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.