Hollowness

  The cracked stone walls wore the

  laminated heads of the murdered  

  creatures on it's chest , 

  like a broach ,with careless pride, 

 

The chandelier hung riskily by its ever-loosening threads,

Filling  the room with the echoes that sounded far deeper than it's empty air. 

  The worn out carpets still shining with    the eternal richness of it's golden threads ,laid flat on the ground , welcoming the royal feet with it's velvety feel. 

The fungoid wooden door with rusted red- black chains hanging,

 a ghastly creek heard every time it moved, echoed it's real age. 

The majestic ,oval , stained mirror, 

stuck in the middle of the room , 

echoed the essence of the entire area. 

It's diamond filled frame caught the smirk of the soul peeking in it, 

perfectly reflecting the hollowness. 

World through a window

At around 5 am in the morning, the cattle was grazing the green lush fields. Their sheds were now ready to be cleaned. The lumps of cowdung which decorated the greenery,  like a pudding, were still glowing - a displaying the sign of their freshness. The cool breeze was now raising the hair on my skin. Still I managed to enjoy it somehow resisting the shivering which was now evident to others. 

               

           The skies were still dozing, forgetting to make way for the sun. The stacks of hay which were kept in heaps now scattered all across the soil, their own weights challenging the air. I gazed through the glass stained bar window, at the changing rails , their hands soldered to one another. The speeding train next to mine swiped everyone's laziness like a sandstorm blowing the rooftops. I suddenly shuddered my way out of the world through the window. 

           

Defying death

The dark yet silver lined clouds invaded the sky late that evening. The stars , the moon and other heavenly bodies eventually hid behind the dark curtain. She hurried on the way back to her apartment. Susan's bike was now making  horrendous sounds like a huge engine about to crash. The next thing she  heard was a big thud and she was on the ground with her bike disembodied and broken, having hit the pole. Though her stop was a few minutes away, the current situation made the 10 meter walk quite challenging. Yet, exhaling a heavy breath of the humid air, she stood on her weak coping legs and trying to put the everything back, she somehow managed to assemble the pieces and began to walk. The torn border of her dress fluttered in the air, the fabric covered by the seams now inhaling as much air as it could. She continued her struggle to reach home as fast as she could. Afterall, it was her dear mayflower, blossoming in the earthen pot soaking as much humidity as it could. But now, it was in utmost need of water and it's only saviour was Susan, who was stuck in her little mishap. 

              After toiling for a while at the attempt of walking, she looked at her worn knees. The  knees, scratched had stopped bleeding by now but the pain was still lingering. The dark clouds above were now roaring at their highest pitch and Susan felt a drop of water on her sweaty, dehydrated forehead. A new hope awakened and her feeble attempts now gained strength. After walking a few steps, the skies burst suddenly and water gushed out of it sprinkling its shower on everyone in its way. A tired Susan suddenly heaved a sigh of relief and sat down suddenly looking above as if thanking, as her dying little kid in the pot now was getting its life back- drop by drop. 

Bharat, Bharatiya and our sugar coated hearts

There is no use of blaming the diabetes when our own hearts are coated, dipped and wrapped with the sugary syrup. The sweetness that overcomes the spicy tastes of guilt when it overfills and spills over. When the mirror of introspection is far deep buried under the dust of lies and misunderstandings provoked  by the winds of our own kind.

                   

           Then comes other ways to cover the tiny reflective spaces left on the shiny surface. You can throw some more dust on it if you want just by blaming other people for their wrong deeds. The person  can be anyone- your choice- from our neighbours to the prime minister. Just play a card and the continuous, irritating, deceitful game of 'blaming' will start with a full energy. But you should consider one thing if you are playing this game, that is you are the most grounded, truthful, sanskaari person ever! If your sugar coated mirror shows that, then you may emerge as a winner! Who knows??!!

           While the game is going, you can withdraw from it, take a clean cloth of conscience and a disinfectant bottle of veracity and try shining your mirror. If every Bharatiya does that, we can see our Bharat studying in the scholar batch of developed countries!! Just break that deceitful sugary candy sticking to your heart and lo! 

ऊधाण

चहु बाजूनी,जेव्हा दिशाहिन झाले मन,

हरपले ध्यान, ठेविली बुद्धी कुठे गहाण? 

फोफावितो वारा, येतो अंगावर शहारा, 

झाले ऊधाण काळीज, चिंता गेली का निघूनं? 

The ungratified goblet.

A thirsty, homeless handicap,
finds solace in a drop of rain,
Dribbling along his throat,
like a pearl, it heals all the pain.

The sight of a merrily hopping antelope,
Dilates the lion's eyes with hunger.
The predator after it's feast, doesn't set an eye on a soul,
Leave aside the bargains of a shameless monger.

The ever barren lands, crave for the touch of water,
With their cruel state, they still manage to give others their quarter.
When the skies pour  their happiness on their face,
They sink it in, but not more than their  sorter. 

From wealth, health to inglorious stealth, we have grabbed,
When even these mindless, virtuous  souls know their morals
Will the goblet of our hearts beat for unending discontent,
till it lies in the grave under the florals.

A blind pretentious Tamasha indeed!

When I tune in the television nowadays, all I can see is this deceptive,  misleading word called "matargashti" , decorated with a foreign location (of course to woo the Indian audience) , a fandomised cast ( if that's actually a word) and a cute mimicry of Dev Anand  (hey! Don't judge me! That's what we girls call it nowadays!) - a failed attempt to woo the older audience.... probably.  By now you must've probably realised where this is going!!  Wait! Wait! Relax Brodas and Sistas!I  am not going to start writing a movie review.
          It's just that the idea of a movie, being celebrated and hyped as an"art movie" didn't get my concurrence quite well. Just because it is an Indian team doesn't mean it will win the World cup every year. Exactly like that, just because it is a movie directed by a talented and appreciated director doesn't mean it's an art movie. Have you ever heard of the movies like Ida, Fiddler on the roof,  12 angry men or in our bollywood, dhobi ghaat, detective Byomkesh Bakshi or a Wednesday or Elizabeth Ekadashi, killa  or Shwaas in marathi ? These movies come into that category.  When I call my friends they tell me the story of the film from their aspect. And believe me that till today I ve heard different stories of the same movie. Then I wonder, is there something wrong with my hearing? The different, drastically changing moods of the actor depicted in the movie would surely be the subject of discussion of the psychiatrists all over the world. And well , definitely the top subject in the mental rehabilitation centres.  It's very confusing what's going on in the movie till there comes an interval which leads to the easiest decision in the lives of some people ever.  To leave the cinema hall.  If someone sits through the now tensed environment, they will surely end up besides the nearest popcorn stall just like the actor in the movie ends up near a rickshaw stand, confused.
       So, to end my review, oh was it? If your family, friends or you like Ranbir or Deepika, don't institute the term 'anything for you' here.
     Thank you for reading this because what happens in my blog, stays in my blog. .... ok I ll shut up now.
             

What the world needs now?

Yes. The answer you are murmuring to yourself, is absolutely correct. But do we imply this "love" appropriately?  Sure we love our families, friends, admirers, praisers, etc.  But this context of love,has taken a back seat due to many recent tragic  and intolerable events

           The world needs love which ascends with the victory over hatred.  Love which aromatises,  when the selfishness within us is burnt. Love which floats aloof when the roots of our carelessness have sunken deep in the water. It needs to become more liberal, with it's wings spreading across the barriers of language,  ethnicity,  country, religion.  It needs to have minds thinking freely rather than enacting the fools.  In this time of independence,  our chained minds should be freed and fill one side of the weighing scale with Samaritan acts as the other side will ultimately lighten with shame. But for all this to become actually possible,  we should possess, a sense  of sanity.  

" Happiness can be found even at darkest of times,  if one remembers to turn on the light"

             As I quote Dumbledore,  try to live life with sanity , freedom and kindness. The love will eternally follow you. 

An ode to Rusty

Hey Mrs Rowling, petrificus totalus!!!

Dear Mrs Rowling,

      With the younger generation , all excited about your new Harry Potter play, " the Cursed child", it pretty much brings my hopes down. Just imagine our Harry, dressed in a suit,  kissing his wife and children goodbyes and  off to work in the ministry of magic as  an Auror, with most of his days drowned in the loads of paperwork! Pretty unimaginable and well,  non- magical.  And to add to this babbling,  bumbling band of baboons, Albus Severus Potter is the "cursed child'!! I mean calling a child , with all the privileges and fame, cursed,  is a lot mudbloody, don't you think?
               Moving on,  the new upcoming movie about the ' Fantastic Beasts' author Newt Scamander, is pretty much hyped too, with all the popular  casts and crews hired to play the characters ,along with a big budget special effects team.  Yes!!! We all are very much excited , to see a wizard,  with half of his life,  spent chasing animals.
              Is the whole thing,  a feeble attempt to keep the series alive in our hearts? Well,  the Harry Potter fandom is content with the original seven book series which,  Mrs Rowling  wrote in her sane days. The attempts to turn the whole magical world lucrative,  is just going to turn back and destroy the whole essence of it. Would it be wrong if I compare your new ideas with the horcruxes?   Isn't that ironical,  Mrs Rowling?

             I would only advice you to not  let it fade away  and bask in the glory of the halo, which is still shining on you. Because its Dumbledore , who has immortalized your thoughts, ( which I 've slightly modified), that " Memories are our most inexhaustible source of magic.  Capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it. " So let us bend in our pensieve of memories to live them again, rather than to create more  artificial , lucrative ones.

                                 With love and pity, 

                  Your eternal and tolerable fan.

         

You frighten me sometimes....

Silence

Hoaxed

Breathing for a glance

She looked at her watch. The mailman was half an hour late. Divya always thought of Raju, as her lucky mail deliverer , who always brought some good news, about her relatives with him, every week. After she turned her sand-clock upside down, thrice, her sharp ears heard the bicycle ring. A stranger riding a bicycle dressed in khaki ,sped towards her and handed her the mail, in a hurry. Unable to understand, Divya asked the mailman quite loudly," Where's Raju?". The old man replied with a deep unbothering  tone ,"He was transferred last week. I'm your new mailman from now." With those words, he turned his bicycle and drove away, with the same speed ,as if the earth beneath him was crumbling away.

                      Hearing those words, a small fading memory, turned bright as a sun, in front of Divya's dilated eyes. The same her, thirteen years ago from now, flashed her vision. A timid ,dark-haired girl sat on the classroom  bench eagerly waiting, for her favorite subject to be taught that day, like many other days.  A subject which was her most hated one till last year ,had suddenly become her most loving now. She looked forward to that class more than anything.

                      When her teacher arrived, her world would become a merrier place. Miss Jacobs would greet the children in the most enthusiastic way and ask the students to tell their dreams, their passions and tell them the stories about her own experiences. she would present herself in the most casual manner. Her high heels would perform their tap dance ,as she climbed the classroom's stairs. Her wavy hair ,tied in  a bun and fixed with a large clip ,would eventually find their way out, after a few minutes. Her perfectly fitting chudidar  looked dazzling with a matching  dupatta which hung around her neck, like a scarf does, in the cold winds. For Divya , she was a sign of perfection, her role model ,who just showed no signs of a single fault. When she started teaching, Divya's world would be focused on the blackboard and the book. Miss Jacobs' voice mesmerized her and she would go in a literary world of Robinson Crusoe. That's what she taught. The pictures she drew on the board, explaining the story , became alive, animated if, in her mind, she was on the island, with the sea, with Friday.

                       On the Christmas Eve, she would exchange gifts with all of them, sing and play merrily with them and tell stories about the Eve, which the children enjoyed whole-heartedly. When she got bored of teaching, she would close the book and tell them her own childhood stories and fun moments.

                       When the half hour of the class ended, that world would just be gone- vanished within a snap of a finger.  Six months went by happily and dreamily. But one Monday, a big , fat, rowdy man came in the class and started reading aloud from the book. On looking at the confused glimpses, of the students, he told them lazily, not bothered ," Miss Jacobs has been transferred and from now I will be your new teacher."

                         From that day on, classes were never the same for Divya.  Life for her now, was gloomy with nothing to look forward to. She felt betrayed, cheated, thrown away. How could she go so suddenly? would she see her again?

Divya  flipped out of the memory. How vivid it seemed! The deja-vu which had just happened, had taken her back to the memory. All these years, despite of Divya's  wishful thinking , she still prayed for Miss Jacobs' safety and good.  That was a memory she preserved, the memory, which was etched in her heart, of a person, she was breathing for, just for a glance.

                       

Reflection

Envisaged contentment

Ever felt the touch of a ripple, 

of cold, flashy shimmering  wave on your feet ?,

bathing your toes with the running droplets , eager to touch the soil. 

Ever heard the wind gushing through the trees?,
the leaves chiming their way aside, for their unstoppable ally ,

making everyone shudder, with its invisibility cloak.

Ever seen a squirrel , it's warm, bushy tail?,

tiptoeing it's way, to the highest acorn on the tree, 

secretly nodding to the group,  approving the way trespassed.

Ever smelled the path that leads to wilderness?, 

the untouched, dry, crisp, roasted,  fallen leaves,

not stamped by a single living soul, directing you to the dense green world ahead. 

Ever spoken and imagined the world ?

where the mother Earth is rejoicing amidst her unprovoked , reposed world 

free from the gaze of calamity.    

Do we care? umm......Meh!!!

A so called 'dumpster' box  overfilled and flowing with garbage with it's complimentary smell for the pedestrians.

A pothole on the road! -  and at least one car wheel is it's victim.

An hour of heavy rains and the sewage water fills so high, that the mud filled floods become a  new centre of sight seeing for the citizens.

                  If we look at the overall situation in the country, along with the people's reactions, it pretty much matches with the above title.  So what do we usually do? We look up for a solution. How? By pointing at the local governing body. The local body in turn, slaps it on the central body. And the blame game goes on. So who is it we can really blame? Is it the government, the people or the nature itself?
                  The actual question is,  do we really need to get involved in this blame game? It's just like the situation, we have all experienced in our school days. We usually blamed our failure on the teacher or our parents or all the other things. We hardly realized that the real culprit was inside us.
                 If we see anyone throwing litter, we whisper to each other the person's wrong act but never point it out and when we ourselves are in a hurry, we sometimes do the same mistake subconsciously, we then rethink about it and let it pass on with the casual excuse, "utna to chalta hai!"
 This attitude is what basically needs to be changed. If we think it in that way, then imagine every person thinking about it in the same way and hence the mess.
                  Hum a John Lennon tune of the song "imagine" and the things will fall in the place. if we become careful, about the small petty things happening around us, then the situation will surely change.
                  If we follow the driving safety signs and the norms that our government has finally managed to post on the roadside, instead of making fun of it, then probably you've got it mate! If each person takes care of the garbage disposal in their own house, the amount of garbage that will be reduced on the roadside.  If each person trains the pets'  bowel movements and the waste disposal, then perhaps people will finally breathe some fresh air while walking.  If we clean the roads weekly, then there is no need of the special hurried cleanliness, when the politicians visit the city.
                    This might seem to be a little boring, but if you think about it peacefully and act upon it, then on a large scale, even the tourists may spread the good word.

                       A little thoughtfulness, a teeny tiny try and then lo and behold! The country will be a better place again.  

The Trampled Roots

The most asked question before 'Why did Katappa  kill Bahubali ?'  was ' who gave birth to whom  first- the egg or the chicken?'  Inspite of the confusion, the people have accepted both of them in the respectable  'laziz khaana' category without much dispute. Then why the injustice in the human race, between the gender, when it is more than clear who gave birth to whom. And I hardly think,  that anyone would object to this answer or raise an argument!!

                       

                      The protagonist of the human society, is being crushed underneath, like the root of a tree which lies underground - silent, and bearing all the insults targeted upon it. The hidden talents, which are dying to come out , to explore the world, to breathe freedom are being pushed into the dark shadows,  misconceptualized under the scary robe of protection. The sensitive, beautifully gifted , light filled female souls are robbed off their rights, at one or the other stages of their lives - some before birth,  while some after their deaths. 

                      These lively lanterns, are shown their 'aukaat' or their 'supposed position' at every moments. These ironical moments will leave Shakespeare's McBeth - the greatest ironies, in awe. 

When she was born, half of the crowds rejoiced in merrymaking, while the rest doomed in sorrow, blaming the Goddess  mother herself.

When she was still crawling , they dreamt  of a perfect suitor for her. 

When she was still learning to speak, they tried to suppress her feelings and keep her in control. "what if her words sadden the people? Who will marry her?" they said.

When she aced the exams in school, they tried to discourage her, fearing ,"what if she becomes a lawyer or a doctor"? Then what will happen to their perfect suitor's (probably a school drop out) position or the 'ijjat'

When she came of age, they prohibited her from wearing short skirts and jeans. "What will your future-in-laws think of you?", they said.

When she graduated, they gave her the nightmare of marriage and bearing children. "You will be the caretaker, when your husband starts a family"  they said. 

When she was a mother to two boys, they stopped her from working. " Who will nurture and nourish the children?", they said

When she stood there,   thirsty and hungry, after toiling in the kitchen and doing housechores, they grabbed the food out of her hand. "It's the rule to serve the husbands first. What will your master think?", they said.  

When she was lying on her deathbed, craving for someone to comfort her, they handed her a pen and a paper. "You've done your earthly duties. Now sign here, so that your children can enjoy your earnings of lifelong  hard work without much trouble and struggle", they said.

"You are a Goddess. A life on earth so invaluable that the diamonds will lose their shine and the sun will dim it's brightness, just for a glance of you",  they NEVER said. 

The fidgety midget

A long awaited moment, 

when slips through your mind.

The hand suddenly loses the grip,

of the white silky sand.

Fluttery butterflies,

when crowd your stomach,

you suddenly feel,

like you have had enough.

You can't wait to surpass,

the long paused time.

The wind blows away,

quivering the gold chimes.

The instance which was flashing,

a few minutes ago,

now crashes into the wall,

with a head hitting blow.

The severity of the reverseness,

 is simply overwhelming.

when you think that your mind,

is just calming.

The Twilight Terror

        Dylan Thomas has etched  these  immortal words that raise your hair at the ends.

It's the middle of the night. Your hectic work and your sweating out, the entire day, has failed to reward you, your well deserved dreamless sleep. You lay awake in the bed clutching your favorite cozy blanket, you expect will protect you.
               A tree near the window, has had the same fate as yours and is tweaking it's branches, as it's sleep is entirly nullified, by the hollow ball- eyed owl, rotating it's head to give your sleeplessness, an extra company.

The faceless old man on the road, covered with a smelly thick black rug , you've feared since birth, taps his wooden stick on the ground mercilessly, making your already trembled sleep, now impossible. 

The trees, birds, the people and other things that seemed to be insignificant in the day, haunt you at night, grabbing your heart tightly. Sometimes you wonder" Is the Hitchcock  craziness drowning me for real?". Well, you might find an appropriate answer to it later.

                 When we are presented with unexpected situations - real or imaginary, that tend to shake the very core of our existence, we tend to "flight or fight". It shows the "real mirror" of our vulnerability, the stroke of death or the fear of the unknown. We often react on the spot, to these situations ,than we had forethought of, earlier.

              For instance, sometimes you think, what would you do, if you come home at night to find out to your horror, that the door is ajar. You plan in your mind, that you would alarm your neighbours or call the police or kins before entering. But if this happens in real, you tend to act differently as your conscience tells you to. You may enter inside hurrily , dial or text your dear ones, in the hope that if something goes wrong, someone should know it.  You check the rooms as you rushfully enter the house or close the doors and windows tight and you are ready to fight anyone or anything that comes in your way while imagining the worst in your head. In short, you act in the way you haven't thought or planned before.

                 And after all this, you later realize that this was all, but a game of the neurotransmitter signals fighting in your brain and you laugh at it mockingly. 

" The dreams make you fear,

oh! the reality is almost here.

the agony of the great shadows surpassed,

still makes a tiny insect look aghast. 

but oh Mortal, hold onto the string of your dear,

that makes the evil wear and tear"