About Me....... a Picture...Imperfect...

Standing in front of mirror, I just gazed.
A figure so hazy around, I was completely dazed.
The paint so lost, the paper in shreds;
but still shinning golden frame.
I scratched my head & strolled for long
in my forgotten memory lanes.
I knew him damn! I know him yeah,
but can't recollect the name.
Do you know him; tell if you know me,
Come & bring me out of this puzzling pain.

I checked my eyes, have I lost my sight,
Turned back and saw lovely prizes won in life.

All over the wall, I saw the pictures of my friends,
The splendid years of life, with whom I had spend.
These wonderful pictures which I placed in costly frames,
They had faces that I can't remember, Oh! What a piteous shame.

These were the pictures of trust; they smiled at my every joke.
My broken dreams they shared, crying my tears as their own.
How easily but I let them go & was forced to live forlorn.
But that time thought, “Hey! On Earth wasn't I born alone?”
This mirror man! Wasn’t he companion of my fate?
See the irony now; I have messed up even his name.

I saw again the mirror; saw through the labyrinth of eyes,
They looked as mine, but damn! No higher the curtain rise.

Alas! So lost was I, in making my golden frame,
To place my picture in best, I bore so much pain.
The frame was gained & was prettiest of all,
But the person in my picture, how was he called?

So if about the man in mirror you have any lead,
Come and please tell the noun about me!!!!

The Rose and the Nightingale....

It was a sweet summer, with shining raindrops,

The streets were Barren, without any mobs;

In this season of love,came upon a nightingale;

In a garden lavishly holding,drops on flowers like spangle.

The Nightingale came flying, from far off lands,

Had traveled through mountains,rivers and sands;

The bird felt tired, so rested on a tree,

Sang a melodious song, which spell bounded everybody;

Every leaf applauded the song, as did every flower,

The praise inspired her and she sang with all her power.

In the midst of these there was a white rose,

That it was prettiest of all, everybody supposed;

The nightingale opened its eyes after the song,

And saw the white rose among the throng;

In the first sight the cupid struck.

The nightingale saw the beauty dumbstruck.

The love bitten Nightingale, went to the rose,

Holding true love in her heart,to him she proposed;

The Rose in his pride and arrogance,

Did not heed to the bird’s plight;

Instead told the bird that he’ll love her,

When from the dull white he will become reddish bright.

She looked to the rose with the tearful eyes,

And with a smile surmounting painful sigh

Embraced the flower hurriedly,

tearing her body with the spikes & winning the bet,

As everyone saw the blood oozing out of nightingale's body,

that had made the flower red.

The rose saw the pure & unselfish affection of the bird,

and cried like he has gone mad,

As the bird has filled his heart with love,

but in front of him, on ground, she lay dead.

Every passing day, the rose cried of this woeful crime,

And never let anybody touch him in all his life time;

This is just not a heart wrenching story,

but an eternal love tale

Of the white rose and his beloved,

The Nightingale.

A Stroll to Perdition

It started with a whimper;
And that fake wicked simper.
He took the pouch in his hand;
With the other one the pouch was rent.
The nodding head then called me close.
“Common mate, you too have a dose.
Oh! Its nostrum of every disease;
Remedy for all your unattained needs.”
I looked up with suspicious stare.
They shouted, “He is a kid! He just can not dare.”
I saw them putting powder into the sticks;
They puffed the vague smoke from burning lips.
The ephemeral circles lost shape approaching the roof.
Against my soul, my desires plotted hideous coup.
I picked up the stick, throwing the remaining trifle sedition.
And from there on I started on this long walk to perdition.

The cold syringe dived into the hot cadaver.
The tranquility numbed my innocence for ever.
The somatic pleasure but also lasted for brief;
For the lungs huffed up the repartee of grief.
The parasitic ecstasy though was now deeply entrenched;
For the elixir of life became synonymous to this nefarious stench.
Ah! The malediction masticated my holy creed.
My pocket shrank, unable to feed my malignant needs.
I wandered with bane in the lanes of trepidation;
Ah! Still I continued my stroll to perdition.
**************

Then a solemn lane burnt with twilight.
I saw the cure that can bring me out of my plight.
The lady was walking with unsteady steps;
Her purse was hidden securely under the drapes.
I searched again my trousers; found a gun and just a penny.
My heart thumped the chest, nudging me for the felony.
I thought it easy to threaten her with the gun.
But against my favor the dice of fate was already spun.
“Hurry on lady!” shivered my voice;
“Either part with money or life, your choice.”
Her shriek panicked the weakened hand.
And the trigger moved to begin the perennial repent.
As she falls down, the twilight turned cerise;
And I realized, for too long Satan had my sanity on lease.
My soul now carries the bruises of my morbid deeds.
Ah! This crawl to perdition; will it ever cease?

DRENCHED

Numb fingers and wrinkling skin;
Soaking in water for too long it seems.

The drops run over from back of ear;
From the lids they slither akin tear;

The bullets shoot on the limbs;
To endow with sopping up hinds;

I am wet; and the winds pierce sans pain;
Skin wriggles beneath the shroud of rain;

I lower the face and take the shots;
The hidden memory reverts to the knots.

And we were there under that sudden burst;
But our faces are dim; Reminiscence with rust;

Shuddering under the winds we laughed;
I was soaking but had you in my arms.

So much rain but we never got quenched;
And now these drops got me drenched.

The memory again blurs;
Shadows creep up in memory whirls;

But your shimmering voice, it still rings;
To my memory your smile still clings.

But everything else is blurred;
A grey hue to everything colored.

Back here; with thrashing rain I align;
Withered under the pour; I wait for sun to shine.

CLAMOUR

Nobody listens; they play the music loud;
Everybody holds an issue; everyone in the crowd.
So they shout; aloud.

Nudging the shoulders to find their way out;
Swamp of faces draped with piles of redundant doubts.
And they shout; aloud

The passage blocked; no hermitage of own;
The mob tightens close then why we feel alone?
Confused! I frown.

The clamor; the shout; I know where it hides.
It is buried deep down inside.
And I wait for the last;
When the noise will blast;

Then I will pick my squandered self;
For this clamor overrides the cry for help.

Addicted!!!!!

"You should again write something", he said to me enjoying his Death by chocolate. This is a regular stuff. We spur each other to perform , in my case just to get inspired back to write something. That’s true, I crave for inspiration. That’s the problem it doesn’t generate spontaneously. I have to search it. But its harsh for I am such a lackadaisical fellow. If given a choice I will just lay down on a sand beach, doing nothing. But the added responsibility of being successful in the WORLD wakes me up, force me up to dress up and do the basic. Who added this responsibility? Its not a external factor, but Something inside me. We are bundles of Personalities, tied together along with heels and fitted as spokes in this cliched "wheel of life". So, one of that spoke lay me down and another spurs to perform the hallowed duty of being successful. These two surely must be fitted at extremities.

But don't have the notion that I am some sort of recluse. In fact I have the same burning desire of success and fame as you all, or may be a quantum more.But just I couldn't’t decide what success is?

Darn! This is the same phase during most of my writings when I completely loose the plot. So, how I started? Yeah! I was on the advise to write.It was very noble of him to say so, even after reading what I write.I have no work so I thought for my past that how and why I started writing the shitty bits. And why I like writing..Every thing has a cause. I am a great believer in causality. But just have not understood it completely.

I realized writing has been like an addiction, after every few days the dose is required even when you know the drug is not performing but hampering you.. But looking back,one thing I found quite interesting. I never wanted to become a writer, not once. May be few months back when I ventured into short stories I thought( mostly due to encouragement of my brother and sister in law) for once to give a try but then few instances after that dragged me back to my burrow. To the point I felt writing as meaningless. It was serving no purpose and my other routes of success(my professional life) was severely affected. And then I realized I never wanted to become a writer, all I want to become was a storyteller, a Raconteur.

I started writing poems in my economics class in eleventh at the age 16, in Hindi. I even remember the month. It was august. When I started I took it as a joke, like the one I wrote in sixth class, some sort of parody of a rap song of bollywood which were quite famous those days. That was childhood but the poem in that economics class gave me a sense that I have things to tell. At that time I discovered classic Hindi poetry of Maithli, Dinkar, Jayshankar Prasad and many more and along with them were bollywood lyrics, old ones…Gulzar, Sahir, Kaifi…and may whose lyricists I don’t know.. I was wooed into poetry.And then I went crazy, writing everywhere and anytime I can, not parodies but proper Hindi poems .On the back of my physics notes on English reader book, everywhere. Some I wrote were good. One of the poems, was quite well received and truly it was fascinating. But then I went through a plateau and Board examinations arrived. The poetry seemed futile for truly then also I never wanted to be a poet. I wanted to tell stories. All the times they were running on my mind. I wanted to live so many lives. And the realization that I had only one life to do that forced me into making these plots and then thought to make them into motion pictures. Writing stories dont occur for i realized some chunks in my armour. But I had some wonderful plots......of what I want to do at different moments at that time........

To be a doctor fighting his own fears and helping his patient to recuperate. A fighter pilot fallen into a desert and finding his way back.A stylish detective untangling the webs around him. An audacious coast guard helping his friends to fight mysterious prehistoric reptiles. A person who stood along his professional values as an assassin as his only friend leaves him to save his Love's father(a curropt politician) being killed by the friend. A cop fighting his past fears of accidentally killing a child and then coming out of the trauma to help a woman save her child from the Mobsters. And the dream project that I thought/dream would set benchmarks, "REVOLUTIONARY" about a person who changed the world, about how he got transformed from being a frightened kid to revolutionary changing the face of the world,understanding what went through his mind during the change….how the values were built for which he fought and lived.

There were many plots, everything I heard, everything I saw , I just converted into something that I fancied. And I rejoiced, truly. And then I decide I want to tell these stories to the world. The only problem was I was pathetic in grammar and my word power was equivalent to Bhutan's military power. There was no scope for me to proceed. But then I thought, direction doesn’t need words. What important is how I see, so I decided I should be a Director.A new prob surfaced after sometime I had seen dreams a lot, now it was time to execute and I don’t know anything how to? The plot was okay but plot is only 1%; actually its nothing. With the rest part I just get stuck, anything I thought felt mediocre. But I have lived so long with those feelings of feeling a direction shot in every scene I saw that I have fallen in love with the idea of being a Director.I started by having a lot of plots to tell and that’s why decided to be a director and ended up with a hankering for being a director with paucity of stories. Everything concieved now is felt naive and mediocre. I wanted to run....without learning how to run.

But I continued writing poetry. They were simple, any nice word that I learnt, I used and anything I felt beautiful I described. And for once I thought I should write what others like.... but its not my way..... sorry I can't. So again I write in my way, as I have always did.......I never participated in any contest...for I thought these poems are only for me.... but this blog thing was good....atleast to make a collection.

That's one of the reason I started this blog.

Secondly, I just wanted to express. I always have loved it...to say what I feel. People have always loved me initially and then discarded me as only a dreamer and it hurt sometimes to be unable to make the people understand what you mean....in reality. That's why this blog.... just a medium to hoot out whatever I churn.

So, I will write because I dont have control. I won't say I enjoy it too much but it gives me a kick. You are right Mister, I should write and I will. You just enjoy your Death by chocolate.

Cheers.

HARBINGER

It was a herd; they were driven daft.
The traces of the gone were the holy landmarks.

The plastered road was followed;
The sepulcher was considered hallowed.

Blindfolded; they felt only the shoulder in front;
The scurrying journey was only thing they ever learnt.

They shouted loud about the solace;
This journey in life was their Pilgrimage.

It was dark; but they thought it’s the only scene;
Anything conceived colored was a dream in a dream.

But, HE felt an itch and as he touched his eye;
Found a thick cloth tied that had made them blind.

He untied and the vibrant colors rain;
Every step was genesis of thousand lanes.

But for ages, THEY had followed the same route;
“For Solace; It is our pilgrimage”, they hoot.

He was elated to find the TRUTH;
Tried to make them believe in any way he could

The holy queue was now dismantled;
By this Blasphemy the clan was rattled.

He was brandished as a pariah atheist.
Thrown away from the queue, his holy journey ceased.

He looked around and chose his own path;
He made roads; faltered but then learnt new arts.

At last he made his mausoleum;
And then rested in his divine realm;

And then as time passed;
THEY found HIS path.

It was plastered and new.
And from the cult originated another queue;

HIS vault became THEIR sacred aim;
For solace; their pilgrimage; now they claim.