Ten Or Something!

“Ten or something”
Very fragile,
In perpetual hunger
And no dignity;
I saw thus!
I had the age of ten
I was once fragile with hunger.
And today,
Dust and fume
And hatred,
Thus he is fragile;
On the roadside,
I saw thus!
The canopy that hump overhead,
He sees an umbrella,
A shade in the heat of civilization
And he counts the feeble grass stalks
That stood with the soot
And compares in grudge
Every leaf with his tender finger”.
When the vehicle screeched,
His eyes galloped to my jaundice sight and
Representing both infidels
Asking the reason for the hunger,
Yet I was alone,
On my way to office!

Smell Of Flesh!

That was unusual:
The smell of flesh,
The sight of charred bodies,
And the numbed senses;
I hate that!
Some glorified paths
That followed whims of unknown fanatics,
And the sermons of reconciled souls;
It seems:
Everybody sees it and
Enjoyed the chagrin
To the lamentation of each day,
It seems:
Everybody repents knowing enough
The forbidden truth
That we ought not followed!
Today,
As I pray a while
All the roads lead to the temple of the Sorrow,
All the souls cry a curse for jealousy,
And in the midst,
I see chariots burnt to chars
And the God being heaved for religions.
I hate that.
My heart was pure
And body pious;
But today,
While I was praying,
Everybody cried:
“Bloodied hands,
And soaked cloak”,
And I couldn’t bow.
I shouldn’t favour the countenance,

But my heart said:
“You are still a kid
And kids don’t pray”.
But everybody swears by God!

Now and Then!

Then,
I was a small kid,
With many a wish for playful evenings!
I had time and
Saw the Sun goes down
And the twinkling of stars;
Just before bedtime.
It all happened in a moment,
And today,
I am in the brink of another childhood
And wonder,
How long it will last?
Yesterday night;
It leant on my back,
And I did posed like a chiseled statue
In its pursuit for eternal recognition!
Much to the dismay of its own stature,
The seesaw
That saw children grow up
And withered with time,
Was leaning on me
And was crumbling by itself;
May be my childhood was tumbling again
Onto myself,
But not to sure about the changes it had brought upon,
With the changing of time:
Now,
The seesaw wants another shoulder to lean on!

The Fenced Wood (First Draft…First Installment)

Time stood standstill, yet the desire for the eternal servitude drives the lost soul for a lifetime. It was late in the night and little early for an early morning walk; she was alone seeking company in the mirage that reflects in the far away firmament, for she has never been part of it. A sudden rupture of emotional outburst compelled her to take a hiatus, a break from the daily routine of self-assessment. She did perform all sorts of self-awakening exercises, indeed, to reaffirm herself that she is still alive. That very moment, she wishes to halt a bit so that she could nourish her soul, again, so that she could count another moment as her own.  

My dear, life, when it seeks unknown reasons to testify the living, many a gratitude seems minute and irrelevant to count. There, she was alone counting every single second and letting the moment pass by for the grandeur that we called life. In fact, she wanted to thank few. She wished to express her gratitude to all. But there were none. At times, it seems shadows were all she could communicate with!  

And the usual glimmer that she got to see in the far away realm of fenced wood, looked like her lost companion. Though it has no definite shape yet it reflects an image that her heart yearns to see. Sometimes, the very sight seems forbidden for human senses. And it is only the heart that knows the recluse. Whenever got the chance, she tried hard to make a glimpse out of the outline so that she could conjure up her favourite image that she desperately wanted to see. But it was like imitating her lost faith. It hovered there, just a glimmer. May be that was the only glimmer of hope!  

The fenced wood, that divides the gap between two lost worlds of her solitude and unbound prospect of companionship, never allowed her to settle down. It’s not that she didn’t try to make it more profound, but it never happened. Every now and then, the thirst for the unseen quest drove her inner self to becalm the senses; it was like embalming the decease and asking the body to react at every single thrust of the incisor. She was confused.  

She still remembered the first meeting. She wanted and even tried to forget but the first meeting is first meeting, always. It lingers too long for a lifetime. It was indeed the flame that burnt her world. And she was still there among the debris, collecting bits and pieces of the past. And of course considering herself one amongst them! No complaints though. She knew it well that she allowed it to happened; and happen it for the worst. But deep inside her heart, the pain that culminates from the constant reminder of the separation resides heavily. It knows no sympathy and she knew no compromise. May be it played its part yet asking for more.  

That day, nothing extraordinary happened. Morning was calm as usual and everything occurred to routine. May be extraordinary was waiting for its chance. While composing a note on the daily chores of being a lonely girl, she wanted to take a long walk and talk to herself.  

Time was 5:00 in the evening, perfect for a lonely stroll. She did. Happy she was with herself, thinking a walk and little soliloquy will do wonders to her rather mundane life that barely produce sparks. The beauty of a burning flame and the occasional sparks that poke out randomly, that’s the sight she always wanted to see. A bonfire, she thought would be perfect for the evening and susurrus of falling leaves in the backdrop. Life, when alone, needs sparks and rhythm of heartbeat to rejuvenate it. Yes, the lull, the gap, the break, it all have their say. But what is life without occasional turbulences. This was how she consoled herself. And in her case, turbulence was, most of the time, not within her control. Now she was alone; being alone is also a form of turbulence that might engulf better part of the life. She talked to herself. Fire needs fuel. The very next moment she was collecting woods and unknowingly she was collecting fuel for a fire that she might not be able to douse in her lifetime. The moment was ripe and she was alone.  

 

Something struck hard in her forehead. It was bleeding. It cannot be just another fortuitous accident. Blood cannot bleed by chance. Something has to disturb the flow, external or internal. Blood can ooze out, it can drain or even it can just drip. The rate may vary, but it’s for sure, the life giving fluid is leaving her at its own will.  

(Will Continue…)

Curse!

After composing a horrendous curse on her behalf, I was about to succumb…luckily I survived.

The very next moment I was there in her doorstep asking for the compensation. We both knew, our lives were mere existence, diminutives not only with physical attributions but with both mental and rational endowments of a destitute. Like me…she too cared about things that hardly matters except few ounces of remembrance. Too much of servitude towards life. A brief!

She wanted me to curse life for letting her fell prey to its dirty designs. She was happy doing nothing. She was content living alone. Then we met…and the struggle begins. She didn’t outrightly blame me but she was astute in letting me share her insignificance in survival.

“A painful punishment
In a nursing home where dreams nourish,
Drips the captor
And the consecrated soul in tendem, thus
Testified the hoax in alteration of life!

Oh,
If you are living for life
Come join me
Let’s curse life for it’s sake, for
You too cry like me
For it’s sake,
All truth seems irrelevant with reading of time!
Come join me
Let’s abandon life for it’s own sake.”

But, unlike me, she knew hacked values. May be she wanted to curse me!

She could have wait till love dies…

She was no simple girl. She had dreams galore. She climbed mountains. She conquered me. Now she is gone. The confession that she is no more piles up a pressure inside me to face the tide. Tide of time and live and live and live in her love. How tough it can be, I didn’t realise until she appears again. Remembering the person who has left and the facing the same person with a different identity invites more than a living confession.

I count her the best person ever live, for me. Now, I remember her as the only one for me. Although there is no difference between these two elapsed propositions, I still think as if I am the one who has changed, unlike her. It’s like I wished to miss her and she’s gone. Had I become little more possessive, she would still be here, next to me. I should have told her: We need to wait till love dies, instead! That never happened and I am alone.

Life is filth!

Find an oasis in the desert sun,

And try to snatch a life…

Life full of hope and filth!

Yea, we live a filthy life…

The oblivion, the chase,

The date-tree, the money and the comfort…

It’s all filth,

And we called it Oasis.

Life is filth!

I am still a boy!

To survive in love, you need little madness…to dream of all the possibilities. Though it’s almost impossible to bear the HEARTACHE. But still, it seems the wish for a glimpse is enough for the lifetime….or say, eternity. No PARDON is not enough for living without her.

I was a boy. I am still a boy…A boy in the wilderness with little desires. As a boy, I faithfully proclaim to you that my desires are all surrounding you. You never know, all along…the story is you, only you. And I never get tired telling and retelling this story. Please read it once more!

A suspect!

I was a suspect who wished to live. They thought I would be a nuance in their lives.

Anyway, I am still alive. Counting days and wondering if I will be able to mark another day in my calender as a day I lived, is a humorous misapplication with life. My living is an occurrence of sufficient roles and their alternatives. If I had to play by the norms they imposed…none of the characters would see the light of the day. And for that matter of fact, nobody would be able to blame me a suspect. But there are enuogh elbow room for everybody except me to impute that I am indeed the suspect. They suspect me for everything.

The notoriety of being a suspect has been multiplied by my consistent disbelief of me being a suspect.

I assume, I was mistakenly attributed a suspect.

Are you still Alive?

One good way to know if you are still alive is to see if you are still enamoured by the person you love.

 I tried! Seems to work. So this piece too.

Chances are that you will find yourself doing odd favours to prove that you are still loved and alive. But more often than not, it proves wrong. To derive a meaning and conjuring fancied images of living with love and affections, seems ludicrous. But we all need it. So I assume, it’s one better way to know  if you are still alive or death, than measuring the heat of funeral pyre.

Sometimes, it is good to rub salt in the wound.

This is not for you, Pasot!