010
Now it’s my turn
For the first time when I tenderly bumped off the ground,
And even since before when I first heard your voice from beneath,
You have nurtured me, putting your life drop by drop into me.
And now it’s my turn.
Everyday I have imbibed your smell, its in my bark, and in my roots
Whenever you've touched, the leaves haven’t withered, but tinged by you
Always I have been you; your breath and blood have livened me to this.
And from this day, from roots to smell around leaves will be yours.
Winds have bent me; Cold froze and Rain cut my tender stem,
Yet always you've protected me, and my other brothers.
Now I have a strong stem, wisdom of light, and powers of darkness
I shall serve you with these, and all these, till these are mine.
But I shall plead you not to trade me. Let me be yours loyal
I like to be your home, your shade, and give back your fragrance
When you fall in love, lie in my shade, and let me create the magic
If you be afraid come and hide in me, for now it’s my turn.
____________________________________________________
"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
And even since before when I first heard your voice from beneath,
You have nurtured me, putting your life drop by drop into me.
And now it’s my turn.
Everyday I have imbibed your smell, its in my bark, and in my roots
Whenever you've touched, the leaves haven’t withered, but tinged by you
Always I have been you; your breath and blood have livened me to this.
And from this day, from roots to smell around leaves will be yours.
Winds have bent me; Cold froze and Rain cut my tender stem,
Yet always you've protected me, and my other brothers.
Now I have a strong stem, wisdom of light, and powers of darkness
I shall serve you with these, and all these, till these are mine.
But I shall plead you not to trade me. Let me be yours loyal
I like to be your home, your shade, and give back your fragrance
When you fall in love, lie in my shade, and let me create the magic
If you be afraid come and hide in me, for now it’s my turn.
____________________________________________________
"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
November 21, 2008
Short Poem(s) on winter (rose)
_________________________________________
"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
Sepals - Primal Character(istic)
Of seasons of major attractions, gone,
Of characters of human, condensed,
I see her behind the glass, frosted,
Her image as a yellow rose, wallows,
Soft red petals of lips, swallows,
Now her crude sepal lips, glowing ...
Of seasons of major attractions, gone,
Of characters of human, condensed,
I see my reflection in the glass,
Purple petals covered in snow, inactive ...
... Of cocoon, to reborn, opportune,
Sheathed once again in sepals, protective,
I see myself watching the world around,
Petals - Ostracized Beauty -
... Play hide and seek throught their life,
Always hiding from their fellows,
For they know not that other flowers exist.
They know not much difference
Between thin air and thick snow;
Snow brings narcissism with stillness
... Yet when they fall alone on ground,
Still believe they are in the game,
Until they become one with dust,
SnowFlakes - The raggamuffin Beauty -
... Basks joyfully in wintertimes,
When she travels softly gracefully,
Watching specs, grow as rose, another spec
Savouring their geometric progression in time,
For it's in her nature to measure so precisely-
-While her slow and long journey,
She takes her charm from all she sees,
Those very snow, her harbingers-
... the orphic goddess, raggamuffin,
ecstatic in her crystalline aura,
descending from obscurity into profundity,
sublimes in her divine salvation.
_______________________________________________Of seasons of major attractions, gone,
Of characters of human, condensed,
I see her behind the glass, frosted,
Her image as a yellow rose, wallows,
Soft red petals of lips, swallows,
Now her crude sepal lips, glowing ...
Of seasons of major attractions, gone,
Of characters of human, condensed,
I see my reflection in the glass,
Purple petals covered in snow, inactive ...
... Of cocoon, to reborn, opportune,
Sheathed once again in sepals, protective,
I see myself watching the world around,
Petals - Ostracized Beauty -
... Play hide and seek throught their life,
Always hiding from their fellows,
For they know not that other flowers exist.
They know not much difference
Between thin air and thick snow;
Snow brings narcissism with stillness
... Yet when they fall alone on ground,
Still believe they are in the game,
Until they become one with dust,
SnowFlakes - The raggamuffin Beauty -
... Basks joyfully in wintertimes,
When she travels softly gracefully,
Watching specs, grow as rose, another spec
Savouring their geometric progression in time,
For it's in her nature to measure so precisely-
-While her slow and long journey,
She takes her charm from all she sees,
Those very snow, her harbingers-
... the orphic goddess, raggamuffin,
ecstatic in her crystalline aura,
descending from obscurity into profundity,
sublimes in her divine salvation.
"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
May 28, 2007
Painting Her
On the white canvas of ideas I pictured her as a fairy,
The most beautiful woman. It would be shame if I didn’t paint her.
I had met her on terrace. She had come to dry clothes.
She would look at me, hiding behind them. I too would blush.
Oh! She was an epitome of beauty, serenity and innocence,
Lurking in red dress, amidst the fluttering pigeons and clothes.
I made her posture, painted the beautiful ambience around her.
She laughed and said I cannot make half her beauty on canvas.
I knew if she would stare at me, I couldn’t even draw her.
Her chin I turned to her right, revealing locks kissing her cheek.
I pasted her face on canvas. But it wasn’t her jovial face.
That was real her, which I have learnt in her company.
I couldn’t forge her as smiling and brimming with happiness.
So real seemed her problems, that which my art failed to hide.
I tell her always that I will never leave her, whatsoever happens.
But I know she feels lonely in her core essence, one that I cannot rule.
She has a luring posture, that which the world in her sees, but
Alone she sits on a rock that is high above the ground, waiting.
She never tells me whom she waits for, or if she wants me to go away.
And when she sits there on the rock, weeds around captivate her.
Back on the terrace, when I had learnt not to blush and she meant
To reveal her bliss, throwing kisses at me, I would love her freedom.
Dreams she had were to relish a night by the river, fly butterflies,
Break stars from sky and sleep overnight on the moon. I should have
Feared the freedom, what would happen when she doesn’t have it.
The wings she had were set on fire. No more could she fly off the rock.
She was finally painted on the white canvas as a fairy indeed.
But captivated in immortal pain and depression, with desires that of humans.
She is alone, the black sun or the moon, reluctant to show her shadow,
As if she would cripple on seeing her lot, or would she burn herself.
Wind blows away her locks, spreading ashes off her fairy wings.
I hope the ashes reach the one she wants. I could, well, sit and paint.
The most beautiful woman. It would be shame if I didn’t paint her.
I had met her on terrace. She had come to dry clothes.
She would look at me, hiding behind them. I too would blush.
Oh! She was an epitome of beauty, serenity and innocence,
Lurking in red dress, amidst the fluttering pigeons and clothes.
I made her posture, painted the beautiful ambience around her.
She laughed and said I cannot make half her beauty on canvas.
I knew if she would stare at me, I couldn’t even draw her.
Her chin I turned to her right, revealing locks kissing her cheek.
I pasted her face on canvas. But it wasn’t her jovial face.
That was real her, which I have learnt in her company.
I couldn’t forge her as smiling and brimming with happiness.
So real seemed her problems, that which my art failed to hide.
I tell her always that I will never leave her, whatsoever happens.
But I know she feels lonely in her core essence, one that I cannot rule.
She has a luring posture, that which the world in her sees, but
Alone she sits on a rock that is high above the ground, waiting.
She never tells me whom she waits for, or if she wants me to go away.
And when she sits there on the rock, weeds around captivate her.
Back on the terrace, when I had learnt not to blush and she meant
To reveal her bliss, throwing kisses at me, I would love her freedom.
Dreams she had were to relish a night by the river, fly butterflies,
Break stars from sky and sleep overnight on the moon. I should have
Feared the freedom, what would happen when she doesn’t have it.
The wings she had were set on fire. No more could she fly off the rock.
She was finally painted on the white canvas as a fairy indeed.
But captivated in immortal pain and depression, with desires that of humans.
She is alone, the black sun or the moon, reluctant to show her shadow,
As if she would cripple on seeing her lot, or would she burn herself.
Wind blows away her locks, spreading ashes off her fairy wings.
I hope the ashes reach the one she wants. I could, well, sit and paint.
"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
Painting thrown away
You started framing me.
It was a nice wooden frame,
beautifully carved patterns,
flowers twined with leaves,
varnished with a darker tinge,
sprinkled with soft silver.
I was a canvas but blank.
You had pictured me,
how you would paint me,
where the river would flow,
what colours daises spurt,
and hills afar kiss the sky.
Then I was tested on frame.
The glass was fixed firm,
slipped me behind them,
widowed me with no colours
reflected by the glass pane,
yet the eyes assuring to me.
Finally I was put on board.
I was clipped on all edges,
submitting to his dedication,
stroked me for many days,
with different hues and brushes,
until I was coated all over.
I was packed into the frame.
My colors were on the glass,
many a artist visited me,
some adjusting their glasses,
touching the frame (but not me),
few also philosophizing me.
I stayed for days on the wall.
Loved by all and respected,
wallowing in my beauty,
when many friends were gone.
He would come too and stare
- something achieved in me.
Then I was abandoned.
I parted with the wall,
excited where to I head now,
but ripping I was thrown,
edges of the frame cleaned,
abandoning me on the floor.
"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
It was a nice wooden frame,
beautifully carved patterns,
flowers twined with leaves,
varnished with a darker tinge,
sprinkled with soft silver.
I was a canvas but blank.
You had pictured me,
how you would paint me,
where the river would flow,
what colours daises spurt,
and hills afar kiss the sky.
Then I was tested on frame.
The glass was fixed firm,
slipped me behind them,
widowed me with no colours
reflected by the glass pane,
yet the eyes assuring to me.
Finally I was put on board.
I was clipped on all edges,
submitting to his dedication,
stroked me for many days,
with different hues and brushes,
until I was coated all over.
I was packed into the frame.
My colors were on the glass,
many a artist visited me,
some adjusting their glasses,
touching the frame (but not me),
few also philosophizing me.
I stayed for days on the wall.
Loved by all and respected,
wallowing in my beauty,
when many friends were gone.
He would come too and stare
- something achieved in me.
Then I was abandoned.
I parted with the wall,
excited where to I head now,
but ripping I was thrown,
edges of the frame cleaned,
abandoning me on the floor.
"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
January 12, 2007
Silence - Short Story
"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."
SILENCE
Cameras clicked. People were moving around; they could not help but be restless. Each clicked brought the motion to pause. A silence attempting to rule, was soon defeated by some turmoil, either arising from my insides finding its way out through the eyes, or rippling centripetally and finding its way through my eyes to the other senses. People kept leaving the room time and again. They were, sometimes, mingling into each other, yet remaining themselves. The walls were smothering me; I felt drowning, with flotsam all around me; fighting hard to breathe. The decibel level was high still the voices were weak.
It was so unpractical and futile to try to imagine their voices speaking to me. I could feel that the pace of the events had slowed down. I felt it couldn?t be any more dramatic; my eyes were clear now. A bright shore lay before me. I heard him asking me why I was silent. His hands were near to my shoulders. He could have shaken me any moment. Shocked on seeing him so, and by the sudden silence around, I slipped. His hands held me. I finally smiled at him. His eyes were observing the drastic change of my lip movements, as if also measuring the effort of the molecules that had pulled the cheeks inside. Flowing between us was an unwelcome breeze, breaking randomly at the folds on my forehead, and fluttering into my eyelashes.
I took my eyes away from him, not accustomed of being stared by him, when neither of us was talking. My feet were bare; I slipped them into slippers lying at hand. There were no thoughts then. Engulfed into a silence, we walked abreast. ?Hi! What?s the matter?, he softly said into my ears. A little louder ?Hi?, I was walking the horizon where another silence seemed to mingle. There was seriously a matter. I had called him to meet. Our group of friends had all separated, to try their luck at different places. I had been living life with them. The silence, the vacuum, was making it difficult to live without them. They had livened my soul, just as he had livened few years back.
He was an active entity, enjoying every moment, never conscious of any thing around him, spreading a jovial ambience around. I felt then that it was the best thing to happen to me, during that crisis when I have lost many ? destiny had brought him to my thoughts. And he was doing his best by remaining silent, till when I actually needed words. Meanwhile I was rediscovering him, gaining confidence in him as never before. The process, though, was not new to me. When we had had a basic familiarity, I had seen him with his charismatic fun-loving ambience injected into the reluctant atmosphere. It was much later that I chanced by real him. He was neither his real skin, nor his everyday-assumed eyes, nor his plain words. I developed an understanding that skin is in fact mundane; words may unfold to various realms of substance; and eyes can speak more than mere ears can afford to listen. He seemed to have mingled with everything around him - they seemed to affect him; he had an opinion about them. It was difficult to see him in single, afterwards. His ambience had enlarged infinitely. It seemed that he didn?t have a zenith or not even a nadir. The nadir might have collapsed deep within him, and what would have been his zenith, had shrouded him at an infinite distance.
Now he was observing the waters, probably comprehending that the horizon is what I appeared to be, but shores is what actually my thoughts were. Though I cannot always be sure about the aftermath resulting in his gray matters. Sometimes I felt entering into his world, though, purely my creation (I will never ever deform that!), and dancing to melodious tunes, which appeared to be created in a mutually understood philosophy, that of the creator and of the creation. His world is not concrete, but a cosmic charm - plasmatic flakes abounding around him, each one in accord with the others. They never bother about their destiny or their end. It seemed they have discovered that this is their infinite end. They are in fact his creations, not shackled, but charmed by the bliss of being philosophized.
He certainly grew concerned over my lot. I had again gone silent, but bar any thought, as parched lips, that on having sensed the overflowing of flakes in the sky and foreseen the drops that had left the clouds, awaited to be drenched, pervaded and sieved off the bushels. It indeed rained heavily.
It was another day. I relaxed on the bed, still not complete with the sleep. The last night incident wallowed in my thoughts. I was not able to recollect the exact events. But it certainly rained heavily, and I had to drop her home. The events and the roles seemed entangled. As a chanced thought it appeared as if I were dreaming, or had been into somebody else?s dream, or maybe was ostracized from the whole episode. In spite of, I hoped she had a nice sleep.
We were accustomed to each other after a long time. Neither she nor me would like anything pushed for the purpose of attaining. We believed in achieving, winning it over. The contrast, too, was notable. My world comprised most of inanimate and abstract things. I made them spin in my discoveries. Humans have a lesser portion of me. Those who have me are kept ignorant of their possession. I relish analyzing things that are always lost in backgrounds. And when I infer to some of their aspect, I include them in my world. I also have dreams. They are touched, weaved and assured of their completion. Sincerely unaware of such elements is her world, characterized by many a characters that are human, whose company is treasured, with whom the chemistry is tried, or there is a wish to create one. I see in her eyes zeal to explore all souls with a beating heart. With all these cravings she still adheres to her principles of relishing them in a practical manner.
I had given my best to help her tackle her emotional crest. I had delivered her my analytically derived experiences, so that she can cope with the loss, the change that had come into her routine, some faces removed, new ones would replace them in her view. Personally I accept that change is the only constant thing in this world. Psychologically, people are not as much emotional disturbed or affected by the changes in past, as by the changes at hand. Time heals up things. If people can learn from the changes of the past days and ages gone in their life, then they would be wiser in tackling them in present. People perceive change as a process, but fail to perceive that there are intermittent stable states. They would have accepted the states had they not been a part of the process of some change. Happiness is the ultimate one should seek for. And happiness is never a process, but a state. Only in this state can life be relished. One keeps comparing the present state with that of past and anticipating what future would destiny bring to them.
All lectures are useless to persons reluctant to give to alien perceptions; due to whatever reason they hold. I think she too failed in imbibing from my understandings. Yet I wished that she be stable. She was not stable when she was reading my eyes. I think she was loosing faith in my sensibility. She was plain afterwards. No reaction held her face. There was this silence, that for the first time was difficult to bear. Maybe then she cascaded back to from where she had begun. The violent shores, though this time not loud. It had become impossible to communicate any logic to her. Though she never said it, yet I felt her shrugging off entirely from the stuff. She then walked aimlessly on the sands.
On a practical front, I would then have accepted, that unprecedented turn of events, as had her life, do shock and depress people. It?s just human. Greatness, then, lies in killing the hangover at the earliest. All may not be great ? Sensibility lies in adjusting to the new environment. Mediocrity may elongate the healing, and foolishness, make one commit suicide. One cannot control the turn of circumstances. Maybe I could have done better last night, living that moment with her depression rather than attempting to eradicate it. Philosophies and practicality cripple down before enigmatic heart and mind (read Mann, not Dil and Dimaag). It?s the most abstract and uncontrollable thing. It?s the decision-maker, happiness-relisher and the only threshold thinking from where one can feel. It seemed that her sorrow had touched me too. I prayed to God that she has a bright morning; it was still dark outside. I got down the bed. The chill floor troubled my bare feet. I covered them into slippers at hand.
It was a bright morning, then cool AC and an uneasy evening. Yet riding back home was a relief from the stagnant air. I was about a kilometer away from my home when a person gestured for lift. I generally do not, to strangers. But that time I was letting go my fear and reluctance, as I stuck to his eyes. Those eyes were neither pleading nor were in relief. It seemed they knew something would stop. I asked him where to go. He again gestured straight. He turned out to be deaf and maybe dumb too. Straight and a little further, maybe, I wasn?t sure what to interpret.
There was a memorable pause. He awaited for me to continue, while I waited for nothing. Everything had gone silent and still. The whole world seemed to me unified in the silence. In the vacuum I felt just like him, devoid of the essential things. It could be the worst that could happen to somebody, but surprisingly I loved the state. I do not remember how long I was still at the crossing, or how many horns would have been tried at me. I could finally get my sight back to the world, seeing him walking away, his back fading in the dust. I took the right towards my home.
It was yet another day. I knew that the alarm would be ringing. It was. I set it off. Every morning I admired and thanked God that my biological clock has been with me every morning. I was digging up my last week. Last night some good person had dropped me at some junction, I remembered, though I cannot ever figure out the junction. A few moments before that junction, was a shore, where I had met yet another person. I am accustomed to ignore things that I think would do me no practical good. But not the abstract things, they are a good past time to philosophize on, and increase ones understanding. My senses do give me surprises many a times; there?s not one with whom I can share these. I would never reach any position in society where my biography would interest the public. It?s no use trying to speak when I know I cannot. Silence and Expressions are all what people around me would expect to get from me. Apart, life moves on. There has never been a reason why I should stop at some moments in life. Finding the shore or the junction would only stop me. But yes there was a chemistry going on at the shore. This chemistry between people is another thing that fascinates me the most. There are times when I can understand what the people are telling. It?s because of the chemistry we have built during the days of companionship. The silence inside me has made me more contemplative. Thoughts seem to be my only companion; random thoughts keep coming to me, daydreaming. And whenever I am lost into my thoughts, there?s always a pause when I come back to the world, to my work, and just wait till another thought unknowingly creep into me. This time I needed to check how bright the day would have gone. I got up towards the window. Took to slippers to cover my bare feet.
The day seemed special or maybe enigmatic. I felt an unusual feeling of alieness, as if the world had suddenly gone different. The air current was strong; I could not hear anything. I had put on a tight helmet. My eyes were hid behind, yet sparkling. It was raining and I felt fortunate that my feet were not naked. Instigated by the turmoil inside me, I wondered if the rhythm of the rain drops falling, and that of the silence would be similar.
SILENCE
Cameras clicked. People were moving around; they could not help but be restless. Each clicked brought the motion to pause. A silence attempting to rule, was soon defeated by some turmoil, either arising from my insides finding its way out through the eyes, or rippling centripetally and finding its way through my eyes to the other senses. People kept leaving the room time and again. They were, sometimes, mingling into each other, yet remaining themselves. The walls were smothering me; I felt drowning, with flotsam all around me; fighting hard to breathe. The decibel level was high still the voices were weak.
It was so unpractical and futile to try to imagine their voices speaking to me. I could feel that the pace of the events had slowed down. I felt it couldn?t be any more dramatic; my eyes were clear now. A bright shore lay before me. I heard him asking me why I was silent. His hands were near to my shoulders. He could have shaken me any moment. Shocked on seeing him so, and by the sudden silence around, I slipped. His hands held me. I finally smiled at him. His eyes were observing the drastic change of my lip movements, as if also measuring the effort of the molecules that had pulled the cheeks inside. Flowing between us was an unwelcome breeze, breaking randomly at the folds on my forehead, and fluttering into my eyelashes.
I took my eyes away from him, not accustomed of being stared by him, when neither of us was talking. My feet were bare; I slipped them into slippers lying at hand. There were no thoughts then. Engulfed into a silence, we walked abreast. ?Hi! What?s the matter?, he softly said into my ears. A little louder ?Hi?, I was walking the horizon where another silence seemed to mingle. There was seriously a matter. I had called him to meet. Our group of friends had all separated, to try their luck at different places. I had been living life with them. The silence, the vacuum, was making it difficult to live without them. They had livened my soul, just as he had livened few years back.
He was an active entity, enjoying every moment, never conscious of any thing around him, spreading a jovial ambience around. I felt then that it was the best thing to happen to me, during that crisis when I have lost many ? destiny had brought him to my thoughts. And he was doing his best by remaining silent, till when I actually needed words. Meanwhile I was rediscovering him, gaining confidence in him as never before. The process, though, was not new to me. When we had had a basic familiarity, I had seen him with his charismatic fun-loving ambience injected into the reluctant atmosphere. It was much later that I chanced by real him. He was neither his real skin, nor his everyday-assumed eyes, nor his plain words. I developed an understanding that skin is in fact mundane; words may unfold to various realms of substance; and eyes can speak more than mere ears can afford to listen. He seemed to have mingled with everything around him - they seemed to affect him; he had an opinion about them. It was difficult to see him in single, afterwards. His ambience had enlarged infinitely. It seemed that he didn?t have a zenith or not even a nadir. The nadir might have collapsed deep within him, and what would have been his zenith, had shrouded him at an infinite distance.
Now he was observing the waters, probably comprehending that the horizon is what I appeared to be, but shores is what actually my thoughts were. Though I cannot always be sure about the aftermath resulting in his gray matters. Sometimes I felt entering into his world, though, purely my creation (I will never ever deform that!), and dancing to melodious tunes, which appeared to be created in a mutually understood philosophy, that of the creator and of the creation. His world is not concrete, but a cosmic charm - plasmatic flakes abounding around him, each one in accord with the others. They never bother about their destiny or their end. It seemed they have discovered that this is their infinite end. They are in fact his creations, not shackled, but charmed by the bliss of being philosophized.
He certainly grew concerned over my lot. I had again gone silent, but bar any thought, as parched lips, that on having sensed the overflowing of flakes in the sky and foreseen the drops that had left the clouds, awaited to be drenched, pervaded and sieved off the bushels. It indeed rained heavily.
It was another day. I relaxed on the bed, still not complete with the sleep. The last night incident wallowed in my thoughts. I was not able to recollect the exact events. But it certainly rained heavily, and I had to drop her home. The events and the roles seemed entangled. As a chanced thought it appeared as if I were dreaming, or had been into somebody else?s dream, or maybe was ostracized from the whole episode. In spite of, I hoped she had a nice sleep.
We were accustomed to each other after a long time. Neither she nor me would like anything pushed for the purpose of attaining. We believed in achieving, winning it over. The contrast, too, was notable. My world comprised most of inanimate and abstract things. I made them spin in my discoveries. Humans have a lesser portion of me. Those who have me are kept ignorant of their possession. I relish analyzing things that are always lost in backgrounds. And when I infer to some of their aspect, I include them in my world. I also have dreams. They are touched, weaved and assured of their completion. Sincerely unaware of such elements is her world, characterized by many a characters that are human, whose company is treasured, with whom the chemistry is tried, or there is a wish to create one. I see in her eyes zeal to explore all souls with a beating heart. With all these cravings she still adheres to her principles of relishing them in a practical manner.
I had given my best to help her tackle her emotional crest. I had delivered her my analytically derived experiences, so that she can cope with the loss, the change that had come into her routine, some faces removed, new ones would replace them in her view. Personally I accept that change is the only constant thing in this world. Psychologically, people are not as much emotional disturbed or affected by the changes in past, as by the changes at hand. Time heals up things. If people can learn from the changes of the past days and ages gone in their life, then they would be wiser in tackling them in present. People perceive change as a process, but fail to perceive that there are intermittent stable states. They would have accepted the states had they not been a part of the process of some change. Happiness is the ultimate one should seek for. And happiness is never a process, but a state. Only in this state can life be relished. One keeps comparing the present state with that of past and anticipating what future would destiny bring to them.
All lectures are useless to persons reluctant to give to alien perceptions; due to whatever reason they hold. I think she too failed in imbibing from my understandings. Yet I wished that she be stable. She was not stable when she was reading my eyes. I think she was loosing faith in my sensibility. She was plain afterwards. No reaction held her face. There was this silence, that for the first time was difficult to bear. Maybe then she cascaded back to from where she had begun. The violent shores, though this time not loud. It had become impossible to communicate any logic to her. Though she never said it, yet I felt her shrugging off entirely from the stuff. She then walked aimlessly on the sands.
On a practical front, I would then have accepted, that unprecedented turn of events, as had her life, do shock and depress people. It?s just human. Greatness, then, lies in killing the hangover at the earliest. All may not be great ? Sensibility lies in adjusting to the new environment. Mediocrity may elongate the healing, and foolishness, make one commit suicide. One cannot control the turn of circumstances. Maybe I could have done better last night, living that moment with her depression rather than attempting to eradicate it. Philosophies and practicality cripple down before enigmatic heart and mind (read Mann, not Dil and Dimaag). It?s the most abstract and uncontrollable thing. It?s the decision-maker, happiness-relisher and the only threshold thinking from where one can feel. It seemed that her sorrow had touched me too. I prayed to God that she has a bright morning; it was still dark outside. I got down the bed. The chill floor troubled my bare feet. I covered them into slippers at hand.
It was a bright morning, then cool AC and an uneasy evening. Yet riding back home was a relief from the stagnant air. I was about a kilometer away from my home when a person gestured for lift. I generally do not, to strangers. But that time I was letting go my fear and reluctance, as I stuck to his eyes. Those eyes were neither pleading nor were in relief. It seemed they knew something would stop. I asked him where to go. He again gestured straight. He turned out to be deaf and maybe dumb too. Straight and a little further, maybe, I wasn?t sure what to interpret.
There was a memorable pause. He awaited for me to continue, while I waited for nothing. Everything had gone silent and still. The whole world seemed to me unified in the silence. In the vacuum I felt just like him, devoid of the essential things. It could be the worst that could happen to somebody, but surprisingly I loved the state. I do not remember how long I was still at the crossing, or how many horns would have been tried at me. I could finally get my sight back to the world, seeing him walking away, his back fading in the dust. I took the right towards my home.
It was yet another day. I knew that the alarm would be ringing. It was. I set it off. Every morning I admired and thanked God that my biological clock has been with me every morning. I was digging up my last week. Last night some good person had dropped me at some junction, I remembered, though I cannot ever figure out the junction. A few moments before that junction, was a shore, where I had met yet another person. I am accustomed to ignore things that I think would do me no practical good. But not the abstract things, they are a good past time to philosophize on, and increase ones understanding. My senses do give me surprises many a times; there?s not one with whom I can share these. I would never reach any position in society where my biography would interest the public. It?s no use trying to speak when I know I cannot. Silence and Expressions are all what people around me would expect to get from me. Apart, life moves on. There has never been a reason why I should stop at some moments in life. Finding the shore or the junction would only stop me. But yes there was a chemistry going on at the shore. This chemistry between people is another thing that fascinates me the most. There are times when I can understand what the people are telling. It?s because of the chemistry we have built during the days of companionship. The silence inside me has made me more contemplative. Thoughts seem to be my only companion; random thoughts keep coming to me, daydreaming. And whenever I am lost into my thoughts, there?s always a pause when I come back to the world, to my work, and just wait till another thought unknowingly creep into me. This time I needed to check how bright the day would have gone. I got up towards the window. Took to slippers to cover my bare feet.
The day seemed special or maybe enigmatic. I felt an unusual feeling of alieness, as if the world had suddenly gone different. The air current was strong; I could not hear anything. I had put on a tight helmet. My eyes were hid behind, yet sparkling. It was raining and I felt fortunate that my feet were not naked. Instigated by the turmoil inside me, I wondered if the rhythm of the rain drops falling, and that of the silence would be similar.
April 05, 2006
Useless poetry
_________________
Useless Poetry
_________________
A flight of butterflies and
The eager eyes are after them.
No one can help praising them-
They have sky touching the earth,
Lips kissing a cheek,
A rising sun on one hand
And a setting one on another,
Silent waters on one hand
And waves on another.
A butterfly falls and
The eager eyes calm down.
A pair of eyes saddens,
Picks up the drooped rose
And waters it to life.
Another pair of similar eyes
Gets excited waiting
For the drooped rose to bloom.
"Be self dependent," they say,
"Lemme see what you do?"
Those eyes are of a poet
Without love for his subjects.
Thus makes he a poetry
Without love, without life,
Thus makes he a useless poetry.
__________________
Here I would like to present a good poetry on similar lines.
Poetry
by Irfan
Poetry may falter in praise
may totter behind filth in scraps
appear suddenly in crumpled pea-pouches
or decide to place itself in heels of a boot-licker
and receive awards too many.
--------------------------------
Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you.
Useless Poetry
_________________
A flight of butterflies and
The eager eyes are after them.
No one can help praising them-
They have sky touching the earth,
Lips kissing a cheek,
A rising sun on one hand
And a setting one on another,
Silent waters on one hand
And waves on another.
A butterfly falls and
The eager eyes calm down.
A pair of eyes saddens,
Picks up the drooped rose
And waters it to life.
Another pair of similar eyes
Gets excited waiting
For the drooped rose to bloom.
"Be self dependent," they say,
"Lemme see what you do?"
Those eyes are of a poet
Without love for his subjects.
Thus makes he a poetry
Without love, without life,
Thus makes he a useless poetry.
__________________
Here I would like to present a good poetry on similar lines.
Poetry
by Irfan
Poetry may falter in praise
may totter behind filth in scraps
appear suddenly in crumpled pea-pouches
or decide to place itself in heels of a boot-licker
and receive awards too many.
--------------------------------
Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you.
February 03, 2006
It Rains
_________
This is what a writer does best. He takes u beyond what you call your world, beyond what you consider reality, beyond what you call practicality.
_________
It Rains
It rains.
Kids run wearing bright raincoats,
Jumping, hopping, splashing the waters.
Adults wade through the knee-level water,
Slippers in one hand, umbrella in other;
Some cycle through the drizzling path,
Some have a rickshaw-ride:
There's one who does nothing.
It rains.
Men quicken to get some spicy food,
Women start preparing tea or coffee.
Aged persons sit at a window or veranda
Glimpsing the active drops fall before them.
A mother gives her child a surprise-
The baby watches, smelling the freshness:
There's one who does nothing.
It rains.
We plan out a football match,
Rush for the nearby pond to swim,
Reach the terrace for the world's view.
We also bet a race across the road,
Challenge a walk over a wall
Or play out a scene in the rain:
There's one who does nothing.
It rains.
There's one who does nothing.
As if for him the waters fall not,
And if they fall, they reach not the ground
And if they reach the ground
They excite him not-
As if for him there's no rain
There's no sunshine for him either,
Neither love nor hate: thus, no life.
There's one living as if he had no life.
It rains?
_________
NOTE:
As I am adding this I remember Charles Dickens, the subtle satire he wrote, which accumulating led to a tragedic yet convincing end of the plot.
This is what a writer does best. He takes u beyond what you call your world, beyond what you consider reality, beyond what you call practicality. Yet when you read it, it seems your very own.(You are ready to identify the Thing). He gives you the joy of experiencing what after experiencing you call elements of your own world. The writer attacks your Lost and Longing aspect to transform it to Belongingness and Admiration.
_________
*********
This is what a writer does best. He takes u beyond what you call your world, beyond what you consider reality, beyond what you call practicality.
_________
It Rains
It rains.
Kids run wearing bright raincoats,
Jumping, hopping, splashing the waters.
Adults wade through the knee-level water,
Slippers in one hand, umbrella in other;
Some cycle through the drizzling path,
Some have a rickshaw-ride:
There's one who does nothing.
It rains.
Men quicken to get some spicy food,
Women start preparing tea or coffee.
Aged persons sit at a window or veranda
Glimpsing the active drops fall before them.
A mother gives her child a surprise-
The baby watches, smelling the freshness:
There's one who does nothing.
It rains.
We plan out a football match,
Rush for the nearby pond to swim,
Reach the terrace for the world's view.
We also bet a race across the road,
Challenge a walk over a wall
Or play out a scene in the rain:
There's one who does nothing.
It rains.
There's one who does nothing.
As if for him the waters fall not,
And if they fall, they reach not the ground
And if they reach the ground
They excite him not-
As if for him there's no rain
There's no sunshine for him either,
Neither love nor hate: thus, no life.
There's one living as if he had no life.
It rains?
_________
NOTE:
As I am adding this I remember Charles Dickens, the subtle satire he wrote, which accumulating led to a tragedic yet convincing end of the plot.
This is what a writer does best. He takes u beyond what you call your world, beyond what you consider reality, beyond what you call practicality. Yet when you read it, it seems your very own.(You are ready to identify the Thing). He gives you the joy of experiencing what after experiencing you call elements of your own world. The writer attacks your Lost and Longing aspect to transform it to Belongingness and Admiration.
_________
| Charles Dickens | To conceal anything from those to whom I am attached, is not in my nature. I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart. |
*********
January 18, 2006
December 28, 2005
Passion
_________
Passion is universal humanity. Without it religion, history, romance and art would be useless.
-Honor? de Balzac
_________
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.
Passion is universal humanity. Without it religion, history, romance and art would be useless.
-Honor? de Balzac
_________
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.
October 05, 2005
The gush of optimism
___________
toQuote: The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true. - James Branch Cabell
___________
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.
toQuote: The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true. - James Branch Cabell
___________
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.
August 23, 2005
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.
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.
July 25, 2005
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.
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.
July 15, 2005
Poems on Soldiers
_______
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.
_______
Poems on Soldiers
_______
(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.
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.
_______
Poems on Soldiers
_______
(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.
June 06, 2005
You can't separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom - Malcolm X
______________
The Freedom Lost
______________
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.
The Freedom Lost
______________
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.
May 17, 2005
There cannot always be wise words for every possible thing in the world - Anon
____________
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.
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.
April 26, 2005
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.
-----------------
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.
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.
-----------------
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.
April 06, 2005
Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist, but you have ceased to live. - Mark Twain
____________
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.
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.
March 23, 2005
What a blind person needs is not a teacher but another self. -- Helen Keller
_________________
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.
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.
March 08, 2005
"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.
_________________
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.
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.
January 27, 2005
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
_______________
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.
_______________
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-.
_______________
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.
_______________
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-.
January 21, 2005
"No man is worth your tears, but once you find one that is, he won't make you cry" - Anonymous
________________
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.
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.
January 13, 2005
Nature is just enough; but men and women must comprehend and accept her suggestions. -Antoinette Brown Blackwell
______________
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.
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.
January 03, 2005
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.
__________________________
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.
December 28, 2004
"God must become an activity in our consciousness." Joel S. Goldsmith
Search
After every violence-
The thoughts percussion,
I lay in spiritless ambience;
My parts seem to under go separation
Unable to balance between the yes and nos-
I shut the lids off and-
Concentrating between the brows
In darkness I do land.
I march towards a faded spot
Catch the track and towards Him
Am carried by the beck
Until am misled by the trim-
Of beauty, mundane pleasures,
Love that ruled by passions,
Asserts, monetary treasures
And of contemporary fashion-
For the spontaneity I do lack
And even the self-effacement.
Again on reminder I am back
To search for the paranormal existence.
I climb the mountain,
Cross the valley, the river,
Bear the wind, the pain
And the body's shiver-.
A doubt, a deficiency of hope,
A bit of tiredness, and
Patience unable to cope
Again in darkness I do land.
The lids open-,"Next time,"
I promise,"I'll cross the barriers
And search the prime,"
If be mitigated those barriers.
But my eager desire for objects beautiful
Will lead me to the result tire-
That is, in his search I'm unsuccessful.
After every violence-
The thoughts percussion,
I lay in spiritless ambience;
My parts seem to under go separation
Unable to balance between the yes and nos-
I shut the lids off and-
Concentrating between the brows
In darkness I do land.
I march towards a faded spot
Catch the track and towards Him
Am carried by the beck
Until am misled by the trim-
Of beauty, mundane pleasures,
Love that ruled by passions,
Asserts, monetary treasures
And of contemporary fashion-
For the spontaneity I do lack
And even the self-effacement.
Again on reminder I am back
To search for the paranormal existence.
I climb the mountain,
Cross the valley, the river,
Bear the wind, the pain
And the body's shiver-.
A doubt, a deficiency of hope,
A bit of tiredness, and
Patience unable to cope
Again in darkness I do land.
The lids open-,"Next time,"
I promise,"I'll cross the barriers
And search the prime,"
If be mitigated those barriers.
But my eager desire for objects beautiful
Will lead me to the result tire-
That is, in his search I'm unsuccessful.
December 23, 2004
Creating Poetry
A stricken body-
Dark tinged, skin drawn tight-
Lays in the lap of nature-
With leaves, with flowers,
With butterflies, with bees,
With waters and under them,
On moon and even beyond that.
The lids move;
The heart is heard beating again.
The beat, as harmonious
As the advancing waves,
Has some sweet thing to say.
The heart beats with those of flowers,
With those of waters, of waves,
With those of sky and of earth.
From beneath those opening lids
Sparkle the eyes-those precious jewels.
They have something to interpret,
They have something to say.
They have the sight to pierce the heart
That of things, matters, beings,
That of love, hatred and fear.
The lids open-
Sweet life is restored.
Accompanying it blooms the flowers,
Blows the wind, and all.
Sweat leaves the pores.
-And the result is sweet poetry.
Dark tinged, skin drawn tight-
Lays in the lap of nature-
With leaves, with flowers,
With butterflies, with bees,
With waters and under them,
On moon and even beyond that.
The lids move;
The heart is heard beating again.
The beat, as harmonious
As the advancing waves,
Has some sweet thing to say.
The heart beats with those of flowers,
With those of waters, of waves,
With those of sky and of earth.
From beneath those opening lids
Sparkle the eyes-those precious jewels.
They have something to interpret,
They have something to say.
They have the sight to pierce the heart
That of things, matters, beings,
That of love, hatred and fear.
The lids open-
Sweet life is restored.
Accompanying it blooms the flowers,
Blows the wind, and all.
Sweat leaves the pores.
-And the result is sweet poetry.
December 17, 2004
Remembrances of friends
Cool home a pond besides it.
My head floats on the water
With thousand other known faces;
-Meet many people, let go
Expressions of formality.
It moves along with the dial,
Leaving behind frequent expressions.
A sweet breeze ripples up to me,
Tickles the software under the skin.
Dial tires, tired rays, alone in the pond,
No exercise of muscles, no wish for it-
The software waits for a breeze.
No breeze-spasms in thoughts,
Ripples in pond few heads nearby,
Beats in heart, harmony in thoughts
-Remembrances of friends,
Dead head on dead waters.
My head floats on the water
With thousand other known faces;
-Meet many people, let go
Expressions of formality.
It moves along with the dial,
Leaving behind frequent expressions.
A sweet breeze ripples up to me,
Tickles the software under the skin.
Dial tires, tired rays, alone in the pond,
No exercise of muscles, no wish for it-
The software waits for a breeze.
No breeze-spasms in thoughts,
Ripples in pond few heads nearby,
Beats in heart, harmony in thoughts
-Remembrances of friends,
Dead head on dead waters.
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