Brazen

I know you hate me for saying it,
And you hate me more for saying it out loud,
All the things you did in dark,
And all the people you kept in dark,
The whispers you didn't mind,
Screams you stifled,
Your ways etched in sand,
Your means worse than the end,
Yet you thought, never ever,
Never ever would someone rise,
Some one bold enough to know,
And someone brazen enough to speak,
Speak out.

Letter to Prime Minister....(in the wake of recent Jan Lokpal protests)

(It seems like those essay composition topics that primary teachers used top give us in fourth grade but written sensibly and with serious thought it can be vehicle of opinion and discussion)

Dear Mr.Prime Minister,

Warm Greetings and Vande Mataram. Hope this letter finds you in good health. I am sure if you read this letter and within days of it being written, you would be under some stress due to the recent events in the country. The Jan Lokpal movement has caught imagination of many people and the other day I was surprised to see the size and composition of one such protest march which passed by my house. I thought of writing a letter to Anna Hazare, which I might later. But first I thought it was my right and duty, as law abiding  and tax paying citizen of India who has voted in every election since turning eighteen, to address the Prime Minister who represents my country and is responsible for running its affairs.

My knowledge about politics, policy formation and law making and socio-economic dynamics of the country is limited. Yet this letter is not a set of instructions or suggestions but a few things which I wish/hope/expect you would do in some form and measure.

a) Kindly acknowledge there is crisis and dissent in the country. Maybe the number of protesters, however large, is not large enough in comparison with India's exploding population. Yet the protests seem to grow stronger by the day. So kindly acknowledge that there is discontent amongst some section of the society and there is a need to address it.

b) Communicate: Yes, once you acknowledge the problem, let us know that you are working to resolve it. You spoke to us on Independence Day. The other day I saw you addressing a group of IITians. Please spare few moments for us common citizens. Do come on air, address the nation. The situation warrants frequent dialogue. If not a speech, at least issue some PR releases, let us know what you are thinking.

d) Frankly, I do not have in depth knowledge of the details of the workings of an institution like Lokpal and I get lost in all the legal mumbo-jumbo. But team Anna (as the media calls it) have made some serious and commendable effort in popularizing their version and explaining the difference between their version (jan lokpal) and the Government version. If you cannot accept Jan Lokpal, atleast let us know which points do you differ on and why. We want to hear it from your mouth.

e) We understand that you do not agree in entirety with Jan Lokpal bill and since we have entrusted you with the responsibility of running the country we assume that you know much more than us about law making and execution. However if you do not agree with jan lokpal bill give us reasons. Clear and precise reasons about each point - why you do not agree with each point. Kindly don't tell us that you do not agree with Jan Lokpal because law making is responsibility of the parliament or sanctity of the parliament is questioned etc. Frankly we don't see why if a good bill is proposed from outside the parliament, Government can't find a way to introduce it in the parliament. So if you don't agree give us concrete reasons.

f) People want to see the corruption eradicated and team Anna (again as media calls them) are offering a solution to this problem. If you do not agree with it, please suggest an alternative solution. Don't just tell us corruption is a complex problem and needs multi-layered solution. We know it. Question is do you have any solution in sight? If not, then we see no harm in accepting a solution proposed by someone else.

Lastly I apologize if I have written anything inappropriate. I have faith in India's democracy and I am sure we all will emerge as India Shining through all this.

Vande Mataram

I Believe...

I Believe,

They told me you only believe what you see,

The truth they said is plain and clear,

Sometimes its painful, sometimes dear,

But it will always be, right there in front of me,

Now I know they lied through their teeth,

For the truth, yes it was right there,

But thinly veiled, obscured, burried beneath,

And what I saw was fair, but not fair,

A polished smile to hide a thousand tears,

A dream of future to dispel today's fears,

And then I said I have the right to know,

That is when they were afraid to show,

For they knew that once I knew,

My vigour renewed, fresh and new,

I would ask them to be accountable,

Bring a change not just talks and fable,

I would not rest till they make if clear and fair,

Corrupted consciences clearly in despair,

The greed, the avarice has to stop,

Someone who questions the people at top,

Call it whatever you want to call,

Ombudsman, Investigator or Lokpal.

And I believe the change will come.

My countrymen rise and shine,

Its time to shout and not to whine,

Let our voice shatter the sleep,

Of those who rest in their slumber deep,

I know, the road is long and hard,

Let us hold each others hands,

And guide each other through each nook and bend,

Let us my countrymen walk to the end.

I believe....

Weekend Art

Monsoon Rain

The droplets from heaven descend,

In unending streams of happiness,

And touch your honey velvet skin,

Starting fire with a soft sweet caress,

Your hair catch a few diamonds,

But your eyes outsparkle their brilliance,

As the bright red of your lips,

Slightly smudged, commanding a glance,

The silk embracing your body,

And accentuating the contours of bliss,

The monsoon rain a raging fire,

The cold breeze a passionate kiss.

First Shower of Love - A poem inspired by first rain of the season

The wetlands of my heart,
Fragranced with first rain,
Droplets dripping from the leaves,
Leaving a cool tickling sensation,
The breeze playing hide and seek,
Green hopes taking root in the soil,
Clouds of optimism on the horizon,
Shading from harsh sun of reality,
As I am drenched in the first shower of love.

Alone

The crimson is still settling on the silver horizon,
The sparkling white dots taking shapre in the sky,
On this crumpled ochre beach I am sitting all alone,
Dare I ask myself atlast, how and why?

The allure of glittering gold holds no more,
The silky midnight blue nights,
Softened with muted cyanine lights,
Hightened senses drenched in sparkling red,
Of brightly painted lips and pink on the bed,
The clatter of coins and velvet of cash,
The laughter of arrogance and fake smiles,
Short lived relationships held together,
By thin feeble thread of desire.

I wonder did I miss the innocent white,
That shone in your blue eyes,
Did I miss those soft pink hands,
That could have held mine under the skies.

क्षितीज

जसा पावसाचा वावर,
उभ्या क्षितिजावर,
सूर्यकिरणांच्या रेषांतून,
इंद्रधनुचा बहर,
मेघ सावळे दाटले,
डोंगरमाथ्यावर,
कधी तहान भागते?
तृषा धरणीची अनावर,
आता बरसून सरी,
चिंब भिजल्यावर,
तुझ्या डोळ्यातले भाव,
आण ओठांच्यावर,
मन माझे उधाण,
भिर भिर वाऱ्यावर,
आता सांडू दे जरा,
तुझ्या प्रेमाचा सागर,
जसा पावसाचा वावर,
उभ्या क्षितिजावर,
उभ्या क्षितिजावर.

Naked Baby By The Road...(Poem)

The naked baby by the road,
Like a supine feline or docile canine,
Permeable and porous,
Vulnerable to vultures,
Discombobulated by the barbarousness,
Of honking honkers going bonkers,
Eyes flittering like tadpoles,
Groping for parental attention,
From beings busy with survival instincts,
Left alone for acculturation,
To the world outside the womb.

Romeo and Juliet

O! Romeo, A heartbeat and a wink,
A length of a breath, A lifetime,
Did you wait ages, to live a moment,
Or die in a moment, to live forever,
A dazzling diamond teardrop, a silent revelry,
A Golden Champagne, A silver moonlight,
O! Juliet , A soft pink silk, A sweet strawberry,
Velvet sands beneath, A starry night,
Did you weep in dark, or let a deafening cry,
Or tears ran dry when you saw your love die,
A story of love told and retold, a countless times,
In innumerable pages of prose, and countless rhymes.

Beggar and the Beast..

You stoop so low that my eyes can’t see you,
I hold up my head so high, I can’t perceive,
Your broken back, the weight of the world,
I shiver at your gruesome, grimy touch,
A fear of disease, a disease of fear,
A mute appeal, syllable I can’t hear,
Your twisted arms evoke no sympathy,
Filled with apathy, my insides, just apathy,
Your insides, eaten by invisible emptiness,
A beggar you are, a wretched tale,
An ignored reality, smothered voice
A beast I am, closed ears, blind by choice.

Edifice....(Poem)

A grand edifice of a humble thought,

A penniless life, glory in death it bought,

Ravenous rumbling of hunger in earth's bosom,

Grave understandings of vaccum suction,

Dark black, red, brown and white,

Dry sands and wet sands, granite,

A virtuos deed, a dime a dozen,

Gone, Long lost and forgotten,

Jasmine buds and roses red and white,

Dry sands and wet sands, granite.

Random Humanity....(Poetry)

The undulating fabric of human existence,
Of all hues and shades, of lackluster and radiance,
A whole with a whole lot of holes,
Silver lining lined with dark substance,
A slimy grimy mixture of tar and dust,
Off the hands of a labourer, poor but robust,
Or pale and pampered child of abundance,
Malnourished melodies unsung and lost,
Or overfed hearts pumping oil in blood.
Of diamonds and distress living alongside,
In far reaches of the African forests,
Of Siberian winters with chapped hands of woodcutters,
And summers on the French Riviera.
Of magnificient Taj and miniscule hutments,
Of Vietnam and Afghanistan,
Thousand soldiers felled by a single bullet,
And all the rich men washed out in tsunamis,
Along with the poor, poorer and poorest,
Lest we forget, we are all humans.

Skipper

The glittering surface of the water,
shining in the moonlight clear,
Broken by the ship's bow,
Ripples scattering the silver,
spilled by the moon, The wind
kissing the water, While whistling
its tune carried from faraway lands,
The lone skipper on the deck,
His eyes fixed on the farawy horizon,
His ears sharp and alert, His mind
on the mission he had set forth for,
His mate alseep amidships, His deckhand
working the aft rigged sail
on the mizzenmast, His quartermaster
counting barrels of rum, His love
waiting for him ashore,
Was she awake? thinking of him?
Yes, somehow he knew she was,
As he was, He smiled and again
fixed his eyes on the journey ahead.

Thank You....

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you,
I would never have realized the hypocrisy,
Thank you for breaking my heart,
Thank you for making me cry,
Now the no one can tear me apart,
Even my tears have run dry.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you,
I would have carried on through the pretense,
Thank you for smashing the illusion,
Thank you for getting me out of day dream,
Now I will never fall prey to hallucination,
Now I will never run behind any delusion.

Nice Short Story Blogs...

Two beautiful Short Story Blogs I found

http://shortstoriesblog.com/

http://shortstorycorner.blogspot.com/

No....(Short Story)

"No"

She had said just that. One word. It was so potent, so poisonous, it was eating his insides. He knew it was a lie. And he knew that she knew it.

"Don't you love me anymore?" He had asked.

"No."

That one word was enough to wipe away five years from his life. Those five years in which she had become an inevitable part of his life. He knew that her sacrifices in these five years far exceeded his. He only wished she had a little more patience. Now the things seemed to be changing. He was changing. He was no longer the idealistic and adamant young man that he had been. Age and agony had mellowed him down.

For five whole years she had supported him. They met at a bus stop on the day he had run away from his house. She had taken him in when they were strangers. She was staying alone and knew that her neighbours would react unfavourably to her letting in a young man. But she braved the opposition, fought the odds. Maybe she liked him from the first day she met him. As days went by she had fallen for his charm and his firebrand idealism.

She worked as a waitress in a hotel during the day and some nights sold her body to uncaring strangers in some cheap hotel room. He stayed at home all day, wrote poems and essays, went out and discussed politics with whoever he met. She didn't mind. She was deeply in love with him. He loved her too but he loved poetry too and literature and humanity and animals and environment and so the list was endless. She loved him.

First sparks appeared when he first slapped her. She wanted to go for a movie with her friends while he wanted her to stay home with her. "I am not your wife." She had said. His answer was a slap across her cheek. It was the first time they did not speak to each other for more than a day. That night for the first time since they met, she slept without him reading a poem to her. Next day their fight had ended with mad passionate love. She could not bear to stay away from him any longer. Nor could he. She admitted it. He did not.

"Why don't you take a job?" She had asked. It took her four years to ask this.
"Why?"
"So that I can stop selling my body. So that we can get married."
"Why do you want to get married?" he had asked. And did not understand then whay her answer was only mute tearful eyes. Her look had made him feel guilty. But his idealism was still alive.

After that day, almost every day was the same. Everyday till today.He found his bags on the doorstep when he returned from a stroll. Through closed doors he had asked "Don't you love me anymore?"

"No."

Tale of the Titles...

Since I took to the fantasy of writing a book, the most difficult thing to come up with has not been the plot or the story but the title. I was wondering how all the famous authors come up with names for their books. What if the title of a great book fails to bring out the drama, the action or tension of the story? So I thought before venturing into the world of writing, I should first try my hand at coming up with titles for probable storylines. Here is a list of few titles I could come up with.

Runaway Equator – An Autobiography of an Obese Man

All Foreplay No Sex – Review of English/French/Italian football team in FIFA World Cup 2010

Premature Ejaculation – Review of Argentina’s performance at FIFA World Cup 2010

Who Wants to be a Millionaire – A peek into a politician’s life

The Maze and the Mist – Making of Leonardo Di Caprio’s ‘The Inception’

The Maze, The Mist and The Miss - Making of 'The Pirates of the Carribean.'

The Maze, The Mist, The Miss and The Mysterious Guy - Making of the 'Twilight' series

Wiki Leaks?

Sometimes my brigade of aunties is quite difficult to handle. Especially when they get into the “oh! The today’s generation” mode. And sometimes when they get curious about various new age phenomena there is no telling where the discussion might go. I generally seek the nearest escape route when I hear of an expedition whose destination is our home. One afternoon however I was caught like a rat in a trap with the full strength of the aunt brigade at my house.
I was as usual surfing the net when the attack happened.

“What do you ‘young children’ keep doing on the net all the time?” Pammi aunty asked in a reprimanding tone, “why don’t you do some ‘real’ work?”

“I know,” the all knowing Sheila aunty said, “Facebook-Shacebook, what else do these kids have? We used to have all real friends.”

I had to stand my ground. Now that there was no escape, I decided to stay and fight. “Actually I was reading some news to base my article on.” I defended myself.

“What news-shews?” Sheila aunty spoke again, “a couple of rapes in Delhi, an encounter in Kashmir, some policemen killed by naxalites and parliament shut down by opposition. There is nothing more than that in the news.”

“So what are you going to write about?” Generally taciturn Gurpreet aunty asked in a tone which suggested, the topic was not important, whatever I write would anyways would not be worth reading.

“Well,” I said, “I was thinking I should write something about Wikileaks. Everyone seems to be writing about it.”

“What is Wikileaks?” Pammi aunty asked.

“I know,” again Sheila aunty, “it is that website where you get information about everything.”

“No aunty, its Wikipedia.”

“Yes yes, I know,” Sheila aunty was not the one to quit, “that only. It was hacked by some hackers. Thats why they call it Wikileaks.”

“No aunty,” I said, “it’s a different website. Wikileaks leaked US secret cables.”

“You mean the secret cable TV channels only available in US?” Pammi aunty asked.

“No cables as in wires, like telegrams.” I tried to explain. “Like messages sent by US diplomats around the world. About different countries and governments.”

“So what?” Gurpreet aunty was as sarcastic as ever.

“These cables were secret. They contradict many publicly endorsed positions of the US Government.” I said.

“So what?” It was Sheila aunty’s turn now, “Anyhow no one ever believes US Government’s publicly endorsed opinions. They say ‘wonder what US is thinking if it is saying such and such in public’ and Wikileaks must have just added to the confusion.”

“Wikileaks has taken the world by storm.” I said growing impatient, “Julian Assange has become an overnight celebrity. He has become a hero for some and villain for others. And left US Government offering explainations to most Governments in the world.”

“So he is an international kaamwaali bai (domestic help)” Pammi aunty said.

“What?” I asked incredibly.

“That is what our maids do.” Pammi aunty offered an explaination, “when a housewife complains to her husband about their neighbours, the maid listens silently and then goes out and tells other women in the complex what the housewife said. Similarly she tells other maids who in turn tell their mistresses and soon the whole complex knows who thinks what about whom.”

I could not help but feel a sense of wonder at how Pammi aunty had simplified a major international event. What she said later was truly a pearl of wisdom.

“And like a good neighbourhood, everything would be all fine despite Wikileaks you see.” She said, “When the word about who said what about whom spreads, women know what her neighbor thinks or says about her. But she never complains or confronts her neighbor and instead keeps up the pretence of being unaware. And the one who has said the words in the first place, knowing the other woman is aware and yet acting indifferent, keeps up the pretense of innocence, and so all goes as usual in the neighbourhood. What do you think would happen in the world?”

I Met You.....(Song)

[Chorus Whispering]

Of all the worlds, all the worlds, all the worlds,
And all my lives, all my lives, all my lives,

(HOOK)
Of all the worlds,
And all my lives,
You are the brightest star, oh yes you are,
Cause what happiness is, I never knew,
Until Once upon a time, I met you.

(INTRO)

Like a blindfolded prisoner, lost in a desert,
Left to die of hunger and thirst,
I wandered alone among the ghosts of past,
And as I thought my pain would forever last,
In the darkness of my deeds I saw a light,
Like an angel you walked into my night.

(HOOK)
Of all the worlds,
And all my lives,
You are the brightest star,
Yes you are,
Cause what happiness is,
I never knew,
Until once upon a time,
I met you.


(Verse 1)
Drinking from every vessel I found,
By flaccid morals, loosely bound,
A dark night that would never end,
Poison running through each of my veins,
Forever misty my world was lost,
I slept with white serpents which breathed frost.

(HOOK)
Of all the worlds,
And all my lives,
You are the brightest star,
Yes you are,
Cause what happiness is,
I never knew,
Until once upon a time,
I met you.

(Verse 2)
My nights were dark and days were bleak,
My intoxication left me hollow and weak,
All I knew was now and never,
Like sentenced to hell for lifetime of forever,
All I did was try to sleep,
Burying the demons far too deep.


(HOOK)
Of all the worlds,
And all my lives,
You are the brightest star,
Yes you are,
Cause what happiness is,
I never knew,
Until once upon a time,
I met you.

(HOOK)
Of all the worlds,
And all my lives,
You are the brightest star,
Yes you are,
Cause what happiness is,
I never knew,
Until once upon a time,
I met you.

(BRIDGE)

Could a river flow, could a daisy grow,
An icy plain, where a child was slain,
A bloody red, city of dead,
Never heard before, I wanted some more.

I had been living like this for far too long,
And I had wilfully forgotten my song,
And all these years I wished I could sing along,
Someone that would care for me and my wrongs.

(Verse 4)
And there were you, shining like a light,
An angel from a star, you walked into my night,
Was it nightmare before, or now a dream,
This is the one, my heart would scream,
I fear to think what I would do,
If once upon a time, had I not met you.


(HOOK)
Of all the worlds,
And all my lives,
You are the brightest star,
Yes you are,
Cause what happiness is,
I never knew,
Until once upon a time,
I met you.

Paranoia...(Short Story)

The latch locked with a clicking sound and then a screech as the heavy metal bolt was slid into its place by a hydraulic arm. The lasers were activated without a sound and the camera was as vigilant as ever. Once the outer metal door was secured the green light on the inner wooden door lit up indicating it was ready to open. Pete placed his palm on the side panel palm reader. The wooden door opened noiselessly and as he walked inside and pushed the wooden door into its placed Pete could hear the soft click-tick of the latch. Pete enjoyed listening to these sounds. They meant that he was finally home. His beloved five bedroom pent house with an amphitheatre and warm water terrace pool. He had dreamed of such a home since his childhood and it had taken immense hard work and perseverance for this son of a Lower City janitor to reach here. Very few people now knew that this famous criminal lawyer had his roots in the very underbelly of crime in the City.

Pete knew that Loila would not be home by now. He had met Loila in a party and asked her to marry him on their second date. It was always like this with Pete, fast and impulsive. He had so less opportunities as a slum dweller during his childhood that as a grownup he could not see even one opportunity go waste. Their marriage had been a happy one and when their son Arjen was born some claimed them to be the ideal family of the City. That was a decade ago. Now all they did was fight. And sometimes in front of Arjen who Pete thought was old enough to understand what was going on. Their marriage was falling apart but Pete held on to it for Arjen’s sake. And he believed it was this constant bickering in the house that was making Arjen mischievous and ill-behaved. Anita was the fifth nanny they had hired for Arjen. Last one, the fat lady from down south, had quit after Arjen had poured ink over her in a fit of rage. But Anita was different. Arjen seemed to like her and listen to her. Anita usually took Arjen to play in the garden in their complex at this time. So Pete hoped to catch some quiet moments.

He removed his shirt and threw it in the lottery bin and slumped on the sofa as he flicked on the television. He first changed to intercom channel giving live feed from the video camera in the garden. Seeing that Arjen was playing safely with his friends from the complex Pete settled for a football match. Not that Arjen was in any danger in the garden within a complex surrounded by a thick concrete wall that even a tank could not barge in, but it was Pete’s habit to check on his son wherever he was. He had subscribed to the feed from the video camera to be delivered to his cell phone in case he had not reached home. The crime in the City was on constant rise. Though it meant high income for him and his doctor wife, it also meant living in the City was getting tougher by the day. Crime was no longer confined to the ghettos of the Lower City as during his childhood days. The new younger criminals had brought violent crime to the doorstep of the rich.

It was only last week that there was a break in in the Sunshine Villas, one of the most heavily guarded residences of the Upper City. And then a month ago nice year old girl was kidnapped for a record ransom demand of five million. And the worst part was that even after the money was paid, the girl was delivered to her heartbroken parents in sixteen pieces. The only beneficiaries of this situation were the security companies. Apart from the eighteen grand he paid as his contribution for the security of the housing complex, he spent another twenty five in biometric security for his house and SOS service that was supposed to respond with help if any of the three family members or the nanny pressed the little red panic button on the bracelets they wore around their wrists.

The football match was getting monotonous and unexciting as both the teams played defensively and passed the ball without scoring. Pete slowly started to drift into sleep as he slumped deeper into the sofa. As he closed his eyes gradually the fraction of light that got trapped in his eyes formed an orange screen against his eyelids. Images formed on that orange screen like shadows. As the orange turned green and then black, the images took colour. First he could see his son playing in the garden against the green and then as everything turned black he saw Loila’s face sneering at him. Then there was Akhilesh, Loil’s Asian boss whom Pete suspected Loila was having an affair with. When Akhilesh smiled his teeth were red as if he had been eating raw flesh. Blood dripped from Akhilesh’s mouth. The face again transformed into Loila, this time smiling kindly with love in her eyes. She came closer to kiss him and suddenly stabbed him in his chest with a kitchen knife. Then she screamed so loudly and screechingly that Pete woke up from his dream. He was sweating profusely.

The football match was over and it was dark outside. He got up hastily and fumbled on the corner table for his watch. It showed 9:20. He had been sleeping for three hours. His wife and son should have been home by now. He looked around and called for Loila and Arjen. There was no answer. He picked up the remote and switched through the camera feed for all the rooms in hi house. All empty. He switched to the garden camera, only to see an empty garden lit with floodlights and a lone security guard standing at the gates. He grabbed his cell phone and tried calling Loila, but her phone was out of coverage area. He called the nanny. Fortunately she picked up the phone.

“Mr.Longvault?” She asked surprised and confused to receive a call from him at this time.

“When did you leave? Where is Arjen?” He asked frantically.

“Why is everything alright? Mrs.Longvault picked up Arjen from the garden so I left from there itself.” Loila answered sounding alarmed.

“Was anyone with her?” Pete asked desperately, slowly an image forming in his mind.

Pete knew the answer before Loila answered, “Yes, I believe Mr.Kumar from her hospital was with her.”

Pete cut the phone without paying attention to Loila’s questions. He knew this would happen someday. Loila was on the verge of walking out on him and she knew that with his influence in the judiciary she could never win custody of Arjen. So she had come home early and waited for him and drugged him when he slept. Then she had taken off with their son. Maybe she had poisoned him. He rushed to the bathroom and pulled out the toxin test kit. He slit his finger with a razor and spilled a drop of blood on the glass slide which he inserted in the square box with a small LCD screen on the top. The test would give result of testing for all kinds of poison in three minutes. That was the best test kit in the market. As he waited for the result he did what he had prepared for in case of this thing happened.

His work with criminals had given him quite and expertise in the dark matters. He had doubted Loila would try something desperate if he kept on refusing her requests for divorce. So once while Loila was in the bathroom he had picked up her panic bracelet and taped a piece of special cellophane to its bottom. Between the bracelet and cellophane was a highly potent dose of cyanide toxin which could penetrate skin and cause death within five minutes. Once into the body, the toxin had no antidote. The cellophane was such that it would melt if there was a strong radio signal emitted within few millimetres of it. Pete knew that if any one of the family members pressed the panic button all four panic bracelets would become active to give out the location of the wearer for the safety team to arrive. He drew a deep breath and pressed the little red button on his wrist. At that same instant he could hear many sounds simultaneously. The almost inaudible tchick of the panic button, the beep of the toxin test kit accompanied by green light indicating that he was not poisoned and click, screech and the click-tic of the front entrance. He heard Arjen calling for him and Loila telling Arjen not to run around in the house.

Love...(Short Story)

Neha came out of the kitchen angrily. She had taken her bath sometime back. Her hair was still wet and the sindoor in her head still fresh. She was wearing the yellow and green salwaar kameez bought by Rohan last diwali. But she was not wearing the dupatta which she thrown on the sofa in the living room, it always bothered her during cooking. Neha was looking very pretty indeed and the angry expression on her face made her look more endearing.

She was angry because Rohan had slammed the door on his way out. He did it often nowadays. When her eyes fell on the dining table in the living room she saw he had not even finished his breakfast. They were having a light argument while he was having breakfast and she was cooking for the lunch boxes. Nowadays all the arguments happened like this, both of them in different rooms. And topics for arguments had been aplenty lately. Today it was about going to a wedding reception of one of Neha’s second cousins.

“But it would look bad if you don’t come.” Neha had tried to persuade Rohan.

“I told you I have work.” Was Rohan’s standard reply.

“You always do,” Neha complained, “we never go anywhere together anymore.”

And the slam of the door had cut short the argument. It had also decided who won the round. Neha would have to go to the reception alone, and make up excuses for Rohan’s absence. Life was not like this three years ago when they were a newlywed couple. Neha remembered those days through the unshed tears which had gathered in her eyes and threated to moist her cheeks. They had finally married after dating for two whole years and were still very much in love. The daily routine of married life had not taken away the sweetness of their love marriage yet. Rohan listened to whatever Neha said, did whatever she asked him to do. He was always home before the daily soap at 7 pm and they sometimes got wild and dirty on the living room sofa before dinner. A smile peeped on her face for a moment when she remembered the day when they were trying to get into action on the dining table and Rohan had sprained his back in the process. He had to be bed ridden for a week after that. And they had told doctor Khanna that it happened while we was trying to fetch a heavy carton from the top of the cupboard.

The lastest hindi movie dance number blaring out from her mobile as a ringtone caught her attention. Her sister Sneha screamed the moment she answered the call.

“Didi, why did you take so long to answer the call?”

“Uh! Oh! I was a little busy in the kitchen.” Neha replied.

“Has Rohan jeeju left for work?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I am going to the beauty parlor in the afternoon to get ready for the reception in the
evening. Do you want to come along?” Sneha asked.

“Uh? No no. You go ahead. I don’t know if I would be able to leave early from office.”

“What? You are not coming for the reception?” Sneha was shocked.

“Off course I am. Unlike some people I can take out time for family.” Neha couldn’t stop before she had exclaimed the ill placed sarcastic remark. “I just can’t tell about the beauty parlor.” She completed.

“Ok.” Sneha disconnected the call, half confused about what her sister had just said.

Neha kept the phone on the dining table and went into the kitchen. She had momentarily forgotten her anger over Rohan’s departure due to being interrupted by the call. But she was fuming again when she realised she was preparing lunch box for Rohan and he had already left. She turned off the gas stove and walked to the living room. She didn’t need lunch box today. She would leave a bit early for the reception and hence she would use the lunch time to finish as much work as she could. She picked up her dupatta and her purse, checked that all the lights and ceiling fans were off and walked to the door. She was in a sour mood as she locked the house and pulled the lock hard to check that it was secured properly.

Neha walked angrily to the bus stop. Cursing under her breath all the way, swearing at a pebble she stumbled over, walking hastily, bumping into a couple of passers by. She felt that her morning was ruined by Rohan. She hated him; hated him so much. She decided that she would not call him the entire day and go directly to her mother’s place from office. There she would get dressed and go to the reception with her parents and sister. She would reach home late from the reception and Rohan would probably be asleep by then. She had decided she would not talk to him until he comes and apologizes to her. She felt like never talking to him. ‘Would it not be great if I never have to talk to him? Never see him again?” she thought.
Her bus arrived at the stop and she got into it. Luckily she got a seat near the window. No sooner had she settled into her seat her mobile rang again. This time it was her mother.

“Neha beta, Rohan is coming for the reception na?”

“No mummy, Rohan has an important meeting today evening.” Neha replied.

“But beta, Ashwin is such a close cousin. And Ram Uncle has done so much for our family. Remember Ashwin had worked so hard for your wedding preparations...”

“Mummy, I am coming. Don’t ask me about Rohan. Why don’t you call him and ask.” Neha could not hide her anger.

“Beta have you two...”

Neha cut the phone before her mother could finish the sentence, switched it off and out it in her purse. She started looking out of the window. She felt tears in her eyes, but did not wipe them off. Finally one rolled onto her cheek. She started thinking whether she should have listened to her father. Her father had a knack for knowing people inside out in the first meeting.
“Rohan is a good guy Neha. Smart, good looking, well educated and from a good family.” He had told her when she introduced him to her family as her boyfriend. “But he looks very ambitious to me. I doubt whether he will be a good husband. He lacks the balance a good family man should have.”

“But papa, I love him,” Neha said snubbing his warning, “and I know he values me more than anything else. He will never let me feel ignored.”

“It’s your life beta. I will not force my opinions on you. If your decision is to marry him you have our blessings.”

It seemed now that her father was right. It began an year after their wedding. Rohan took up the job as an Assistant Vice President in a multinational bank. It was a big leap from being a manager in a locally owned bank. They had celebrated by going to a movie and having dinner at ‘Little Italy’, Neha’s favourite Italian restaurant. It was also followed by a night of passionate love making. She still remembered that night. She held Rohan tightly to her bosom after they both were exhausted and sweaty. She was so happy for him. But somehow she felt she was about to lose him. She did not realize it then but now she knew, that strange feeling in the bed after the love making was fear of losing him. It was like Rohan was marrying another woman.
Now a days they did’nt make love often. Rohan was always tired when he came back from the office. And weekends were spent quarrelling over petty issues.

“You mean like not at all?” Her friend and colleague Anju had asked her, astonished when she told it to her.

“Not like never. Well sometimes. But very rarely.” Neha had told her.

“When was the last time you did it?” Anju’s curiosity was hard to satisfy.

“Last month. Rohan was on leave to fill in his tax returns. Strangely we didn’t fight that day. And after dinner we both felt like it. Actually longing for it.” Neha said.

Anju giggled.

“Rohan wanted to, last Friday. But it was wrong time of the month for me.”

“Awww...”Anju said in a manner of condolence. “But see, it’s not always Rohan who stays away from you.”

“Shut up.” Neha said annoyed, “like I could help it. And this only happens like once in a blue moon. You know I feel like the spark is missing from our marriage. We no longer feel attracted to each other. Rohan definitely does not.”

“Do you think Rohan is having an affair?” Anju regretted saying it the moment these words came out of her mouth. “No no. I didn’t mean that. Rohan is not that types.”

But the seed of suspicion was sown. For the next one month Neha had regularly checked Rohan’s cell phone, whenever he had his bath in the morning or when he went to the bathroom before bed. She read his messages, checked his call history and always listened keenly whenever he was talking on the phone. She never mentioned anything to him. Even after one month of constant vigil she had not found anything suspicious. Either Rohan was very good at hiding his affair or he didn’t have one. She desperately hoped it was latter. Neha also sometimes felt pangs of guilt for doubting Rohan and checking his cell phone. She tried to make up for it by cooking Rohan’s favourite dishes and being nice to him. But Rohan was always too busy to notice. This broke her heart further.

“Madam, this is the last stop.” The bus conductor was telling her.

“Uh!? Oh yes I was leaving.” She got up wiping her tears with the sleeve of her kurta, gathered her purse and alighted the bus hastily.

She walked absent minded towards her office. Anju’s words came back to her mind.
“If Akhilesh treats me like this I will leave him that day. What do these guys think? We must not allow our husbands to take us for granted.” Anju had said animatedly.

“Wish it was so simple.” Neha had said.

“Why not? We ourselves held us back. We must know our worth and be ready to take tough decisions to put some sense in these guys.” Anju retorted.

‘Did she really mean it?’ Neha thought. Suddenly she felt sick in the stomach, like she wanted to throw up. She hailed and auto rickshaw and got into it.

“Bhaiyya go to Saki Naka,” first she told the autorickshaw driver to take to her mother’s place. Then suddenly she changed her mind and asked hime to take her home. “Sorry bhaiyya there’s a change in the plan. Go to Lokhandwala.”

Once home she hurriedly opened the lock and went to her bedroom. She just flung herself on the bed and cried. She.did not weep. She cried, loudly, tears running over her cheeks. She cried to let the frustration of so many months out. She cried over her decision. She had reached a decision. She did not want to continue a relationship like this. She got up after half and hour. Wiped her tears and fetched a suitcase from under the bed. She opened the lid and lay it on the bed. Then going to the wardrobe she pulled all ther clothes from the drawers and hangers and stuffed them in the suitcase. She did not care to pack them, she just stuffed them inside. Even the kanjivaram saree that she had worn on her wedding day and theRupees 18000 sarara Rohan had gifted her on their first anniversary went in the same way. She shut the suitcase after most of her clothes were in it. Next she got a shopping bag from the wardrobe and put her jewellery, cosmetics and creams and toileteries in it. She packed some important documents she had in her purse. Then she kept her suitcase by the bed and kept the shopping bag and purse on it and sat on the edge of the bed.

Everything was packed she was ready to go. She thought of writing a note for Rohan. Telling him he had lost her, telling him not to come trying to convince her to come back. But she did not move. She wanted to sit there for a while. On her bed, where she had spent so many loving and passionate moments with Rohan. She wanted to soak in the memories that were in that house. Something fixed her to the bed. She couldn’t move. She sat and sat, even without realizing that she missed lunch. She remembered days when Rohan used to cook breakfast for her, days when they fought hard and then ended up in making love. She remembered the day when Rohan had his tooth extracted, how scared he looked. That day she wanted to take him and hide him in her embrace and protect him from all the world.

Suddenly she heard a noise of someone opening the door, she looked up to see Rohan enter the room. Instinctively she looked at the watch on the bedside table, 10:00 PM, she had missed the reception. She had sat on the corner of the bed the whole day. She again looked up at Rohan, his eyes wandered to the suitcase beside the bed. He looked back at her, their eyes met. His questioning eyes had a pleading look in them. She quickly got up and embraced him tightly and started crying. He put her arms around her back after a few moments, she could feel his hands trembling. Then he held her tightly. She knew he was scared now. A ray of hope. She knew maybe he was drifting away from her, but it was in her hand whether to let go or gently guide him back to her. She decided not to let go.

Fear....(Short Story)

Shehnaz banged violently on the door. She was nineteen year old pretty young girl of slim built. Her childish face bordered by black curly hair and her youthful bosom made her look innocent and lascivious at the same time. But now all she looked was afraid. Her clothes were torn at places and her face was covered with grime through which sweat and tears had drawn streaks. She desperately banged the door again and hoped it opened soon. Her pursuers could be there any moment.

Only a week ago she was a simple teenager living a normal middle class life with her parents and two siblings in the low income Muslim neighbourhood of Nagpada in Mumbai. Her father Afzal worked in a grocery store and her mother Rubina took up odd tailoring jobs. The tik-tik-tik of the sewing machine was one of her favourite sounds while growing up and she used to spend hours sitting on the floor watching her mother guide the fabric under the needle, sewing, altering, patching. Then one day everything changed. On 6th December 1992 Babri Masjid was demolished in Ayodhya, and a thousand miles away Mumbai was thrown into a hell storm of riots. The Hindus and Muslims burned homes, killed people and rioted on the streets. The badmashes (vagabonds) and gundas (ruffians) from the city took the opportunity to loot the shops and rape innocent girls. Everyone lived in constant fear. Then one day in early January rioters came to her locality.

Her brother had wanted to be a cricketer and play for the national team. She had once seen him play when her father had taken all of them to his school match; she thought he played pretty well. When India was playing, the three siblings used to go to Ibrahim uncle’s place to watch the match. Ibrahim uncle’s flat was the only one with a TV set in the entire Rashid Ali Building. All the kids in the building gathered in his flat whenever there was a cricket match. Though he allowed kids from the building sit in his flat for hours watching cricket, he was far from a jolly old man whom all the kids would adore. He was a bitter man, grumbling about almost everything in life. After seeing good days as a bank clerk he had retired to emptiness, lost his wife years ago to cancer and his only son had got into bad company and left home to pursue a criminal career. Life had really been harsh on him. Maybe he had not been like this always, Shehnaz had wondered. He kept bickering about old age, about kids ruining his Sundays for cricket matches, about non-functioning Government and about how Muslims were ill treated in the country.

“These Hindu bureaucrats would never let you play for the national side.” Ibrahim uncle had told Shehnaz’s brother Rahim.

Shehnaz and her siblings had been brought up in a very tolerant environment by their parents. Her father had insisted on sending them to a cosmopolitan school in Byculla though it was costlier than the Muslim school in Nagpada and caused a considerable strain on their feeble family budget. All the siblings had Hindu and Christian friends. And Rahim or Shehnaz were not going to fall prey to Ibrahim uncle’s rantings. Once her father had even asked Ibrahim uncle to refrain from saying such instiguous things in front of young children of the building, especially in front of his children. The request actually had looked like a warning. But Shehnaz had hoped that this would not make Ibrahim uncle change his mind about allowing children to watch TV in his flat.

“The atmosphere is not good I tell you,” Ibrahim uncle had warned her father, “I have heard that the Hindus are stocking up kerosene and petrol and also hiding talwars (swords) in their homes.”

“Ibrahimbhai you can’t live with such mistrust.” Her father had reasoned, “ The Hindus are nice people. Many Hindus come regularly to the grocery shop and are very amicable to me. Even Rubina gets a lot of tailoring work from the Hindus.”

“See you have sold yourself to these Hindus. The day you turn your back to them they will stab you in your back.” Ibrahim uncle was unconvinced.

Her father had let it be as he thought it worthless to argue any further. But now it seemed Ibrahim uncle was right. The mob that entered her locality set buildings on fire and smoked the occupants out to be butchered on the streets in broad daylight.

“If the mob comes up the stairs and breaks into our house we will be cornered and have nowhere to escape. Then Allah knows what our fate will be.” Shehnaz’s father had declared. “We have to make an attempt to escape.”

“ There is lot of confusion in the streets,” he said, “if we can escape unnoticed to the side alley and make it to the main road we can escape this mob and make our way to Byculla railway station. Maybe we can go to aunt Bano’s place in Kurla. I heard its safer there.”

“I had told you,” her mother reciprocated; face contorted with fear and anger, “we should have moved to Kurla last week itself but you won’t listen. Ya Allah how do we escape now with a young daughter in the tow. Our honour is at stake with our lives.”
They sneaked out of their house into the street holding each others hands and treaded unnoticed for a while till Lakhan saw them. Lakhan was a loafer who loitered in the streets of their mohalla. He always had a bad eye on her. He whistled whenever she passed him on her way to college or back and made lewd remarks. Once he had held her by elbow and with a sneer whispered in her ear that soon he would make love to her on the street while everyone watched from their balconies. She had run home in tears.

“Hey look that Muslim family is escaping.” Lakhan cried out to his looting peers, “and that’s my prey. Come on lads get her for me and I will share her with you all after I am done.”

There was a loud cheer in the group and they all ran after her family. Suddenly her brother Rahim let go her hand and ran towards the pursuers. He was determined to protect his sister, his family’s honour. She watched in horror as he was run through with a sword and fell writhing to the ground. Her father went to help him but before he could reach Rahim he was hit in the head with an iron rod. The pursuers continued towards them and her mother realizing the danger dragged her further along with her sister. While running Shehnaz realized the pursuers were after her and that her mother and sister would be in danger as long as she was with them. She felt guilty that her brother and father had died trying to protect her honour. She devised a plan. She told her mother that they all should run into the small alley a little ahead to their right and head for the main road, but the moment her mother and sister dived into the alley she jerked her hand free and ran straight and left to the road that led towards the mosque. As expected her pursuers ignored her mother and her sister and ran after her. Now she had to run with all the strength she had if she did not want to fall prey to those hungry wolves and be torn to pieces. She navigated through narrow lanes and in between the houses and managed to put some distance between herself and her hunters. But she now felt her strength giving away, she had to find a place for hiding soon or she would collapse on the road and carried away by the goons to her doom. That was when she saw a green painted house with an urdu inscription on the doorway. She ran up to it and started banging hysterically.

For long there was no response then a curtain rustled in one window to the left of the door and again everything went silent. Then suddenly the door opened, a hand grabbed her and pulled her inside. Before she turned around the door was shut and bolted. She saw scantily built Muslim lad of about 11-12 standing in front of her wearing an oversized kurta (vest) and his prayer cap. He was panting and his eyes showed alarm. She looked around in the house. It was a spartan house with one big room used as living room and bedroom and a small side room in which a kerosene stove was kept for cooking and a few utensils. A khaat (a cot made of wood and jute rope) was leaning against the far wall. As far as she could see she did not see anyone else in the house.

“Who are you?” The boy asked shaking.

“I am Shehnaz. I was being pursued by a few rascals.”

“Then why have you come here? They will come here after you and they will kill me too.” He said and started crying in whimpers.

Suddenly Shehnaz found a new strength in herself, maybe because of the roof on her head and bolted door that gave her a sense of protection or maybe by seeing this feeble lad break down helplessly.

“Shhh...” She said holding him and drawing him close to her. She held his head to her bossom and patted him. “Shh.... Don’t cry. They will all be gone soon. Allah would rescue us. What is your name?”

“Jamal.” The boy replied as he moved away from her. He went to the khaat and placed it on the floor beckoning her to sit on it.

“Where are your family members Jamaal?” She asked in a very motherly tone. Somehow Jamaal evoked the image of her late brother Rahim in her mind. Though this feeble, feminine Jamal was nothing like athletic and short tempered Rahim. Her eyes moistened again at the thought of her brother but she fought back the tears.

“My abba and ammi had gone to the grocery shop in the back lane when there was an explosion there.” Jamal said in trembling voice, “someone had hurled a grenade. Then suddenly they came. Forty or fifty of them, with talwars and daggers and sticks in their hands.”

Jamal’s eyes were animated with fear as he relived his moments of horror. “I was playing with my friends nearby. I saw my abbu and ammi shredded to pieces by that explosion. I was rooted to the ground unable to move. The cries of ‘maaro’ (kill) and ‘kaato’ (cut down) of the rioters brought me to senses. Ashfaq was nearest to them. I saw on rioter hit him in the head with a stout laathi (staff). As he was falling down another rioter caught him and cut his head off. We all ran for our lives. I was lucky I made it to home. I have been hiding here since.”
With this he resumed his sobbing. Shehnaz moved towards him again and held him in embrace. The events of past few hours passing before her eyes. Her brother, her father killed in front of her eyes. Her thoughts drifted to her mother and sister. Where were they? Had they reached safety? Or Had they fallen into hands of those inhuman predators? She looked at Jamal. He looked tired due constant sobbing. She felt tired too. Here they were, two strangers comforting each other.
Suddenly there was a loud banging on the door. They both jumped in fright. Jamal was right. She had brought those scoundrels to his doorstep. She would be responsible for one more deat.

“Jamal. Jamal open the door. Suleiman.” Someone called from outside.
Jamal got up and ran to the door. The moment he opened the door a group of 5-6 Muslim youths came in led by a man in his late forties.

“Hamid chacha.” Jamal exclaimed.

“Jamal. Where are your parents?”

“They...they were in the grocery shop when the grenade exploded.” Jamal barely finished his sentence amidst tears and burst crying.

Hamid chacha held him close and said “Ya Allah. Don’t worry Jamal we are here. You are safe inside. Don’t come out. We will be keeping watch ou....” suddenly Hamid chacha’s glance fell on Shehnaz. He looked at Jamal inquisitively. Jamal did not reply.

“Chachajaan I am Shehnaz.” She introduced herself. “I stay in the back lane, in Rashid Ali Building. We were escaping the mob when my father and brother were killed. I got separated from my mother and sister. The mob was after me. I came here seeking refuge. Jamal took me in.

“Very good my son. Very good. I am proud of you.” He said to Jamal, “in your own adversity and such great misfortune you have shown courage to help a stranger. Allah is great.”

“Come here my child,” Hamid chacha beckoned Shenaz. As she went near him he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead and said, “I am sorry for your loss. Don’t be afraid. You two are safe here. We have volunteers outside who will patrol the neighbourhood. I had spoken to Sub-Inspector Waghmare from Byculla police station. He said he will be sending a police patrol very soon. All this would be over soon. In two three days you can go home, find your mother and sister.”
Hamid chacha went away with his followers advising Jamal to lock the door properly. Shehnaz and Jamal sat huddled inside. Listening intently. Each of them immersed in their own worlds, nurturing their own grief, yet aware of the slightest noise from outside. Many time there came a loud yelling noise which made their heart leap. Sometimes there were shattering screams. Once Shehnaz thought she heard shots being fired. For two days they sat there on the floor. Sometimes dozing off to be woken u by loud noise outside or horrifying nightmares caused by their traumatic experiences. Jamal often woke up screaming and Shehnaz held his head tightly to her bosom and calmed him down. They were two afraid to even look outside the window. Once Shehnaz dreamed of her brother Rahim. He was wearing his cricket dress, all with pads and gloves. He waved at her, then suddenly came running to her, held her by hand and dragged her on the cricket ground. The stadium was empty. He smiled again mischievously and then ran away towards the pavilion disappearing when he had gone halfway. She found herself standing alone in an empty stadium. She woke up sweating to find that Jamal was not beside her. She looked around but could not see him. She got up frantically and cried out “Jamal.” She ran to the makeshift kitchen in the side room to find him standing there.

“What are you doing here? I was so scared.” She said panting.

“I was hungry. There are no fruits either.” He said guiltily. Tears streaming from his eyes. He walked out to the main room and towards the door. He made gesture to open it but changed his mind. As Jamal turned from the door he saw Shehnaz by the stove. He went to the makeshift kitchen and sat on the floor watching her silently as she sifted through the provisions and fetched some flour. She started making rotis (flatbreads) on the rusty iron pan. Everything was silent. The roaring noise of the stove echoed in Jamal’s head. His eyes wandered from the blue flame of the stove to Shenaz’s face. A single tear rolled out of her eye onto her cheek and glinted in the light from the stove.

Hey Jude!!!............(Poem)

Hey Jude!
He sang to you,
Just follow your heart,
Believe it to be true.

Hey Jude!
Take a sad song,
And take out the sorrow,
Dream a happy dream,
For tomorrow,
Take a tear drop,
And make it shine,
Believe; You will be fine,

Hey Jude!
Its hope; That makes the world go on,
Be brave; And let you dreams live on,
Some day the happy dream will come true,
Just remember he always sang to you,
Hey Jude.

Wait...(Poem)

Stealing glances at the clock,
Hearing to the incessant tick tock,
The world passing by,
As I stay rooted in the moment,
The blur of motion all around me,
Incomprehensible urgency of everyday activities,
My heart refuses to oblige,
The need to go on and go about,
It lingers in its indulgence,
Waiting for a single moment,
To hear your voice once,
A hearty laugh, the unheard smile,
Faraway yet borne innately,
Tendered from within to within,
A thousand years of torment it seems,
Cold steel daggers piercing mercilessly,
A sting so potent, so numbing,
It reins time to a laborious crawl,
But a heart in love yearns for a little,
A tiny glimpse, A fleeting glance,
A single moment, A faintest chance,
A agony washed away in teardrops of dew,
All in a single moment I speak to you,
Time rushes like adrenaline,
A sprinter going for gold,
And when that moment is gone,
Its wait again, lingering, unhurried...

Back..

Haven't posted anything here since two months...so just wanted to break the gap..will be posting something interesting soon...

Birthday Blues...

Birthdays were fun in the childhood...they mostly are...back then its all the excitment about greetings and birthday wishes from friends and dear ones...anticipation about the gifts....and the thrill of the cake and the birthday party...It was mostly like that all the way through school and college life...

But as you near the gateway to the thirties club it starts takinga different form...its still not like that I am getting old or starting to worry about wrinkles and grey hair...maybe that will start after about ten or fifteen more years...this period is a very uncertain and full of trepidation...

As you pass variuos milestones in life and leave behind the moments which would never come again (like bunking lectures in college and hanging out with friends)...you begin to realise that life is finite...and though it is not expected to end soon you know it will end and then remember a list of things you need to do before that...its like a personal "ten things to do before you die"...maybe its a career you want to make...a position you want to achieve...or the family you want to have...different for different people...

So now each birthday becomes a milestone...a review meet...you analyze what has been achieved and how far or close are you from your goal...also you plan for the next year or two...identify targets....set deadlines for yourself....and probably ake an action plan...all this not necessarily in a formal drawn out way like corporate boardrooms...but atleast in your mind...so now the Birthday has a whole new meaning...and all thi is important..

But...without forgetting to live the moment...to not miss out on simple joys in life....for the moments gone will never come back....I like the Vodafone's taglines in some hoardings that went up a few years ago in many cities in India ... "Make the Most of Now"

5 Years...

I just realised I am about to complete 5 years of blogging!!! So many things have happened since I first started blogging. I hv tried to put most of my feelings in the blogosphere through poems, essays and stories...blogging still hasn't lost its charm for me...

Grown Ups Anyone??

Today's farce was so ludicrous that I do not have many words to spare for it. All this Shiv Sena daring Rahul Gandhi to step in Mumbai as if the city were its property, Rahul Gandhi carrying out the elaborate drama of travelling in a local train (in a special carraige reserved for him amidst state policemen paid using tax payers money) and our news channels covering the whole thing as if it were the third world war.
Any grown ups in this game of politics? Any one who can talk about inflation, debt, economic downturn and recovery? Any one who cna talk about the upliftment of the underprivileged from the backward regions? Any one talking about energy security or climate change? And any politician capable of coming up with a strategy to face global challenges in the new decade?

The wait is on...

War ..... (Poetry)

My bloodied hands leave stain on my soul,
My memories speak of murder and plunder,
The countless victims of my campaigns foul,
Haunt my sleeps like lightning and thunder.

The rapacious hunger for loot and killing,
Beastly carnage of the hell's fury let loose,
Each account more horrid, more chilling,
Each action a witness of the evil I chose.

Cries and screams pierce my heart no more,
Death and destruction on hunt of prey,
Deriving savage pleasure from blood and gore,
Shadow of fear and hunger cast on the day.

Nourished by the suffering far and wide,
Stabbing my own kin for my wicked desires,
Blowing out flames of life in my stride,
Destroyiong, razing, burning, setting fires.

Where will I stop? When is the end?
How low morally will still I descend,
How will I ever get rid of this scar,
Left on me by monster named war.

Hue and Cry...(Poem)

The hues of humanity,
Discrete fragments,
Bonded by fate,
Struggle to dominate,
Differences magnified,
Labor for equality,
Prejudice, Resentment,
Mutual emotions,
Conflict and peace,
Blood and water,
Climbing, Falling,
Helping, Ditching,
Where will it lead?
Future untold.

Growth and Development

Is the balanced development of a society, a nation the result of good governance, cultural influences, will of people to develop or successful policy? I know that the answer is all of the above and some more factors not mentioned earlier. I am just trying to understand which, is a catalyzing factor which adds to the strength of other factors or even out a missing factor. Most important point to note is that we are discussing not just development but ‘balanced’ development, by which I mean along with growth and prosperity we also see a very low disparity of wealth.
I believe cultural influences and resolve of the people are the very basic initiators of development. Especially for the nations which experienced development in the early era, the developed nations of Europe and Americas. This is what drove the explorers to explore new lands, the traders to travel far and wide and conquerors to seek new victories. The early start advantage these nations got still stay with them though the rest of the world, especially the third world countries like India and Brazil are fast catching up.
Successful policy at the Governmental level is very important factor too. And this has been demonstrated very effectively by the emerging nations like India and China. Some very important policy changes in the nineties fueled the rapid growth in both these countries. What once were cumbersome bureaucracies have now been transformed into agile sprinters that are poised to leave behind the mighty giants of the world economy. The growth has been almost all round in both these countries. Along with the healthy statistics like GDP growth, currency valuation and stock market indices etc, there has been considerable improvement in the per capita income and most importantly the standard of living of the common masses. Yes, there still exists a vast gap between the haves and have-nots in these two countries, but it is much smaller than what it used to be and is shrinking by the day. There is also an increase in the number of rich and middle class while the number of poor is reducing. The governments are trying new policies to alleviate poverty.
Good governance and political will holds the key to the development of the underdeveloped nations in the world now. The developed and emerging nations certainly extend a hand of help to help the underdeveloped nations, but it is the Government which can translate this foreign aid into all round development. The Governments of these countries need to decide their priorities in terms of human development and economic growth factors and formulate a roadmap to achieve their goals. The recipe of development will need all the ingredients, Good governance and political will to make efficient use of the assistance available from developed countries, policy level determination to avoid siphoning of funds and utilizing the funds in the best possible way and the will of the people to keep the Government in check and keep analyzing the performance of their leaders. Let us hope that one day we will see entire humanity standing on equal grounds, reaping the benefits of technological advancements and having equal opportunities.

Question...

What is it that drives human will? Maybe this question has been asked before. Or maybe for some, this question is very naïve to ask. But there can be plenty of answers and the question is how do you decide which is the most important of all. By driving the human will, I mean providing the motivation to struggle against adversities, to hope when surrounded by dire circumstances and to fight for what one desires. This motivation, does it come from some ancestral instinct or is it acquired after birth in childhood years.
We can possibly classify the factors of this motivation into two broad categories; fear and want. Both stem out from basic survival instinct. Fear in a broader sense, as an instinct, teaches us to seek protection from that what might harm us. Be it beasts, storms or enemies. Fear then develops into many different types depending upon the situation. In the most primitive environment, the fear can be of a wild beast or a storm. In modern sense fear often stems not from direct objects or events but rather consequences of events. In simpler words modern day fear is about losing. Like fear of losing money or wealth, fear of losing loved ones or fear of losing power and status and so on. In some parts of the world fear for life is still very much a real phenomenon. Genocides, civil wars and terrorist acts continue to spill blood even in the civilized world.
Fear may be the driving factor in most of the cases. Especially in situations threatening status quo, may it be an extreme incident like natural disasters or riots and wars where actual existence is at stake. In such cases we find exceptional will power in most common people. The will to survive enables people endure worst suffering in hope that it will pass. Another type of circumstances may be less extreme in comparison but still can have a huge impact on an individual’s life. These may be serious in varying degrees. From losing one’s job to having a heartbreak, from facing public disgrace to losing wealth and status. And each individual will react differently and in different extent to each of these threats.
While fear drives most people to bring forth will power even they never knew hitherto existed, want drives people to draw on enormous strength and resolve to get what is desired. An entire gamut of emotions comes under the want category, from simple survival needs like food and water to natural instincts like sex and excesses like greed, ambition and lust. Simple logic might suggest that more basic is the need, stronger the will to fulfill it. This is true in most of the cases. A person deprived of food might kill to eat. But there are many occasions when excesses like greed, luxury or lust drive people so hard that they tend to forget the difference between the right and wrong, giving rise to crimes like corruption, scams and rapes.
While we search for the answer to the question about what drives the human will, we also need to search for one more answer. How do we use this knowledge to mould and channelize human race from civilization to super-civilization, a mature society where peaceful co-existence and mutual co-operation are pillars of the social order? Golden era of human race may then truly begin.

The Lazy Cloud...

Like a silver gray cloud,
Lazily drifting with the wind,
No intention to pour soon,
Just enjoying the ride,
Believing in my silver lining,
But still too indolent to shine,
I can see everything,
But care to do nothing,
About anything,
The stupor induced,
By slow glide ride,
Giving in to the wind currents,
Even languid to change direction,
The lethargy prevails.

Blood Brother ...(Poem)

The blood that runs through the veins,
Flows through the streets like rivers,
The ties broken long ago,
Beckon our souls no more,
The battlefield full of unnamed graves,
Of soldiers from both sides young and brave,
The cities of skyscrapers, neon lights and cars,
The countenance of society veiling the scars,
Separated from my brother by barbed wire,
The path to union splattered by gunfire,
I wait for the day when I can call my kin my own.

Blood Brothers...

Last night while partying, my friends and I met up with a Pakistani guy. There were hi and hellos and he was easily included in our group. Dancing with us, drinking beer and watching some good looking girls around us. He looked one of us, dressed like us and spoke our language. That was the moment I realized that he is one of us. A blood brother, same race and from what used to be same country a little more than six decades ago.

Then why are there lines that divide us? Pakistan and India have had long standing enmity between them. The relationship between the two neighbors has always been lined with mutual suspicion and mistrust. The derogatory slogans for the other have not been uncommon in both the countries. The Kashmir and terrorism has been the bone of contention. This hatred has overflowed in the arena of sports in form of rivalries like in cricket and hockey.

But is this the ground reality for the whole of the two nations? Does a humble fireworks factory worker in Kerala (the southernmost state of India), who can barely make ends meet, care so much to hate Pakistan or Pakistanis? Or would a poor rickshaw driver in Lahore, who listens to Bollywood music and is Shahrukh Khan fan, prefer to be at war with India.

The common man on both the sides is well aware that war would only bring ruin to both the countries. If both the Governments concentrate on developmental issues and seek each other’s cooperation then probably there will be no stopping for us. And India and Pakistan together can bring the entire south Asian continent to prosperity. The key to the future for more than a billion people of the sub continent is end of the animosity between the blood brothers.

Global Village...

One of the benefits of travelling is that it opens up your mind. After being exposed to so many different cultures, customs and view points, it is difficult to be narrow minded. I love this aspect of travelling. Yes I love sight seeing, the monuments, the museums, the marvels of the modern world. But more than that I love meeting people, talking to them, mingling with them and knowing them.

I am fortunate till now to have had opportunity to travel across India and then in middle east and Africa. Each city I went to, each country I lived in, I found some new and different things and also few similarities. Yes similarities, thats what prompted me to write this post. When I cam eto Africa, I did not expect to find anything like India. The portrayal Hollywood movies and Discovery and National Geographic documentaries had helped me form my perception.

And yes it is different, very different. The people are different, the culture is different. But I was surprised to see so much of Indian influence here. The kiswahili (thats the language of kenya) word for tea is Chai, and the one for keys is chhabbi. That was about language, another area where influence of a culture can be observed is food. Chappo is a part of the staple diet for breakfast lunch or dinner. Now chappo is a roti or chapatti or a parantha.

But I was amused most by something else. When I was working in India I used to attend meetings in Government offices and all used to be same. They will start with a formally written agenda and lot of unnecessary attendees. Then the discussion would drift away from the topic at hand to some random interdepartmental talk. And the would come the tea break, with tea, biscuits and samosas. When I came to Kenya, I went for some meeting in Government departments here. The office premises are exactly like Government offices in India, polished wooden panels and doors, huge desks and vintage look, a common British legacy. Then the meeting went exactly like India, the agenda, the attendees and the random talk. And then came tea with biscuits and..........yes samosas. Samosas here too...Now that is the Global Village.

Destiny and Identity

The cacophony that surrounds me,
Engulfing the elusive peace within,
Which I strive hard to find,
The rush of moments,
The nostalgia and adrenaline.
Never reaching within, ever without,
Knowing the answers which,
I don’t fully understand,
The questions that never cease.
Reality refusing to seep in,
Stinging eyes blinded by haze,
Way too clear, road obscured,
Visions clear, vision blurred.
A destiny to fulfill,
An identity to discover.

Nobody is Perfect..

Not much of a realization. A kind of widely accepted principle, I must say. But still, I have this habit of evaluating people’s behavior and analyzing their actions. When I meet someone new, I do not form instantaneous opinions of them. For some time, I observe their actions and their reactions to various stimuli and then form my perception of them. This again, is not my final opinion. I keep on observing and assessing the person. Yes, there are some times when I like or dislike a person at first glance. But I try to overcome such bias and understand the person better.
But the problem comes after an opinion formed after much of evaluating and analyzing proves wrong. Well, most of the times it does not prove completely wrong but many a times some vital assumption about the person turns out to be incorrect. I do not expect anyone to be perfect. I will not, at least till I can call myself perfect, and I am still far off from that target.
Sometimes a person is very nice and interesting to talk to, very kind in his manners, very amicable by nature but later on a selfish tinge appears on them. I mean we all are selfish, but in varying degrees, and there is a threshold of selfishness, which if crossed, makes selfishness very apparent and annoying at times. Someone I met recently appeared to be very meticulous, very dedicated towards his work and very hardworking. He is also very honest and frank person. I had begun to respect this person a lot. But lately I have noticed an ‘I know all’ attitude in this person. A mix of arrogance and ignorance which is seldom obscured by his friendly demeanour.
Such instances suddenly bring to fore the reality that nobody’s perfect, and that too in a very ‘in your face’, vehement way. What matters more is then to live with that reality. Hence rather than the ability to gauge and recognize people, which itself is a very important skill, more important is the ability to accept people as they are and be more understanding and compassionate.

The Rains...

It rained in Nairobi after long long time. The weather was growing hotter by the day (southern hemisphere!!). The earth was scorched, the rivers drying up. It is a famine situation in some parts of Kenya. And the rains were a welcome change.
But for me personally it was an especially welcome event. I have always found rains inspiring. My creativity peaks in monsoons. Just the sight of pouring rains, green treetops, puddles of water and little streams of water brings images from worlds I have never visited. The entire emotional spectrum is wide open. From love to lust, from excitement to ecstasy, from sorrow to nostalgia and many more feelings stir the depths of the heart. The words flow from paper to pen like a raging river. Poetry comes from deep within and naturally. I love rains.

The pouring rains from heaven above,
And cold winds, the smell of earth,
The touch of a fairy tale from faraway,
The treasure chest of joy and mirth.

Visitor Count

Just put a visitor count on my blog. Wanted to see how many people endure my writing. :)

A Fine Balance...

For quite some time I have been thinking of this and that. Mostly being the direction my life is taking. Sometimes I ask myself am I doing what I like to do? Well I don't really know if we are 'born' todo something or be someone, like born to be a writer or a singer or an actor. Maybe. But one thing is for sure that there is somethig that we 'like' to do, or maybe even 'love' to do. Now if that thing, that activity becomes your occupation then offcourse there is no greater delight. But if you are doing something else for a living and maintaining a hobby then it becomes a fine question of balance. How do you managae the balance between work and hobby? How do you know you are doing justice to both?

Events that made news...

So many things happened in past few days and each of the incident had an impact on lives of multitude of people in varying degrees. The world commemorated anniversaries of two very important events which had far reaching effects across the globe.

First was the eighth anniversary of the September 11 terror attacks on American soil, widely known as THE 9/11. The act itself was unimaginable to many people, American or otherwise. The twin towers of World Trade Centre demolished by the pack of cards by terrorists using planes instead of missiles. Many lives were lost, and many more connected to those were shattered. The aftermath was bloodier. US Government decided to go behind the perpetartors with full strenght. I still don't know whether it was a right or wrong decision, but maybe after the December 25 attacks on Mumbai last year and seeing the anger seething in the general public, I am inclined to think it was the right thing to do. The whole saga changed the course of events and the politics of the world.

Second event to mark its anniversary, that too the first anniversary was the collapse of Lehmann Brothers, considered by many as the event that triggered global recession. This too had far reachning impact on large number of lives. Jobs were lost, families broke up, suicides were committed. Somewhere, something had gone wrong. The direction the world was going came up for rethinking. The excesses of the capitalist consumer economy were laid bare. Maybe lessons learned from this event help define the way ahead.

Third event I wish to write about is closer to home. It was the discovery of the missing mobile phone of Aarushi Talwar, the 14 year old murder victim who was brutally murdered in her parents' Noida residence in May 2008. More than an year passed among shoddy investigations, accusations, allegations and media hype without the killer being brought to hook. It was already unfortunate enough for the young life to end so abruptly and so brutally, and then it was sad to see her name come up so frequently in Media with different and sometimes downright disgusting theories. May her soul rest in piece. Will Indian justice system ever be able to punish the perpetrators of this heinous crime?

Just Another Post..

Its been a long time since I have posted here. I have been a little busy lately. And then I have been posting on another site called Cold Coffee which is essentially a writer's community. The response I got there was overwhelming and hence most of my recent work was posted there. For past couple of weeks though there has been certain disagreements in the site admin staff and many of those on staff who had become my good friends left the site and started a new one of their own. I have followed my friends there and would be posting my creative work there on the site called The Poet's Parlor. nyways I do not intend to stop posting here and that is the primary reason of this post. Though I had nothing better to write about. Nowadays sometimes I even feel lazy to write, often distracted by other temptations like television of hanging out with friends. But even when I am not doing anything sometimes I am just too lazy to write. So this post is also essentially a step of breaking that lethagy.

New Beginings

The rain has stopped now,

The sky is clearing,

The rainbow can be seen from the roof.

The Sun has come out now,

The breeze is blowing,

Caressing the grass trampled by the rain.

The raindrops left behind,

Have turned into diamonds,

Glistening in the bright warm sunlight.

The worst is over now,

The storm has passed away,

The new beginings beckon us with open arms.

Girraffe.....

Friend ...Poem

Mute, I call out to you,

I know it would not reach your ears,

I remember our friendship,

With smile not with tears.

We used to be best buddies,

Shared secrets with each other,

Now we share this vaccum,

A big chasm 'tween us to smother.

Did just land below our feet,

Tear apart and drift away?

Or was it the guilt that we kept,

Putting away to another day?

I extend my hand but not quite,

To reach out to you but despite,

I touch an abyss unfathomed,

Lost am I, I am, I am.

Diary Entry

Diary Entry: 16th May 2009, 5:30 PM Nairobi Time

Mumbai Indians lost again and with this the hopes to get into the semi final extinguished. Feeling very very bad about it. I was rooting for Mumbai Indians. Don't know why Sachin gave the ball to DK again after he was badly hit. Dumminey's 2 overs were unused. He never got Sanath Jayasurya to bowl. Team seemed so much together and in it at the start. But as soon as things started to go out of the hand the spirit vanished and they all slacked. Alas! have to wait for one more year before any hopes of seeing Mumbai Indians in the IPL semi final, trophy is still a long way away.

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The following poem is an attempt to express the anguish after Mumbai Indians lost the vital match against Rajasthan Royals in IPL Season 2 on 14th May 2009.

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They came and fought hard,

Especially the skipper played like a king,

They played their every card,

But somehow they lacked the zing.

They lost they won, they lost they won,

And finally they lost it when they had almost won.

Everyone's heart skipped a beat,

Everyone had caught their breath.

Thousand prayers being hurled towards heaven,

From both the camps unsure, uncertain.

It was no doubt a mighty show,

But in the end someone's gotta go.

My heart breaks every time I remember,

The defeat that was'nt a surrender.

Yes they fought till the end I would say,

But alas! in vain, they lost the day.

The bowlers got hit then hit back straight,

But unfortunately they hit too late.

The batting order did'nt fire in the start,

The openers failed to do their part.

Well the captain fought back bravely,

But one ball from the rival deceived him gravely.

He had done all he could,

But when he got out it was not too good.

Hopes rose again as the young gun fired,

And came crashing down as luck conspired.

A needless risk spelled the doom,

And the other young hitter could never bloom.

The next few wickets fell like a pack of cards,

And the victory dream was torn in shards.

No credit taken from the rivals well played,

Despite some mistakes the team made.

All said and done hope for a better morrow,

Win in the next can ease the sorrow. 

Friend...

Chand looked at the passing cars through the iron strips of the railway fence. He was waiting for more than an hour now. Every couple of minutes a train would pass by deafening him with the thud-thud on the tracks. Not that he was not used to it. He heard it more often than he could hear his own heart beating. His friend was late today. He could’nt know why. He did’nt even know her name. He could hardly call her his friend. They had never talked. Their worlds were so different, so separate and distant. But since the time she had entered his monotonous life he looked forward to Saturdays and endured all the suffering life would serve him during the week for this one day, for this one moment.

Chand was born in a ghetto situated adjacent to a suburban railway line in Mumbai. His life had been a struggle for survival from the moment he drew his first breath. His mother was a construction worker, his father used to be one before he fell from a scaffolding three storeys high.  There were four kids elder to him which meant more competetion at the dinner table. Hunger was his consistent companion from day one. There was never enough for the entire family. Hence the kids were often left to their own means. They begged and sometimes stole to stay alive. Sometimes  Chand assisted at the tea stall near the railway station taking orders and cleaning glasses and plates for the whole day in return for a piece of bread and half a cup of tea. Life was harsh for this nine year old.

It was on a Saturday eight weeks past that he had first seen her as she stepped down from her car.  She was like a fairy, and angel, though he knew almost nothing about fairies or angels he thought she might be one. She was about his own age. She had smooth balck hair, flawless fair skin and a radiant smile. She wore a clean light pink frilled frock which must have cost more than the money he had ever seen in his entire life till now. She had come to the temple near the railway line with an old man, probably her grandfather. Mesmerised, he kept looking at her as shelet her grandfather’s hand go and ran up the steps of the temple till she dissappeared beyond the temple entrance. Something in her entranced him. She was everything he was not. She was exactly opposite of him, an antonym of his existance. He longed to see her, that was closest he could get to the life she lived. A life where there was no pain, no fear, no uncertainty about having the next meal. And after some time she came out of the temple holding her grandfather’s hand. She had an apple in her arm, the prasadam from the temple.

When they reached the bottom of the steps her gaze wandered up to him, their eyes met, almost. He was now more intently looking at the apple, having missed his morning meal as the tea stall was closed that day. Somehow she read his mind. She spoke something to her grandfather and he nooded and let her hand go. She ran upto the railway fence where he stood and held out her hand with the apple through the gaps in the iron strips of the fence. He took the apple hesitantly, never before had anyone given him anything without begging. She smiled a shy smile and ran to her grandfather. Next moment she had gotten in her car and driven away.

From that day he waited there everyday for a week and was about to give up hope of seeing her again when on the next Saturday he saw her car park near the temple. As she got down from the car her gaze automatically travelled to the fence and she smiled. He thought she remembered him and maybe waited to see him again. As a poor kid he never really had any friend. All that happened in his neighbourhood were partnerships for joint struggle to survive. That’s why he took her to be his friend, if anyone could call that friendship. But as he had expected she came up to him and gave him the fruit, today it was banana, after she came back from the temple before driving away in her car. From that day he went there every Saturday at the same time.  Every Saturday she visited the temple with her grandfather and every Saturday she gave him her fruit, apple, bananas, guava, oranges, whatever it was. She never spoke to him, just gave him the fruit and ran back to her car.

Hours went by as he waited for the entire day but she did not turn up. It was late in the night when his sixteen year old elder brother dragged him home, if the small bamboo hut could be called home. He could not sleep that night, nor could he stop his tears the whole night. He weeped silently. His only friend had abandoned him. Happiness could not be long lived in the life he lived. He cursed his wretched existence. He so wished to be someone else. he wished he was that girl,  going around in a car, having nice clothes to wear, good food to eat. Or maybe he could have been one of her friends, real friends. One from her section of the society, who knew her name, whom she talked to, not just gave fruits out of sympathy.

On the next Saturday he walked back to the fence near the temple. He did not half expect his friend to be back. But maybe she was sick. Maybe she would come today. Maybe she even would ask her how he was since she had not been able to give him fruit last Saturday. Maybe her grandfather would walk upto him, stroke his head and say a few kind words to him. Maybe she would never come.

Suddenly his heart leapt as he saw her car approaching. The car parked at the usual spot but for long time no one got down. He began to wonder what it might be when the car door opened and the grandfather stepped out. His friend was not there. He fealt his tears on his cheeks but suddenly realized with disbelief that the grandfather, instead of going into the temple was walking towards him. The old man came near him and knelt down.

“Do you remember the girl who used to come with me and give you fruits?” the old man asked.

Chand just nodded his head, he was not used to being spoken to by wealthy people . He could not understand what was happening. He just wanted to run away from there. May be the old man will now tell him not to come there anymore so that he could bring his granddaughter here again without a filthy slum dweller like him being around.

“Well,” The old man continued, and now Chand noticed tears in the old man’s eyes, “she was going in a car with her parents and met with an accident.  She died in the hospital after struggling for two days. “

The whole world seemed to crumple before Chand’s eyes, he thought he was about to pass out.

“She wanted you to have this.” The grandfather was holding out a small stuffed rabbit about his palm’s size, “it was her favorite toy”

Chand took the rabbit in trembling hands, his vision blurred by tears. The grandfather put his hands through the spaces in the iron fence, pulled Chand closer and hugged him tightly pressing his face against the fence. Chand closed his eyes tightly. The deafening roar of the train passing behind could not silence the banshee wailing within him.

Chameleon on the Wall...

Do you feel the pain really, 

Or are they just the crocodile’s tears?

Do you revel in my glory,

Or are they just the empty cheers?

I catch you sometimes looking at me, 

But when our eyes meet you look away. 

I hear every word you utter, 

But cannot really believe what you say.  

Sometimes you are sugar sweet, 

Sometimes you just drift away. 

When I think you are gone forever, 

You come back as a bright new day.  

When I reach for your hand, 

Sometimes its just not there for me, 

And then in my angst-ridden moments, 

You bring gifts of mirth and glee.  

I wonder whether you are here to stay, 

Or whether you are here at all. 

Are you really what I feel, 

Or are you just a chameleon on the wall.