Relevance

I often think about it when it rains. It has not rained in a long time and I have not thought about it in thousand rains bygone. I have been too busy living my life and then a few words from 'Where the mind is without fear...'  paused me momentarily and forced me to write. After a long time I am tapping away thinking about what could be. When it rains and droplets cumulate on top of that leaf we all live underneath. that leaf we all draw shelter and existence from. It is remarkable how that one leaf tries its hardest best to hold on to those drops. We watch. I watch, you watch, we all watch. hoping drops would never drop. And then comes a moment when it becomes too much for that leaf to hold on to. the first one rolls off its surface. The very first drop. Our leaf- no longer able to hold it, no longer able to shield us -  lets the drop drop. One drop falling from over us, hurtling down fast and then faster. Pulled down by the gravity and let gone by our leaf swirls and lands on us. That one drop. we don't even feel it. But that is where our world changes. That is where floodgates open. Second one follows then the third and obviously fourth, fifth, sixth and so on. it appears as if our leaf is crying. For it is no longer able to hold on. No longer able to shield us and all of it rains. by the time we look up, we are helpless and drenched. Our leaf burdened by all those drops it had held for all those times is wilting. We look up and it looks back at us. One last time before it gives up and is blown away. That is when I think about it and look around. and I notice you are thinking too and so is everyone else. Thinking of what could have been? What if we held on to those drops? what if we held on to our leaf and not let drops accumulate? While I was too busy looking at my own feet and you at yours our leaves kept holding on, head held high. Never shed a drop. But it had to give in if we did not look up. And give in it did. 

Words from 'Where the mind is without fear...' keeps coming back to me. To my thoughts. Thoughts of a utopian world that humanity always craves for, has craved for. Forever. That craving stays. We never got there, probably never will. We get a whiff at times, sensing utopia in our common perceived dystopia. That is the closest humanity has ever gotten to the so called 'Utopia'. But there is a ray of hope. There is light. It has gotten too dark these days. So much so that a glimmer would speak for thousand suns.  That is where I have hope. If a ray could break through, thousands would follow and then a thousand more. We must let in a ray. We must let drops dry. We must look up and let not our leaves cry. It is raining again. I can hear drops cumulating. I must not look at my feet. I must look up. I must look for that ray. All those drops, they must dry. I need but just one ray. A glimmer and a thousand would follow and then a thousand more. And then there will be a world where the mind would be without a fear...

Miss Dinihan's Marigold Madeleine

It was not a very big town where I was born. Not small either. But all the marigold plantations scattered around made it look like a 18th century pre-industrial revolution scape. Hence, giving it a feel of small town which had all the essentials of a big one. Anyway, back to my life's story. Actually I was not even born there. Just conceived. Conceived on, ironically, one of the numerous marigold plantations. Owned by Madeleine's dad and her old grandmother. Madeleine's mummy, sadly, left us even before I was properly born. Thanks god Madeleine had all the marigolds to her after she was gone. She loved them, running happily amongst them, touching as many, getting lost in their colors and bloom. Marigolds, all of them in all their colors, loved her too. Bright yellow ones, burning red, fading orange, sundust colored mauve - all sort of colors those came in. My favorite- sundust colored mauve. It amazes me how gods, rain, time sun and dust worked together to create such a magical color. I had never seen anything like that before and time would tell that never ever would I, through my many travels alongside miss Dinihan.

Oh!talking about these marigolds is such a distraction. So I was telling you about how I was born. My mother was a mystical animal, they say. She would often come down from the jungle to Madeleine's marigold farm. She did not like humans but she was always kind to Madeleine and baby Madeleine was so fond of her. Every day at the dusk,right before the moonrise and before my mother would head back, she would shed a part of her and Madeleine would keep it. I don't know how long it went for before my mother stopped coming down to the marigold farms altogether. But lil Madeleine who was growing into a fine woman still kept her treasure. That is before her old grandmother and father chanced upon it. They were poor farmers and had hit a jackpot when they found my mother's sheddings. One fine morning Madeleine's father bargained for Madeleine's treasure in return for a few sea shells. And thus began my journey to Targe. Targe was a town 50 miles up the road, across the woods. Named after a kind of shield called 'Targe', used in medieval times. the word is late old English, deriving from the old Franconian shield. People in Targe still make that shield, lots of it, hence the name. They also have lots of tanneries. Targe is all about shield crafting, leather tanning and drinking. That is where Madeleine's dad took my mother's shedding, to one of the tanneries. And I was born.

When I came out of their works, I saw myself in the mirror. I was very much curvaceous, just like Madeleine's mother from the marigold farms. But she was white and I had this beautiful soft, mahogany wood colored tan that just glowed. I was very pleased with how I looked. then began my journey. Journey out of beautiful marigold fields, crowded Targe and into this wide world. I had never sailed before. Packed in a water-proof bag, I sailed for days and weeks before I reached a distant land where many people lived. More than Madeleine or I could have ever imagined existed. I marvelled at the sight that lay in front of me. Crowd, noise, people, music, pace, rush - everything was new to me. I was already missing Madeleine, marigolds and the farm. Hell, even Targe was much better. My journey continued.they unloaded me from the ship and transported me in a four-wheel driven carriage. I peeped outta carriage's window to say hello to the horses. Surprise,surprise! No horses drawing that carriage. How is that even possible, a carriage moving on its own? I was baffled. I slept throughout rest of my journey. I woke up to my new home - a glass covered window. I could look at the entire world and they could look at me from the outside. That was the idea. this would not be my home forever. I saw many other window mates being packed away to new places. I waited my turn. I just hoped my new friend would be as nice as Madeleine. I knew I would never see Madeleine again. She was far far away! In the lands of sundust colored mauve marigolds and horse drawn carriages.

Then one fine day in came Miss Dinihan. I had not met her before but she reminded me of Madeleine. She was nice, gentle and very caring. She had the most beautiful pair of eyes I had seen and they were kind. I already liked her and peeped anxiously hoping to draw her attention. It worked. after looking at so many other things, she finally settled on me. I was happy again. I knew good things were waiting for me.

I must tell you how I got my name. I was on my way to Miss Dinihan's house. She told me some amazing things. She told me how there were only seven Dinihan's in this world because one of her ancestors misspelt his last name. Funny! How do you misspell your own last name. She also told me how they don't need horses in this part of the world to draw these carriages. They have something called an 'engine' that propels it. I told her my story - the story that had Madeleine, marigolds, Targe and horse drawn carriages. She loved it so much so that she named me after them - Marigold Madeleine. Thus began my journey as Miss Dinihan's Marigold Madeleine. A journey that will see many more lands across the time span and tell many more stories. Through my journeys I hope to, some day, visit my old land. I would love for Miss Dinihan to meet Madeleine, her father and see all those marigolds.

Madeleine must have grown finer and flowers would still be retaining their beautiful colors I am sure. I am waiting to see the surprise on miss Dinihan's face when she sees those marigolds-specially the sundust colored mauve ones. She never believed me when I told her those existed. And then there is Madeleine's old grandmother. I just hope she is still alive. Oh!I just live in hope with dreamy eyes. Of all the travels and stories to come.

Zoya

Where do I begin? It has got to be that ride from across the bridge. But I guess it takes more than that. Way too more. A short trip does not mean you will find a Zoya in certain Zoe Gallagher Avery. I mean that sort of thing just does not happen.

I found Zoya when I first looked into her eyes. I just did not have a clue that a pair of eyes like that existed. I have looked into many eyes in my life. I have seen ocean blue. I have seen emerald green. Talking of green, I remember once seeing small leaf fig green. That is just blue and green I have talked of so far. There is more I have seen. So many more colors, so many pairs of eyes. I have also looked into eyes that were fading brown, glazed crystal gray, dark brown and the intense black. Some beautiful, some exotic and some extraordinary. But none of that could ever match what the eyes of Zoya had. That symphony of notes, that subdued glaze of mellow and that vibrance of life. I had never ever seen all of that in one place. Those eyes. Looking at everything, yet so distant. Drawing you in, yet so aloof. I knew it then. Zoya was way beyond what anyone would think of her as. Could imagine her to be.

Zoya evolved on me. On my thoughts, on my existence and on my senses. Like the onset of spring that begins with dry petals and grows into a fulfilled promise of color, essence, brightness and bloom. Without ever wanting to, without ever really trying to, I just felt the distances shrinking and our existences converging. She did not mind rooks being called elephants, bishops being called camels and knights being called horses. She could care less about the conventionality. She was all about everything that at times did not exist to the normal eyes. She was all about challenging senses and romancing life in her own way. and while she did all that she did not even know she did it all. Every passing moment of knowing Zoya I knew that she was a maverick defining her own world and her own existence. And defining a world and an existence for all that was around her. To know Zoya, you had to know that world. You had to know her existence. Else you would have seen all of Zoe yet never have known Zoya.

It took me some time. Not a lot. But a bit of time to really figure out when Zoe turned into Zoya for me. She had a way. A way with my senses. She could be just herself and still make me see colors of life. And not only me. She had her way with sandstones, with the wind and with trees on a windy sunday afternoon. I could feel her talking to them. And them talking back. They had her own language with her. Every swirl, every mild gust spoke to her. and she would smile at them. I would stand back and watch them talking. Hear the conversation but not understand it. Like when you are in the middle of Bordeaux listening to people talk and when you do not understand a word of French. But you still know they spoke. It was kind of like that. I knew Zoya spoke to them. The wind, the fig tree, the sandstone. For, as long as she was there, with them; they just spoke. I did not understand a word of what they talked about but I knew they talked. A lot.

I still don't know fully what Zoya is! But I know why Zoya is. Like I don't know what Rachmaninoff, Choppin and Rubinstein are but I know why they are. I know they are because the world needed them. The world has always needed them. Forever. Sometimes for reasons that can't be defined but always for reasons that speak to your soul. Such is Zoya for me. I am still getting to know who Zoe is but I know for sure why Zoya is. She is because she speaks to my soul. And sometimes she does all that without uttering a word. All I know is that Zoya is there and that I can see and feel her.

Drizzle

Here we go again! Finally it is here. The first morning drizzle of this winter. I am not a big fan on weekdays. Makes your life lil’ complicated because you still got to go and work. Earn your living and pay your bills etc.

But there is something absolutely amazing about these first season drops. The sound it makes when falling on freshly laid tar. The misty touch it hits your face with. You wipe it dry to be hit with it all over again. And then again. The way it forces the most undisciplined of the lot on streets to walk in a straight file. Each one of them trying to avoid getting drenched.

But what really amazes me is the power these tiny droplets have. What else could engulf an ever burning blaze of mighty sun but these tiny, powerless, evaporative, almost non existent fickle hydra fumes? What an irony! Amazing! Is not it?

Aura

No matter where you are, no matter ever so away and so far,

No matter if I di'nt see you today, no matter not on altar;

You are out there - somewhere, a place ever so bright,

Like the music playing across my window on a friday night.

My heart, my mind - when I think o'you, you so serenade me.

You are the aura - when I look a'you, you so fascinate me.

Sweep me like a wind, I have been standing here too long;

Stand by me, hold my hands, sing me your favourite song.

Run me through the never ending river of your lovely hair;

Let me loose in the smell of your skin, I ai'nt got nowhere.

When clouds sail away - you'r blue of the sky, you'r my azure.
You are the aura - melt into me, be mine and I will be yours.

Remembering Holden Caulfield

I woke up to a very pleasant morning today.Pleasant - until I learnt that one of my most favourite writers was no more. Most favourite, despite the fact that I have had a chance to read only one of his books. Because he did not publish any other major titles. And that was a decade ago. May be fifteen years. Who cares! With good things, you don't keep a track of time. That book had an enormous impact on me. Sort of transformational. As a teenager, I remember not telling my mother that I am reading the 'Catcher'. I knew her well. She would not have approved. And I would miss out on something amazing. Was not going to happen.

JD Salinger died today. I learnt about it from the newspapers. But he left an immortal kid behind him. Yes, I am talking about the Holden Caulfield. That ever confused character from Sallinger's 'Catcher in the Rye'. One we all enjoyed reading about. Sometimes dreaded his situation, sometimes laughed at it and at other times just wondered 'how could he be?'. Whatever it made you feel, one thing was for sure. You could so easily immerse yourself into the life of Holden and those surrounding him. The story did not end with last page of the book. It took off from there. For weeks on, I kept thinking about what would happen to Holden now that book has ended and he is still stranded; still desiring; still the same confused kid? It was like one of those great stories you never wanted to end. But end it did.

And did I tell you how I got my hands on that book? Well, that is a whole different story altogether. It was lying in a dusty corner of my english teacher's personal cabinet. Old man was a genious and one of my personal favourites. I was in high school back then and spent countless afternoons at his place; listening to everything he had to say. He, his corner chair and his never ending cigarettes were constant features of my weekend life. And one day, while shuffling through his cabinet, I found this book.
I asked him, ' What sort of book is this? It has quite a funny name - Catcher in the Rye.'
He answered, ' Take a look and try reading it my friend. May be it will stay with you forever.'
And he was so right. Stay it did with me. Forever.

Chimera

I set off at dawn. On a long journey through winding roads and crumbling milestones.

That was a very fine morning when I left. No clouds, red sun and a pleasant colourless wind. Swirling across my face - touch of a ghost. A friendly ghost. But I had something else on my mind. I really wanted to get there. Get there fast and get it soon. Soon enough. I kept walking. At times, running the yards. Slowing down occasionally only to recoup my breath. I knew. If I dont get there someone else will. And I did not want to lose it. So that is how I kept going on. Driven by my desire, chased by my shadows. I made friends on the way. Good people and not so good. There were other good things too. Horses trotting, flowers blooming, birds chirping, cats yawning and gypsies singing. Many more. I remeber them. All of them beautiful and unique in their own ways. I wanted to keep them all. Be with them for ever. But I could not be. I had to keep going. They knew and they bid me a very friendly adieu. Each one of them. I moved on. Missing them and missing their beauty.

Days passed on. Time went by. I thought I was closer. I knew I was. I had to be. It was getting darker. Red sun was turning into a pale vision. Swirling wind was dying down. Flowers too far and too sparse. Birds and animals hardly to be seen. I knew I was getting there. It was a different world from what I had left behind. I missed it, but I had set out to be here. If I wanted all those beautiful things, I could have just stayed on. I could have not desired. I knew I had to be here and as darkness set in I saw end of the road. I was delighted and ran all the way till I reached the edge. I looked around. Hoping to find what I had come for. It was getting darker and difficult to see. I searched hard. But I did not find it. I sat down - tired and exhausted. I could still hear the faint sounds of gypsy songs. I could feel it. All the sound, all the light and all the music of that world I had left behind.

But I belonged here now. At end of this road. Tired and ready to sleep. And when I go to sleep, I will dream of gypsies, the red sun and the swirling wind. May be that is what I have always wanted and never knew. But atleast I know it now and know the way back home.

Lost Words

I wake up every morning trying to figure out just onething! Will I write today? By the time I get to a stage where I can find an answer, I get lost amidst other things. and so does my thought of writing. Shelved, untill I wake up again.

I know. This is not how it works. This is not how it should work. To be honest, my words have gone dormant. sleeping, waiting to be inspired and woken up. But at least I am doing something I promised myself I will. I am writing again. Words are coming out. May be not the way they used to. Nonetheless, visible. To me and to everyone else.

I also know. They are not lost or gone. They are somewhere. Hidden, waiting to be pushed out by me. Desire to write is never manufactured. I have always believed in writing when I feel like. If it does not come, it should not be forced. I am starting to feel it again.

May be, a time for revival. A time like those days. When I could scribble seamlessly. Words are a good friend. They talk to you and you talk back. Good friends never leave. Till they come back, let me figure out the answer.

The anti Narnian dollar

I know. The title is little confusing. But given the state of Zimdollars ( local currency of Zimbabwe), I was reminded of Aslan's Narnia. A state of prosperity and growth. No chaos, no disorder and no let downs. Zimbabwe, today, is contrary to everything that Narnia could be. I do not mean to intend that there is any Narnia state in this world. But there is a limit to how low a state can go. Zimbabwe has touched the nadir. A trillion zimdollar can buy you half a glass of goat milk. That is, if you are lucky. Reckless printing of currency by Mugawbe regime has led to a total economic collapse. and with it collapse of any hope that Zimbabwe could be revived. I am keeping my fingers crossed and heart is with all those trillion dollar rich ultra poors of the world. May they have a hope.

Quagmires

Follow the sun, you will feel the heat.
Tread the ice, biting cold in your feet.
Splash of a sundown, darkness abound.
The breeze will breeze through in a wink.
Where will you go? In sand you will sink.

Stay – you’ll loose; run – e’thing you’ll leave.
What is it that you want? The time is timeless.
Do you want to know? It is what it always is;
Sun will go down; ice’ll melt, only to freeze.
Where will you go? Do you think you know?

The dilemma of a migratory bird

I was very young back then. Everyone in my neighbourhood had done it at least once and they had stories to tell. I loved hearing their tales. I always wanted to fly far and wide. See everything that I had not seen and only heard about. But I was apprehensive, at times afraid. Listening to their stories, I knew, it could be tough and ruthless out there. As beautiful as this unseen world was, there were troubles and things could get tough out there. I had a choice to make tonight. Should I fly this season or wait for another snow?

If I did not fly, I will loose another year while everyone else enjoyed tropics. I will be left alone, braving this winter with my best friends’ old grandparents while him and everyone else will be seeing that beautiful world out there. But if I did fly, it will not be easy. It will be tiring. Finding those worms to eat, those trees to rest on and avoiding being hunted down - all of this will require lots of work. Constantly and consistently. Then there was no guarantee. I did not know what was in store for me out there? For all I know, I might not be able to make it across the ocean. I was really confused. I did not know what to do. Time was running out. Everyone else was leaving next morning. Very early morning. Even before sun comes out and while it is still dark. Earlier than what granny calls ‘twilight’.

Thoughts of granny reminded me of days when I had no doubts in my mind. No dilemmas, no decisions to make. But she had told me one more thing which I never forgot. She said, “There will come a day when you will have to fly. Like everyone else does. Far from here. Far from snow. You will be afraid and you will have doubts. You will worry about things. But at end of it all, you will fly. Because that is your destiny. Our destiny. But always remember no one leaves forever. You will come back. To the same place. But things would have changed when you come back. Snow will be gone and so will be many other things. Being replaced by all things new. You can not stop the change. You have to adapt to it and you have to learn - to live, to fly and to come back to where you belong.”

I thought about what she told me. She was usually right so I decided to fly. Next morning, even before the twilight, I was ready to fly. And we all took off. I looked back. It was all white and my big home seemed such a small place. The trees looked like shrubs, shrubs looked like leaves and leaves looked like dots. Things had started to change already. I turned my head away and I saw distant lands. Places and things, hitherto, unseen. Here was this new world in front of me. Until I came back, this was my home.

The sense of nonsense

It is not often that we witness a world full of possibilities as envisaged by the definition of humanity. On the contrary, it is a rare or, to put it as a matter of fact, an obsolete occurrence these days.

Today was another such day. This world woke up to fifth straight day of Israel-Hamas standoff in West bank. I mean, the current form of standoff. I have lost the count of how many times and in how many ways they have come face to face in past. Trying to kill each other. And kill why? Because they want to live. This irony – destroying lives to live - fails me. To kill and kill again so that lives are saved. This does not make any sense at all. I will not and I do not want to lay blame on any one party for starting this. My sensibility does not permit me to do that. I believe a war starts when a blame is laid. A dispute surfaces when a finger is pointed out. We clash because we collide.

Any conflict is born out of desire. The intensity of desire and the insanity of resolve determines the extent of destruction and the resulting chaos. At the root of this conflict also is a desire. Inner desire of all Palestinians to be a part of organised state and to enjoy privileges afforded to every other human being. For a quarter of century, while Israel was building itself into an ideal democracy amidst all the hostilities, Palestine was mere a British controlled community. Israel was and is synonymous of a resolve that is not individualistic. It is a symbol of social resolve and mass desire. It is also a symbol of success, human bonding and democracy. Palestine is not. Not that it is Palestine or their people’s fault. It is their ignorance and a common insensibility pervading their society. It is also their lack of constructive social resolve which Israel possesses in unquantified measures.

Palestine is a nation gone wrong. Not because they did it wrong. But because they did not know how to do it right and because they did not have leaders to shape it up through its entire building process. History is witness to the fact that great nations and ideal societies are built by a few visionary leaders. It’s an easy job to maintain a society in its current form once the baton is passed over. Toughest part is to build it into an ideal society subscribing to all the doctrines that humanity advocates. And that Palestine missed. If only David Ben Gurion had a half brother across the West Bank border, things might have been very different. What it has, instead, is Hamas. Which wants its men to marry four women and breed as many children as possible so that all of them can fight and die for the Cause. Where is justice in that for all the children of Palestine?

And Isreal – Palestine is not the only story. There are others. Civil conflicts in Africa, Terrorism in India, Cartels in Colombia and many more. All of these born of out of desires. We are most evolved of species. So are our desires. Having broken off the barriers of primary needs of food, shelter and safety, we want so much beyond.

A desire to control, desire to seize, desire to overpower, desire to own, desire to excel, desire to beat. What happened to the other form of desire that we read about in books? A desire to give, desire to construct, desire to nurture, desire to pacify, desire to build. Are these only confined to books and fantasies?

Something has seriously gone very wrong. We love to hate each other. On the basis of caste, creed, origin, religion, colour or anything that we can think of. We have to stop finding sense and pride in all our nonsense and foolishness. Big question is – can we do it? So far, no. But there will be another day and hopefully there will be a generation born with a wonderful dream. A dream to coexist and to live for each other. To give and to build will be their legacy not to kill and destroy.

Morphosis

Born, not so long ago, was a simple human being

wandering vast unowned wilds, belonging to nothing.

No race, no caste, no colour, no religion, no creed.

No touch of envy,no upmanship, he did not know greed.

Then was born, not so long ago, within him a sign-

of belonging, of owning, of following, of distancing.

Now he had a name. He lived by a limping blind faith.

Wanting everyone and everything to be like him,to be his.

Forgetting all the colours and laughters he was born with.

Letting go of simple melodies,shying away from happinesses.

Morphed into a ghost.Dead. No love left within nor any dread.

He wandered again. Leaving behind him a thick trail of red.

The Ephemeral

By the mirror she stands, her profile ever so bright

streaming through a curtain, the early morning light;

dancing on her smiling face, romancing her sleepy eyes

I look at her, she slowly turns around, the clock stops.

This silence,her beauty- overlasting the everlasting.

Tic-toc, tic-toc; clock in the corner comes back to life.

The silence fades,light birghtens; filling up the room;

she turns, mirror simmers - ready to engulf her beauty.

I look at her face, she looks back - i am falling in love.

And then, from nowhere, the darkness creeps in slowly

The Light is gone and gone are the dance and romance;

her engulfed beauty was ephemeral, mirror had no chance.

The light, everything bright; nothing lasted except change.

Before it sleeps again; life always wakes up from the trance.

The Bulletproof Convertible

Walking down the corners of La Paz streets, these two boys were not so young. Wont call them old either. Not having seen many seasons, yet seasoned by time and hardships. Before Bolivia, they had their share of middle east - Syria, Lebanon and Iraq, lil bit of palestine. They were living a dream. Living a process of being on a way to be christened "bravest and the best". They were nearing end of their station assignment. To be back home in a quarter. They were best of buddies, having shared lots of time - good and bad together, and always lived to tell and recollect it.


When it all started for them, they were young boys. Dreamy eyed, hopeful, all positive young boys. They wanted to make a difference. They wanted to live for a cause. For them, the whole world deserved good things that life had to offer.One world, one race. No barriers, no strings. One of them loved cars. The convertibles. Ones which will go roofless at push of a button. With bright sunshine filling it and breeze through hair when at top cruise. He could not afford to own one, but dreamt of buying one. A second hand will do. He was a realist. The other one was little sane. He had his feet firmly attached. But he also knew dreams and how important to everyone their dreams were. But he never missed a laugh at his friend. He joked , " what will you do with a convertible if you were fired upon?". And reply was always the same - "You got to choose. You can either live inside a bulletproof chirokee or drive a convertible. Cant ever get both."


Today they were here. Having left behind all the talks of that other world, they were in middle of something different. Every day an event, every moment a life changing decision. In the name of doing good things for people who were not priviliged or equipped enough to handle the crisis that had unfolded in their own backyards. These boys were messengers of Messiah. They were the anchor of all hope that was left. With these boys and others around, these people felt safe. Felt protected and believed no unknown fire would split them up into parts. But this was an illusion. Like that of a colorful butterfly flying up into sky through a sunlit black crevice. Making it enriched, leaving a bright trail behind for sometime. Untill it soares up high, vanishiung in the light. Leaving everything behind as it was. Dark, damp and colorless.


One day marching orders came. Peace was restored and they had to vacate. They said goodbyes. To locals they had befriended - shopkeepers, peddlars, truckies and others. Everyone was happy. These people, governments, allies, troops and these two boys. Finally their da has come. To be back with honour and pride of having done so much and to be able to start of afresh. Being assured of the fact that those people were safe and happy too. The other one joked , " May be bulletproof convertibles exist. Look at what we are leaving them with. A safe, secure and peaceful place which was not that untill now. They can feel the breeze and sunshine now and yet live without fears of being shot at". Even while they were talking and packing, a roar went off. Fresh bouts of insurgency and attacks. All march were put on halt and everyone was back to station duty. Sine die. Two boys still had their souvenirs in the hand. Half unwrapped gifts they got from locals. They wont need to pack those anyways. They knew they were going to stay. Untill ever. They knew that bulletproof convertibles were a myth afterall. It was not one world. You either had to live whole of your life driving a bulletproof chirokee, fearing what might happen next or you just had sunshine and breeze. And these two were different parts of this same "one world".

A wet drop and dry sky

Always a shadow near by me from since then,
Never knew who & why; an amazing endless joy.
She always was there, I always looked for her
Then in came travelling she, from nowhere known
All I ever wanted - bringing me peace & trance.
Touching, talking, whispering and flying high
She came, she stayed - a wet drop on a dry sky.

Sand and Sandstone

Just when you thought, you were left fencing it all alone;
to fight this unending darkness, to brave the seething battle
to go - from nowhere,to none, for nothing- a mission forlorn.
A sweeping tale of hopeless trail, a burning desire burnt forever.

That story written for you, you thought that was just a story.
You believed light never comes, never comes something that is gone.
For how wrong you have been, I cant tell you even if I wish to.
Do you remember! there is yet another story I kept to be told.
A tale of another trail. All bright and hopeful, not dark and cold.

Today, on a looney high tide night, riding the pull of silver ball,
my thoughts surf up and beyond- to touch and splash you warm.
Then I recede like a calm wave of saline, only to come back again.
Being million specks of wet sand coming together to sculpt you on.
We are just one-a wave of saline, some wet sand and a sandstone.

Where are you?

It was a cloudy morning. Very cloudy. Raining heavily and no sign of sunshine. I overlooked the weather. Thought of it as just another routine thing. But I did not miss the irony of what was happening. I am looking for you. Cant see you, cant sense your presence. Somewhere you are lurking. Not standing in front of me, no where near even. But definitely not an apparition. You were, you are and you will always be real. These clouds wont live long. Rains will stop and they will fade away. There will be sunlight. We all know it. Seasons change. I am waiting for the next season. I am waiting for the bright day. Together, we can see sun shine. I do not mind going to Egypt then. Pyramids, you know, have always enamored me. Bettered my senses and challenged the within.

You have braved this rain all alone. I am sad I was not there. But this is not the last rain. This is not the last storm. They keep coming. For every sunshine, there always is a dark day. But it does get bright if we hold on. Just tell me where you are. I will come right now. I know you dont like dark days and I know you hate being in clouds. I want to come right now but you choose not to let me in. Next rains, we will be together. even you cant stop me then. We might take a small walk and show you all those places I had promised you. When we will be together, you wont feel clouds and darkness. You wont ever want that to end. We will turn it all bright. Together, for ever.

Taste of Life

I ate bittergourds today. Thought of you while I was eating. I still remember how you forced me into eating bittergourds everyday. Trying to tell me how good it was for me and for my spirit. The child that I was, I would get convinced and try it. But throw it all out very next moment. Did not I use to tell you so often I had a sweet tongue. That I liked sweets. But no! you wont ever listen. Not that it made any difference. I would keep on eating sweets, you would keep on chasing me. I always thought you ate all the sweets yourself and left over bittergourd was meant for me.

Long time since I tasted any of that. Was lucky to find some yesterday. I ordered it made specially. Got it made precisely the way you would have liked it. Ate a plate full. I was surprised. It was sweet in taste. Sweeter then all the sweets you used to hide from me. Sweeter than all the sweets I thought you kept for yourself and ate it when I was not around. They tell me I cant eat sweets anymore. I see it all around. I have enough money to buy it. I do not even need to steal. I earn now. But they tell me I cant eat sweets now. Not good for me and my spirit, they say. I can hear you cry today. Hear myself always ignoring your chides.But don’t cry. I don’t miss eating sweets. These bittergourds taste so good. I wonder why I did not like them years ago? When I had it served and ready everytime. I would throw them and keep on thinking about all the sweets you kept for yourself to eat. Now I doubt if you ever kept those sweets for yourself.

What a fool I was. You liked gourds more than sweets and it took me 20 years to realise this. Today, when they tell me I cant eat sweets, I understand what you meant back then. You were right. There are other things sweeter than sweets. When I come back next summer, will you cook for me again? This time you wont need to convince me. I will eat whatever you cook. Even if it does not taste sweet. Why don’t you let me know when you are cooking again? Make it before summer. Post summer, I will be gone again. For a long time. Traceless in my self created humdrums and labyrinths. Let me taste life once more, before I loose it all again.

Beauty

Today, when you are like a thousand symphonies playing in moonlight
Like an early morning sunshine, shining on a dewdrop so bright.
Each one of them want you today, when you are like a distant dream-
A drunken God's own sonnet, which he wrote for his first theme.

Gone will be the cascading melody, dimmed the lights which were bright.
Gods waking up from their drunken dreams, creating another one like you.
They will now want her. She will sway,like you did once, in her own right.
You'll look back once, to all that was yours, then fade away forever in a slide.