Children

Fair as from the froth of the milk, soft as bred in the cocoons of silk,
eyes shining like the  moonless night's stars,  hands swaying to heal the gloomy scars,
a giggle too treacherous to be a treason, a smile to smile back for no reason,
the children are no doubt angels and gods, set out to be the joy's Lords.

Inquisitive are their thinking minds, to find out that which no one minds,
too smart are the words they shoot, too witty as our hearts they loot,
the nature blooms in joy as they come, the moon blushes the breezes hum,
every being knows the life in the lads, their smiles erase memory of all bads.

Sleeping half time to prepare for tomorrow, they even dream not of sorrow,
the other half building a bliss, playing in a world they would soon miss.
They imitate us in every step of life, how we eat to we respect a wife,
children are born to show the proud science, there's much more than nerves and bloodlines.

Puppies and kittens toads and cubs, those in nests and those beneath shrubs,
all are alive to show us why, there is a life that beats the eye. 

Saint

Round about a grave six foot long, a congregation gathered as the sun glided into the mountains. The pleasure nature bore seemed monotonous and the gathering murmured. Alone he stood a little far away, looking deep into the flame and bouncing pebbles on the river. He was missing something, a clear emptiness he felt. It was his father.

He looked back and thought of his father's last wish, that he be burnt and his ashes buried. Yes, his father believed in religion, not one but many. Today he was learning what he meant. He was always teaching to bring the right out of everything. "Be generous like Jesus, cunning like Krishna, let your ordeal be Islamic strict and your idol be virtuous as Rama. " the thoughts stretched and he continued to end the funeral. The gravestone read "a man of numerous beliefs, today his soul relieves, gallant was his logical god, to him magic was a fraud. He rests in peace as the world runs crushed."

The voices dispersed into the dark trees, the coal flamed red and the stars lit the day bright. The crescent moon beamed smiling lighting up the lands. A single oil lamp flickered half way over the hill in the home of the dead. The man let a silent tear that wet the pebble that washed away in the waters.

A man died that day. As Gita would put it, a soul left the body. But none but time knew the ideal is to survive. A few days later came a religion, 'humanism'.

A black day

Pre script: black day is a day, which would repeat every 6 months, the third Mondays of September and March, when the panels all over the world would be launched high above the clouds. The panels, solar indeed, would shadow out the entire earth from dawn to dusk as they charge themselves to run the earth for the next session.

It was the black day. Ismav woke up early as the alarm struck 4 in the afternoon. The day was still pitch black. The weather was cold, perhaps around 330 Kelvin he guessed trying to feel it, for the record shall be nowhere. He was old now, forty years of age weighed onto the sensor initiated crèches. He walked through the corridors and into the balcony, not a pinch of light anywhere to be seen. The metal rumbled along the carbide floor, for the sensors were hibernating, thanks to the black day. He saw into the sky, that emptiness, clouded as it was, by the cluster of solar panels, as it seemed for nothing could be seen.

Black day became a convention every six months, that day when you could do nothing but sleep or cook on fire. His family went out into the local barren garden to cook the human meat, made out of the yeast from belly button. Ismav counted in spending over wax lights and coffee. He burned the wax in its pot, poured coffee from the retention flask, brewed a day ago, and finally sat at his chair. He was waiting for the one news, pondering over how he cast the vote by the new system, the pain his finger suffered as the acid drilled his nail, feeling it over with his other fingers.

The result was finally declared from the citadel in the old mike that hung since a thousand years, over the Nu Red Fort in the city of Nu Dale. "Over a century, we have witnessed the corruption of I Am Admi party, and today, as our new leader Veeraj Gandhi said, 'The nation, in the black hour, when the entire world stales in the dark, our nation rises to freedom and peace.' Indeen National Congers thrones back" a fanatic declared.

Ismav's heart stuttered breathless as he coughed the coriander smoke in astonishment. The country now showed that they believe in Congers over I Am Admi party. Once in history, when the Indeen national Congers were corrupt to the neck and I Am Admi, formerly AAP, rose to power with the slogan "India against corruption." In an open-eyed daydream, he glimpsed over how it fell, how the hierarchy corrupted its roots, and how it split, the righteous members branching out and merging back and how the 'solar space scam' ruined it. He munched the cane slices dipped in coffee with his crumbling teeth and returned back to the bed. He packed himself back in a blanket, clasped his hands onto his chest and wore off his eye cottons. That night he slept tumbling over the foam.

A scotch older than him trickled along his eyes as his corpse was carried away, placed in a bacterial cup to the far off cemetery, when the procession of the Congers' passed by. It had to look like the tear, for fate had destined so. The flesh was eaten up by the yeast-feed and the bones were charred into obese sugar. All left was a soul free, dwelling by the red cloud, to rise above the world of plastered smiles and clustered panels.

Grown up

This story is a sequel of the story of an innocent Kingfisher.

Days and nights passed, Kingfisher fed on the tree for food and water, and the tree was fast asleep one day when Kingfisher woke. Not wasting an instance, it flew out, out of the binding leaves amidst the maze of pecks, long and fast to meet the new world. A bright new world where the sun shone, a quite old forest where generations had grown welcomed her. Every single one stared as it came over the banyan. Looking down he noticed mud, dark fine mud uncovered even by grass. Astonished by such loneliness he looked around to meet eyes with a cuckoo. Later explained the cuckoo that the banyan sucks in all the water making it impossible to live around.

The cuckoo had an enchanting voice and the Kingfisher was blue as sky and red as Apple, beak of a pecker and the flight of a sparrow. Alone it roamed half the time feeding on leaves, far from Eagles and cheetahs, alone with the cuckoo for the jungle was too large for her to be caught. The summer went by and brought cool winds, droplets of rain washing everything green. The cuckoo shivered often and the Kingfisher one day urged to ask, "How old are you?" The cuckoo looked, gaped, stared, all this long enough and spoke, "a few weeks to die." it was kingfishers turn to stare back astonished.

A few days later, a morning in the rain it flew back to the cuckoo's home, after the monkey ran the invitation. The cuckoo cooed and the new one woke. An owl he was. His eyes red, his face ever horrifying and his claws tightly gripping the twig. He looked at the Kingfisher and started to speak, uninvited, "eagle, eagle, high and far, no one knows where you are, up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky." The rhyme sounded more read till the cuckoo sang it again, in a voice trembling low. The Kingfisher watched silently. The owl spoke again, in a more grave tone to the Kingfisher again, "as customs put, the Eagles high, struck again and the last parrot was taken. We tell you this for our dear cuckoo is the next. Parrots are gone. We, more specifically, I, am afraid that the change today is fast and Eagles would soon beat us all out. We wish you, for your flight and might, to resist the change, young one”. The nest was silent for minutes, just the drops ticking.

The rain was over, the nest still dry, the cold wind blew sending a chill up the spine of all. Finally, Kingfisher, in his quick witty tone spoke," change sir, I thought is life. One day, rhymes were a change to teach us life. Today we all know the banyan as a grave. But sir, banyan heals, rhymes mislead. Changes are everywhere sir. If there were a parrot wise and old as you alive, he would wish the Parrots live and Eagles die. He would wish the families are intact. But sir, none should remain the same I feel. Also, on my part, the Eagles sir, I can't touch them. I pardon. Let the change live sir, learn to embrace it. That'll be good and easy. And they, the Eagles, won't eat us all. If they do, as all know, they will have none to eat but leaves and themselves. I believe so sir”. owl eyes wide open, deeply thinking, listened.

Just a picnic

He never smiled though she wished to,  they were framed in a one frame for too.
Together they woke and smiled today, to drive all along the museum's way.
Half excited for the tour since a week,  she for her science and he was too weak.
The Picture tells a story in words nil,  of feelings that did two hearts fill.

In a world of the children's science, these youth felt their love romance,
not a point they didn't know, but never their knowledge did they show,
from waters to stars did they walk, amidst matters and musics did they stalk.
All was a hand holding the spouse, for love out of true hearts arouse.

The darkened sky showed them the true joy, of being one and also one's toy.
Chips and water did they share, amidst fun and mind they still did care.
Drooping is sun and dancing in the brain, letting all the world around drain.
The grass and water none could cheer, in their world but one's own peer.

After a while in the cool and the heat, when they wished for time's frozen feet,
came around hunger came around sweet, holding the hands of one's being complete.
And amidst a fuss of science and stars, their love reached world's beyond the Mars.
After a time long a season, they felt love again enjoying in no reason.

Yes, you, O my fireplace.

Its a cold cold night, you are no where to fight,
the frozen rose has to melt, when your warmth shall be felt,
where did you hide O my fireplace, behind the mantle or beneath the vase
It's a cold cold night O dear, how come are you now not near?

Where are cuckoos that sing,  for the leaves fallen last spring?
Where are the lemons that cool, as I sip them like a ragged fool?
Where are the brewing coffee mugs, that in the rain offer you hugs?
It's winter too cold dear, how come are you now not near?

I have a blanket to wrap me warm, but none to hug and assure no harm.
I have a laptop to watch all day, right at the bed where I stay.
I have a dog to watch me eat, later lick my plate and sometimes my feet.
But I'm lonely and I fear, how come you are now not near?

Is it the death or that sleep, that keeps you away as the time does leap?
Are you lazy or are you busy, or is it an illusion long and dizzy?
A few hours I was sound and well, how into this pit of torment I fell?
How could you sleep O my dear,  when my thoughts are so unclear?

Tell me you dream of you and me,  in a fairytale that is to be.
Tell me you do love and do care,  in your own dream I have a share.
Tell me we are still just us, all this I miss is a misty fuss.
Tell me that love is a hug, and hug me with the same old shrug.

I do love you O my dear, how come are you now not near.

Awarded

I really don't know the content style. Putting it in simple words, I will thank Kusum for her valuable nomination. I don't know about the award and its rules. But whatever it is, it sounds fun, especially the 11 questions. A little of what I read it was and boom....

Liebster Award is given to up and coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers. It’s appreciation from fellow bloggers and your chance to introduce yourself to other awesome bloggers.
If you receive this award, you are expected to:
1. Post 11 facts about yourself
2. Answer the 11 questions the tagger has given you
3. Tag 11 more Bloggers (with no more than 200 followers; no tagging back) and make 11 questions for them
4. Tell the people you tagged that you did.

11 facts about myself:

1. I am a guy who hails from Hyderabad and writes for a pastime.

2. If words run in my arteries, racing is what my veins are for.

3. I am that one guy who would speak about everything and anything without any premeditation.

4. I once read a sonnet in Wikipedia on my nth redirect. I am that one maniac-headed-wordy of Shakespeare since.

5. A Mechanical engineer by profession, a writer by passion, I dream of lovely people to blog with.

6. I believe that sharing the art is more important than being artistic.

7. Taylor Swift, Michael Jackson and every other simple guy makes my day, though Sachin starts it and I end it.

8. An atheist by belief, theist by practice. I believe in temples for peace.

9. Money is important and so are grades for a luxurious life. Passion and care for a joyous one.

10. I hear a thing and I try to do it,.not matter how awkward, no matter how absurd and however odd from my daily beliefs it is.

11. My blog is me, you just need the deepest insight for it, if not the deepest, the one closest to me.

Questions Kusum has put to me:

1. What is the worst punishment you got in school?

A: I never did get one. I was a nerd. Wait, no, I once slapped a friend as a part of the punishment giving ceremony. When we talked about it a few years later, I felt bad

2. Why is your best friend your best friend?

A: My best friend is my best friend because he exactly knows he is.

3. Do you believe in ghosts?

A: Oh yes, I do. They are the ones that keep me from well cuddled in a hostel on a lonely winter night.

4. What do you like the most about yourself?

A: Everything.

5. How happy are you today?

A: Eternally, for this is the first time I got an oppurtunity to go public.

6. What is the best thing you have written so far?

A: The toughest question, I should say Athesse, Writatouille, and A poem's cry.

On the scale of 1(worst) to 10(best):

7. your personality: 8

8. your city :10 for Hyderabad, 9 for Bhopal.

9. the last journey you had: 7. My morning bike ride through the election ridden city.

10. your driving skills: 34857934857 Far par excellent. Helmet. Check. Ready, shall we go?

11. the condition of your room: 6. Medium, for I have seen far worse and been far better.

11 bloggers I recommend:

http://farbeyondskyline.blogspot.in/

http://ecstasyofthoughts.blogspot.com/

http://impressionsobservationsspeculations.blogspot.in/

http://vivek190992.blogspot.in/

http://sindhujagarimella.blogspot.in/

http://myscrappedunderbelly.blogspot.in/

http://mortalsummons.blogspot.in/

http://raajii.blogspot.in/

http://www.wattpad.com/user/RebecaRB

http://askricha.com/

http://theoriginalpoetry.blogspot.in/

My questions:

1.Why blog when you can speak?

2. Is rhyme the essence of poetry?

3. Have you ever felt your heart pain, practically?

4. Why should I not start quizzing you?

5. Why did I mark your name above?

6. If not for social networking, how far would you and I have been?

7. Define an ideal parent.

8. Coffee or wine?

9. After you have entered the college, did you ever run out of ink?

10. What is an ideal birthday gift?

11. If you were Robinson Crusoe, what would you have done?

Longest post I ever typed. Looking forward for you.

Kingfisher

Once upon a time, on a warm spring morning, when the roses were to bloom and life start again, there was a little egg that rolled and tumbled down an old banyan. For it was autumn and the leaves were fallen, the egg landed safely and warmed up for days hidden from every eagle's eye and dog's nose.

A week passed by and the egg started to crack, the little one inside now was ready to see the world. Hard as it was, the egg cracked up and a little kingfisher, half our palm stepped out. It looked around to see big leaves. It started to step aside and the leaf below its feet, drying since days, now creaked. The kingfisher felt like it was falling into an abyss.

It never knew how but its wings flapped into flying. It was like a unique jump onto a next leaf. Fate had it written, this one cracked too. The wings started again and the delighted kingfisher thanked an unknown being. So stumbling and flying, all around the banyan, it roamed till the sun burnt hot right above. An unknown pain started and the beak tried to sniff for green. Thus came a lunch, little gnawed out berries and banyan leaves. The sunlight leaked through the leaves, just like a paint pouring in. The tree was isolated and no cat paw ever reached around since a man's age.

The kingfisher continued to learn to fly and to eat and soon it pecked at the same banyan and made holes in him. He lived in one hole, the one in the trunk, dug deeper for warmth and the autumn slid into summer. The days were long, the hole was hot and waters dried up in the surroundings.

Then she sang to an unknown one,
"As a weakling was I born, out of an egg that was torn.
I did learn to fly and eat, but never did to face the heat,
Where’s the water where's the fruit, is it under the banyan root?
Is it under the banyan root?"

Thus, a frustrated kingfisher pecked the banyan root, ignorant until she heard creaks above. The banyan woke, after ages it could have been, and shook his arms and stretched his roots and stood up to look around. The egg white crushed under the roots and the Kingfisher shivered.

He flew around and finally shot away as the tree started to speak staring at her,"How tiny a kingfisher are you? Last time when I saw, your ancestors were twice as big as you." Terrified she fainted and banyan put her back in the hole and washed it in water sucked from the deepest.

(Should I continue?)

Coffee - A bitter sweet philosophy

A fight of billions of gold,
If it's mine or yours to hold,
Can happen over a cup of coffee.
The arguments of such heat,
Don’t even seem like a feat,
Over a hot brewing coffee.

A group of friends would tease,
Those friendships that never cease,
Can happen over a cup of coffee.
Those chats which shall never end,
Lots to detest but never offend,
Over a hot brewing coffee.

Amongst many mute speeches is a love,
That to which even cupid did bow,
Can happen over a cup of coffee.
The love that costs sacrifice,
Love that blinds the great and wise,
Over a hot brewing coffee.

We can have an endless talk,
On the divorce or the girl to stalk,
Can happen over a cup of coffee.
You and I can have our fantasy,
Wipe our grief or meet our ecstasy,
All over a hot brewing coffee.

A coffee is a mere hot drink,
For some who don't see but blink,
Such a simple thing is coffee.
For the rest like me and you,
We are definitely not a few,
Our everything is coffee.

It's not a life around,
It’s the one in us,
Life of a soul unbound,
Away from our daily fuss,
Any drink is not a coffee,
It’s a bitterly sweet philosophy.

Unorthodox affection

I was a tree big n fat, but I would never move.
A squirrel came by my hat,  and tickled my every groove.
She swung and clung my twig to twig,  and held me by my fruit,
she pulled my leaf and my fig, she knew me deep till root.

I was a tree dull and dark, my leaves do show my gloom.
I have a thick and shameful bark, I lost my live to bloom.
She never knew where she crept, it was the deepest trunk.
And there in my tender she slept, into her own dream she sunk.

My heart was  moist and soft,  that one different night.
She was in her fair aloft, with her bunny and the knight.
The way she moved her paw in me,  scrat off the older bark,
I knew how young I soon to be, my stems were no more dark.

I shed my leaves flowered in azure, I waited for her to wake,
she woke up and smiled at pure, like a heavenly make.
Stepped out and stared back, I stood still and numb,
in her deep eyes I could not crack, my image looked so dumb.

So she stood and tickled again,  jumped my twig and twig,
she didn't wander off in vain, but loved my tangy fig.
I stared still dumb and mute, she danced in a joy,
in me was playing the happy flute, and she was just a toy.

She was dull deep inside, her nature was to jump and slide.
My mute song never could play, in the tune in which her song lay. 

Why do we celebrate a birthday?

To answer this question, I think I would consider it incomplete if I fail to explain how the day is celebrated. A few people like to celebrate it throwing parties to their friends. Another group aims at making this day auspicious by being an ideal citizen that day. A third category would be calmly helping the desolate and find their joy there in. There are many more ways to celebrate a birthday.

Why do we celebrate any day at all? Festivals, national days, international days supporting any cause are a few of these. In each of these cases, the destiny shall be to review a life, a great personality whose remarkably good behavior towards the society and a great tale of life needs to be reminded. It is true, despite a modest answer, that everyone feels that he is the most important part of the world. He is the center of everything that is woven around him. He looks at everything with his own view and thus being the epicenter, manages to become a remarkable character, call hero of the story. He is the prince of his Kingdom of dreams. So, we have a character whose story can be celebrated.

You may question me of one's achievement to be celebrating. As some guy would put it, 'the problem with history is that it cannot be noticed while its happening, and once done, it need not be noticed then.' So, what you see as a plain life today is a roller coaster ride reaching a destination, often high often low. Thus the story of life, or in one's view, the entire puppetry in the world is going on. One's sustenance and well being in this great work is worthy the joy we get celebrating.

The reason to celebrate is clear. Birthday is the celebration of being alive. But why should this day only be a birthday? Why not some day hither thither? Its you, the hero, whose success is being celebrated. There has to be a unique day. The day would have been that of your success, had your story witnessed an end. In case it didn't, the life didn't stop. You still lived. You still survived. This is being celebrated on a day most unique to you, your birthday.

How to celebrate? Its simple. Celebrate in that way which, if penned down and read after a century, would still please your ego, remind you of the joy, and make you smile for being alive then. Happy birthday!!!

One more night, one more.

The rose candle burns, in raging fire quenching it down,
and the heat turns, to a caring hug from a careless frown.

Her cheek turns pink, in a blush of guessing what is to come,
none of them blink, in a romantic note of the silent hum.

Many moments past, all are words but very strange,
with their love to fast, in a rhythmic verse they arrange.

The wax tipped the brim, a flow over of their affection thus,
the flame steady and trim, and the time forgot all the fuss.

All the world apart, and a moon of love amidst countless stars,
Cupid did hit the dart, its bloom blurred all the scars.

Like a rose bud wet, their love was in the elegant night,
it was not dawn yet, but their love bloomed in the candle light.

Juvenile

Ref: Delhi rape case, judgment of 31st August.

Okay, 3 years imprisonment for a 17 year old guy. Let the emphasis be made.

1. Constitution and law, as written and not amended to date, would like to consider an 18 as an adult. This is not the first time we have seen it. Kids of about 15 years age drive bikes today. Every second matriculate has a Facebook account, and more than 40% of phones bought today are by people younger than 18. This is no less than a clear indication that the age of juvenile amateurism has fallen down to less than 18 years. I understand that it is hard to change the law for such a limit, but a 17 year old being brutal should be an exception, “brutality” being the consideration, neither the rape nor the murder.

2. This has not been new to us. We hear of 12th pass-outs being hit by a drunken truck driver. The police rule the case out stating that a minor was driving the vehicle. We see a case of a 16 year old teasing a fellow girl in his school, the police continue stating he was juvenile and action cannot be taken up. Mobs of under-18 protest (recently, citing Telangana issue) and violence follows. The accused are bailed and don’t even afford to stay the night, thanks to their juvenile mindset. So we have a youth who understand everything and even make the best out of their childishness, seemingly.

3. We today, witness a generation where a 20-year old knows hardly anything less than a 50-year old. I refer to knowledge, and not understanding. This acceleration of acquiring knowledge has gone up, high up, thanks to the prevalent globalization. Evidently, I am not against the effects of it. Rather, I would like to make it clear that the generations to come, a child 15 year old may be as brainy as a 30 year old. Hence, the necessity to reduce the age for such a limit has come.

In short, I assume I am able to state a reason why the age of a juvenile limit has to go down. This be made clear, the process is huge, and the consequences inevitable. However, noting this change and training the children of the future accordingly is necessary. It would be delightful if the government studies the fields where the age limit has to be reduced and acts accordingly.

Kidnapped

The street was empty and say dark,

not a chirp in the park nor a dog bark, 

the man trodded quietly to the mark, 

 the door glittered in the old light.

His hands shivered like in the cold, 

his heart thumped in the shirt's fold, 

gripping his wallet in a quivering hold, 

he knocked the door gathering his might.

The gloomy entry pulled him deep, 

world but that guard he thought asleep, 

climbing in courage those steps steep, 

 he strolled to the table dressed in white.

Pulled the pile twice thick a fine deck, 

placed on the table gulping down the neck, 

he smiled desolate thinking of the last peck, 

walked away in haste into the moonless night.

He walked infinitely praying in care, 

to look back he never did dare, 

 reached his gate in the pace of a hare, 

and waited there stretching his sight.

Around the corner came the chuckling tone, 

and then the kid in fear all alone, 

daddy daddy was the voice known, 

the clock atlast ticked again right.

The world of lies seemed to be utopia, 

though not the first hug it was euphoria, 

the house sank back singing of Gloria, 

wealthy no more but rich were they quite.

A pleasant morning

The green leaf shone like an emerald stone,
The rose did frown in her hue alone,
In that world no one would ever see.

The parrots did race to the concealed clown,
The sparrows did graze along the healthy brown,
In that world no one would ever see.

The leaves rustled in silence as if in a spree,

And the crickets chirped in the old woody tree,

In that world no one would would ever be.

The moist petals sagged as the drops did slide,

And the eagles visited the earth in a swift glide.

In that world no one would ever feel.

The turf slipped under the feet as if on a skate,

And the sun dawned, like drawn on a slate,

In that world no one would ever see.

I dreamed of a fine day, in my bed lay,

It was not a bit grey, dullness was nay,

In my world only I could be. 

Bee tale

"B.... Be..... Bee..." My mom was buzzing around as the mud got warmer. I flapped my wings as I realized it was my first day in the university today. I was excited, because many of those senior bees who pass out start tasting the nectar of fresh roses in the mornings. I wanted to be one among them. By the way, I am be...., though I precisely know not how long my name is to be buzzed. I live at five-hive, the most prestigious hive in my locality. My honey digging dad was very proud when he knew I got into the "University of Honeydew" for he knew, in a few years I would be the one passing orders and ruling a thousand like him, choosing flowers for them.

And so, I got admitted and the boring student life started again, but now we were taught of more related matters, of honey and roses, of jasmine and frightening frogs and of those huge men. The classes went on until one day, my camp leader; Mr. Nectarnest assigned me as the night guard of five-hive, as a part of our curriculum. I was happy, but the night was cold. It was a rainy day and as we were well taught,

"One drop of water will hurt,
Twice is as harmful as a drop of dirt,
Let the honey flow away far,
In a rain never stare at the star"

I was carefully making way to the yellow stone when a drop hit my wing. I felt the pain and in search of a dry area, I ended up under a great Yellowstone of the man land. The high school saying ringed in my ears "try a frying pan u may die, but never disturb a man you know why." The tales of the martyr, sir Petalpluck sparked in the sky, and in my mind, and calmness enthralled my nerves as I buzzed around the Yellowstone waiting for the rain to stop. I rested for a few moments only to turn back and gape at the day behind me. Keeping carefully out of reach of those honey suckers I made my way into the stinky room.

The winds circled as I sat on a stone, this was so special and slippery. Unlike as was told, man just didn't build Yellowstone. This stone was blue. I waited calmly expecting to be warmed but this was different. Cold winds encircled along the room and I jumped all along the stone for warmth. I finally saw the light come from a white stone and ran into it. But none was warm like the mud before I go to the class. I calmly paced out as I saw a lizard on the stone. The next morning in the class, I referred of what happened to Mr. Nectarnest and he brushed his whiskers in anger. Lately he explained after I deafened him with my curious questions. I remember what he said still.

"The honeysuckers did it always. It was a way to call us in. No bee, not even the queen bee ever knew why. But bee, what you did was a big mistake. We have seen bees die, buzz in agony after they searched for warmth so. Lucky you should be called. The research wing is still trying to find out why the sun there is not hot. There is a word called light. The light of the sun we see in the morning is warm. Every other isn't they say. These beings have made light so and still kill us and hit us with lightning bats when we try to fight.

 
"Beware bee, beware!!!
Search for the warmth in the mud,
and the honey in the flower bud,
everything else is a fake,
all other is namesake."

My stings shivered as I listened to him hymn it. He continued, "The being started polluting flowers and taking their nectar. We kept quiet. He started firing our hives and destroying them. We didn't fight. He made hives and made us work; we thought he was right until the twenty hives died. Today he makes light and kills us when we go to it. Let's see what he does more" he sounded depressed and resolute. The class was over and I flew back home. Somehow I knew life would never be the same.

I suicide

This day I willingly take my life, into my own hands but with a knife.
Awkward and peculiar as it is, amateur I was at gulping such strife.

I always love sewing these rhymes, letting words dance to the unheard chimes.
I do it again as I fall to my knees, joyous it is when my heart and body mimes.

I have heard a lot about this god's boon, one which was too precious to ruin.
Money is but an ornament they said, but it was the sun that shone in the noon.

Of love was sang the sweetest song, but now I see it was all wrong.
It is a desire of a drunken head, dried in weed and hit with a gong.

A life seems bright in a shining name, so does your pride in a sparkling fame.
Neither of them contented me, but brimmed my empty heart with a shame.

I tried weighing on my parents and friends, but all they bore were the present day trends.
My heart was thus destined to be, tormented by every luxury it lends.

So I end my poem of death, for it looks good but gives no joy.
I end it in a happy breathe, atlast I see I am but a God's toy.

Dream that night

The blue moon bloomed larger than ever, full and bright, radiantly gleaming over the water. The water fluttered calmly to the gentle breeze blowing by, reflecting the moon as if it twinkled and glowed in the deep waters far away from the place. The breeze got cooler and the moon stood steady, as the clouds gathered about the moon, yet not touching as if they knew that today, god blessed the moon to look its prettiest. The white clouds puffed silently setting a royal chair for the moon as he looked over what was to happen.

On such waters, calm and serene, in a far off land was planted teak deep, supporting the teak deck that stood in the waters. The deck was a square, large enough to roam around. A few fish giggled around it as they watched far away, against the moon, two dolphins, jumping and dancing in the shadow, in a romantic rhythm and the fish tried to imitate them about the deck. Above it stood a table, hardly waist high, and not wider than a hand, covered fully in the royal blue velvet down till its feet were not visible. Two chairs stood on either sides of the moon as the moon glazed amongst them right to fall at the feet of a door.

The door stood closed, closing a dark world behind it, full of jealousy and treacherous smiles. On the other side stood this dream, the birds chirped nightly in a distance unknown, and the moon did not dared to move, as if time there was unknown. Calm black shoes bore the weight of him, his ears tweaked waiting for the knock on the door, and his eyes viewed into its emptiness. The rose fragrance he held behind him folding his right hand to his back already romanticized the air as his frown was calmed by the sea breeze.

On the other side, in a world dark, dark as black, stood a girl, knowingly on her heels, clad in a fresh green skirt. The chilled air of the cold hearts blew over her back and her arms driving a chill, a shiver of fear, as she raised her hand half clenched into a fist, to feel and knock. Her skirt below her knees rushed towards the door trying to feel it, and knock it, as if she knew the world on the other side, was just ready to welcome her. The open hair embraced her ears from the false laughter and the darkness secluded her eyes from the mean smiles.

Both waited.

Reading the dread

Fear the fear, and the fear will be fearful forever.

Those moments of silence have always delighted him. It was 2 hours past midnight. The calm clouds were now swiftly moving across a dimly lit sky accompanied by the cool breeze that blew north east. The breeze was quiet, not even whistling as it cornered along the old stone walls. He stood proudly in the corridor feeling the breeze lull his tiresome soul into sleep. Nothing could be heard around, except the dog nails crunching the ground as it passed to reach its own destination. The light was somehow irritating his drooping eyes. And snap! It was a power cut. He got accustomed to this culture, but, this time, somehow, he felt the chill.

The lights were all blown out, and the crescent moon, he first noticed then, was trying to peep through the white clouds, over a sheer translucence. He was thirsty, thanks to the oils and spices of India. The water tap is a furlong away and quenching his thirst would mean walking into the corridor where its walls would engulf it in darkness. It has been only 6 months and yet, he would not be afraid to make his way through it all. He walked. As he came by the long room opening in the corridor to his right, nothing changed. Nothing did change indeed, except for the shiver that struck him. Assuring himself of his knowledge, he trudged.

The tap could not be seen, yet knowing his exact location he moved. He reached there, saying to himself that darkness is no weapon against him. As he turned the tap, the water drops began to trickle and then to flow, striking the steel sink down in a clinking rhythm. He bent down arching his hand and letting the water wash his hand off, and then sipped it. He realized the stillness around him as he heard the water drown into him jumping over his gulps. The world around seemed to get gloomier even as the moon tried to shower his radiance through the clear sky. His thirst died out and he stood and turned back, back into the pitch black darkness.

He then realized his loneliness. He wanted to run, but his worn out slippers seemed a ton heavier. He wanted to scream to light up, but the words would not run in the box. His heart at as peace as it always was, pouring into him the determination to walk, prompted him to walk. So he did back, the corridor echoing with the rustling of leaves. He knew the reason he did not like it, it was dark and darkness in evil. He did not fear it. Mustering the courage, he reached back and was drawing patterns unknown in the sky; making stars his dots on his paint board.

The lights lit again as a satisfactory smile sagged his lips. He learnt his lessons, that people fear the unknown.

Before and after

In the far lost kingdom of the pop, everyone was thirsty and every lake dry.
From an unknown place came a black, singing his tales of hope and love.
To the draught he was the sacred drop, and to see him sing the oldest did try.
For he sang of what we lack, and he moved like I can't say how.
Every time the music struck his back, no eyes blinked like a striking vow.
A lakh day later, shall a man believe,
such a person in matter, on this earth live?

No one spoke of treason, no one of love and royal shame,
none wrote sonnets and plays, like him was none before.
He was born with a reason, and with his words he scored fame,
He did on every feeling glaze, and in penning was he a lore.
His words had their own place and his books their special store.
A lakh day later, shall a man believe,
such a person in matter, on this earth live?

No one ever will trust, and complain I am in dreams,
but I don't wish this history rust, so I write it in the empty reams.

(Disclaimer: Poem theme inspired from the quote - http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/452888-on-the-occasion-of-mahatma-gandhi-s-70th-birthday-generations-to )

Good morning

O dear wake and look to the east look at the nature cooking her feast.
The pitch black clouds foam in the sky, thick and dark yet they fly.
The bright red sun shines till the west; it is no more night to rest.
O dear wake up nature is on; it's a good day and a sweet dawn.

The old royal kettles of the 'lazies' fame stand on the quiet blue flame.
One boils the white milk slow, and one the coffee of the dark glow.
Both mix into warm porcelain mug, embracing each other like a hug.
Thus the coffee brews into air; the heaven invites you up one stair.
O dear wake up and breathe such air, a new day awaits you warm and fair.

The water of that calm night rain has half sunk and half gone to drain.
The lazy cover crushed in your hands, as you dreamt of those fairylands.
The mist is gone and cold breezes too, into the far off wests now they blew.
O dear wake up today is the best; it's time to work not to rest.

The rich, the poor and the beautiful

A warm tub brimming with foam, gives you no joy in a silent home.
A song no one listens as you sing, a phone that seems too lazy to ring,
A dish no one tastes when you cook, and none to dedicate when you write a book,
It's all too boring to live such a life, too sad to have no kids, no wife.

A race you run with no one to cheer, a trophy you won is a metal mere.
A tear to soak your cheek never dries, and when you lose no one cries,
None to smile in a cheerful way, none to wish on a bright white day,
An empty life is a candle that burns, in a dark room where no one runs.

Not a thousand riches buy you a smile, nor they buy a hand to serve,
They don't buy kids to play, but toys that always lifeless lay,
Not a meal is sumptuous if none shares; never are you beautiful if no one stares,
It's all too boring to live such a life, too sad to have no kids, no wife.

Such a life you shall never enjoy to live, none to tease you none to believe.
A mass of servants who run around riches, are none but disguised stealthy witches.
A life in a mansion big yet alone, is the joy's never paid loan.
After all,
An empty life is a candle that burns, in a dark room where no one runs.

Princess's theatre

Been a thousand bad days, yet I wait for one good dawn;
When I would make it through the hard ways, to reach the sweet rose lawn;
Where would wait a prince to be mine, a prince who loves and cares;
On his lips would the sun shine, his life for me he dares.

I walk it today a part of the way, the rest of it too I do today
As in my dreams I do
O prince here I come here I come; U shall take me in your arm in your arm.
O prince our song I hum song I hum, in it I sleep all is calm happy calm.

There is a rosy sponge to sleep, far away in the palace that binds,
It binds me for you make me weep, not being around amidst crooked minds.
I am afraid you shall go forever and ever, away into forests that gulp,
And shall grind you O poetic paper, from beautiful hymns to pulp.

I shed tears and wipe them and walk, long and long inquiring I stalk,
As in my dreams I do
O prince here I come here I come; U shall take me in your arm in your arm.
O prince our song I hum song I hum. In it I sleep all is calm happy calm.

Excelsior 13 - Index review

There are many busy people among us. Someone is busy to watch a cricket match, someone is busy to talk to her friend, someone is busy playing games on the laptop and someone is busy bitching about others. But, in MANIT, many of us are busy (if too offensive, read lazy) to read our own college magazine thoroughly. It would be an insult to not know what is inside it, and to stand with a poker face when a fellow of other college starts speaking about it, as insulting as not knowing the PMCs of MANIT. As I respect your busyness, I give a brief account of what this year's excelsior has got for you. Also, this account is my personal view. I repeat it's my view.

The cover story: How different is MANIT from MACT? How has it changed? It is a brief singular person narration of college itself. Beautifully described at every nook, telling the tale of the college over 6 decades, this narrative is a must read for everyone who is curious about the history of MANIT, and is trying to build a student ego over its prestige. The detailing and the style of narration make us feel as if we are listening to the tale of the oldest, eldest and the mightiest.

The fun zone: The idioms at the start shall soon be found on the walls of the new hostels. I don't see how the editors expect us to visit Indo-China border on tourism though. Bon Vivant takes you on a food ride through Bhopal, better than the frugal foodie of 2012. Every article from here on is equally funny and aims at reflecting the culture of MANIT aimed at letting a MANITian see what he is, and how different he is from any ordinary young lad. The 'tech' articles however seem to be customized by a mechanical engineer and extracted from Wikipedia. 'Are you watching closely' is the peak of such humorous range. The Hindi part is way more vivid and innovatively funny. Harry potter, Madame, and Chichorapanth are the best pieces of this delicacy in that order.

Articles: Anju Katiyar writes the epic. It is a heart touching representative of many others against violence towards women. Anuruddh Tripathi misplaces his paper presentation (fun intended). Nitin Bisht writes unbreakable first year philosophy. Ankita writes the relatively hard theory of relative marking. A classic set of poems from the final years namely Shubham, Aman Gupta, Sonu Kumar, Himanshu Singh and Ankur Shrivastava (the pass-out) make you cry every now and then. Recherché does not stand up to the mark. However, the social responsibility is put to show there. Dave, Shubham, Deepshika and Nishant speak the language of the revolutionary, perhaps the most influential ones too. Surya Bhatt writes the perfect tweet-troll story breaking the patriotic read.

Azad 1 publishes an advertisement, read it not. While 2nd years like Shruti, Ankul and Pooja are busy crying, the fresher dream of a beautiful life and Utopias. Nibha writes of the girly life, and Vishal of the guys. Also are philosophies from Swapnil and Ankul (the cheerful Ankul now). A couple of beautiful perceptions from YashWardhan thrill the monotonous lead otherwise. Hindi was more beautifully crafted and drafted throughout the magazine. Leave aside its purest form in the Editorial board's articles, the writings varied over a universal span, expressing freely, and precisely, the best views of the writers here. Swadesh complains about everyone, yet claiming he won't. Also are Akshay and Arihant busy selling keys to success. After Yash, it’s now Veerendra's turn to sadden you once, and delight it with the sarcasm over valentines. Also are fresher like Prince and Ankit writing their diaries, and a few more.

All is well here in sports. Rivalries to superstitions, studying interests to creating them, and cricket. More of the Pg3 gossip of sports and not including CS 1.6 in 'sports' section are disappointing. Sir now stands as the first man outside MANIT who has an entire page on his name in the dearest and the most awaited prominent magazine, Excelsior. TPO seems to be working on other options already. Understanding that past is history and the future is a mystery is made clear through its pages, and a hidden warning of the drastic increase of to-be-unplaced is delivered.

Miscellaneous: The messages of the authorities can be skipped. They are monotonous and they wish us and EB joy in everything. Director's message is as dispersed as his words would be, and the description of the societies and the events has always been the same. 'Hyperbolic.' I dare not comment on the awards, and have not anything to comment about the photos. Ed-iots is only for those who know these idiots who waste more than 8% of the magazine print, in boasting about their own work. The artwork however stands out and is appreciable. Go through its colorful pages again and you will surely find a couple of wallpapers in it.

I would like to heartily thank the editorial board team for the hard work they put in, and for striving day and night just to make our college proud. Also, I wish they come up with a better English editor the next time, proofread it themselves once, and bind it harder. Thank you.

Gimme a dusk

Like a kid playing with his toy, such was the magnitude of my joy.
Like the sun of a winter dawn's warm, such appalling was your mystic charm.

To be with you is a boon, for it makes me smile a crescent moon.
And to ask you to be by, I feel sky ranging shy.

I try to dare to ask you out, your misunderstanding yet make me doubt.
All I tell you O my childish friend, with you my time I want to spend.

Listen to me O listen to me, joyous is my heart if with me you be.

What young India wants

What young India wants? Not a ‘revolution 2020’. Young India is bored of politics. Young India wants to read how ‘one night at a call center’ would be. Young India is more interested in listening to a ‘five point someone’ who has willingly committed ‘three mistakes of his life’ by boiling his autobiography in the soup of imagination and smearing it with salt and pepper till it’s completely hot. Yes, he is Chetan Bhagat, the author who has lived only in ‘2 states’ for 30 years and has sold more copies than their entire population would buy. Why him? Well, many so called intellectuals around me, in various situations were found criticizing him, for the cheap text he sells full of vulgarity.

Graduating from India's top class institutions, this renowned author has dramatically snatched the Indian book market of teen fiction from the authors of ‘twilight’ and sci-fi of the west. With a deep insight of what the country is, how it behaves and reacts, and how its youth feel and think, he has pulled all the sensitive strings an Indian would otherwise fear to touch, with utmost ease. His business principles are nevertheless simple. Write what your reader wants to read and he will ask you to write more. Placing that aside, this Indian Sidney Sheldon is everyday found writing columns his target audience shall never care to read in newspapers his target audience shall never care to pay a penny for. He is well known by every convent schooled Indian teen, and is very much admired for his simple language, rather bilingual dialect, low priced small books, which one such teen would read at a stretch in a boring Indian train journey, where he shall much more be entertained by the fancies of this guy than watching, learning and observing from the variety of people around him. Thanks to the Indian system of schooling.

Back to our dear author, he can be appreciated for writing of creating a zero corruption utopia, a secularist country where a guy and a girl fall in love and marry despite from being cultures far apart as Madras and Delhi, and a college where the student shall be evaluated by his talent and nothing else. Yes, this guy fantasizes too much. Nevertheless, his appraisal shall not be complete without his recognition for pulling the best minds of India into the hobby/profession of reading English novels. His columns though often trolled by the ‘great’ journal writers, often remind young Indians that there is a page termed editorial in the newspaper too. However, he shall be taunted by a few of the intellects, for his usage of sexual fantasies and irregular story plots, for his biased single person male oriented writing style and for degrading the average quality of English fiction in the Indian bookstore. No doubt he was pointed during the anti-rape protests and education oriented discussions for his provoking works and untrue educational success stories, also thanks to his speeches at the centers of learning about a better nation.

I would like to remind the brainy people around that he has been an inspiration to a ton of budding writers around; he has laid the building stones of English reading in this younger generation very firmly, and shall be solely credited for all his work. I don't support him completely, because I shall never forget the deterioration of the language nor the quality of text a teenager shall be expected to read with the moderately high IQ he possesses. Above all, before you point a finger at him, remember you too were excited, dragged into and floated through his imagination someday, pondering over your chances to enjoy such a life, though later did you repent wasting a few of your precious hours which otherwise would have gone into sleeping, costing you the wisdom of knowing what young India wants, because when you read what he writes, I am pretty sure you will surely realize what young India wants.

Love story

Like the stars on a gloomy cloudy night, her eyes did twinkle bright.
The warmth of a winter morning's sunlight, to abide in her breath did fight.
Did the breezes by her hair glide, to let not those splendid tender ears hide.
Did the elephants and horses abort their ride, as she in her white gown did stride.

Rose petals snuggled below the thorns in shy, as her lips smiled pink like the spring dawn's sky.
Far far away did those pigeons fly, as the peace in her heart they could not buy.
Tender jasmines of honey went draught, as for her sweetness the air sought.
The nightingales and the cuckoos fought, for that sweet voice was her's they never thought.

Feathers all over summited over being soft to feel, for born of her hands none did ever reveal.
Once long ago a pirate of creepers failed to steal, her slim waist's theft of the unsigned deal.
Lucky was the grass that went under her feet, light to bore and soft to meet.
The sunflowers and rabbits bowed to greet, for that lady of charm was so sweet to treat.

Kind was she that when her fingers would tip, the hardest thorns shall try to slip.
Addictive was she to kiss with one's lip, more than a hot brewing coffee sip.
Naughty by word and cute when speechless, blushes did blush they had to confess.
To embrace her lucky was her white dress, to abide by her heart was born tenderness.

Lucky shall i be, to write about her beauty, luckier shall i be, if to praise her was my daily duty.
Lucky shall be he who gets to wear her the ring, for his life shall all forth fairytales sing.
God i shall praise you for giving her to me, and for a few days making her and me to be we.
Love i love you when she loves to share you with me, for more do i love her that any can see.

Dreams we live in

I walked into my classroom, clad in a sky blue shirt and a navy blue trouser, my tie tightened to my neck, lunch basket in my hand, and a package of books on my back. It was like any other day except that a terrifying guilt crept and grew deep inside me. I was dull. I knew I had to do the homework, yet I didn't. Miss Shruti, my 7th class science teacher is well known for her knocking knuckles punishment of the steel ruler. I shivered more. Lately came that hour, and so did the teacher. In a few minutes, she was standing in front of me, I handed the empty book to her standing as sweat drenched my socks. I did it. The teacher stood gazing bizarre and a commotion replaced the utter silence. I did disappear. The next moment, I was in my bed. My dad was trying to wake me and he did shake me off the sleep. I woke to see the incomplete notes still on my table, pages fluttering and so were my thoughts. The justice league john effect it was. I was dreaming of having such a superpower to disappear. The dream was special. I dreamed of being technically sound as batman, fast as flash, wearing a ring where light shall take the form I wish and do work for me. Yes, justice league was my dream.

My early teens it was. Running from everywhere I would return to my hall to watch Indian batting. There he walks in. He is a guy not so tall, with a little childish smile, chasing his dreams, hitting the ball everywhere. Then I dream of learning cricket, playing it being the 'tiny master.' This life is simple easy and interesting. He has got lots of money and fame and a loving wife too. I would play cricket all the time, it would be fun. I will take this. Somewhere I hear Spiderman say, "With great power comes great responsibility." justice league fades out of my mind as a career choice given the responsibility that accompanies the power I get. I realize my dreams were a bit too embarrassing and oriented towards my own advantage. I shall call myself selfish then. I won't be selfish.

I watch Disney princes living the life the way they want, always having a beautiful princess to hold their hand at the end. The life would be full of adventures, forests and magic, evil witches and talking animals. The life as a Disney prince would be fun. And the story would end happily always. Later on, after my youth passes, I would pen down my entire story and live the rest of my life playing with my children and their children too. To be another Tendulkar is not easy. I would have to practice a lot. I would have to overcome all the team politics, I would have to smile at the critic, perform well every day, and dedicate my entire life to the game. No, it needs lot of passion and dedication. I am not that strong nor hawk eyed.

A few years later, I learn of war and bombs. I wish the place I live gets bombed barren and I alone survive, with food for the rest of my life alive, and so does that one friend whose company makes the rest of the world seem meaningless. I wish to go on a long jeep drive forever through the desert and the forest and be at peace on white sandy beaches and baskets of peaches. It is much better than running across unknown ways every day in the search of a princess or a golden treasure. The Disney prince's job ends with his marriage. Later let the princess become the jealous ugly queen, or eat too much royal food and become the fat lady, no one cares. The life shall be plain and I will have subjects to look after. It will be more of a headache. No, I don't want it.

I cross 18 someday. I shall be officially licensed to drive. I dream to sit behind the wheels of a 63 AMG or 6 series convertible and race through the life, thrilled by the speed and savoring the driving pleasure dashing amidst cars. But what of a world where no one lives? I call it a day dream and move on further, for without a fellow human being, I am a lonely one and I hate being it. So, I decide that I should be a part of the society.

Today, despite a thousand such dreams, I realize what I always dreamed of. It was of a life of not being mine. I dreamed with eyes wide open, nerves passing currents every moment, my senses at work. Yes I day dreamed. And sooner or later I always realized that this life is the best, despite all the complexities it puts to display. Sharing my love, chasing my passion, serving my fellows, I shall do all that my destiny directs me to, for that journey is my life. It defines me. It shall write my story and that shall be the best literature I will ever read, inside my mind, turning through the pages of memories, because this life is the most awesome thing that can ever happen to me. Your dreams may be different, so may be your thoughts, your destinies and your lives. Yet we love our own history than any other fairy tale.

Fear

When born, a child fears fire and strangers. In childhood we fear parents and socializing. A teenager fears rash driving. In youth, the fear of future exists. Fear of kids being attracted to malpractices in 30's and of their future in 40's, fear of death in the later age, is not uncommon. From going to toilet through the dark corridor after 9 when you're 9, to reconsidering the fat in your body after fifty, fear becomes a habit in the long way. Embedded deep down to each of your nerve, this feeling of being afraid, snatches your life and leaves you a completely different creature from what you would have been without that intuition. Fear lies deep down in your heart. Dormant, weaving webs like a spider, hiding deep below in it forever, blanketed by the web, to cover her from the light of reason that might illuminate and maybe, burn her to ashes. Thus fear evades reason. Fear avoids reason. Many people around you are afraid of cobwebs. And why? Well, no one knows why.

Fear has friends, guilt being its best friend. Others include ignorance, shy, experience, and tales and myths. The fear of parents keeps the child in control. The fear of being hurt keeps a puppy away. The fear of war helps maintain peace. The fear of future generations controls pollution. The fear of god keeps the devil in you suppressed. Fear thus is used, by every superior over its inferior counterpart. Thus fear helps the world run the way it today is. The fear of failure overpowers the inventor. The fear of being rejected takes over every proposal of love to opposite gender. The fear of losing pulls the nerve of player who on the verge of a loss. Thus fear often prevents you from bringing out the best in you. So does it do good and bad for the humankind.

Fear is the weapon of a monarch. Fear is the strength of every power. The day a man succeeds his internal war, lets his determination wins over fear, will be miraculous for him. That day shall his true from be shown. The fear of being noticed often binds you to be limited to being a social animal. The fear of speaking to public buries your opinions in your own mind. Overcome such fear and you shall sense the victory. The fear of unknown, the fear because of ignorance limits the reactions of a man to the vast universe. If you fear something, learn about it. Wisdom is fear's chief enemy. Once you are wise and know every consequence of doing what you fear, it shall be gone. That one fear shall be left in you which shall truly be called fear. That fear that has no reason that fear that shall rule every sense of yours, is the 'FEAR'.

Everyone has it and it is nothing inferior. The one who overcomes this unknown fear shall live past the normal life. Notice that every superhero today is one who could rule it. Every great mind executes war over fear, pushing it to the farthest ranges, where from it shall be unable to influence one's work. Using your fear as a strength makes you a better person. Letting your fear be your worst enemy helps it engulf you. Thus fear plays a vital role in one's life.

My life

Far away unreachable and dormant, lies a heart whose absence does torment.
For you are the only one who shall care, my joys and pains you shall share.
I do share feelings as you do, for a lone world of us two,
calm and composed we yet enjoy, for you and me are but sheer joy.

A lucky day it needs to be with her, we talk too less to call her a sister.
Yet in sighs we speak it all we need, a friend in need is a friend indeed.
Call for help and care and you know, she's always there never saying a no.
Sweet and cute and adorable and all, and ask me about her the list is too tall.

You do know it's about you, my only friend who knows me all true.
I preach to you i speak to you, i listen to you i understand you.
Been there times when you heard me taunt, never count for your joy is all i want.
Be there you in this life of mine, nothing shall be dull the whole world fine.

Half the time to be with, half the time to show our wit.
Half the time to sing our song, half the time to dance along.
Half the way to argue and fight, half the way to make it light.
Half you and half me make, the table full of twice the stake.

You four mould me into who am i, evil a little and a speck of shy.
With you four i can say my heart aloud, for however stupid, i shall ever be loved.  

Embracing after an end

Days many and many since we last talked, held our hands and in silence walked.
Yet the distance is unanimously dwarfed, for at once, over all the pain you laughed.
Deeper was my mind's pit to bury my love, for my heart lazily recited not our vow.
And today you come back again my dear, for you speak and all the haze did clear.

Far as cut even to breeze were you and I, but were tied by the invisible care.
It was an ego storm that blinded sun in the sky, but to shine, the sun didn't spare.
The skies cleared as finally the gloomy hearts rained in compassionate tears.
The hearts twined as their embraces taught them of the future's real fears.

Like upon the water swims the rose petal, so softly will your fingers touch mine.
Like off thy nail's pluck sings the thin metal, so will that touch pass shivers in my spine.
Like as the creepers dance in twirl and lock, so will our hands hold together today.
Like as the anchored ships in a stormy dock, to every wind of deep emotion do they sway.

One's eyes admiring others in looks calm, and speaking all those words deep buried in hearts,
Dancing on fingers are their palms, and an affectionate ritual of love starts.
Care and love rains in the music of breathe, as words hustle in the silent night.
Mourning in the smiles of anger and tears' death, they loved forever till sun and moon might.

Every finger is special

Count by one and show your thumb, without that you are almost numb.
To help every other of your team, shall make all of you in unison gleam.
Count by two and point to a mark, for the destiny is light in the dark.
So work for it all day and night, with all your mind and all your might.

Count by three in the long middle one, a leader is strong if battle's won.
Lead your mates through perils and pits, and care for none of those who not fits.
Count by four and wear the ring, for every victory you work you do sing.
Appraise and applaud that friend or fiend, for because of him its a happy end.

Count by five and the little stick,  wavy and free, small and quick.
But what is a hold incomplete, every sailor in place make the fleet.
Holding them all is the palm, seeming useless, jobless and calm,
deep inside it holds them all, for without such support, the five will fall.

So needs to be the ones who do, one to do and one for what to,
one to fill spirit and help the main, one to praise and pay the pain.
One to support every other, one to tell the other is a brother.
Thus fingers five in a hand, divided they fall united they stand.

ధనదాహము

పరువు పరువు అని బరువు మోసి,
 బరువు బరువు అని పరుగు తీసి,
పరుగు పరుగున కలుగు చేరి,
కలుగు కలుగుని కలుగ కోరి,
కలను కళను మాయ చేసి,
మాయ మర్మము తులము క్రోసి ,
తులము తులము కొండ కాగ,
కొండ కోనలో కులము రేగ,
కులము కులము వేరు కాదని,
వేరు వేరుగ ధనము రాదని,
ధనము ధనము సర్వమేనని,
సర్వ సహితము సర్పమేనని,

పెద్దవాడిని నేను నేనని విర్రవీగి,
పేదవాడు మనిషి కాదని బుర్రతూగి,
మనీ మత్తులో మానవత్వము,
మానమేమో మౌన గానము,
ధనము మత్తులో మాయలోకము,
మాయ మొత్తము.  మరణం వేగము.

Azure

~Right to write.

Of the awesome heroes of great fantasies, of the thorny rose of a fool's ecstasies,
Of a point when the world kicked to a start, or of the shores where sea and land part,
Of parents teachers and friends, of polity and our present day trends,
About any being can we write, for you and me we have that right.

Of the dreams that never come true, of the streams playing where you grew,
Of those air bags with a fist of chips, of those cool rags dancing in flips,
Of the sultry sun on a summer noon, of the spring breezes under a full moon,
About any memory can we write, for you and me we have that right.

Of the rustling leaves in nights of fear, of the trickling tears at the loss of dear,
Love from the deepest trench of a heart, or a treacherous story of a one-liner’s smart,
Of the buzzing flies in a chilling night, of those yelling lies with ignorant might,
About any feeling can we write, for you and me we have that right.

Of your will to express what you think, of your skill to impress at pouring ink,
Of your inability to speak to the crowd, of your fear to shout things aloud,
Of your claim over your paper and pen, and so also over what is being written,
About any writing can we write, for you and me we have that right.

Illuminating thoughts

In the deepest trenches in the mind, those depths of dark you won't find,

Erupts a volcanic thought in the blink of eye, you'll know what but never why.

Waters of logic try to drench and eat, such flames of thought of a creative treat,

But it burns the waters to fumes white, and reaches out the world after an unseen fight.

Breezes try to beat the fire; the thoughts almost vanish in the modern mire,

Forests bred of orthodox waters try to put off; a dry husk of better thought shall not laugh.

The husk blazes long after a sunset and in the green burns a red carpet,

The thought walks over deep to the lake, and hurdles it too like a walk over cake.

The holy waters and the dark forests submit, and soon a part of the world shall be lit,

The light of such rendezvous minds shall ignite, lightening the world more every night.

And soon shall the mankind glow, brighter and brighter as the storms blow,

Letting us be better and wise, earning or saving a little of the price.

Ignited in such minds are thoughts, that those think deep in the unknown dark,

Rising against a ton downing plots, they cry out to the world hark.

The waters shall be calm again, for they gain back the fumes after rain,

And the mankind shall enjoy the gain; no such thought shall go in vain.

One more night

Days did I starve for care, days did I just stand and stare.
Days did I wait for one like you, days with hope to start it new.
Days did I fear of breaking the deal, days did I cry when you didn't feel.
All I need is one more night, to say my pain and cry my plight.

Days did I wish not to stop the talk, days did I wish never to end the walk,
days did I plan to tease you more, days to see you joyous than ever before,
days did I try to own your love, days to fight like we do now,
All I need is one more night, to talk a fight and hug you tight.

Days did we enjoy what we are, days did we wish not to be afar,
days in silent tears muted wishes, days in loosing fears sharing dishes,
days to say how we need each other, days to say you are all my bother,
All I need is one more night, to dance with you in the full moonlight.

Days I prefer you over all the world, days I wish I gift you a ring of gold,
days I see our fingers in love hold, days our stories like tales you told,
days I wish you know my heart, days I try foolish to be the smart,
All I need is one more night, for ours is not love at first sight.

Old is gold- the end

(Continued from... http://forlorntears.blogspot.in/2013/02/old-is-gold.html )

A serene calmness took the room over. Nikhil hovered silently in the room, hands folded behind, continuously staring at them, she and his brother, shifting his glances from one to other. Seated in the opposite couch, lying her head on the sofa, she stared upward in hopelessness, tears brimming in her eyes as she spoke, "what had happened that day after he left?" she asked. "You know it," he spoke in a stern voice. After a long break, he started, "I was here speaking to him. I was explaining him how inconvenient would a couple feel, how should he choose to live instead, and I passed him his tablet. I talked to him for an hour more and then I left." Nikhil still stared in wonder, yet in doubt. He could see tears flowing to her ears silently. And then she broke down crashing her hand to her heart. "I killed him." she muttered. Amazed, her spouse stopped roaming and stood looking confused. Yet fury and desperation came over him. “I should not have left him between you both. One who would taunt him for spending every penny of his, and the other who has eyed the miserable man's generous will. I will never know now" more tears drew over her cheeks as she spoke. "Yet I did" she at last let the pain pass over lying her back to the couch again.

Silently came in a bee flying, too odd in the higher apartment of a polluted beauty of the oldest cultures, and moved hither and thither till it settled on a red spread over a white supposedly leather. They both glanced at each other and at the lady calmly as she opened it with a bunch of papers, fingerprints all over them, half blue and half blood red, and wrapped in them a multi-tool safety nail cutter, stained in blood too. She sobbed endlessly in the quite hall.

Old is gold

The door silently opened. The room was pitching dark. Groping for the switch, her fingers grazed along the wall until they met the switchboard. She turned on a switch, at which the fan creaked starting to turn slowly and she put it off. She turned the next switch on and the tube flickered as it lit the room. News-lines paced along the TV screen mutely, as she walked in towards the sofa. There lied her father; one hand clutching the foam beneath, the other hanging freely towards the table. A glass of water stood still there and his eyes were closed as his face directed to the TV She was horrified, closed her ears as if to scream, but sooner realized that voice was too low to shrill, and she panicked until she had fallen herself to the wall and glided down thrusting her head into her knees. She cried.

The white cotton veil was held tight as the priest sighed to the other side. "Nikhil" his mother called him, and he sounded stunned, as if woken from sleep, startled as he stretched his legs. He peeped over the veil, and their eyes met again. Much like the first time in the training class, they still blushed in their marriage even after a score of months.A fortnight later, they moved into this old flat in the thirteenth floor of the apartment. High above the busy secretariat road, with a view of half the skyline of the city ahead, and leaking taps and clinging lime frames, her home was just one among a million of such nests.

After both of them left to the office on a boring weekday, all her father would do is sit on the couch, and crouch towards the newspaper reading it through the magnifier.  Seldom did he talk. He used to eat his food and sit in the corner of the sofa watching the television or newspaper, or sleeping half seated, or listening to the office stories of his daughter. Everything was normal till today. And today, he is dead. She sobbed endlessly as her husband tried to pat her back and make her comforted.

Blood still dripped in large collecting drops slowly onto the floor mat which was no more being cared. The ambulance, funeral van, and the luxurious cars of a few relation-caring friends and relatives came over as the funeral went on.

"You are not letting me be romantic. He is seeing us forever. That can't stop us." "We spend on him more than his entire pension" "all that land near the airport shall belong to your younger brother"; she heard the voice in her quite ears as she sobbed.

"Nikhil" she called him in a tone over tuned by emotions. He turned back to see his wife hardly controlling herself. He ran back to her and she led him into a room. As the door closed, she asserted "you killed my father." "Yes. You see it. I've asked you a thousand times to keep him away. Our privacy, our money, our time, everything he snatched off from us. Yet no, I didn't kill him. I scolded him. I taunted him. As soon as in the morning you left, we had a fight over words. He panicked and tensed as he called your brother home. I left in fury then. Yet I knew, deep inside my heart, deep inside his eyes, he will die today."

(To be continued...)

Marriage of the ends

The sun set the brown warm, the sky was clear and blue.
In every garden and every farm, the leaves bloomed anew.
The clouds drifted slow and calm, but never the gloom grew.
The wind gathered strength in storm, as the night drew.

The silent winds sang the lull, as the stems swayed.
Not a heart was left dull, as they bowed and prayed.
The scent of mud in the rain, blessed the air divine.
All the music went in vain, as the trees did whine.

Drop by drop in queues askew, came the waters from the white.
The buds danced in the dew, enjoying the joyous night.
The hearts drenched in joy and love, of those who had a sight.
Free and high like a dove, they flew in the starlight.

Thus did the cool rain of spring, marry the warm dark day.
The bells of rustling leaves did ring, in the gong of concrete hay.
Adding life to cold old air, a rain did come and go.
Into heavens scattered yet fair, did go the friend and foe.

Unparalleled love

On a sunny morning day, the sky was clear blue.
In gardens did roses sway,and leaves danced in sheer dew.
A guy walked on the grass, kind and strong and handsome.
Her eyes gleamed like glass, to waken the roses did she hum.

Time stopped as it knew it must, and in silence were words heard,
For long years of care and trust, their love needed no word.
As his dark eyes looked at her, deep and sharp like a dart,
So they guessed made they were, in a forge of craft and art,

She felt around a building bliss, as none but he seemed near,
And in a vow did they kiss, to the bells did sea and sky hear.
The lightened roses bloomed to know, that they shall never part.
They said to father 'yes' and to fear 'no', a new married life did start.

Then it happened again, in a moment in a parallel universe,
that marriage of love rain, without either hymn or verse.
Neither of them knew that, nor would have you or me,
if not in Sir Einstein's hut, was a mind bold and free.

CONCEPT: VIVEK

Happy days

We stand weary on aching legs in hopeless queues,
we sit drooping in ageing classes with blurring views.
We walk lonely in endless wilds with confusing clues;
we spend our nights in lulling music of mild old blues.

Amidst the stone walls, i shall no more be a crook.
Until the final calls, I shall never touch my book.
At tall and short and everyone round, i lent my searching look.
Ere chewing water and drinking food, i was no this great cook.

Late nights seem bright day, and to see dawn is a sin.
Bed gaps are broad way, and broad ways are dustbin.
We engineer out of misery, and revolt when in the class.
We date in the library, and read our books in the grass.

It is but our second home, except when it's storming.
It is too big place to roam, for a walk on Sunday morning,
I came here to live and learn, I did do learn how to live.
I made friends to have fun, and in them I ever believe.

A'loan'

Everyone in the world dies; I alone live, in health and joy.

Everything is where it lies, I am a kid, and all worlds are my toy.

I alone clean my room, with a cloth and a broom.

I alone cook my food, on a stove of brick and wood.

I alone have all the money and gold, but it is no more than sand to hold.

What is a home made of, without you parents, my mood is off.

I alone by the lake have a walk, all beauty to stare on which my eyes lock.

I alone savor a chocolate cake, all nuts to taste perfect at bake.

I alone play my Taiko and synth, all sounds right and my feet set to sync.

What is a party made of, without you my friends, my mood is off.

I alone have a couple of rings, and a tree with two empty swings.

I alone have a phone to text, and a roadster with an empty seat next.

I alone have long lovely stories to read, with a teddy to hug and a lap you need.

What is a day made of, without you my wife my day is off.

I alone on a cold dawn, comes the warm sun to my roses' lawn.

I alone witness the tiring dusk, sitting playing in the dried husk.

I alone on a rainy night, drench in silence no one to hug tight.

What is a moment made of, I am alone my mood is off.

A life is made of people, and things are the tools to craft people into the best.

I alone am too feeble, if I love things and use people, for without joy is no fest.