I love u more everyday...

My love is more than wat i say...

Do u knw how it feel...??

Do u knw this love is real..??

sumtyms i wonder wat do u think....

when u hear my name, ur cheeks turn pink...?

Do u dream about me every nyt...??

Wish to hug me and hold me tight....

These are the questions dat through my mind...

ur way into my heart, u do find...

It drives me crazy as to wat should i do...?

should i risk the friendship and propose u..?

I love u more than u could knw...

and i don't want to ever let u go...

so evn if i m just a friend...,

i will luv u till d end...

i will luv u till d end...

Here I stand on the edge...

So frightened and depressed...

List of blamers and not to blame myself...

coz i'm a fool....for not understanding my own mistakes....!!

With tears in my eyes and feeling of repentence...

I was arguing with my own parents....

Expecting changes...rather changing myself...

Coz i'm a fool...for not understanding my own mistakes...!!

With thoughts drifting my mind...

and an echo all around...

In the midst of things...

With no way to get out...

with no way to get out.... !

Back into the dead..

As the sun sets..
The golden drop melts into the dead still of the sea..
And as the stars suck the infinite’s blue ..
Her corpse surfaces out with stoic tides..

A dagger forced through where her heart must be..
Holds lose..for the cavity stands hollow..
And maybe the assassin did not know..
Hence no blood touches air.. The wrong place..A very wrong hit..

Thrown out on the shore.. She drowns into the grains of sand..
A façade rises from where her body must have surrendered..
Her ashes sprayed across with still winds on an even ashen land..
She walks through her grave..By her tombstone.. Bared..With bleeding hands..

She looks out .. Looks inside..And closes her eyes..They sting..
It’s weird.. How it feels when you feel nobody else can feel you…
And how it refuses to heal..Even when you have everything ever needed to cure you..
So she closes her eyes..Her lashes of thorns.. She’s blind now..

Her eyes bleed with dreams..
Dreams of happiness in shape of whispers..
Pouring out orphaned like milk from a widows childless breasts..
Praying for a parasite to suck off her red ..For white now stings..

She is stripped to nothing..
And it hurts how she does not care..
She walks around naked..
Soulless anyway.. Her stained flesh now bare..

She wishes to fall down…
So hard ..with no one to hold..
She prays each night..
So that she never sees a new tomorrow..

And hence each day as she opens her lashes..
And makes way for the sun..
She curses herself .. Cursing the bed..
A failed pyre which refuses to burn..

It is senseless..
She knows nothing about why it should pain..
Though she fears death wouldn’t be the end..
And this holds her.. Till she hopes it explains..

Maybe you’d return..
Maybe you’d bring back life..
But till then.. She’ll lie raped..
This corpse forced to survive..

My Favourite Book!

The Moor's Last Sigh

By Salman Rushdie

In 1957, Moraes Zogoiby was born. And in 2006, I fell in love with him.

Treat this composition as no mere essay, reader. Because through only my words am I now going to express the unprofessed love that I have for Moraes, my Moor, the unlucky heir of an unlucky dynasty. Here is a tribute to a book which changed my life, and along with it the way I think.

Perhaps the most fundamental way in which anyone can question my madness-yes, my uncontrolled obsession for this book, is that, WHY do I call this novel my "favourite"? This masterpiece could have surely been termed as "one of my favourites". The answer to this question would be, that when perfection comes your way, everything else stops mattering. This book is perfect in all senses. I call it my literary paradise, my sea of philosophy only in which would I love to drench my soul. This is Salman Rushdie at his exceptional, admirable, phenomenal best.

In this pot pourri of masala, drama, betrayal, romance and violence set in pre and post-independent India, I discovered life-all shades of it. The story which commences in Cochin takes turbulent twists and turns through Mumbai before finally ending even more chaotically in the solitude of Benengeli. As I attempt at explaining the story of the novel, I am rendered helpless. It is difficult to pen down a tale which spans over a whopping hundred and seventeen years and involves a jigsaw puzzle of uncountable people. Uncountable and some very unbelievable, eccentric yet realistic characters form the foundation of this masterpiece.

I hated the "in this God-fearing Christian house, British are still best 'madder-moyselle' " haughtiness of Epifania da Gama and the way her toxic dominance devoured her husband's life. But I loved the "tall, beautiful, brilliant, brave, hard working" Isabella da Gama who was the complete epitome of young power. While I marveled over the love that Isabella and Camoens da Gama shared with each other, I could not help shedding a tear at the virgin plight of Carmen Lobo. When a husband as insensitively homosexual as Aires da Gama abandons his wife each night for his own erotic pleasures, what results is tragedy. In a patriarchal land which still believes that only a woman can be infertile, it hurt so much to see Carmen be compared to the deserts of Sahara for never being able to conceive(as if she ever got a chance to). The da Gama family in Rushdie-speak was completely Christian, egalitarian yet socially supreme and rich. Perhaps in this dynasty of contrasts, what happened henceforth was inevitable!

Genius was seduced by age. Christian fell in love with Jew. Art married business shrewdness. Aurora da Gama and Abraham Zogoiby- twenty one years away from each other's age yet so similar within their differences. Aurora- daughter of Isabella and Camoens, the inheritor of her mother's expletive tongue alongwith her infective charm that did not leave her even after she turned fifty. Aurora was artistically Goddess-like, a painter and a thinker who grew up to be the most controversial yet later most respected artist of her times. Associate with her, the shameless murder of her grandmother Epifania after which she merely "slept, as soundly as a child. And woke up on Christmas morn." Associate with her the insult she would unsparingly fling at one and all. Movie stars, Indira Gandhi, Nehru-the most famous people of the world had to surrender their esteem in front of her as her tongue whip-lashed their honour! But most importantly, associate with her, masterpieces of art. The creator of works such as The Moor's Last Sigh, The Kissing of Mohammad Ali Baig, Uper the Gur Gur and many more made even me appreciate her "oil painting, collage and water colour" genius.

Where Aurora ends, Abraham begins. Take this statement in all senses possible, reader. Abraham-the man belonging to a dying race (the Jews of India), the son of Flory Zogoiby and Solomon Castile. The man with a tainted ancestry, but with a mind that flourished over those taints. Associate with him money, power, business, undercover deals, underworld links, drugs, prostitutes and a deep deep love for Aurora. Abraham scares me with this love of his since that very love led to his transformation into an evil soul which made him kill his own wife. From being the "I will always look after you" kind of caring husband to becoming "an icy deity, who wrought havoc upon the mere mortals below", Abraham was always passionate about his love. The only difference was that as time passed, his passions progressively turned from being "for" Aurora to being "against" Aurora.

Would it be injustice if I would obliterate introductions of the various characters which adorn this book? The eccentric Vasco Miranda, the loyal Lambajan Chandiwala, the schizophrenic Uma Sarasvati, the lustful Dilly Hormuz, the greedy Jaya He, the cunning Mainduck, the stunning Nadia Wadia, the helpless Jimmy Cashondeliveri-a horde of names flood my mind accusing me of not paying the attention that Rushdie, so meticulously, gave them all. But humbly so, there is a distinction between a great mind and a potentially great one. As the latter occupies my head, I find myself incapable of compressing the plethora of lives that are printed in the pages of the novel. So right now, it becomes imperative to dedicate my words to that person in this tale who I love so much. The story is here because of him. It is his tragedy-his unluckiness-and ultimately, his last sigh.

Moraes Zogoiby or Moor as he was called for most of his life forms the heart of this book, an adorable heart indeed! Enchanting me with his tale "complete with sound and fury", Moor impresses with his humility, his frankness and the purity of his heart. "Mine is the story of the fall from grace of a high born cross breed…only heir to the spice n trade business crores of the da Gama-Zogoiby dynasty…" he says. Indeed, born out of the last salt-and-pepper fragrant lovemaking of Aurora and Abraham, Moor was special. And so, his life too was destined to be unique.

When he was ten, he found sexual solace in the arms of his tutor, Dilly Hormuz.

As a twenty year old, he began work as a high end goon for Raman Fielding. But he had to retire very shortly due to ageing problems.

As a thirty six year old, he had to battle acute asthma and health issues where each breath of his seemed like a mountain to conquer.

Reader, I acknowledge the questions that must be creeping up in your mind. A ten-year old in a sexual liaison? A twenty-year old unable to work as a goon anymore? A thirty six-year old having lungs which were ailing and ready to collapse? Well, this is the biggest punishment that Nature could ever have awarded Moor. In layman terms, my hero grew up two times faster than normal, because of, in his words, "some cock up in the DNA…premature ageing disorder…too many short life cells." Impossibly so, Moraes was twenty when he was supposed to be ten and seventy two when he was supposed to be thirty six. Perhaps it is the desperation of his to cling on to life, his attempts at looking for people who would not make him uncomfortable about himself and his vulnerability which everyone took advantage of, made me discover the fact that he was so lovable.

With one deformed hand and a life slipping away quicker than it should have, Moraes earns from me sympathy, and also awe. Awe-inspiring are his ideologies of life. All that he speaks echoes the amalgamation of age and innocence inside him, and his golden words have imparted to me various philosophies that make me think, "how come I never came up with that before?"

Who would have thought about the importance that a lung enjoys in our life? With words such as "baby's first yowl, lover's lament, inflated staccato" being attributed to something as ignored as a lung, I did think some more about my respiratory organ! Which man could ever understand the latent pains that married women go through better than my sensitive Moraes who describes their plight as the "grief knotted in a twist of fabric at the end of a dupatta." Betrayed, banished, misunderstood, beaten and misled by time, here is a man each second of whose life is a treasure he cherishes. Moraes is an inspiration, my guide who motivates me to live each second as if my life too has been fast forwarded!

The book is simply amazing. Rushdie magic for sure! Inspired I was by Rushdie's view of shooting stars being mere "unlucky rocks" and not controllers of destiny. I loved his opinion about the post-independence riots in India when he says that "when empire's sun set, we didn't kill our enemies. We reserved that honour for each other." My Einstein of literature made up a new equation of corruption "D=mc squared, where D is for dynasty, m for mass of relatives and c… for corruption" and left me awestruck! Because of him, I could see "Mother India with her garishness …who loved and betrayed and ate and destroyed and again loved her children...stretched into great mountains like exclamations of the soul…".Indian films, Indian politics, Indian history et al thrive inside this creation by Rushdie. After reading the book, I realised that the author is essentially Indian, and I admire him for that.

Surely, "a sigh isn't just a sigh. We breathe in air and breathe out meaning." I was truly lucky to have got a chance to feel that meaning pour into my soul. I feel like a better person already! Last lines from the last words of the epic tale. "I'll drink some wine…lay me down upon this graven stone, and close my eyes…hope to awaken, renewed and joyful, into a better time."

Rubbing some of this hope into myself too, I will think of Moraes whenever I am in need.I salute Rushdie for giving me a lifelong inspiration in the form of Moraes. And also my favourite book, Moor's Last Sigh.

Why m i so confused...

M i a big fuse..

People push me rather hit me...

M i a jerk to even excuse...

In the public, m a conscious geek...

Whom no one is even bothered to seek...

What lyf m i living...

All inside a box...

But 1 day, i'l surely break all the locks...

M waiting for that day.....

To cherish all my lyf...

May be a remembrance....

That will never pose me any fright...

And to welcome it...

With all my might...with all my might...with all my might...!

Hungry Hands

O Sir, in your big black car.

Why don't you roll down the window?

Let the air-conditioner rest for some time.

It's hot and dry outside, but isn't it beautiful too?

O Sir, we know your boots are expensive.

You wouldn't want to step on our dirty dusty land.

But you too must have run barefoot once upon a time

Before you became so rich, so grand!

Don't scrunch your nose like that, dear Sir.

Our faces aren't as pretty as your children's are.

We too don't like these bellies of ours, the way they stick out.

Mother doesn't wash us everyday, no water in the house.

Yes, come here, the view is perfect.

Look at that parched soil there,

This is where our green fields used to be.

Look at that well over there.

No need to peep in, it's now empty.

And there far away among the bushes is where

Our father was found hanging on a tree.

He left us hungry.

Now, they tell us stories with you as the hero

Who would bring us food in his magic bag.

But we see your hands are empty, and your eyes are cold.

You have no roti for us, you only have lots of gold.

And though they say that you have promised you will make our lives good

We won't tug at your clean white shirt to beg you for food.

We have mud in our hands, and it tastes like grain.

You won't like to try it, so you won't know.

But we will lick it off our palms like we do everyday, and have our fill.

And we'll let you go.

We'll let you go.

http://www.hindustantimes.com/Mud-for-meals-SC-damns-UP/Article1-549540.aspx

Show Me The Way

With baby eyes I would look at you with awe,

With baby hands I would hold on to your Superman ones,

With baby steps I would follow you and no other

man, my Papa, my perfect father.

Well, although your daughter has grown up now and does not live with

the illusion of you as the 'ideal' Pa anymore.

Although your arms so strong once upon a time, do not seem that strong anymore.

And that smile that used to be so winsome

fails to hide your wrongs anymore.

Although I can see your mouth eaten up with tobacco,

Papa, you still are the only hero I know.

I have seen you solve my Math problems.

I have seen people revere you at work.

I have been known as your daughter.

I have admired the way you remember the way to all places in the city! And

the way you drive on busy roads and

the way you can calm down angry people and

the way you handle all crises and

the way you clear all my queries with the logic that only fathers have and…

I know you are great.

But now I know, not invincible.

When I used to read tales of valiant warriors, I would think of you.

But then I read the tale of a sarpanch of a village far away.

I read of his greatness, of the power he possessed in the palm of his hands.

And I read of the disease that crippled those hands, twisted his fingers

so that he could hold on to power no more and there was nothing that he could do.

And Papa, I thought of you.

I thought of you…

You too have that disease, don't you?

Hands tell me that they won't be able to forever

hold my universe together.

And that they would someday not be able

to grip the steering wheel of my life.

And that there would come a day when I would have to hold them

they would be so weak.

Greatness too, can get deformed, misshaped, distorted-and crippled,

is what hands speak.

How will I survive?.

I have tried to defeat you. I have tried to make you known as my father.

At times I have succeeded but through words unspoken

I have known that you have supported me even when

I have rivaled you. Because you were always for me, never against.

How will I survive?

Maybe I will always be your baby girl.

Dependant, love-hungry, lost, awed by your magic and a follower of your footsteps.

Maybe when life would intimidate,

suffocate and menace me,

I would come back to you and ask you to change

my disillusionment to clarity, my confusions to certainty.

No matter how weak we are, we will never lose the strength of wisdom, hands tell me.

No matter how crippled we are, we will still guide you in the right direction, they say.

Very well then, I might as well never grow up, because whenever your bitiya would lose track in her life,

Her Papa's hands would show her the way.

Land

The marks of her tears are

etched permanently on her pretty cheeks.

Her beautiful lips seduce

even when she shrieks.

Her desperate cries go on and on.

Her voice is now hoarse.

She begs us to stop but

ends up provoking us even more.

We rape her

And watch her bleed

Beauty itself invites destruction

So isn't she responsible for our deeds?

She flails her arms.

She screams.

She tries to fight.

She cannot challenge our iron might.

There will come a time when everyone will know, she says.

We slap her across her rose-tinted face.

Everyone already knows, but there is no one to fear

because everyone is an animal out here!

Someday she will fall silent forever

after cursing and begging in vain.

And although we would be the murderers of her flawlessness,

do you think we would bow down our heads in shame?

We wouldn't mind pressing, for one more time

her dead woman's arms under our iron hands.

And then raping for the last time, her dead woman's wealth.

She is, after all, only a piece of land.

[To Kashmir]

THE HONOUR OF KILLING

She came all alone
To that solitary place
Where he used to sit
And looked at the village
Nestled against the mountainside.



She looked at him
He looked at her
They never shared words
But camaraderie herds.




The cerebral view
Did not exist
Born with a new feeling
Of an undecided and unheard mist.



They walked along the slippery sidewalks
And gazed at the river
Still no need for words
Where their hearts had become a mirror.


Away from the brutal land
That marks its scents of sabotage
Away from the monsters and culminate
A new feeling.



Before THEY took him
He only said


SHE IS NOT OF MY CASTE
SO SHE CAN’T BE WITH ME
DEATH CANNOT BE BESTOWED UPON HER
SHE IS NOT OF MY CASTE
SO SHE CAN’T DIE WITH ME
HEAVEN OR HELL
WE SHALL NOT BE TOGETHER.

The story dies..

As I feel the embossed void on the sheets of my life..
I close my eyes ..For there is nothing in here to see..

As my fingers touch the paper.. The ink smears across ..
Each letter losing form.. With nothing left to read..

Some music.. Melancholy tunes..
Some omen.. Some distorted sand dunes..
And then a storm of ice cold passions..
Over powers my land..Tearing off each leaf .. Coldly..

Pieces of paper.. Now run off haywire..
Flustering in panic.. Some last attempts to hold on to the binding..

The anxious hope of a lost writer..
In vain wait of the promised reader…

Like a long abandoned shore..
Of a weed poisoned ocean..
Who still fights the waves of venom..

And holds on to the few footsteps..
Of a traveler who never walked upon…

So the sand sit stills..
Rotting under the suns..
Wishing and hoping.. For a pair of hands..
For new castles to be built..
For new prints to savior..
Yet the sun’s too strong.. And waves full of poison…

And now the pages cripple as they fall..
The winds of stillness..
And with storms of ice..
They lose each reddened letter..

The story’s lost now..
Forever and after..
The pen’s tired of moving..
And so is the raped letter..

And hence I fall down..
On my knees bruised by harsh leather..
And as blood surrounds my grave..
I pick up a black rose ..An eagle’s feather..

And now the pages burn..
My funeral.. My corpse set ablaze..
My soul enters hell.. My ashes weep in dismay..

And hence .. The story dies untold..
And hence ends the writer..

Both corpses lying unheeded..
And chimera's like rodents feed with satanic passion..

एक अभागा पथिक

है इशारों से बुना हुआ
है ज़िन्दगी से भरा हुआ
ऐ मेरे इश्वर , ऐ मेरे अल्लाह
क्या तुम्हे न दिखा वोह?
रुका हुआ , खड़ा हुआ .

यह है क्या पर एक पथिक ,पसीने से सना हुआ
हिम्मत का तहखाना इसके दिल में अभी भी खुला हुआ.

यह है खड़ा तेरे दर पर झोली फैलाये
क्या न दिखा तुझ इसके माथे पर वह
शब्द खुदा हुआ ?

वह शब्द जो तेरी नहीं बल्कि इस अभागे की लेन है
वह नाम जो इसकी पहचान पर एक व्यंग है


विश्वास करो मेरा
यह भटका हुआ पथिक अब और कहीं नहीं जाएगा
पर अगर तुने भी ना सुना
तो तेरे ही दर पर अपनी जान दे जाएगा

शायद इसके अपवित्र खून से तेरा दर लाल हो जाएगा
पर कम से कम इस अभागे को मरने का
एक मकाम ही सही मिल जाएगा .

इसकी मौत उतनी सस्ती नहीं
जितनी इसकी जान है,
पर जान देकर भी कौन सा यह संसार
बदल जाएगा?

है शीण हो चूका इसका उत्साह
है मर चुकी इसकी आत्मा
शायद इसी तरह इसका भी
उद्धार हो जाएगा.

इस पथिक की क्या गलती?
इसने तो रास्ता है काटा
पर तेरी भी क्या गलती
जो तुने एक वही रास्ता ही दिखाया..?

चल रहा है दर बदर खून से लथपथ
ना यहाँ रुका ना वहां
शायद थक चुका है विनती कर.

अब चढ़ना चाहता है  वह सूली,
जो है इसके खून की प्यासी
शायद यहीं आकर यह इस
दमनचक्र का शिकार हो जाएगा.

है रो रही इसकी बच्ची
जो अब अनाथ हो जाएगी
पर कोई बात नहीं
किसी दिन इसी भीड़ का
एक हिस्सा बन जाएगी.

बुझ गयीं हैं मशाल, बुझ गए हैं दीपक
न जाने इस हवा से और क्या बुझ जाएगा?
हैं उड़ गए छप्पर , हैं उजाड़ गयी बस्तियां

न जाने यह आंधी कितनों को लिलेगी ?


हैं बरस रहे अंगारे इन लाल आसमानों से
हैं झुलस रहे झोपड़े
हैं जल रहीं फसलें.

इस मंज़र का सच अब और लितना बताऊँ ?
इस अंगारे की तपिश को और कितना समझाउं ?


है इस सूरज की ताप जितना इसका बल
कहीं कोई और राही न जाए इसमें जल .

At my funeral pyre ..

When I die..
When I silently close my eyes..
When after the cruel most moments..I give into the pain..
When all that is left of me is blackened void ..A stain..

Cover me with black roses please..
And let me free..
Let no one shed a tear..
Except a few.. Please beg them for their cries..

And then on this beautiful bed of thorns..
Lay me down..
And as you ask the priest to set me a frown..
Set ablaze my nude carcass..
And hold your noses..
Till I rot to death..

Then my ashes nude..
Take them in a bottle tight…
And bury the glass..
And let loose the sprite..

And then spit and stomp..
On the land above..
Let no stream near..
And as I seep into the sand..
Come piss on the land…

And then puke and shit..
To cover my pit..
And let some vultures out..
Ask them to search for any last clues..
And then finally erase me off scene..

And then
Let out an army..
Of rodents and seep in deep..
To reach my dead done ashes..
For one last ensuring sweep..

And then with whatever is left..
Which please promise me..
Would be next to none..

You would gather it all ..
And throw it down the longest possible fall…

And then take a snap where I had smiled..
And then paint me black..
And cover me with a veil..

And then take the book..
Where they wrote my name..
And tear of the page where it had begun..

And when I am here.. where there is nowhere..
Know that I will thank you..
after you've given me enough pain..
know that i'll love you..
after you've removed the stain..

Her end..

Looking out through shattered glass..
Vision now misted since what now seems like forever..
She holds herself from falling back..

Castles she had build..
Were now falling down..
Each pillar of strength..
Now flat on ground..

Her eyes requested just one night blessed..
And time flashed by..
Memories stood erased…

Grain by grain..
She lost her land..
Her dreams lay slay..
Slipping off with sand..

And she looked around..
Some time since she was choked..
Did her heart stop..
Or did the world pace slowed..

And numb now she looked..
At her own blood ..
She wondered if pain knew she longs..
And if the battle guards saw her surrender..

And as she picked up another mask for another day..
She chose the best smile..
With the brittle most clay..


And then she stood there..
With winds of passion blowing..
stinging her as they passed…
she stared at the fork knife offered..
and moments which didn’t last ..

a new road looked back at her..
she looked away..
not because she couldn’t see a future ahead..
but her naked feet went weak as numb veins bled..

everywhere around..
she could see castles falling down..
with every dream now slayed..
she found peace in shackled ground..

grain by grain..
her sand now lost..
she finds smile..
in her heart’s lost bout..

tears always in her eyes..
with nobody to notice..
she refused to try..
and as she stepped ahead..
blood stains made sense..

clinging on to hope..

Withered leaves dress the ground
Not a crinkle left by,
In this cloak,so formed



The rook,in all its glory,
Stands tall..
Upon an unclaimed territory,
This piece of land..







The seas send her way,
Icy winds,
Lashing against her feeble form
She shivers,as she looks up,
Defying her own self,kneeling down,
Beheld by the ancient wonder,this castle,
While sure as she is of it,
The daemon keeps watch..



Quietude for this night,
Its promise broken,
Her insipid self,
Refusing to be moved tonight,
A night,as a solitary spirit,
On this deserted moor,


The promise slowly fades away.
Footsteps now replaced
By the clinking of chains,
Chains,wound over her wrists,
all the way,
to her gown..



Another gust of wind,
Ripples her hair,
Words,yet to break the night's silence
Having grown weary of the darkness,
The stars alone to dispel it,
She watches his hands,
Work up the chains,
Link pairs together



Fire,not a characteristic end,
Neither a slit throat,
"Why him,then?" ,she muses to herself
This stranger now holds her up,
Discreet steps walked,
She follows in his wake..




The postern now reached,
He stops.
"Your safety,my precedence"
All that leaves his lips.
The hallway now lit with torches,
She faces him,




Those eyes.....


Their depths....
So often had she delved into them...



A POEM BY..
SOLITUDE BLESSED...

The Girl with no Shadow

Yes ! I saw something
Oh ! Yes i did
it was a silhouette so dark
with an aura so bright...


I followed her into the lanes not lit
my footsteps audible
in perfect sync with her's
she didn't stop ,she wasn't frightened


My curiosity drove me so fast
could hear the fluttering panes
could feel the night snore
I couldn't stop maybe because I didn't want to.


Suddenly! I got a little glimpse
it was a girl in gown
the gown ameliorated with my unfinished dreams
i was numb
i was shocked!


She was no stranger
at least i felt so
the inexplicable connection
i could not explain though


The lanes were criss cross
From everywhere to nowhere
A typical maze I got stuck in
following her
I felt my body flew
She turned here and there on ambiguous paths


Exalted I felt when she came again
in the line of sight
Somehow
I didn’t want to loose her
Yes, truly I didn’t…!!


At one of the turns
She vanished,
I panicked
Searching for her lost directions.


Maybe, she knew I was following
maybe she got frightened
I felt so guilty……


I could see the gallows emerging
from the farther end


I swallowed a restraining gulp
Shivering from head to toe
The drop of sweat trickled down my neck
I felt it’s sheer cold.


Then it happened !
The unexpected..
Something I feared the most
She was visible now
coming from the far end.
.
.
.
Her steps were not so steady
Better than mine though
Her face covered with a drape
A drape of my desires never fulfilled.
.
.
.
.
.
.
How can it be?
I asked myself
though I didn’t get any answer
my heart beseeched for


she came nearer and nearer
with every dreaded step
I grew pale and more numb
With those very steps.


I was stranded alone
In those undesigned lanes
They were a nightmare for me
Like panes with no windows
like doors with no openings
.
.
.
They grew scary and monstrous
with ever moment that passed.
.
.
.
She was coming slowly
With a slight limp
I guessed not why
Was too bewildered to think
In fact scared I was.


Now, the moment I feared the most
She was in front of me
She spoke nothing, me neither
A silence with potency so strong
struck my mind.
.
.
.
.
I felt empty, hollow from inside
I heard some strange words
arcane to me at least.
.
.
.
Then I noticed something
she didn’t have a shadow
I had one staring back at me though
an obliterated entity I suppose
but she didn’t.


I heard a twang so loud
The tower clock emerged in the sight
Growing from beneath the ground
It’s hands struck 12:50 now.


The time came , she didn’t spoke
Anything still
Maybe she didn’t want to
Me neither.
I rejoiced the silence
the strange bitterness of her weirdness vanished
I was feeling her presence nice
But still couldn’t see her face.


Tried a lot , but the drape refused to budge
Not even a flutter
for even a glimpse extract.


I don’t know why but
now I didn’t want to
it wasn’t imperative anymore
I just felt her near me.


The gentle breeze caressed her hair
My eyes were not blinking
I didn’t even want to miss a moment.


Then she turned
raised her head and elongated her arms
rains from the skies fell apart.


The clouds started bursting aloud
the downpour was ecstatic
She looked vulnerable, me too
she was scared , but felt alive too.
.
.
.
A smile drove past my face
with some drops of water too.
.
.
.
She closed her eyes to feel the rains
I did the exact
suddenly the earth beneath us disappeared
the infinite skies grew calmer
a lightning bolt struck between us.


I felt its power , but I was too stoical to notice
I took her hands , mine were trembling
drenched and wet and shivering cold
closed my eyes again and dreamt
.
.
.
.
.
.
Finally, my heart didn’t feel so numb
The heartbeat was back again
AT LAST….I felt ALIVE again…!!!!!!



A POEM BY :
OPEN EYE DREAMER

The beauty salon...

In the beauty salon…

An uncanny smell of strong ‘sweet’ smell overpowers, eyes bewildered by sudden pink shine
I enter the world forbidden for creatures from species like mine…

The front desk has some lilies, some daffodils and some other stuff with weird names…
And yellow-pink-purple hair display with alien fashionista proclaims …

I wonder..i shiver and I pause my walk..as I enter fighting the nauseating aura..
The front desk has usual pretty Preeti sitting,I request a hair do feeling sinned as some box-less Pandora..

Sure little lady, I’ll ask someone to help you with the options…
We have street cuts,slanted edges..and actually designs to suit the changing seasons…

Seasons..i wonder.. so you blonde em for autumn and bleach em for winter…
Little flowers for the spring and maybe bald-heads for summer…

She smiles.. she thinks.. I was joking all this while…
I am dead serious brethren.. ask her not to SMILE..!!

I gather some courage.. and with all my strength…
With faked surety I pronounce…I err.. I just thought you’d clip em off along the length..

Shocked and disgusted she glares at the alien me…
The stunned stare as if I spilled some soda on the sacred fashion prophecy..

The friendly tone gone.. I no longer was welcomed it seemed…
So we’ll trim em up the ol’ plain way.. she said as her eyes screened…

Maybe her pink dress..suddenly realised my flip-flops,shorts and sports tee..
And her Gucci didn’t actually like my Tommy Hilfiger...or maybe the complete me..!!

SO OH MY GOD..!! was I the satan of the utopian fairy salon…
I slogged behind the pacing her…was I still a human or some over-fried Kentucky bacon..?

Grab that seat ma’am.. our best will soon be here…
‘you’ll learn a new leasson’.. was all I could decipher from that stare…

A French little man.. no longer than me came in soon…
And the pleasant company proved out to be my little boon…

He suggested me some bounced up hair do.. and explained the pro-con…
I was a game for it.. do me any cut except the famous.. ‘dead mower and lawn’((Yeah that rockstar thingy with little spikes in the very middle))

So whatever..it took him some 7 clips and 9 snips and I was told I am done…
A hug and a 1000 bucks.. and I jumped of the chair.. maybe to never return…


But now I wonder.. of who was responsible for these beauty salons..!!
The mail chauvinistic society...you...me… or some extra-terrestrial con.. ?

Whatever it is.. it has to be evil…for the pain of a full body wax beats army boots..
Don’t you dare disagree…
IT IS BOILING WAX..HUMAN SKIN AND HAIR PULLED OFF FROM ROOTS..


((my try at light stuff.. i knw the rhymes get irritating..sing-song ding-dong.. but lol.. it is my sad try at comedy..))

A wronged little parakeet…

A wronged little parakeet…
Lost in the south..
It flew and fought..
The unwarranted bout..

With blood that flew..
The anger that fluttered…
In her veins.. were memories..
She flew, fought.. shuddered…

The silly little bird..
With wings broken..
And no life left..
Yet dreams strapping..

It flew with all the might it had..
And flew despite of a heart now scarred..
Strength..it did take.. to fight the winds..
Yet happy it flew.. with a soul so sad..

The springs spelled drought..
And the suns chilling..
Snow would be better..
Any true offering…

Moving on.. moving alone..

The parakeet.. a spirit of stone..
The parakeet.. lost..now lone..
The parakeet.. bereft.. broken

Moving on… moving alone..

And blood overtook..
And mind gave up..
And life now weak..
Dreams gave up…

And sprite overtook..
And heavens gave up..
And heart now weak..
Hopes gave up...

Another storm..
An unfair call..
With deities opposed..
A prophecy to fall …

The ground now near…
The doom day clears..
And life no special..
With dreams vague .. with hopes mere

The average little parakeet
nothing special..
nothing much to boast about...
the normal little being..
with broken wings..bloodshot eyes..and a tale of suffering

and as she flew..
she lost more air...
she should now stop..
she wouldn't dare..

another mile..
the parakeet smiles..
i'll make the best of whatever is life..

she flew now..
harder than was allowed..
muscles teaming up with nerves..
and flew as heavens frowned..

no..
her doom has already been ticked ..
the clock now broken..
sand dial tricked...

stop her..
this whore..
this fiend..
this sprite..

stop her..
she challenges..
his heavenly might


and a spell was casted..
some words poured on..
the parakeet fought..
they brought her down..

a thud then followed..
she struggled for breath..
some kings marched by..
she was trampled to death..

the parakeet was wronged..
i dare say why...

the parakeet lay dead..
looked down the victorious sly...


.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

my heart now pains..
this saga of stains...

of blood so special..
and dismay instead..

.
.
.
.

her carcass now stared and staled
as i sit down.. she lay there failed
with wounds wide open..
mocking my peace..
.
.
.
.
.
.
the parakeet lost..
.
.
.
.
.
i did deceive