Tuesday, March 26, 2019

Clarity

It's about being clear dude! You ought to have some clarity and blah blah blah!

Am I blabbering again? and about what?

You and I could go on and on and on on this endless prattle; this "shall be your destiny" changes to "this is what you are destined to be"to "donno what the destiny wants"

Clarity! Yes! clarity! is something that ironically isn’t clear. You rise and shine and then rinse and shy away (If that makes any sense and if it does we shall have a separate blog on this one). Why? if you are not clear, you will be laughed at incessantly and by whom? By a moron for whom clarity is not what it looks like.

So what does it actually look like? Does it even exist?

Let’s chuck the moron out of picture and be the moron ourselves. Can we see the right thing, something that’s not concealed? Do we ever get to get to the point, point which is “done and dusted” and which does not need to be worked upon? Can we get over those intricacies that make our stomachs gurgle, sting and at times burn?

I have had enough beating around the bush because by the time I will figure my way out, I would still have to start with ground zero and then guess what? I would yet again be laughed at and frankly speaking I am not in a mood to head that way...at least not today (may be some other day😊)

Sunday, March 24, 2019

Straightening thy stance

If you can’t put down anything sensible, let your senses do their thing and then at least put something downIt’s like getting in the groove, trying to warm those frozen tidbits that one tantalized you, that once made you move, immaterial of whether you were wrong or right, lose or tight (whatever that means). Chuck the format, walk your way because you know that there are some out there who will have a gait that the world drools over, you, my friend, are probably just trying to doodle your steps on an unknown floor like a toddler and a toddler's inception is never judged, it’s rather applauded

Sunday, May 13, 2018

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY

Every single day belongs to you and every single day is incomplete without you


I’m incomplete without you . . . . . .  


It’s not just this day that I choose to admire you, for me every single day and every single moment is about loving you like mad knowingly or unknowingly.


For me every single moment is about looking around for you even for the smallest breath I take even though I might not just say it every now and then.


Believe me, however much you might take care of me, I’ll still yearn for your care even more because that’s exactly where I feel warm and safe, it’s as if that’s the elixir that keeps me alive.


If it’s about being grateful to you for all that you have done for me, believe I shall be doing that till the sands of time vanish away and even beyond.


If it’s about celebrating the fact that you are my mom, believe me, I have been doing that ever since I was born.  

PS: I love you mum and happy mother's day 😘

Sunday, April 29, 2018

Should I speak my mind?


Should I speak my mind?



Should I speak my mind?


I speak when I speak; I speak sometimes about the unspoken. The question is when do I speak? I don’t know when but when I do, I have this uncanny ability to speak at length. Yeah! People find it unsettling when I speak so to speak. I know though I am not so sure if I am making sense but hey! I deserve the right to speak just like any other existing soul. For if I am stopped, for if I am warned, for if I am jolted and told not to at every instance, isn’t that unfair but yeah! who am I to say that. From what I perceive from the receiving end, I seem to have snatched what I believe has been snatched from me. I intend to stay good and after all, that’s exactly what counts to stay in the good books, of whom? I don’t know. What I know for the fact is that I  just can’t seem to fall down in my own eyes, I love my senses, I love what seems at times impertinent and senseless to others. I don’t mind saying sorry if you will, if that suffices your ‘ego’, if that puts in a delusionally high state of life. God bless you! 

#speakyourmind

Saturday, April 7, 2018

THE SWORD

The moment I squeezed my eyes, I sensed you. Yes! You were very much there. You probably were chained behind the translucence of my imagination where I could feel your sharpness. Unless you came absolutely close and sat behind my closed eyelids. Penetrating them, you sat on the nib of my pen and you didn’t surface until I scribbled you down a several hundred times and then I won you over and your sheen shone through my smile.


Monday, April 2, 2018

Cauldron


Cauldron, a utensil that takes you out of your urban kitchen, keeps your other puny little urban utensils at the bay and brings you amidst in the open. Its vibe is not what you get out of a normal kitchen or its utensils. 

Cooking in a cauldron was not just another inadvertent mundane chore. Whether you talk about the earthly realm or another, cauldrons have concocted elixirs, potions, magical tonics and possibly godly ambrosia in the not so distant past. 

It wasn’t just a normal utensil, isn’t it? It had this uncanny ability of ‘summoning up’. It was so captivatingly dominating that anything that is stirred inside it, anything for that matter, eventually delivered brilliance, both in terms of taste and power. It was this taste of so many ingredients where each ingredient had its own character, its personality and its own taste. 

In this contemporary era ‘cauldron’ seems to be losing its identity. In the not so distant past, whether evil or good, its motive was pure. Now, it’s no more a reservoir and even if it is, it’s a reservoir of sorts that summons up or at least tries to summon up, that tries to squeeze and bring about the best that each of these ingredients has. The final taste lies in the hands of the stirrer, not someone who would stir these ingredients to their best but someone who can possibly manipulate these ingredients, no matter if the ingredients want to be cooked or not.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

HEIRLOOM

It had been a long time since Jaidev had left writing. Back in the day, Jaidev was a magician with words. He would gather emotions from within and without, stir them in the vessel of his heart, making sure that even his mind followed. That was his intense love for words. Sometimes, he loved them like a lover, at other times like a friend, and on certain instances, even like a parent. He loved them, completely.

Jaidev would take situations, instances, conversations or anything for that matter and with the dexterity of a weaver, arrange them into a coherent narrative. He would then narrate everything to Parke', his fountain pen. The slenderness of the body and the shine and sharpness of the nib titillated the deep-rooted writer in him. He would never need a reason to write, his only impetus, words, and of course, his trusted Parke’. He and Parke’ had developed genuine camaraderie, a bond, eternal. Parke’ would stay with him in his pocket, the next best thing to being in his heart, and travelled with him everywhere he went. Once, when Jaidev was going to meet his lady-love for the first time, his heart skipped a beat and Parke’ promptly remarked, like a seasoned doctor, “dude, you need to take it easy”.


Such was Jaidev’s admiration for Parke’, that he wouldn’t let him write on just any old paper. Even the sheets Parke’ would write on, were perfect. What he and Parke’ wrote on, was a blank white paper that was crisp, whose edges were neat and sharp and not a single crease could be found. Parke’ reciprocated his friend’s efforts and every time Jaidev swirled, his nib swirled in alliance and etched the most beautiful handwriting.
He had a developed an uncanny habit of brushing his hands gently through each word and line, however big they were. He would smile and cry whenever he went past a particular word or line, that portrayed a particular emotion and what he narrated next to his listeners formed a masterpiece, a beautiful story indeed. His stories were grasping and his tone in unison made his stories sound as if things were happening in front of a person’s eyes. He had even become the star of every gathering or event, no matter the occasion, big or small.


The ‘writing’ thing for him was so personal that he couldn’t care less for peoples’ opinions. However, even before he would present his writing in front of others, he made sure that he was being listened to, attentively, such was his presence. He would sometimes share a little build up before a performance, teasing them with the most delicate starter, creating a furor amongst the audience.


As he got older and as he fell in love, his work gained depth. And it was something that reached his beloved. He pampered his beloved with the caressingly silken touch of his ballads.
Alas, as he aged and raised a family, the words found it hard to emerge from his mind and through his revered pen, that now shivered in his arthritic hands. The situation came to such a pass that he was forced to put down his pen!


This would have been his return to the ring of words. For a moment, they challenged him and he thought that he would have to have a dual with them…..
Now, in the present, today, the white paper that he aimed to pour his words onto was just as white, as blank as his mind.  It had become intensely tough, situations were stinging as if each poked a zillion of venomous needles in his body. Hell, there was a lot that he wanted to pour out, just so that he could cleanse himself of the filth that he had carried within for almost a decade and a half.

Parke’ lay aloof and dejected next to him on his table. The pain was excruciating but he did not give up. He turned slowly but steadily, every bone crackling. The harder he tried, the bigger the jolt of pain.  How he wished he had the swiftness of his heydays, the exuberance of his lost youth. Days when he’d jump and pick Parke’ and roll park through every finger back and forth. Just as he wished he’d get it back, a 20 something-year-old lad appeared out of nowhere. He took his pen, gave it a nice look and rolled it effortlessly in his fingers back and forth. Not just that, he even twirled it from side to side.

Jaidev knew he had a successor. In a bleak voice, he said “don’t let it fall Jayant”
“Don’t you worry grandpa; it’s in my safe hands”
“There were few lines that I had written”
“Go ahead son, I’m all ears”
“here you go…” Jayant took a neat blank page out from a folder.
Until the words rise and shine
Where they come from, you shall not know
Writhing with restlessness in silence
They just wish to have a go
I indeed penned ‘em down with all my might,
Carefully putting what they felt
They travelled from a page to you
And hell did they make your heart melt.

Jaidev narrowed his eyes and emitted a smile,  gestured to Jayant to hand him the paper. The poem was handwritten beautifully. Moreover, the page was crisp, white and did not have a single crease. He reiterated that long lost process of brushing his fingers through the page, through every line.
Jaidev was taken to the time when he was Jayant's age and had written similar words. Still looking at the page like a scroll, he asked “whose heart did you melt?”
 “Granny’s I guess” Jayant candidly replied as if trying to dodge the question
“Did you?”               
“She said nice try! But your grandpa did that long back”
“Oh yeah! Of course” said grandpa raising his head in pride
“But she said, she loved me more” Jayant giggled.
“Naughty boy, I don’t mind”
Jayant hugged his grandpa and said “she’ll be here this evening”

PS: Thanks Kartik Sir for helping my story get a better form and helping me sharpen my story writing. I indeed got to learn a lot from you at TOSS.

Clarity

It's about being clear dude! You ought to have some clarity and blah blah blah! Am I blabbering again? and about what? You and I co...