A Vague Dream

How strange is the chase...
for dreams that don't have a visage
Nor a definition

A vague hill...fluid, unbounded
A valley of unidentified flowers..
yellow and white
a soul, soul-mate-like
unnamed, without a face
but well-defined fingers
that slide behind my ears
to tuck a stray strand of hair..
And time..is frozen..
ice-cold. But its pleasantly warm
under the skin of my cheeks

I see no colour
hear no sound
as I try to identify
You....
But all I am left with
is a dream
and its characteristic uncertainty
that tests my patience
bit by bit, crystal by crystal
through a narrow decade-glass
of Not Knowing

The mist above the hills
grows denser
and you walk away
leaving behind the illusion
of a smile, and the reality
of longing...

01.10.2009

I am craving...for a nice, sweet, simple love story. One where they see each other and notice their hearts skip a beat. Where they steal glances at each other whenever he crosses the well where she comes to fill water. Where eventually, he gathers the courage to smile at her and she feels a thud in her chest. And the next day, she smiles, her face flushed. And this time, he feels the thud, and the thunderbolt. Where they finally meet and walk together in the yellow mustard fields. Where he plays the flute under a tree and she lies down in his lap, almost asleep, being caressed by the music and the gentle afternoon breeze. Where they look at each other and don't say anything...just smile...or may be cry. Where he fills the red sindoor in her maang, and she finds herself, completely transformed, completely surrendered to him, in that one moment. Where he goes off to the fields and she cooks for him, and waits for him. And the droplets of sweat glisten on her face when she holds up the lantern while opening the door for him. Where he sees a choodi-vendor and buys some choodis for her, smiling in his own thoughts. And she notices a missing button in his shirt and stitches it deftly, carefully, as if she could pour all the love in those stitches. Where they spend lazy afternoons alternating the hand fan between them, staring at the ceiling fan that never moves. Where she sells her bangles for his mother's medicines, and he kisses her on the forehead, both of them, overwhelmed, in that moment. Where they sit on the chaar-pai outside the house on a summer night...talking about the stars. Where the night plays its part, and the wind plays its own part, modulating their breaths, their heartbeats. Where he goes away to the city, and she waits....imagining, every moment, what he must be doing, writing a letter each day.....and keeping them safely....to give them all together when he comes back. Where he watches the moon after a long day at work and wonders if she's watching it too. Where they can't sleep the night before he is to come back. Where tears flow unrestricted in that moment of reunion until the throat gets blocked...by weird longings, belongings, admissions, anticipations.

It has been very long...since someone told me...such a story...

To NDA

On this nostalgic Sunday morning, I raise a toast to NDA, for being a part of our identities. To those endless preparations for talent nights, sports days, teachers' days, debates, elocutions, one-act plays, to those majestic corridors where we laughed and ran during the breaks, those morning assemblies and prayers, that 'Big Field' with that 'magic' brick boundary which could 'make your wishes come true' if you completed one round without falling. To the canteen and the panipuri wala. To the grand Julie Hall that we thronged for all occasions. To the chapel where we prayed whenever we were unprepared for a test. To the mysterious sisters' convent where we weren't allowed to go. To Mrs. Bhavana Shekhar for her motherly attention to details and for kindling my affair with the Hindi language. To Mrs. Rekha Srivastava for her oh-so-fabulous accent that could make anyone fall in love with the English language, to Mrs. Madan for being the strict disciplinarian that she was and for always pushing us towards those perfectly tailored 'to-the-point' CBSE format answers. To Mrs. Tresa David for her infectious love for numbers, to Mrs. Sujata Mukherjee for those free periods and Mrs. Sushma Prasad for being a wonderful person and encouraging class teacher. To Miss Ekata Harshavardhan for supporting us when we needed her despite the hard times that we gave her. To Sister Joan, wasn't she the most innocent creature possible? To her music classes where she made us clap at 'clap with your hands, our God is good' , and to her Value Education classes where she taught us the Ten Commandments with extra elaboration of the 'Do not covet..' part ; ) . To that 12th std English class where we sang a prayer of rain with her and it actually rained. To those long queues of Michaelites, Loyolites, Boscons, etc outside the gate, who no matter how much we pretended to hate, managed to boost our teenage egoes everyday. Toast to Sister Jayshree, we grumbled and made fuss but we knew you were the best administrator possible. May your soul rest in peace. Toast to Shubhangi, Chinu, Nishu, Sneh, Nidhi, Sachi, Garima....my comfort circle, my friends for life..and to the uncountable magical moments we spent together. To Ruchi, Pallo and Monica who meant to me in their own special ways. To every single day spent in that second home that shaped us into who we are. To those memories that are still as fresh as if it all happened yesterday. To that ideology of Notre Dame where strength of character and truthfulness came first and material success second. To the 'women of substance' that it strived to turn us into. To all the girls in red who will undoubtedly rule the world and who will always remain Damians at heart. No matter where they go. Cheers...

02.08.2009

Snehal walked on the sand- barefoot, lost- neither happy, nor sad, just peaceful. Full of sea smell and the taste of humid breeze. She sat on a stone, gazing at the horizon, at the sun that was setting away from her day to rise into his. She felt connected. To him, to the sun, to the unfathomable sea, to the changing sky, to the birds that returned home in flocks, to the empty shell under her toe. She looked up at the lighthouse and noticed two lovers watching the sunset from above, silhouetted in orange, dusky red, and then grey, as if morphing into souvenirs. Souvenirs of the beautiful moments that had slowly, stealthily grown into memories. And now, they were her most treasured belongings- the hysterical laughters, the unembarassed tears, the crazy stories, the fast music, the long drives; life, in hindsight, looked like a fast forwarded reel. Only at some points, it stoppped. Like the day they spent building castles of sand. Like the game during which they exchanged dolls as a promise to be together forever. Like the day he picked up a fight with the bully of the colony for her sake. Like the evening she spent waiting for him in the park, full of anticipation, anxiety, hoping he would come (though she hadn't called him and he didn't come). Like the night of college fest that they danced away. Like that night on the beach when they came close, when friendship crept away from between them like sand from a tight fist, only to make way for something else. Bigger or better was for fate to decide. She smiled at the moon. It smiled back, a mischievous smile, as if it held a secret it wouldn't disclose. She understood. She had secrets too. In her heart and in her womb. She inhaled the scent of wet sand and closed her eyes, trying to listen to the second heartbeat. She wondered if it smelt what she smelt, felt what she felt, if it was aware of the strange pangs of love that she felt for it, love that choked her, engulfed her, transformed her. She did not know the answer. But she was content with the not knowing. She felt complete. She got up to leave. Tomorrow he would be made party to yet another secret of hers. Rest was for fate to decide.

Perception

I have come to believe in the two forces theory. The first force drives you in the direction you should be going, and a second force which tries to take you the exact opposite way. The influence of the second force becomes visible in local and global events. These are the events and actions that you fail to justify on a rational ground. We condemn this force when it strikes the hardest- in the forms of crime and terrorism; but we ignore it, allow it, and even give it impetus while it grows inside us. Something tells me life was supposed to be simple- just as the creator is. But we complicate it. We make rules, norms, rights, wrongs and then define crime, punishment, sin, redemption. Ironically, inside, we all sin and forgive ourselves, each day. Its just too hard to do that for others. We get restless hearing about terrorism, racist attacks, but we do not care to contain the narrowing of eyes or discomfort in our body language realizing the presence of someone from a different community around us. We all nurture in our minds baseless negative prejudices, in large or small amounts. Why is it so hard to give others what we want the most ourselves- respect and acceptance? It does not require more than a thought to see the meaninglessness and futility of our everyday hate stories. We do not choose where, when and as who we are born. How can we become so 'proud', aggressive or for that matter, defensive about something that is not even under our control! God created diversity to break monotony, not to divide himself. Faith can not be fought about. What you fight about can not be faith. Because faith has nothing to prove. It is absolute, certain, obdurate, pure. It is part of the first force. It can only lead us in the right, simple direction.

' बावरा मन देखने चला एक सपना....'

The haunting tune playing in my ears takes me to a whole different world. I remember learning to dream after you left. I wanted to be alive again and the dream gave a visage to that desire, to my existence. I remember burying myself into my books to stop recalling the times I had with you, the love we shared. Well, it was love, at least for me. I learnt to be selfless, to care, to sacrifice. I thought you made me a better person. Now I know, it wasn't you. It was my perception of the mystical thing I always dreamt of, of falling in love. I remember those nights when my pillow would be wet with my tears and I would fall asleep, with that salty taste in my mouth, the wetness seeping from my pillow all over my hair and face, reminding me, in those subconscious moments, of what I was never going to have.
I was anxious at first, then angry, but then I started making my peace with the absence of you. Surprisingly, I succeeded. I am amazed by how much resilience I never knew I had. Today, you are a distinct memory; something like a lost world that I would never want to return to. Because the world beyond you gave me self belief, challenges to fight, heights to achieve, and most importantly, the chase of a new dream.

'बावरे से इस जहाँ में बावरा एक साथ हो ...
इस सयानी भीड़ में बस हाथों में तेरा हाथ हो.... '

Open Diary - 27th October

I feel it too often these days-this strange déjà vu, this tendency to cling to sadness when I ought to be happy, to be celebrating. There’s something amiss in the picture of life, or may be there’s an extra piece somewhere that I can’t remove no matter how hard I try. The wind- it makes me so numb, so blue as if I’m not where I ought to be or I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be. It brings with it such distinct, fresh memories that they refuse to register as memories- they become the here and now with every hollow breath, every single sensation alive. I dive deep into it, knowing it leads only to nowhere. Darkness has a strange charisma about it. It invites you with open arms and you somehow melt into them. There’s a certain glory, a liberation in every single tear you shed. Its as if you’re accepting, embracing, and may be even forgiving yourself for your mistakes. I just figured why life does not have a rewind button. Its something like a computer program with multiple threads. It takes different paths of execution every time you run it. So may be even if you had a rewind button, you couldn’t go back to exactly where you wanted to- the butterfly effect of life…

Open Diary-21st August 2008

The college has already started looking like a soon-to-be-past thing. Thoughts of the future have affected the present so much! I go down for a coffee and see a swarm of new faces, and it all appears like a big cycle that I’m a very minute part of. Not just the college and the passing out, but life on the whole. I don’t know why and I don’t know whether this is good or bad, but my mindset has suddenly become very spiritual. I try finding a purpose in things I do but I can’t see it. There is a big blunder somewhere in the whole equation of life that we’ve set for ourselves – all of us running this mad race and trying to work for ‘happiness’! sacrificing today’s sleep, rest, talks, smiles and laughters for a better tomorrow- I wonder where this recursion ends. Sometimes all I long for is utter peace, absolute beauty, pure nature and the ultimate solace of being in the company of myself. I wonder whether this phase will pass too; may be tomorrow when I have hordes of responsibilities scuttling up and down my priority queue, I’ll come to terms with the meaninglessness and obscurity of life. But right now, at this very moment, I find myself wiser, older and all the more inadequate and ignorant about the gift of life, breath and spirit that I’ve got.

On The Midnight Stroke of Independence Eve 2008

Its midnight and a wild crowd of students adorning expensive brands, riding expensive bikes and exhibiting an expensively rare surge of patriotism have come to celebrate Independence Day at kc. It’s indeed not often that you witness nationalism in one of the costliest engineering colleges of the country, where ‘sense of duty’ awakens, stretches lazily, shakes off the dirt on it and gets down reluctantly to work not more than ten days before sessionals, or 20 before end sems. Its amazing to see how events and occasions like the independence day transform mundanities like Indianness to stark realizations. I am a true Indian. My throat enmasses with awe at every reminder of the long tale of independence and the incredible sacrifices made so that I could be born into a free country, breathe free air, get the best education, have fun and try out my own little destiny in the crowd of a billion. We’re a very fast progressing nation- a young population: armed with unlimited technology, instant communication, clear cut visions and hoards of our ancestors’ mistakes to learn from. We roam around with plugged ears, lensed eyes, chemically straightened hair, electrically razored legs and a mobile database of everything we consider essential. But then when I look down the highest histogram of progress, I see a deep abyss, staring back with helplessness, still waiting to be filled. I see my counterparts in J&K trying to figure out a way to keep themselves and their families alive in yet another avatar of the age old communal tension. I see politicians playing an evil game of chess with innocent lives as pawns. I hear of an engineer like me believing in, dying and killing for the principle of terror. I read about heart-rendingly high figures of domestic violence. I question and I wonder. And I crawl into my bed and sleep. May be tomorrow, the newspaper will be a more heartening read. As Independent India turns 61, I know I’ll still swell up with pride and melt with humility before the flag of my nation. The white between the green and the saffron will still be there and it will definitely give me the promise of a day when we shall be free. After all, imperfection is what keeps the world going.

It is one of those nights, ah well its 3.30 in the morning, when the consciousness of your existence makes it impossible for you to repose in slumber, when the heart races very fast to keep pace with your thoughts, when you think only of yourself, your 'perceptions' of the world, your dearest domain of plan and activity where nothing challenges you, when you can look straight through the obstacles as if they are not there.
I am usually awe-struck at the thought of how amazing I am, or you are, or humans are in general- the intellect, the emotions, and above every other thing, the power of expression. I marvel with pride at a baby making its needs felt, or a patient of cerebral palsy, unable to speak or even move, expressing his joy, anger, disappointments and utter euphoria watching a cricket match.
Your inner world is the mirror of the outer world. How you perceive the world depends on how deep you have dug inside yourself. I might be a tiny speck in the universe, a conception of too few dimensions, or may be I am not even there, as followers of some schools of philosophy might claim, but the very fact, or illusion of my existence makes me question and analyze my thoughts and actions and thus those of the entire human race. My beliefs have changed as I’ve grown and they will continue to….without cease, but there is one thing that I’ll never stop believing in, and that is the power of man, because it reaffirms and exalts itself more and more each passing day. The more you try to tie him down, the stronger he becomes. We are inherently curious creatures and when our potential is challenged, the curiosity to see where the limit lies can work…..well….wonders- that’s what ‘impossible’ things are called once they are accomplished.

The whiff of life in the morning air
Those sights the heart beheld!
The noisiness of the playful river

that the silence of the mountains bequeath!!

The spirit's merry,broad-winged flight
while on an appalling course
...and on the zenith of the night
the indulgence in repose!

When after a long chaotic slumber
a familiar blessing voice reminds
one by one in astounding numbers
the melodies we left behind!!

The crashing cymbals in the heart
when the churchbells solemn chime
The crumps of longing in throat enmasse
listening to a forgotten rhyme....

The subtle songs of love and praise
that evolve with us through time!
The lovely caress of life's embrace
like the smell of earth.....divine! sublime!!

dedicated to the two pillars my world stands on...

when the night was dark

and the way unknown

how did u still

lead me back home

when the body was bleeding

and the weapons gone

tell me how

u still fought on

when emotions were still

and eyes were dry

u still kept smiling

tell me why

how do u make all moments so bright

why do i feel u r always right

why does every fairytale

make me believe

your values will prevail

why do all deceiving eyes

convey to me

that truth will rise

whenever the wrong

battles the right

wat makes me speak

"i will fight"

yes it is your firm conviction

that truth is always

mightier than fiction

its your belief that makes me say

that my footsteps

will never go astray

no, gratitude would be too small a word

to tell you dear parents

that YOU ARE MY WORLD!!

बचपन का वो आश्वासन

शायद था अंधविश्वास

दोषी भी तो शायद

है अपनी ही आस

स्वार्थ लिप्त इस दुनिया मे
भावनाओं का मोल नही
गूंगापन मंज़ूर यहाँ है
पर मन के सच्चे बोल नही

रह जाता है पंछी फड़फ़डा कर अपने परों को
तोड़ने को आतुर वो लोहे कि उन छड़ों को

एक एक कर ढहता है धीरज का हर स्तम्भ

आहत मन का दंभ है

या है साँसों का हड़कंप

आंखें जैसे खोयी हों
टूटे सपनों की समीक्षा मे

निगल ना जाये रात इन्हें

भोर कि प्रतीक्षा मे

फूँक कर रखने हैं कदम

कहीं छूट ना जाये संयम
और टूट ना जाएँ कहीँ

"सुसंस्कृत" समाज के

ये दृढतम नियम

ambition!!

silent creatures
silent skies
silent r these waking eyes
but thumps away the beating heart
all set to tear itself apart
and the active roving mind
oscillates far n behind...

when the world sleeps
they r wide awake
choosing to put
all at stake

its a constant drive
a blazing fire...
an unsatiable deep desire...
to keep the storm blowing by
to keep the tides rising high...

there r numerous embers in the urn...
still alive n ready to burn.


the anxious surge of blood n passion!
the strong emotion..tamed ambition..!

A Contrast With Life

All the while i struck

a contrast with my life

with tons of grief in my heart

I have learnt to smile

while I'm mum like a doll

and emote like a toy

I wonder whether its my sorrow

or my search for joy

To talk about all else

but keep shut my grief

to relieve others' cravings

and myself crave for relief

The distances are too long

its so hard to get ashore

not a glimpse of the land

and hurdles such galore

its a battle.....a silent one.

its a battle......that can never be won.

for i had dreamt of the sky

which was pretty much too high

and the nature's wierd rules

are too tough to defy

so I struck a contrast

with my beloved life

and amidst the looming darkness

I lit my torch alight

yes..life is a lost battle

but I prefer to fight

to enjoy the course of the strife

and go with all smiles..

Sometimes u win

and u dont know it....

this battle where both of us lose each day....

Sometimes u manage

to make me feel

the heat from ur soul smouldering away...

when your meandering melancholy seeps quietly

through the invisible barriers I have created......

and i watch helplessly-the long gathered heaps of my strength...melting away..

transforming into fluid compassion....

And i know u won again

when my heart breaks into a billion pieces...

watching u cling to a thin thread....

oscillating between the fear of losing...

and the meaninglessness of winning....

But what u fail to know is...

I know, I feel, and I die everytime my realisations come alive....

We both are fighting......u your fears....and me my pretence.