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.

Long Lost Love

Is the love lost,
Better than love that never was,
The pain found in broken heart,
Dearer than an empty past.

Is the hand once held,
Though still clutched tightly,
Long ago was it let go,
Leaving a faint sliver of memory.

Why does the heart yearn for ache?
Why does it wish 'twas gloomy?
Than being content with the knowledge,
That 'twas spared the agony.

Still I don't know what 'twas 'tween us,
Searching for the meaning of the tune we sang together,
What you meant to me when you were there,
And what it means now that you are gone forever.

A Missed Chance (Short Story)

“When was the last time you saw a girl naked,” she teased me. It made me realize that I was staring at her.  I did not wish to accept that I had never had sex before.
“Not long ago, but none as beautiful as you.”  I don’t know how, sometimes I blurted out the right things to
 say, without even thinking. She smiled and pulled me closer.
Half an hour later we lay in my bed. Spent and covered in sweat. She rested her head on my chest and
drew circles around my navel with her fingers. Her silken hair caressed my shoulder.
“That was your first time, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” I admitted.
“It was wonderful though.”
“I liked it too, you are amazing.”
“Do you think I would get pregnant?” She asked.
“I hope so.”
“What?” She looked at me with questioning eyes, not sure she had heard me right.
“Yeah, then we can marry sooner.”
“Why do you want to marry me?” She asked. Her eyes teasing me.
“So that you would do my laundry.”
“Hey!” She punched me in the chest. “The world has changed mister, it¹s the guys¹ turn to do the laundry;
 and dishes too.”
We both laughed.
“Oh! Yeah? I don¹t mind doing both, for sex in return” I winked. We laughed more and kissed.

She didn¹t get pregnant. Her family moved out a week later. Her dad was in a government job and they kept moving around the country. They had moved in next door just a little more than a couple of years ago. It had taken me almost two years to open up my heart to her, though I liked her from the moment I set my eyes on her. Our relationship had taken off only about a month back when it was time for her to move. She wanted to lose her virginity to me, as a parting gift. Maybe she also hoped to get pregnant so she could teach her dad a lesson (she hated moving around and adjusting to new environment every time).

We tried to keep in touch over the phone and mails afterwards. But there was so much else in life that it
became difficult to find time to catch up with each other. One day, she sent me her picture with her
new boyfriend. When I made to the college football team I sent her mine too, with the pretty blonde
cheerleader. The cheerleader affair didn¹t last long, but she married the boyfriend in the photo. I wondered whether I would have been in those wedding snaps had she became pregnant on that August Sunday afternoon.

She already had a four month old son when I finished law school. She had dropped out after her freshman year. Something I did’nt expect from a girl who topped every test in the class.  When I sent her my wedding snaps her son was already year and a half and she was pregnant again. Her second son survived only for two days. She went into depression after that.
 
I tried to comfort her during our daily phone conversations that lasted more than couple of hours during her divorce. Later she used to mail me the details of her sessions when she started going in for therapy. We discussed her progress and her psychologist. By the time my second daughter was born she was dating her psychologist. I flew two hundred miles to attend her wedding. She still looked as beautiful as on that August Sunday afternoon, though a bit tired.

 Her son came to stay with me for a week when he appeared for law school admission test.  When my
daughter went for a Peace Corps camp in Sudan, she assured me that my daughter would be safe. When my daughter married her fellow volunteer, she couldn¹t attend the wedding due to ill health. I knew she had never really got out of alcohol addiction she caught during her divorce. It was taking its toll now.

For next two years our contact was minimal. I nursed my wife as she battled against cancer. She was
battling cirrhosis. Her husband supported her during this period. They both attended the funeral when my
wife finally gave in to cancer. She looked older than her age I thought; maybe she was thinking the
same about me. Lines had appeared on our faces long back.

Today the memories flooded back in my mind as I stood and watched her coffin being lowered into the grave. Her face was calm and smiling. I felt tears on my cheeks as the priest blessed her soul. I still wonder how it would have been if she had got pregnant on that August Sunday afternoon.

Hate

The gory images on the screen flickered,

And left a burning trail in my heart,

Tearing apart dreams nurtured,

Of a beautiful world devoid of hate.

Why man is an enemy of man,

Kills and Butcher, How can

He abhor and not adore,

And not think even once before,

Murdering flesh and blood of his own kind,

Heading for doom, leaving nothing behind.

Restraints

Gagged and bound, voice muted,

Dissent supressed and doubts refuted,

Speech censored, measured and weighed,

Meaning checked, Implications stayed.

 

O!Liberty, thy spirit is lost,

In cultures and customs venerated,

Progress and at what cost?

Of freedom so ill fated.

 

Break free before the reigns get too tight,

Do not go without a fight.

Gags but no laughs (pun intended)...

I am no big fan of Ram Gopal Varma's movies, though I enjoyed watching his earlier movies like Shiva, Rangeela, Satya, Kaun and maybe even Pyaar Tune Kya Kiya. But the point here is not whether he is a good or bad as a film maker or whether his movies are any good. The point to be made here is that as a film maker he is an artist.

The whole issue about objections to the song in his forthcoming movie 'Rann' and alleged insult of the National Anthem appalls me. Have we not matured even a bit as a society after centuries of civilisation? I am as Indian as anyone can be and I am proud of it. I respect India, the National Flag and the National Anthem. But I refuse to put this concept of a nation, national flag and national anthem on a pedestal. After all India's true identity is it's people. Does saluting the flag and singing national anthem on the independence day and republic day make me a true Indian? And should I feel I have fulfilled my responsibilities as an Indian by that?

Firstly we must understand that art is not only meant for entertainment. The higher purpose of art is enlightenment. Art was used copiously during our freedom struggle by our leaders in form of folk music, street plays, etc. to kindle the spirit of enslaved masses. And sometimes art has to take heady and biting form to cut through the layers of apathy that engulf the cumulative social consciousness.

What Ram Gopal Varma attempts is such pungent concotion of art to make statement on the state of affairs as he sees them. Now it would be individual opinion to agree or disagree with him. Some may take liberty of attacking his stinging sarcasm with a rosy picture they see. And that, is perfectly alright as even an artist cannot be allowed to enforce personal opinion on anyone. But to take away his right of expression and denounce him for expressing views not supported by others is regressive, almost like heading back to era of kingdoms and emperors or maybe even beyond. 

It is also understood that some may not like his way or method of expressing his views. I personally do not like many of his movies and would not watch them for money. But that does not mean that he should not be making them. His way may be uncoventional but he has all the rights to make movies the way he likes. Its afterall in our hands whether to watch them or not. And if something offends someone then not watching it is the best option, definitely better than gagging art.

And insult is when someone mocks the National Anthem, twists its lyrics to demeaning and undignified effect. When someone uses the tune for no other end than only that of humour and hilarity, without any intentions whatsoever to provoke public thought process and initiate dialouge and rethinking of notions. Or when the lines are distorted and lewd, indecent or vulgar lyrics are added.

If art is not allowed to be free, to express disagreement and to confront the norms then there would be no progress. After all it requires fresh thoughts to pave a new way else it won't be new, will it?

Restlessness

Pacing up and down,

Going round and round,

Fidgeting, Fiddling, Fretting,

Mind restraining against its reins.

Concentration or day-dreaming?

Unable to sit at one place,

In body and in spirit, Lost,

The wide fields? The Forests? The Mountains?

Where? The living room.....

Trying to contain,

The restlessness within.

Walls of Prison

What we build around us,

Fences, boundaries, fortifications,

Or just walls of prison.

We wish, we want, we yearn,

We know but we never learn,

We stay imprisoned of our own will.

Our deepest passions, Our deepest desires,

Burried deep within, the depths unfathomed,

We put up a facade everyday.

Every breath is an effort,

A smile that hides the pain,

A failed disguise.

When O! When, Will we find courage,

To break free, To knock down,

The walls of prison.

Back on Blogger....

After long and fruitless efforts to recover my password for my previos blog Talking Silence I am back on blogger with part 2 of the blog....Talking Silence 2 to record my random but true thoughts from deep within..