Thursday, 14 December 2017

My Time

My time. My time to rule and regain. My time to change and develop. My time to cashback. My time to realise the certainty. My time to live the constant, again. My time to undo and start over. My time to let go. My time to disagree. My time to understand. My time to cry and laugh. My time to be there and everywhere at once. My time to be quiet. My time to see and smile. My time had/ has / will come. 

Sunday, 10 December 2017

Amla Pickle

Winter morning sun, a plate full of amlas drying on the terrace soaking in the air makes for a delicious amla pickle recipe. Of course the ceramic pickle jar, oil and a mixture of spices add zingy flavours to the story, but this happens much later.

Go ask the winter sun what magic it carries, sprinkling warmth and soothing glow, intoxicating the land and almost everyone you know. Or ask a farmer who works bare feet for hours and hours, sweating and smiling.

Go sit on the terrace on the pretext of shielding the amlas from those happy big flies. Beware, the air will make you high, for it brings along winter folk tales and songs, colourful kites and children’s laughter.

Winter just appears to be slow and quiet, maybe such is its inner joy and creativity. The spell will work, all you have to do is ask the winter sun, sit on the terrace or taste the amla pickle.


(Amla - Indian Gooseberry
Photo curtesy - Google)

Thursday, 30 November 2017

Sunflower Smile

Smile that sunflower smile, I love to see your beaming face, eyes closed and the rosy glow. Oh, come on! Remember those winters how we huddled to be in direct sunlight… warmth of the burning star touched our souls, and we smiled.

Peeping through the bushes, the sunlight always made me feel like I am in a photograph – yet to be taken.

While the tiny white daisies were busy decorating and tackling the mad wind, blushing, swaying and often taunting it for impeding their progress, the sunflowers stayed glued like a crayon drawing on the wall, letting the sun seep within.

Seeing the clouds approach, the sunflowers never trembled or rebuked the sky’s spongy friends… for the sunflowers could feel the presence of that warm burning star, part of it now stored inside them.

Maybe that’s why sunflowers’ signature reads ‘Forever’ rather than their glowing name. Oh, how lovely!

Now just smile that sunflower smile, I love to see your beaming face, eyes closed and the rosy glow.

Monday, 20 November 2017

Dust

Living in a quiet and slow dust storm, I wonder if I am moving at all. Just as I approach the wall, it becomes dust and so does everything else.

What makes me thirsty? Is it the sound of future, my desire to see it or the knowledge of nothing? Sliding, swaying, fumbling I reach a well and quench my thirst happily.

Often a friend guides me, though, who borrows memories from whom isn’t clear to me as of now. But I am sure of my useless attempts to gather the dust after it is all gone.

Standing still I come across a sea of mirrors, I choose one and take the place in front of it. I tell myself I am ready to take the dive, the mirror repeats my words and then without a sound or any movement, I turn into dust.

Friday, 3 November 2017

The Truth

Dragging oneself ahead, only because dragging backwards would be difficult and funny, doesn’t complete you.

Following an invisible lazy path in a directionless haste, refusing to change also won’t complete you.

With a quintal of clarity in mind and a certain blind belief when you finally try to pull the rusty chains of action they break. However mild, an action will lead to a reaction and so the wheel will turn.

Kill the illusion of faraway future that you nurture daily, tear that plastic hexagonal dream, burn that paper palace lying crumpled in a drawer and stand up to face the truth that you were born with. It’s nothing but you. You’re the truth.

Friday, 27 October 2017

Balance

After my failed attempt to balance, I realised I am missing an ingredient. It’s forgotten, it’s forbidden, it’s evil. Closed in a trunk and locked and chained, thrown down in a deep dark hole. Maybe that’s why it screeches and hurts when it reaches the surface.

Do I also need to be blindfolded before I balance? Not seeing means not feeling? Are both the forces ruthless in essence? Should we maintain silence to listen?

Probably yes.

My means aren’t in fashion, but are prudent. The act has begun, I can see the missing ingredient now. So I attempt again to balance.

Tuesday, 24 October 2017

Me-The-Kind

“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” – Simone Weil

Stone steps lead up to a place I am yet to see. Dealing with the quietness interrupted intermittently by sweet songs of the birds, I continue ahead. My mind usher some unwanted thoughts and force me to dwell on and on and on, until I refuse, pause and take a deep breath. Don’t inquire for I don’t know why I am smiling, but I am and it has opened the collection of happy memories. Beaming face feels like being in an ocean of flowers. I start knitting happy thoughts with the golden thread of dreams and everything seems possible, the world is mine. A castle is constructed, my reign flourishes in seconds and in seconds I see my downfall. When I gather the broken pieces and stand up, I see the stone steps staring at me. No dialogues are exchanged, and I continue ahead.

When I wake up, I don’t think much of this dream. I am already late to rush into my monotonous routine. The running time never bargains while I always find a reason to bargain, but I haven’t cracked a deal even once.

The whole day I critique myself, like a ritual, except when the dream hushes me-the-perfect and me-the-kind takes over.

Wednesday, 11 October 2017

Crane on Turtle Candlestick Holder

Our blacksmith picked up the mould and studied it. His expressions were not discernible, but the sweat on his forehead highlighted his precision as he poured the molten metal into the mould. Whilst he worked, many frames, metal shapes – some contorted, some flamboyant – stared at him, acknowledging and appreciating in utter silence.

Our blacksmith, on his way back home, saw a little kid who was standing against a wall with his friend, wasting time, living. That little kid whispered something to his friend and they both started following our blacksmith, copying his gait. A silly game, a random thought, a reason to smile.

Dear reader what does time say? Time says it is next day.

Every frame, every metal shape was eagerly waiting for our blacksmith. Roller shutter made its habitual noise and our blacksmith entered his workshop, and along with him came his two buddies, those two kids we saw earlier. Quickly they went and stood next to his grand table, jumping with excitement.

Our blacksmith finally showed them what was now ready in the mould – it was a crane on turtle candlestick holder. The two kids laughed and so did our blacksmith. He said the crane and the turtle were friends and the kids inquired if he had seen something like that in real. Our blacksmith nodded and said that when he was their age he went with his father to a lake side and saw a crane standing on a turtle’s back. Childhood memories, captured time that never fades.



 Picture Courtesy - Google 

Saturday, 7 October 2017

The Journey

Amongst the clouds… yes, this is how the journey began. Mushy clouds, mushy dreamy clouds all around her. Whether she walked or the white dreams floated around her isn’t something the music ever revealed. The music was busy playing and she was busy colouring. The sky and earth colours participated and turned rich.

Meanwhile, in a parallel universe, someone took a flight, landed, took a cab, halted for a coffee break, laughed with her friend and continued the road trip.

Warm waves of velvety starry blanket covered the existence and hushed those who listened into happy silence. She stayed awake for a while just to witness it all. A simple melodious note filled her ears and she swam to sleep.

That someone talked to her friend, they ate pastries and called it a day. That someone, with ‘oh’ look, got up to brush her teeth and then went to bed. Phew!

She opened her eyes, awakened the self and stepped out to see the end of a long search. Birds and buds, earth’s aroma and touch, giant trees’ humble smiles, the sun’s vocals and the wind’s compositions, other human beings, all dancing, and of course, the bicycles… everything she laid her eyes on glanced back at her, welcomed and sang to her. Tring, tring… tring, tring, she replied to them. Crossed leg sitting inside an apple she relished it, sweet, sour, juicy and fresh. When she jumped outside, she gave the left-over bit to a dog. Questioning her about nothing the dog finished the apple. Tring, tring… she went ahead and met a mathematician’s spirit, who gave her the map that took her to the grand golden lotus with twelve petals. Its beauty struck her hard and she kept standing there for ages in admiration. Primary and secondary colours, in circles, pyramids and cylindrical shapes all passed by her. She blinked and found herself inside the grand golden lotus. Earth, Fire, Wind and Water were there, she saw it, just a glimpse, but they were there in absoluteness. She blinked and she was back outside. Oh! The joy! She danced all her way, lal-lal-lal-laaa, rotated and laughed, climbed the musical rainbow and listened to what the colours were playing and then surprised herself with her quiet self, quiet but not low, because her eyes were beaming and her soul still dancing.

By the hourglass the journey continued for that someone and her friend, click-click-click, pictures taken, tring-tring-tring on the cycle path, resting, eating and laughing. That someone’s friend like a darling blue bird sang and danced… unable to resist that someone also joined her. Together they collected memories and both filled their hourglass with it. Smart! Now time reminds them of those memories all the time.

Auroville
O journey, when did you start and when will you end?
O journey, can I stop and meet my friend?
The beginning is hazy, but true and the end will be a new beginning for you.
Don’t stop if you want to meet your friend, for she is on a journey too.

Monday, 2 October 2017

बहानेबाज़

ठहर कर कहने की जल्दी मे,
मुझे ज़रा देर हो गई।

बात याद भी रह गई,
और भूल भी गई। 

दरअसल मामला सुलझ कर और भी पेचीदा हो गया है,
ख़ुद को जानने की पहल जो कर बैठी हूँ।

उस दिन जाने की जल्दी न मची होती तो,
सब जान ही गई थी, सब पहचान ही गई थी मैं।

अनगिनत अफ़सानो मे एक और अफसाना सही,
बस कलम ढूंढ लूँ, फिर और कोई बहाना नहीं। 


Translation -

The Excuse


In a hurry to share it later on,
I delayed it further.

I still remember what it was.
And I also think I have forgotten it.

Indeed the matter has become very simple and thus, very complex,
Maybe because I have decided to know myself.

Only if I was not in a rush to leave,
I would have understood everything.

Amongst all the tales, one more tale will be added
If only I can find my pen, I won’t delay it any longer.

Sunday, 10 September 2017

A Grey Building

In sickness I lay staring out from the window. All I could see was a few small trees and one big grey building. Shades of black, pataches of dirt and the peeled paint made it look more like a sketch of a building...

A sketch of an old building that has seen eras pass by. An era that changes almost nothing, but still does. Change that life awaits. Life that holds colours. Colours combine to form black, if it's light they combine to form white. Remember the prism experiment? Black and white...and grey. Grey characters say a lot. A grey building says a lot.

Saturday, 9 September 2017

These Red, Blue Jeeps Are The Same Or Are They Not?


The Red Jeep said to the Blue Jeep that it was late. What is the point of hurrying if you don’t know where you are going, replied the Blue Jeep.

Sure the circle is round and the track is wide, beautiful vistas stretched within and beyond me, prints are taken, but the journey is not free.

What is the price you ask? It is different for everybody. Though ultimately all agree to pay, and thus the journey begins.

But someone must know where I have reached. This guy in blue safety helmet might reveal.

Hey! Hey! Hey-hey! The man replied not, real the man was not, it was all plastic, just an image. It bounced off voices and that was enough for many. Still is.

The Red Jeep asked the Blue Jeep that if it followed the echoes or not. What is the point of following an echo when you can’t hear your own voice, replied the Blue Jeep.  


Picture Courtesy - Aditya Thakur  

Friday, 8 September 2017

टूटा हुआ चश्मा

टूटे हुए चश्मे की दास्ताँ 

शुरू होने से पहले ही खत्म हो गई 

अब और क्या कहूँ ?

Translation - 

Broken Spectacles

The tale of broken spectacles
Ended before it could even begin
Now what else can I say?

Wednesday, 6 September 2017

A Voice That Is Silenced Is Not Dead

You shot her and now hiding in your dingy room, scared in your dingy little heart, you fake a loud laugh. Pathetic! You, who have sold your soul in exchange for a new house, new car, new phone or possibly for a position, will suffer… and there won’t be an end to it.

But less about the hypnotised, dizzied and lost ones and more about the majority, observing and quiet ones… the ones who look, often address, but slowly learn to ignore. It must be due to some personal tragedies that they choose to stay silent. Sad, yes it is. But then such a lot forms the majority, yes they do. The majority if stands together will become a nightmare for the old selfish rich rulers.

The majority will definitely unite because there are great leaders who are already working for this, the great leaders who won’t ever fall, the great leaders who will always be heard by millions, even if their voices are silenced, their words will live forever... and so will they.


Tuesday, 5 September 2017

Coffee and Cigarettes

On screen the reality is often dramatized, over emphasised, sometimes under played and made loudly fictitious… it is also murdered and often what we see is already dead. To be alive and stay real is not easy; on screen it is tougher. Yet we come across something true all the time. Coffee and Cigarettes by Jim Jarmusch is one of such films that I find overwhelmingly true. So real and simple that it is difficult, like we all are. I am not talking about the technicalities or even about the film’s theme. I am just happy to feel whatever the film says… For me it is true and abstract and nonsense and completely real. Just like life is.

(P.S- Wrote it back in 2014 when I was at the film school.)

Sunday, 3 September 2017

In Slo-mo Towards the Moon



Walking towards the moon
In slo-mo and riding
Hiding behind a tide of thoughts
In slo-mo, unaware, unconcerned
About the change that is happening
In slo-mo, now and always
Carrying in bits the old me, turning
In slo-mo, hoping to see
Something better. Living the life
In slo-mo and looking into the future
Where things are picture-perfect, but moving
In slo-mo. Cracks in the present
For it isn’t that dear, until
In slo-mo I sit with patience and
Breathe, see, feel and realise
That everything is beautiful
That our mind knows the tricks
That reality simply is, just like the moon
Towards which I am walking
In slo-mo, beaming quietly. 


(Photo courtesy - Google) 

Saturday, 2 September 2017

Ellinikí Glóssa

A crumpled piece of paper, resting in an old library book, smoothed with time.

Intrigued by it, Bakul quickly rushed to a corner. She read the words loud and clear ‘Ellinikí Glóssa’. Unsure of what it means, she fabricated a story– it is a secret message meant for someone. Yes! Beaming like a sunflower beams on seeing the sun, Bakul crossed the corridor, then the stairs. Students saw her and thought, ‘ye to gayi firse’ (she has lost it again).

Bakul looked at you, yes you, the reader and said with dreamy eyes and a wide smile – Let us find out what the secret message is.

A turn and Bakul bumped into her teacher. “Sorry Sir”, “Bakul what’s in your hand, what are you up to this time?”, “Sir Rekha Ma’am is looking for you”, “Quiet Bakul, show me… eh... Ellinikí Glóssa… so now you’re interested in Greek language, hm?”, “Sirrrrr… this is in Greek?”, “Don't waste your time and submit your assignment by Monday, okay?”

Bakul nodded. Sir turned to leave, but stopped, “Where did you say Rekha Ma’am is… in the staff room?” “Ha-ha-ha”, “Bakul, wait, you silly girl.”

She looked again at you, yes you, the reader, and said with starry and mischievous eyes– Am I interested in Greek Language? She winked at you.

Well, sooner or later she will know the answer to this question.

“Peace out!”

Dear September

Do you remember how snowflakes made the little girl smile? And how velvety the whole valley looked? And me… jumping like a rabbit in white madness that I love so much…?

Oh sorry, that was January.

Do you remember when the squally winds took my hat away?

Ha! It was February. Sorry-sorry!

Surely you remember the rush of the colours – rich green, bright but soothing yellow and joyous merry pink… oh what days, colours dripping music and more… glorious days, sunshine in store read the headlines and our red shoes couldn’t stop dancing, remember?

No? Colours rule, hurray, hurray… March, April and May… oh! So it lasted till May… my mistake.

But then mangoes arrived and shined and peaches and plums and cherries and strawberries… and never did we see such a bigger moon… what a splendour you had said, I clearly remember, you can’t deny… the moon and the earth and the sky all in tune.

Oh! It was June.

Those monsoon showers I hope you remember… lie if you have to, at least to save me from heart break. Puddles and paper boats, raincoats and wet pockets, tea cups and gossips… Don’t take it all as a joke, I am hurt and you know it. But I won’t cry like you did and sneezed and laughed and cried again. We shared the longest hug… no, I am not mad.

July and August… My bad!

The golden autumn leaves, don’t say you don’t remember… we jumped on them, you and I… we liked the crunch-crunch sound… but that old uncle who wore a woollen Kulluvi-cap didn’t and he ran after us… remember? Long walks in those misty mornings, me shivering you laughing, me yawning you still laughing... I even wrote a poem titled – September laughed throughout October and November…

Am… Sh, why am I getting it all wrong?

Lights and candles and time for celebrations… candies and cakes and handy resolutions… Oh! I know, am wrong again, you don’t need to… “December, December, December!”

It was December.

Oh my dear September… accept my apologies and hear what I have to say… whatever the calendar ever tells me, whatever the weather ever shows me, I carry September in my heart throughout the year, for September is special to me and will always be.

The carousel plays on and on, it is where we met for the first time, I came reluctantly to that fair or was I dying to be there, but I am sure I stayed for you. My dear September I love you!

Oh, so you do remember… ah September!


Thursday, 31 August 2017

The Act Proves Intelligence

Unattached, patiently, freely I go deep
Within myself and find
That love can transform it all.

Ode to the Book - Easy SODOKU Puzzles

There is a book and it goes by the name
Easy SODUKU Puzzles, it’s part of a series -
Medium SODOKU Puzzles, Hard SODOKU Puzzles
All I can say is don’t buy the Easy ones

The reason is damn straightforward
Easy ones are way too easy and damn
Full of mistakes and it begins from the
Very first page. It makes you feel stingy.

Instead of creative juices flowing in your brain
You fall asleep on the book and drool all over it
The book then sits eating dust and you forget it
Completely. And when you look at it, you start crying.

Friends might mock you for buying the book -Easy SODOKU Puzzles
They will crush your feelings and not understand
Some will even question you as an individual
Forget them, forgive yourself and solve the puzzles nevertheless

Or you can write a blog about it and kill the readers
Oops!

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

Same

“What I meant was that if we are talking about the universe and how it works, then shouldn’t we first at least be aware about the micro-universes… the micro-universe of every living being which may throw some light on the macro-universe?”

“Hm-hm, I said the same.”

“How life evolves… its route from birth to death… simple cycles, complex cycles… such details can reveal a map of which we are a part.”

“My words mean the same.”

“And finally, where are we headed to… is there any sense in this flow of energy that we see everywhere… waves that started will reach an end, will it be the end or a new beginning… questions like these can change the meaning, the essence of our lives.”

“Same, same.”

“Hey, what is with you? Same, same… don’t you know anything else? Being quiet doesn’t make you a good listener, being honest about your response makes you. I don’t know why I began talking to you… who are you anyway?”

SILENCE RULES A LONG MINUTE

“I am you and you are me… we are both the same.”

Reflection

The window was closed and I stood staring, the reflection looked better, I thought.

I took a step forward and could still see myself, but also the wind blowing outside. The flying leaves passed right through me and the golden rain tree caressed me gently.

Few more steps towards the window and I got closer to myself. The reflection was quiet... unlike the weather outside. I could even hear the wind, the music it played was resonant.

I forgot the reflection as I stood by the window. The live drama outside and the rhythms playing caught me and I hummed along. I smiled.

Just then like a flash I again noticed my reflection on the window, it was also smiling this time. Immediately I changed my focus and tuned into watching the wind’s performance, smiling the whole while.

Monday, 28 August 2017

Mr. Bombay Celebrates Ganesh Chaturthi


Volume 1, Issue 4
G. V. P waiting for homemade Modaks...
Right Mr. Bombay? Oh, you're eating one,

but who gave you... share with me dude.




[Here 'Moreya' is used as meaning 'mine', for the exact meaning of these lines (excluding the last one), please follow the link - https://www.quora.com/What-does-Morya-mean-when-they-say-Ganpati-bappa-Morya-during-Ganeshotsav]

Sunday, 27 August 2017

Warrior By Heart

She has fallen down, she feels weak for sure. I can see her stunned eyes, I can hear her trembling breath. A gush of wind passes by, and she feels nothing. It just makes her vision blurry. Nothing is audible to her, neither the cries nor the roars. Her mind is like a blank slate, but right then she hears a sound… her heart is beating. And this is enough for the warrior to rise.

She is a warrior by heart.

Saturday, 26 August 2017

Calm Day

Shiro Kasamatsu's Woodblock Print

Today is a calm day, I believe and thus, it is a calm day. Sunlight is pleasant and my cows are happy. What is making me smile is the greenery. I’ll climb this mountain one day, as for now I am glad to just witness it. Are the clouds coming? I can’t see it, can you? Pshaw! What is not in the present is not present and the past is past. And my ukulele is my ukulele, which now I’ll play.

“Sakura, Sakura, let me tell you
Sakura, Sakura, I love you
Sakura dear, the rumours are true
Sakura I died waiting for you
Medical practitioner knows and now you know too…  
Yodel-Ay-Ee-Oooo...”

Friday, 25 August 2017

Only a few arrive at nothing, because the way is long - Antonio Porchia

To keep walking is hard. Repeatedly dying on the way is a normal occurrence, but not less significant.

What breaks the heart often is not the crude world or a passer-by, but the heart itself. It allows itself to be crushed. And as funny as it may sound, the truth doesn’t change that the heart also heals itself.

Let us keep aside the magical part for it blindfolds the ones with sightless minds and talk about reason and logic. Oh! But that is already done – heart breaks itself and heals itself… very straightforward indeed. Brain, heart, brain, heart… and this is the journey.

Carrying on kills, but so does not-carrying on; carrying on also gives you a chance to live and to experience the universe. It is a long, long, long journey and then you reach nothing.

At nothing, you become everything.

Thursday, 24 August 2017

The Vulture King

With sand slipping away under his feet, King Suriya observed the desert ocean in front of him. There was no question of giving up. Determined to win, the King moved towards the next slithering dune, right then he saw, or he thought he saw, a shadow. He looked all around, but could only see the golden brown sand soaking the sunlight happily. The King looked up, the blue sky turning bright white almost blinded his vision. King Suriya thought, ‘illusion’, and resumed his journey.

The Vulture King followed him.

The Vulture King
They will meet, King Suriya and the Vulture King, and set out on a fabulous journey. Read the novella ‘The Vulture King’ by Aditya Thakur, an indie author from India. It is enriching. 

(For more information check Aditya Thakur's website - https://www.adityathakur.com/the-vulture-king/)

Wednesday, 23 August 2017

I Am With Miss S. Bhattacharya

A cotton wrap dress, flat sandals, a jhola bag, drop earrings and a messy bun, Miss Bhattacharya looks ready. She is beautiful. Oh, she doesn’t like the bun, okay. Open hair looks fine, more than fine I mean.

She cannot hide a smile, still she tries and smiles more. Just look at her, she is trying right now. Her crazy talkative mind is talking. No, not talking, but singing, yes, she is clicking her fingers... now she waves her hand rhythmically in air.

Miss Bhattacharya is walking, she is humming, the wind plays with her hair, and she lets it. She is a sweetheart! And she shouts at the auto rickshaw driver. What? Well, yeah, the driver nearly splashed her. It’s a crowded street for all.

But our Miss Bhattacharya lives in the present, she has crossed the road and is humming again. She loves to wear her smile, even in difficult situations, even at the crossroads. You know where she has reached now? At a crossroad, will she turn left or right, maybe she will go straight.

Miss Bhattacharya is a woman of decision. And so, oh, she is turning back, she is running now, running back. Time check! Yeah, she is late, oh no. She must have forgotten something, some silly little thing, no worries. We all forget.

“Oh, how can I forget switching off the stove, the iron, the fans and the lights… stupid, stupid… yikes, I think I forgot to lock the door, arrh”, said S. Bhattacharya.

Ha! Alright, this is all normal. These things happen with everyone. Only yesterday, I forgot something… can’t even remember what it was. Shut up! The point is, Miss Bhattacharya rules, she rules her simple, crazy, funny life. (I used crazy twice… why?)

Who am I? The narrator, of course. My distinct voice makes it so obvious. Oh, you can’t hear me, my bad.

Where did Miss Bhattacharya go? I am the narrator, you cannot leave me. Wait for me Miss Bhattacharya, you’re the protagonist!

Miss S. Bhattacharya dressed as a warrior or a queen, I guess.
She likes to dress up, okay. It is an old photo.

Tuesday, 22 August 2017

You think the King Remembered What He Was Supposed to Remember?



I am the greatest of all great kings. I rule the land and the sea. Bow to me!

You’ll be dust one day, and completely forgotten.

My sons will carry my family name. We are the royals. Cheers to me!

Your sons will be dust too, and never talked about, ever.

My public worships me. I shine in gold and silver, I am the one they write about. Sing to me!

Once dust, you’ll become a name in a chronological list of the dead kings.

I am a just king, blessed by the almighty.

You think you’re immortal?

No. I know I’ll die one day.

Like all the others.

Like all the others…

Just remember this.



(In reference to no particular king and each and every king.)


Roger II of Sicily receiving the crown
from Christ, Martorana, Palermo.

Sunday, 20 August 2017

MUSIC In A Silent Way

Trumpet

The room was dimly lit, the colours were all crayon textured and old… they all easily submerged in it. More footsteps could be heard and voices… voices were telling each other tales only known as a secret before by some selected few. Voices were joking, but just for a while. Soon they were talking MUSIC.

Soprano saxophone and electric guitars

Rhythms were played verbally and details were given through gestures. People gathered around knew it was time… time to create. Like a charm, everyone flowed, everyone flowed and synced to reach the MUSIC.

Organ, double bass and drums

Time stopped to bask in the musical waves… the musical waves were powerful enough to capture time. It danced, yes, it did. The room stayed dimly-lit, crayon shades also didn’t change… the room and the colours were in awe like little children looking through a wire fence… even the floor swayed… in a silent way, everyone did.

Trumpet, soprano saxophone, electric guitars, organ, double bass and drums later reminded Time to begin.

(This post is dedicated to the studio album In A Silent Way by Miles Davis – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQKt7DTKyJU )

Saturday, 19 August 2017

The Human Touch

Sometimes in routine
Of living
Feelings go missing

Between those replies
If received
Feelings are deceived

Waiting, waiting… waiting
Those confused
Feelings feel amused

With dictionaries galore
One lures
Feelings for sure

The human touch
Just means
Feelings that deals
With life-friendly ways.

Thursday, 17 August 2017

Excerpts from the yet-to-be-written book – Unheard Voicemails

“If I have reached your voicemail, will my message also reach you… the message that was meant to be a talk… a conversation… will it be heard by others… will you listen to it whilst storing the grocery… and at what time… surely not now, right? Don’t answer these questions… I have got the answers already, yet I continue talking, recording this message… and now I hope you’re not there, letting me go on and on like this… I hope you’re not there, lying on the sofa, thinking whether to pick up the call or not… I hope you’re not there… My mind’s is talking too fast for me to keep a record of what it is trying to say to me to convey to you via this voicemail. Hmm… So anyway, it was nice… nice voice-mailing you. I guess, I just wanted to hear your voice. Bye!”

“Hey! Me again, sorry for the bizarre voicemail… but not if you thought it was kind of funny… okay, bye!”

“Hi… about the voicemail, it was bizarre… but definitely true, very true… okay, ciao!” 

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

In A Rush/ Not In A Rush

Life seems to be in a rush
And thoughts blurry
Like passing an array of lights
On moonless nights

Timely, untimely one hears
What is not said
But is felt vaguely
And declared mandatory suddenly

One click, one blink, one tick-tock
And life is not the same
And I will happily testify to it
For I, unlike life, am not in a rush

Monday, 14 August 2017

What Made The Monk Smile?

The monk was tired, he drank the water from the rivulet, still felt the same. Like the dark heavy clouds that take over the sky so often, the monk had almost given up to such heaviness. If only he could just sit there forever and listen what stories the wind brought to him.

Thinking this he got up and moved ahead. One step at a time. The seamless pattern, the embroidery cross, squares, diamonds, chevrons on his sweater soaked in the sun; it was a parting gift, the monk couldn’t refuse the loving people of that small village.

Strong wind currents and his rough hard shoes made music together; often the pebbles added to it.

Lines on his forehead made him look tense. Just then he reached a fork in the road; the monk stood still and saw two things – the rough path ahead and a tiny little flower beaming at him, growing out of the rocky mountain. The monk walked towards the flower and stared at it.

He smiled and resumed walking ahead. His smile echoed in the mountain valley. 

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Saturday, 12 August 2017

LINES WRITTEN

Lines, full of an era’s touch, were written. Some read and understood. Some followed. They tried. And then, lines were drawn.

Lines drawn were stone-solid, iron-hard. But time can always seep through and can rust till it is dust. Thus, lines started to fade.

Lines started to change. Change bloomed. They so rightly say, whatever is unimaginable is imaginable.

Lines are narrowed down to a box. A box in the head. The head awaits to breakaway, not realising that because it awaits, it awaits.

Lines are pruned to look similar, to look contemporary, to look right.

Lines are shredded. Words crippled, meaning transformed.

Lines like a guide help a seeker. The one who is seeking life meets the mid-way end. The end is the beginning.

Are you seeking life? This very moment?

Friday, 11 August 2017

Seven Days Old

The precious ones also have to clear debts. It is always painful and quick, they come and go. Mysteries alone hint at what must have happened. Holding life so sincerely, the precious ones look no different from the rest. Tip toe-tip toe, crafting the time in hands, breathing the air as rationed, meeting the eyes as destined, the precious ones partly remain aware... the end is near.

Must it be so devastating, so random, so sudden? The precious ones acknowledge death wholly making it inconceivable for the others.

Like a quiet walk in the garden full of flowers, playing and making friends, acting the monologues, reciting life, the precious ones draw the curtain on their own.

Without walking a step, without eating a morsel, without knowing the ties, without seeing the whole world a precious one said goodbye just in seven days. Her eyes looked at bliss even after her body turned cold.

Glorious soul, seven days old.

Wednesday, 9 August 2017

Cid Corman’s Blue Aerogrammes

In a thin air-light piece of blue paper words were written, no space wasted, legibly shinning, beautifully written. It was for everyone, Cid Corman called it direct poetry.

Haiku

If these words
dont remember you—
forget them.
***
The leaf at last gets
the drift of wind and so
settles for the ground.
***
I wear the mask of
myself and very nearly
get away with it.
***
There is no end and
never was a beginning – so
here we are – amidst.
***
Rain-drops. Each
makes a point
of silence.
***
You are here – just as
I had imagined –
imagining me.
***
Nothing ends with you —
every leaf on the ground
remembers the root.
***
We wear out
but the sky
looks as new
as ever
***

A COUPLE
She keeps coming home
to me – of all things – and I
remain home for her.
***

Cid Corman wrote for and ran the magazine Origin. He followed a lovely rule, he replied to each and every letter that the magazine received within 24 hours, if he couldn’t, he didn’t do it at all. Lucky must be the ones who got his answer, that too in the form of direct poetry. The book, Famous Blue Aerogrammes, is about these replies. I have just read a few of these and still I can say that the magic continues… blue feathery magic that makes you smile.


My Time

My time. My time to rule and regain. My time to change and develop. My time to cashback. My time to realise the certainty. My time to live...