Good at heart??

Her lips quivered, her eyes moistened, her hands trembled. She was drenched in rain and cold wind made her shiver. Her bosom was exposed as she tried to satiate the infant inher arms. Both of them so frail that bones threatened to rupture the thin layer of skin that covered them. The infant's lips were dry and chapped. They had made a small home at the end of the railway platform. The home consisted of a rug on which she sat, an alluminium pot with a muddy liquid inside it, a tattered cloth bag and a plastic plate with some coins.

I tried to avoid looking in that direction. If I did not see her I would feel less guilty of doing nothing to alleviate her suffering. What could I have done? I asked. Yes, even though I was single, I was earning enough to feed a family of four. I lived in a spacious two bedroom flat in an upmarket suburb and I spent more money in one weekend than what that poor woman might have seen in an year. But there were certainly millions like her. I could not help everyone. That was my argument. I purposefully ignored the fact that I could not help everyone, I could have helped her, somehow. But looking in the other way was easy. Not that anyone was asking questions but there is a word in English dictionary called conscience. And we sometimes need to think of excuses to pacify the little bugger. Well anyways, what could I have done?

She looked old, but if you looked into her eyes you could tell that she was not more than twenty six. Though I looked away, she continued to be on my mind. I wondered what was her story? Was she born in poverty and was living through it? Had her husband run away or died? Or was she an unmarried mother? Did her lover betray her? Was she a girl from a wealthy family who had run away and come to this city to become an actress, got into bad company and ended up pregnant and impoverished? Why did I think so much? I tried to fill my mind with other thoughts. The train was late today, boss had been rude to me and there was a cricket match I had to catch on TV. Who could win today?

The infant started to cry. Many heads turned, mine too, first in her direction and then away. Some did not turn away. Some looked on in pity. Some looked on in lust. There were men who found that display of cruelty and misfortune attractive as they watched her exposed bosom. Her eyes showed that she was not unaware of their lusty gaze, but she had resigned to it. She had to feed her baby who was crying for milk. I could not stop myself from looking at her again and again. Not because of her exposed bosom, I found the heroines on the TV more attractive. But something inside me kept telling me I could help her.  Could I give her money? I had enough to spare some for her. Maybe enough for her to get a dwelling in a slum. Definitely I could  give her enough money to buy herself a decent meal and maybe a blanket to cover herself. But my hand did not move towards my wallet.

Well I could have helped her in other ways. I was a busy man, a young banker who worked late hours and studied part time management course. Yet I did find time to party with my friends, shop with my girlfriend, go to cricket matches and movies and have an occaional barbeque. Maybe I could spend some time for her. I could take her to some NGO who worked with destitute women, they could find a women's home for her and take her out of her misery.

It started to rain, water poured incessantly at her end of the platform. People shifted in their seats where water leaked from the roof of the platform. Not a soul stirred to help her as she tried desperately to shield her baby from cold water. I looked at her again and looked away again. Maybe I could help her find her family and take her back to them. Maybe she was abandoned by her family and I could reason with them and convince them to take her back. Maybe I could make a difference to just one poor lady if not millions of poor. And it would be an inconvinience but would hardly make a dent in my cosy life. I shuffled my feet in indecision.

In my mind I walked over to her, touched her hand and covered her with my jacket. I saw myself lift her to her feet and help her walk along with me as we came out of railway station and got into a taxi. I decided I would buy something for her to eat on the way. Then we would go to an NGO whose building I had passed many times. I imagined an old woman running the show there. The old woman thanked me profusely for doing a good deed. The poor woman looked at me with gratitude as tears welled up in her eyes. I shifted in my seat awkwardly, ready to get up and act out what I had seen in my mind. I shuffled my feet in indecision.

There was a loud sound as train entered the station. Everyone sprung to action and started running towards the train. There was a rush to get into the train, I joined it. Call it practice or call it instinct. I ducked, I pushed, I heaved and I got into the train. I watched the poor woman again as the train left the station. Rain was still pouring. But I thought I saw tears in her eyes as rain water drenched her face. The baby suckled hungrily, unaware of the cruel world around it. And I was unaware of who I really was.



Sometimes just being good at heart does not matter if that goodness does not translate into action.

I think of you...

As sunlight gently kisses my eyelids,
And morning breeze lifts my blankets,
I think of you.

As warm water streams over my skin,
And freshly washed clothes caress it,
I think of you.

My hot morning cup of coffee,
2eggs, bacon and a toast,
I think of you

I may be in a intense meeting,
Or maybe solving a problem or two,
I think of you.

My lunch, salad, soup or chicken,
Or maybe I didn't get time for lunch,
I still think of you.

Work, more work and even more work,
Discussions, arguments or working alone,
I think of you.

An hour of gym after work,
Running on treadmill or lifting weights,
I think of you.

Television time or video game,
Maybe an early dinner,
I still think of you.

Sometimes some unfinished work,
Or time for music and some reading,
I think of you.

Every waking moment of the day,
I think of you, And as I close my eyes at night,
I dream of you.

True Nature of Competetion

Competition is generally a word with negative connotations. Most of us hate competition. Be it in professional sphere or in personal life. The word has a wide range of association though it usually mans the same in most circumstances. We have corporate competition between brands and companies for market share and consumer loyalty on one end of the spectrum while on other end we also have siblings competing for attention from the parents. We face competition in our school days when we try to outrank each other and gain access to the best colleges and courses and we also face competition in love when the one we love is desired by others in his/her circle too. Sometimes the competition stays as healthy rivalry inspiring and pushing us to work harder and bring out the best in ourselves and sometimes it turns ugly and obsessive bringing out our deepest demons. Whatever may be the nature of it, the truth is we cannot escape competition in our life.

To understand the true nature of competition we must understand the most basic form of competition. Then we begin to understand that competition is not a phenomenon, it is actually the rule of existence. It is how the best amongst all alternatives is allowed to progress while the less deserving is inhibited. This may see discriminatory but it works for the greater good. And while each individual does or should work towards self satisfaction, the rules which apply to everyone always work towards the greater good. This is how the balance between individuals and the society is maintained.

So the most basic form of competition is evolution or more precisely put, Darwinian evolution. Without going deeper into Darwin's theory let us consider one example. Lets go back a few thousand years or more. There are two groups of chameleons which are competing to stay alive on this earth. One is a normal group of chameleons and the other group has a genetic disorder which causes it to change color and get the color of the thing it is in contact with. Now eagles like to prey on chameleons so both the families hope that its a member of the other family that the eagle catches. So they are competing to stay hidden. Now the chameleons with the genetic disorder might seem to have an unfair advantage. However due to this advantage they stay hidden better an their normal counterparts who are eaten in larger numbers and their numbers begin to dwindle. Now they must mingle with the abnormal chameleons to mate and produce children who inherit the disorder. Soon the disorder becomes the ne normal and now it is expected that every chameleon should be able to change color. This has wiped out the erstwhile normal chameleons but it has helped the chameleon population on the whole. Now eagles find it difficult o catch chameleons and maybe mice have become their preferred prey. So the chameleon population multiplies faster and depletes slower.

Now this is basic principle of Darwinian theory of evolution, more popularly known as survival of the fittest. Now one may ask what does it have to do with competition. In absence of competition to stay alive, the chameleons with disorder would have felt obliged to expose themselves and get sacrificed if the then normal chameleons reduced in number faster. Thus in a bid to be fair to their counterparts they would have done a great disservice to the future generations of chameleons. But by acting selfishly, competing for survival and staying hidden when there counterparts were being eaten, the chameleons ensured that their race became stronger and better suited for survival.

Now that was a type of competition which benefits the entire race including the competing parties. Now although competition is based on the principle of self advancement, can the competition as a whole be altruistic? As in benefiting others rather than the competing parties themselves. Yes, it can be. We all know that monopoly is bad. A monopolistic manufacturer can demand any price for his products an in absence of an acceptable alternative, the consumers would have to bear the burden of the cost. However in case of competing manufacturers, considering all things equal between the products, the manufacturers have no choice but to decrease their margins and lower the prices. This benefits the consumers who now get the same products at lower cost.

(To Be Continued......)

Missing You

Its your voice that wakes me up,
Its your face that brightens my day,
Is your scent that opens my mind,
Its your eyes that show me the way.

My ears won't listen if its not your sound,
My eyes are longing to meet your eyes,
Worried is my heart, restless is my mind,
I stare across the sea, I look at the skies.

Be it a cloud that has passed you overhead,
Be it rain that drenched your ground,
Be it a gentle breeze that touched your face,
To tell me that you are safe and sound.
 

Nairobi...

Found a superb blog about Nairobi, the city I love...had to share it.

http://migrationology.com/2011/01/things-to-do-in-nairobi-kenya-101/
 

For Old Times Sake.....(Poetry)

Old times sake...
Just the way we used to do this,
And remember when we did that,
A near miss, a close call,
A grand entrance or a clumsy fall,
I remember it all, you remember it all.

The times when you made me laugh,
Times when I made you cry,
Times that flew by before we knew it,
Yes, the time really does fly.

Oh! The prank we played,
How much did we laugh,
And that one time we got caught,
Which one of us took the blame?

Well we may not be so crazy now,
But I know each one of us,
Left a part of us in those times,
And we visit there alone,
To meet our former selves...
For old times sake...
 

Attraction.....(Poetry)

It wears a mask of affection,
It stirs emotions, passion and compassion,
It makes me feel noble and honest,
Yet a sinful tinge it leaves, attraction.

Deceptive, Compulsive and addictive,
Yet it wears a halo, I know,
Like a fallen angel,
Its powers unrestrained,
A duel within my soul.

I glance, I lower my eyes,
Confused and ashamed,
But it lends me armour,
Shields me from guilt,
It wears a mask of affection,
Yet it still is attraction.
 

I Took The Rainbow Apart....(Poetry)

I took the rainbow apart,
Watched it through the watchglass,
I chased it beyond horizon,
I picked it up from thin air.

Every color I touched,
Dispersed in thin air so fast,
Every time,
I outstretched my arm,
I caught vaccum in my hand.

The pot of gold it promised,
Is as elusive as this band of hues,
It gives hope in rains of despair,
But I know it can give no more.

I know now that rainbow lives,
Only in my mind,
Yet every time I see the rainbow,
I believe.

Illusion..... (Poetry)

Its a dazzling night,
Gold encrusted and bright,
I am drunk but yet in my senses, I see you,
In front of me, My eyes do not decieve,
I do not need anymore reason to believe,
There are many here, But I see you.

Yet so unreal, so surreal is this vision,
You are right here, but you are an illusion.

You smile, you wink, you even whisper in my ears,
I see in your eyes and you show me unshed tears,
I know of a heart that beats for someone out there,
But in that heart I know, I have a place somewhere.
You voice lost in the noise, but I know I hear you,
You seem to be far away, yet I feel I am near you.

Yet so unreal, so surreal is this vision,
You are right here, but you are an illusion.

I know you are reality for someone, somewhere,
And I am an illusion for you in that world there,
Our worlds so different, so separate,
In my world, your boundary is the wall of your prison,
In your world, My footsteps are constrained by reason,
And though we both are made of smoke for each other,
I see you, I hear you, I feel you like none other.

Yet so unreal, so surreal is this vision,
You are right here, but you are an illusion.

आज...

एक किरण सूरज की जो तुम्हे लुभाए,
और एक लकीर सी राह जो टेढ़ी ही सही,
मंजिल तक ले जाए,
एक आवाज़ जो दिल से निकले,
और दिल ही सुने,
एक सुर जो दिल ही बजाये,
एक गीत जो दिल की गहराइयों से आये,
एक गीत जो दिल गाना चाहे,
बस सुनो उस आवाज़ को,
गुन्गुनाओं उस गीत को,
आज वही करो जो दिल चाहे.

Indecision...

There are so many me in me,
But us is more than I or we,
A thousand hearts and equal minds,
Force that scatters, force that binds,
A ship with twenty one captains,
Three masts and seven sails,
One captain that steers,
Does it mean that every other fails,
Is it a fight to take control,
Or running away from it,
Is it a place where many roads meet,
Or from where many roads leave,
But all roads do not lead to Rome,
So where do I want to go?
 

Shay

Like a morning that dispels darkness,

From scared hearts,

A fragment of light that opens the door,

Of a dark tunnel,

Like an afternoon that spreads a yellow blanket,

To keep her children warm on a winter day,

Your smile seeps into my consciousness,

Scaring away the monsters, of uncertainty and doubt,

When I can go no more, I tell myself you are there,

Fighting your battles,

Facing your nemesis,

Yet spreading warmth and support,

Sending gifts of confidence and joy,

Be there like the North Star,

To guide us lost travelers,

Like you always do.

Monsoon Tales

The shining silver drops from sky,
Glistening gold in sunlight bright,
As rainbow unfolds in colors of glory,
And stars wait their turn to shine in the night.

The wet velvet night it would be,
Hearing distant rumblings from the sea,
Do clouds bring lore from far and yore,
As ship raises anchor and sets sail,
This monsoon has a story to tell.

Shayari 1 - Iljaam

ऐ मोहब्बत तू अब हमें कोई पैगाम न दे,

दर्द मिलता हैं जब मोहब्बत अंजाम न दे,

हम तोह बेवफा को भी बेवफाई का नाम न दे,

वह भूलकर हमें सजाये हुए हैं अपनी महफ़िल,

ऐ ज़ुल्फी, तू उन्हें भूल जाने का इल्जाम न दे.

Love's Promise Unfulfilled.......Poem

I can see your face in the distant window,
Your eyes on the road coming from hills,
Veiled by the mists of uncertainty,
And tears waiting to happen,
By joy or by sorrow...

I hear you whisper my name in the nights,
And feel your breath on my spine,
As you recall me from your memories,
And wrap your arms around yourself,
Hugging me tight...

I am guilty of passion, I am guilty of desire,
I am guilty of the spark that lit the fire,
That burnt down your hopes, your dreams,
And left you with ashes of longings,
I am guilty of love's promise unfulfilled.

The Prison Wall

There's a prison wall that you can't see,
A wall that's not just between you and me,
The wall that keeps out and keeps in,
But wonder how this silence seeps in,
Not solitude but loneliness abounds,
The wall still stands its grounds,
My silent screams shatter it no more,
Not a single crack in its sturdy armor,
A wall that I have to break or scale,
A soulful song or a gallant tale.

Turncoat..... (Poem)

A renegade, a traitor,
I roam the streets hooded and hiding,
A white knight I seem,
A magnificient horse that I am riding,
Yet so appaling is the mirror,
That I smashed it,
To a thousand pieces of ugliness,
Each shard a broken promise,
Bloody on the edge,
Crystal clear image,
My shining armor does little,
To protect me from piercing glances,
A thousand fiery accusing lances,
My loyalty bleeding with my heart,
And burning in fire of desire,
A picture of dead Gandhi,
A shadow of dead Guevera,
A lost Lenin, a mute Marx,
Thousand hungry eyes,
Staring at my well fed form,
A changed me, no longer,
A firebrand advocate of reform,
A swirling river of emotions,
That have left my tears dry,
And my smile, manufactured,
Perfect yet inanimate,
A green pasture nourished with blood,
The red that I carried now stains my hands,
The tide will soon wipe out,
My footprints from sands,
The guilt will outlive the abode my soul inhabits,
An epitaph will read no more than blank,
My enemies once called me a commie,
My friends now call me a turncoat.           

Holiday Art

Songbird....(Poem)

There's a songbird outside my window,
And the green tree tops glistening with dew,
The lake is calm and silver,
The clouds fluffy and lazy,
The sunlight is golden like honey,
And breeze is cool but not cold.

He chirps, he whistles, he calls his mate,
He sits there without noticing me noticing him,
Is it his feathers, Is it the light,
Or is he wearing his best Sunday clothes?
Is he waiting and calling,
Or is he singing in memory?

The song is sweet like nectar,
It reminds me of everything I loved,
Does it take me back in time,
Or does it bring my memories to me,
Maybe the bird is looking forward to something,
And asking me to do the same.

Deja Vu

The red sand goes on and on,
In a croked line that makes the road,
Trees tying the road together on both banks,
preventing it from spilling ino the forest,
The leaves above sometimes hide,
The patterns that the clouds make in the sky,
There is a river nearby, or a rivulet,
I can hear it but can't see it,
Are there footprints? There are none,
I have never been here,
Yet this place looks so familiar,
Is this what the call Deja Vu?

Abstract...

A pink never used before,
A stroke of red, just one,
Blue wash from bottom to top,
Alternating darker and lighter,
Green just a hue on the sides,
Yellow a big spot with jagged edges,
Empty geometric patterns,
Solid motifs from folklore,
Stripes but unlike tiger,
Just three across right top corner,
Brown and orange,
A light cyan sprayed over.

Consequence...(Poem)

Its a thought of independence,
Of arrogance and ignorance,
Of indecision and impatience,
The thought is a seed of action,
An action of despair or brilliance,
An illusion or an experience,
The action or mere pretense,
In that case inaction to invariance,
Dreams of magnificence,
Unaware or ignorant of dependence,
Followed by, followed by, followed by,
Consequence..........

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.