How I Wonder

If Only You Could See

2011-04-01T16:11:00.001+05:30

Failing to recognize

Those eyes that once did

Sharp and piercing

Where has the glow disappeared?

I want to know

Travel the path beyond

To the understanding

That is well hidden beneath

The veils, the walls

And they won't let me

Because they don't see

Perhaps they never will

Unless a miracle

Can remove the blinding darkness

The deafening silence

Drives me crazy

I live to see you

See me

No matter if you wish not to look

At me

All will be good

If only you could see

I want to

Travel the path beyond

To the understanding

If only you could see

Hear me

Listen to my cries

Hear the world

Listen to the wailing baby

Hear my pleas

Listen to the grace

That never ceased to be

But,

If only you could see,

Dear...

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2011

P.S.: Yes, I am alive! :-) Life has been crazy the past six to eight months. And when I thought I should write again I had lost my touch and whatever charm I had. Finally, I thought I should start ground up and here's one from the random images in my mind.

Crossover

2010-08-11T22:36:00.001+05:30

Das stared outside the windshield of his car parked in the dark, engulfing night. The car, which he had recklessly gunned down the highway a few minutes earlier like he did not care if he survived the ride, was now sitting silently at, almost, the edge of the road. The headlights turned off. The hazard lights had no work tonight. He couldn’t or wouldn’t care much less. He had decided that the darkness of the night should swallow him. On second thought, he would allow the night to swallow him. After all, he couldn’t decide for others. The dark, moonless night in which he stranded himself did not leave any demarcation between earth and sky.

Total blackness. Pitch black.

No earth.

No sky.

No breeze.

No Light.

The air he breathed smelled of imminent doom.

He frantically searched his pockets for a cigarette. He needed to smoke. He badly needed to smoke. The stick of tobacco was his only source of warmth. It was his only solace. The stub never refused to touch his lips. The smoke never refused to caress his insides and produce the warmth of a faithful partner. Indeed, a faithful partner it was. But, it wasn’t there for him today. He threw his hands up in the air, “Of all, not you!”

Things were never the way he wanted them to be. This moment was no exception to what was written in his destiny.

The encompassing darkness revealed nothing. Yet, he knew where he was. He had stopped at that exact location; the point on the map where he intended to be before he stepped into his car; his hearse. He flashed the headlights; just to reassure himself that he did things right, that destiny was so kind as to allow things to be his way for once. The sign board on the left shone brightly as the beam of light flashed on them clearly indicating he was at a location one hundred and fifty kilometers from another location he once recognized, or rather painfully wished he could forget, as his hometown.

Absent-mindedly, he flashed the headlights again. To the right, a milestone buried in the ground served as a placeholder for a location yet to be painted on it. It looked like a sheet of a blank paper on which his sentence was yet to be written. Or perhaps, the sentence was hidden from him, written on the other side of the paper. He smiled sarcastically.

Disappointment.

More disappointment.

He banged his fist against the hood hard. The thud might have been heard for quite a distance. He heard a rustle nearby. He must have scared a stray dog. Or perhaps, it was a mongoose. The darkness wouldn’t reveal anything. It was as secretive as his partner. The real partner, in flesh, who betrayed him for another man. Her excuse? “You are too busy at work.” But, he heard it as, “I can’t wait for you to become rich.”

He had allowed the alcohol to take away his soul the previous night. He willed it to turn him into an animal. But, the beverage simply burnt him from inside. It made him more helpless. It made him weaker. It made him restless. It decided for him. It decided, “You are done here.” It gave him pleasant dreams throughout the night of life after life.

Morning was dull. He had consulted his watch. It was five in the evening! It wasn’t morning at all! For a moment he thought the Sun sympathized with him. But, no! The Sun was just doing its business. It was done burning the day. It did not wait for him to awake. He wished if the Sun could incinerate him. It couldn’t care about a certain Das who wouldn’t see the daylight tomorrow. Nothing would go his way. He thought, as he looked longingly at the empty bottle of whiskey, “Perhaps, I am really done here.”

She had changed. He could feel it since couple of months. She was crazy about shopping for new shoes. He offered to take her to the best shopping mall in town and help her shop for shoes. He expected her to be excited. But, she wanted to stay at home. Then, he saw two new pairs of shoes. They weren’t any he had seen before. She wouldn’t shop without him. He asked, but… She wouldn’t justify. And, he knew.

No late night shows.

No dinner.

No romance.

And finally, his greatest fear materialized itself. She agreed that she was no more interested in him. Couple of months; he had known no one other than her and his restless mind. All obligations were forgotten. He sensed he was no one’s favorite at work. He sensed he was going to lose his job. He sensed he was going to lose his girl. He sensed he was going to lose everything. He sensed doom. Last night was simply inevitable for all that he had sensed.

He flicked the right indicator on. It blinked restlessly, illuminating a municipality caution planted on the other side of the road. The board spoke to him.

CAUTION: Flyover under construction. No thoroughfare.

Usually, there would be construction lights indicating night-shift laborers at work. Today, the darkness engulfed the flyover. It was as if the coast was clear for him to pass. For a long time now, things were starting to work in his favor. Was he to be ecstatic about it?

This was it.

His purpose to be in this world was never written.

He turned on the ignition and revved up the engine. The roar of the engine was the last manly thing he would ever hear. He switched the headlights on and flipped the high beams on. He took a steep right, broke through the scanty barricade and entered the flyover.

Life had no value. The barricades had no purpose.

The long inter-city flyover would be remembered forever for a reason he was going to write tonight. The night shall be remembered as the darkest night. He expected to be airborne at any moment. He accelerated further. The impact had to be fatal and he was going to make this go his way, and that he was determined to do.

One minute.

Two minutes.

And then, he heard a crash. It sounded familiar, but he didn’t care. The pleasant dreams of the previous night illuminated his thoughts and drew a whole new visage of life in front of his eyes. A ray of hope!

“WHAT?!”

“Am I dead?”

“No, I am not.”

“Did I not fly?”

“What was the crash?”

The street lights on the flyover flickered on. Das stepped out of his car and walked towards the broken pieces of barricade. The sight before Das left him speechless. The grand flyover stood stretched across miles.

“It is…”

“It is…”

“It is FULLY CONSTRUCTED!”

Alas! Nothing would ever go his way, he thought as he kicked a broken piece of barricade. Nothing! He cried hard. He roared; a roar that could be heard miles into his soul and that shall reverberate for all eternity.

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

P.S.: I have been away from my blog for a long time now. As much as I had liked to write something new and keep it updated, I just couldn't tear myself away from some professional and personal obligations. I must apologize to all my readers for this unannounced hiatus. One happy moment for me is that How I Wonder has completed one year. Thanks to all my readers who have helped me grow with it.

I do...

2010-05-27T22:06:00.003+05:30

Cheering us on the morn of our day
Beautiful flowers in full blossom;
Enchanting melodies of two hearts
The song-birds sing in rhythm

Walking along the flowery aisle
Lead by butterflies, vibrant and handsome;
Loved ones bestow choicest blessings
With smiles, hopeful and winsome

As we hold hands and embrace
For ever One we become,
With love we shall live glorious times
That span the morning raga to the nocturne

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

P.S.: This poem is to celebrate the wedding of my brother-in-law 'M' and his wife-to-be 'N', who has become a good friend already. They enter the wedlock on 2nd of June. Please join me in wishing the lovelies M & N a great married life together and for ever. :-)

"Chutukugalu" -- #1

2010-05-17T14:45:00.003+05:30

(BoP: Biker on Pulsar, where Pulsar is a motorbike :: AB: Another Biker)

Mathematical Inclination:

BoP (to pillion-rider): You know I am a Mathematics major. I top scored in all my maths exams. I also received a gold medal from my University for excellence in Maths.

AB (staring at him and laughing uncontrollably)

Pillion-rider (worried, angry): Excuse me, mister. Something funny?

AB: Yes, everything is funny! I think this gentleman must have actually sucked in mathematics!

BoP (offended): Sorry?!

AB: The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.

BoP (sarcastically): Thanks for the tip. I did not know that!

AB (trying to maintain a straight face): I thought so, because from the point since you crossed the signal and upto this one here you changed lanes only a thousand times!

BoP (open-mouthed): ...

*********

(GT1: Glib Talker 1 :: GT2: Glib Talker 2 :: NSRT: Not-so-refined talker)

Glib:

NSRT: So... I heard your social responsibility team visited the mentally retarded children last weekend?

GT1 (hurt): First of all, you need to show the children some respect and be gentle with the words you choose. Retarded is a bad word. You must call them mentally challenged.

NSRT (rolling eyes): Sorry! How was the interaction with the mentally ret... err... challenged children?

GT1: It was so-so. We don't really understand what they say. So it was a nightmare trying to interact with them!

NSRT (smiling inwardly, and talking to self): So much for challenging the retarded, and being socially responsible and gentle!

GT1: What happened? Why are you smiling?

NSRT (realizing he was really smiling; trying to needle GT1): Oh nothing. When will you visit the handicapped?

GT1 (offended): Man! You need a lesson or two on being gentle and refined. They are not handicapped, they are physically challenged.

GT2 (doubly-offended): I think you also need to learn to be gentle. They aren't physically challenged, they are differently abled.

NSRT (feeling pukish, angry and frustrated blurts out): Intercourse with you both!

GT1, GT2 (confused and taken aback): What?!

NSRT (walking away): I just learnt to be gentle!

*********

(Twenty20 is a form of Cricket where each side gets to play 20 overs each)

Perspective "Life" -- Twenty20:

Wife (feeling sadistically happy at her husband's misery): I am so sorry you cannot watch the Twenty20 Cricket World Cup because you have to sleep early.

Husband (without missing a beat): No, you don't have to be darling. I experience Twenty20 everyday!

Wife (confused and suspicious): Let me guess. You watch the game on YouTube?

Husband (smirking): Oh! No. I play Twenty20 everyday.

Wife: What? Uh... Huh...

Husband (winking): 20 kilometres in the morning and 20 kilometres in the evening!

*********

('Witty' is the word, I know, but Vitty is the wittiness of Vittal ;-))

Vitty:

Now, this is a corner you wouldn't want to "try out"!

(Image: I got this image in a shopping complex in my hometown of Mangalore)

*********

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

P.S.: Chutukugalu is a word in my regional language - Kannada. Chutukugalu are light-hearted, small stories often humorous and sarcastic in nature, but with a message as well. It is my intention to do more such posts, perhaps one such post every month. Let me know how you liked this edition. :-)

I wish for a day with you

2010-05-09T16:21:00.003+05:30

Today is Mother's Day
I wish I could feel your grace
Today is Mother's Day
I wish I am blessed with your embrace

Couple of years since you are gone
But you are still with me
Always alive in my heart
Your visage in my mind I see

Today is Mother's Day
I wish I could see you
Today is Mother's Day
I wish I could touch you

I miss your resounding laughter
That lightened up my life everyday
I miss your reprimanding voice
That never failed to show me the right way

Today is Mother's Day
I wish I could see your gentle smile
Today is Mother's Day
I wish I could sleep on your lap awhile

The day we took you to the abode of healing
You and me knew all was wrong
I still prayed to God for a ray of hope
And wished that he made all days very long

Today is Mother's Day
If only you could return this day
Today is Mother's Day
I wish I could tell you all I could never say

It was hard to endure the pain
But you braved it, strong and tough
It got too much in the end and you gave up
To his will, that was heartless and rough

Today is Mother's Day
I know you are at peace high above
Today is Mother's Day
I feel you close, as you send me all your love

Today is Mother's Day
Oh Lord, please grant me a single wish
Today is Mother's Day
Send me my mother back for a day that I can long cherish

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

P.S.:
-- I wrote this poem assuming the role of a young boy who has lost his mother to cancer. The boy is real and the mother who passed away is also very real. Though what I have written here may not resemble what the boy feels, this is my honest attempt at what he may wish on Mother's Day based on the images of a day he used to spend with his mother when she was alive and healthy.
-- I had to live away from my mother for close to a year and a half as I had to move away from my hometown in search of good career prospects. After that I brought her with me to where I was, as my life felt incomplete without her. It is such a pleasure and privilege to have her in my life and to live with her. I wish her great happiness and I wish to give her happiness.
-- To all the mothers of the world, Happy Mother's Day. I wish you all a lovely life along with your children, because you deserve it. :-)

Reflection in the Glass

2010-04-30T17:09:00.001+05:30

Looking through the glass
I see my unclear reflection
Half visible
Half torn apart
Where has the whole disappeared?
And what is left of me?

Where am I?
What am I?
I see him speaking to me
Through the glass
Is he real?
Can I touch him?

Pretending to care
He opens his arms
Like a Saint
Like my messiah
A beaming smile
The glistening eyes

I reach out for myself
Only to find the cold surface
My heart plunges
Down an abyss
The chill grasps
And my mind goes numb

Yet I see him there
Hiding in the glass
It strikes me, I know the truth
That I can see through him
Yes, I can see through him
In the reflection that is not me

I move away from the surface
I see him fade
Deep into the coldness
Until it is all clear
What I see is a beautiful sight
The light passes right through

What I see is a beautiful sight
And, the light passes right through

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

-- Original Image: Preethi Prabhu, Kaleidoscope

-- Edited Image: Me! :-)

My Car and Old People or the Children?

2010-04-23T19:17:00.002+05:30

THUD!

“Hey hey, throw the ball to the wicketkeeper.”

“Run out chance.”

“Fast…”

I switch off the ignition on my motorbike. I remove my helmet and bang it on the fuel tank. The boy on the left is as tall as I am, but I know for a fact he is much younger than me. May be a good ten years younger, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. I clench my teeth and arch my brows. Though my eyes look fierce, I am sure they haven’t turned red. I support the motorbike on the side stand and get off in one sweeping movement, swiveling around on my heels, landing face to face with the boy.

“Hey! Another time that ball hits my car; you will face my wrath.”

“What?!”

“What?”

“Have you seen me hitting the ball? Did I do it? Don’t talk nonsense, if you haven’t seen anything.”

“You insolent scoundrel, how dare you talk to me like that!” I pause and continue yelling, “I was here and that damn ball landed on the hood of my car… right in front of my eyes.”

“May be… but I did not do it.”

“You bunch of good for nothing slum-dwellers. All of you were playing here and it doesn’t matter who hit the ball. Each and every one of you is responsible. And, don’t you dare talk so irreverently with me.” Now, my body shakes furiously. The anger gets uncontrollable.

My mother comes out onto the balcony to see the unfolding drama. Just a while ago, the boy’s mother was sitting on the doorsteps of her shabby house. Now, seeing me threatening her son, she walks down towards me. Her expression is resolute.

“What do you think you are doing? Why are you threatening my son?”

“Do I need to explain the situation again? Haven’t you seen what just happened or are you blind? What do you propose you would do if my car gets damaged?”

“What has happened to your car?” She stresses on the word “your” as if she knows the car is not completely mine. It definitely has a loan that I need to repay! She continues in a calm demeanor, “Has anything happened?”

“Well well! You are anxiously waiting for something to happen, I suppose?”

“I asked you if anything has happened. If not, I don’t think there is any need for you to be angry.”

“You don’t get it, do you? Here is a no-brainer for you to understand. When the ball falls on the hood of the car, it receives a dent. The car is made of metal and not stone. And, repairing a dent requires money which I frankly think you aren’t capable of paying.”

That was a good one. It came out perfectly. I can see the expression of pain on her face. The insult perfectly placed. That should shut her up for good.

“I have told these useless kids not play cricket in this lane. There are vehicles here that could get damaged. People who walk here could get hurt. The window panes of our houses could be shattered. And again, I don’t think you will be able to pay for the damages.”

“Nothing has happened now, right? What do you propose these children must do? Do you expect us to ask kids to stay at home the whole day during their holidays?”

“Here is another no-brainer for you. There is something called a playground where you can safely play a game of cricket without hurting anyone and without being abused for playing. Does that make any sense to you?”

“My son here told me they were going to play only for some time here and they would play in the playground when the Sun is a bit mild.”

“What sort of bull-crap logic is that? It is 10 o’clock in the morning, and you will not see a milder Sun until late afternoon. So you mean the ‘some time’ means until 4 in the evening?”

I again manage to overpower her. I am quite good at this.

The sunlight gets shrouded by a light cloud cover. The skies are as angry as I am. But why did they have to do it just when I said there cannot be a milder Sun until evening? Now I can’t smirk at her!

Two other women, who are mothers of two other children in the mob, came by this woman’s side while I was talking.

Now, she is not even able to look me in the eye. Having nothing to say, she directs her next speech towards the dirty boys.

“You rascals must be quite proud of yourselves. Day in and day out you wish to be insulted by everyone in this lane. I don’t even remember the various abuses with which you are addressed with, but all of it falls into deaf ears. Play, play and play. Is there nothing else to your lives? Remove all these props right now and get into your houses.”

Her son is looking elsewhere while she turns to him and tells him off for being the eldest of them all and the most irresponsible of them all too.

She turns back to me.

“I don’t know what you expect these kids to do during their holidays. Sit at home all day long?”

“Why! Can’t they read a book or something? Is it that hard? Or, are they illiterate?”

“They are not like you, Sir. You people can sit at home all day long and read a book, but these kids need to go outside and play.”

“What do you mean by ‘you people’? We need to earn our living. I can’t sit at home and waste my time reading a book. I am trying to talk some sense and you aren’t willing to understand.”

All of a sudden, I feel my anger draining out. That is not how it is supposed to be. I have to be angry. But, I cannot help it!

I turn to the kids who have formed a semi-circle standing around the three women in front of me. I address a bare-footed, stout boy wearing a muddy white shirt and brown trousers.

“Take this as an advice from an elder brother if you will. Spend the morning reading a book. I am not talking of text books. Borrow a good story book from the district library and read it. Reading is a very addictive habit. Once you get used to it, you won’t be able to lose it. Late afternoon, you may then unite with your friends and go to the playground.”

The woman I have been fighting a word-war with has a pleased look on her face. A mild smile appears on her face.

“That was a good gesture. Children cannot be won over with abuses. If you talk to them nicely they will listen. The more you abuse and stop them from doing anything, the more stubborn and adamant they become. They are in need of good advice, I agree on that. It is good that after directing your wrath on them you finally feel persuasion is the right way.”

“Look, I don’t really care if they take my advice or not. It was a sincere suggestion. I have also been a kid. I have played and played excessively. But, I have never played in a manner that disturbed anyone or that made anyone abuse me or my friends. I was responsible. I completely understand this urge and excitement to play whole day during the vacations. So my mother intervened and stopped me from wasting the day in play and gave me books to read. You as a mother must exercise some control over your children too.”

“I keep telling them.”

“So, are you telling me your son or these children don’t listen to you? Are you telling me you have no control whatsoever over this bunch?”

“It is not like that. You are going back to where you started this argument. Let us not do it again.”

All kids disperse.

“Fine. I feel their pain. I understand their mindset to play. Actually, I totally sympathize with them. Yet, I cannot overlook the fact that this lane is not a place to play cricket. Not only that, when they play do they ever keep their mouth shut? No. They cannot. In fact, it isn’t possible to keep your mouth shut when you are playing an exciting game of cricket. They will scream. There are really old people who live in this locality. It becomes torturous for them. When these nuisance makers play in the afternoon, they deprive these old people of their afternoon nap.”

“I understand all that you are telling me. My mother stays with me too and she too sleeps in the afternoon. I too get angry when they create a rumpus.”

“Why is it so hard to get this point across then? Are they so thick? Despite being told so many times they return to do the same damn things again. In fact, now that they understand what we have been talking they will probably not play here. But I can tell for a fact that in a matter of few days I will see them playing in this very lane again.”

The kids are here again. Now they are not bare-footed. They are wearing shoes and a few have also changed their clothes. They are going to leave for the playground!

The woman smiles at what I just told her. She cannot act dumb, because she knows it too. These kids have a wavering mindset. She knows it might be a good while before they return to this lane, but they will soon return to play again and be abused again.

And, I shall wait for them here watching over my car and reminisce about my childhood days in a perpetual state of confusion. The confusion about if I should stop them from playing which is unfair to them or letting them play which will be unfair to my car and the old people in this lane.

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

P.S.:

-- Please read this writing as a story and not as a recollection of a true life incident. Though it is based on one, it is just a reconstruction of the incident that has been transformed into a fictional story.

-- But, do not refrain yourself from writing your views on this matter. I feel that in this growing age of industrialization and quick urbanization, children are the most affected. Schools without playgrounds, no open spaces for children to play, extreme burden to excel in studies than to receive knowledge are some of the issues.
-- The photographs for this story were clicked by Preethi. Preethi, thank you so much for your help. You may visit her at Kaleidoscope.

The Mistique of the Mist

2010-04-12T13:43:00.040+05:30

The mist had steadily grown denser and was now sweeping the entire look-out. The lone viewing tower at the top of Doddabetta had closed its telescopic viewing gallery, owing to bad weather. Nandan smiled at the board that was hung outside the gallery that blamed the bad weather outside for being out of business for the day.

“Someone has a good sense of humour,” he said to Pratheeksha as they descended the ancient, cast iron spiral staircase back on to safe ground.

“What?” she said absently, wondering where the promised view of Ooty must have disappeared! The driver had told them that no other place than the highest point, the top of Doddabetta, could give them a better view of the serene expanse called Oodacamundalam, or more lovingly Ooty. She wanted that view, now!

“I mean, you call this bad weather?” he snorted

“Yeah, I know. It is worse isn’t it?” she said, distastefully.

Ouch! What is it with this girl! Nandan surveyed her annoyed form as if looking at an uncategorized biological species bobbing in some stinky solution in a lab.

Pratheeksha was surveying the mist-covered landscape while Nandan surveyed her. She was looking cute. The knitted, faded-brown woolen cap she wore had at least six two-foot long woolen strips that flowed out from within. If he were a stranger and happened to see her by chance, he would most likely be reminded of an Octopus! A cute little Octopus. A woolen neck scarf, a white full-sleeved T-shirt and black trousers adorned her athletic body. Sexy!

“What are you looking at me like that for, Nandu?”

“Oh… Oh… Nothing. Just wondering if it is your father you inherit the sense of humour from.” He shrugged.

She was confused at this sudden inclusion of her father into the misty picture, but she managed to laugh nevertheless.

“I wonder why you ask.” It was her turn to survey him now. He hadn’t agreed to wear any headgear to protect his long, wavy hair. She wondered how long it could be if he straightened it. The grey cargo pant and the thick baggy full-sleeved T-shirt she had made him wear despite his reluctance made him look large. Joker!

“Well, I am saying that this is the most beautiful weather I have ever seen in my entire life.”

“Yes it is. It is nice, isn’t it?” She looked lost again. She was both amazed and disappointed. A strange confusion about the weather made her switch opinions about it in an instant. It wasn’t everyday that she visited Doddabetta and not every day in Doddabetta was there a dense mist cover like today.

Nandan was flabbergasted by her response. He wondered if he was losing or already had lost his mind! But he wasn’t going to think about it now. There was plenty of time back in the resort to recline on a handcrafted bamboo chair, in the tranquility of the quiet mountains seen from outside his cottage and peacefully think about it sipping a cup of hot coffee!

Nandan told Pratheeksha, “You stay here. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” before he wandered off. Before she could protest, he was gone.

He walked around reading the descriptions of various view points that were painted on cement blocks protruding out inside the perimeter of the look-out, a circular platform on top of Doddabetta. The botanical garden view, the lake view, the town view, and this-and-that view. It all seemed funny to him, because he read a description and lifted his head to see the view… Mist. He read another and lifted his head to see the view… And found clouds of mist gushing at his face, making the muscles in his face go stiff. View of Ooty or not, he was having the time of his life.

In the meantime Pratheeksha thought of calling her mother. She tried to speak. She could hear her mother, but her mother couldn’t hear her. She kept yelling, “Doddabetta… Lot of mist.”

“No no… we did not miss anything. I said there is lot of mist.”

The wind had picked up speed and was being a noisy nuisance. He went back to his newlywed bride. She was talking over the phone. He said, “Hello” softly. May be the lips heard him. He shouted, “Hello” and may be the mist heard him. The howling wind made it impossible to talk and he wondered if she was shouting her lungs out over the phone.

Actually she was! But she wisely gave up and said, “I’ll call you later,” before she hung up. The conversation, which Nandan thought there was none, ended as soon as he reached his cute looking Octopus.

“How about some coffee?” Nandan offered and Pratheeksha nodded in affirmation.

A Café Coffee Day wending machine braved the chill outside and spilled out hot frothing coffee. Nandan paid for the coffee and they slowly walked towards one of the, supposedly, many view points. The coffee had already turned cold and the wind blew the froth over their faces!

Nandan wiped the froth off his face with his sleeves and laughed at Pratheeksha who looked shocked, “I understand. Don’t worry about the makeup. You look very beautiful even without it!”

Pratheeksha used the tissue paper she had wrapped around the coffee paper cup to wipe the froth off her face and smiled faintly.

“Let’s walk down there and see what’s beyond this circle,” he said pointing at a small exit. People filed through this exit into oblivion. It was like they were teleported to somewhere unknown.

They walked, hand in hand, towards the exit slowly. They couldn’t have walked fast even if they wanted to. Beyond this arched exit was a narrow path paved with interlocking bricks that lead to the most breathtaking view of the valley. On either side of this walk way was neatly mowed lawns. Vision was hindered, of course, but the valley appeared once in a while as if silhouetted by the thick mist.

Pratheeksha snuggled up to Nandan. This is called, romantic weather – Nandan and Pratheeksha thought to themselves.

They walked to the edge of the lawn to their right and bent over the fence. The hazy, deep incline beyond the meshed fence awed them. They stayed there side by side, getting cozy with each other. The warmth in the embrace made the view more beautiful, more inspiring. The trees that adorned the hills appeared every now and then like spirits of the Jungle watching over them.

“Why can’t we stay here forever, Nandu?” Pratheeksha asked. Her eyes were watering with joy. Her lips were shivering from the cold wind relentlessly howling and blowing across the valley.

“Why can’t I kiss you right here?” Nandan asked looking into those innocent brown eyes, forced to flutter by the unrelenting romanterly wind. If there was easterly and westerly wind, then this one was definitely romanterly!

“I can, but I am not sure you will dare do it,” Pratheeksha winked her left eye and her right eye had involuntarily grown smaller as she did so.

“You can’t even wink.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she said, now smirking. Nandan laughed.

On to their left some hooligans had already torn apart the fence. Beyond it, they figured even with the obscured view, a way to reach the edge of the cliff. It was inviting them. Mesmerised by its power they bent and crossed the fence. Enchanted, they walked towards the protrusion out straight into the valley.

A solitary rock stood at the edge. They both looked at each other and figured they were in agreement. They climbed it.

A wrong step would lead them to certain death. But this death would be liberating. If they could die they wished they could die today, here in this valley of the mist Gods. Nobody would find them or their remains. Perhaps, one day they could become the spirits of the Jungle like the trees and watch over other couples who come here on their honeymoon, snuggling up to each other, feeling each other’s warmth, looking happy and oblivious of the world they come from.

It was getting too serious now. Nandan couldn’t bear it. Pratheeksha had forgotten she was supposed to feel bad for the weather had denied her the view she was promised. They turned towards each other. Nandan embraced Pratheeksha in a tight hug. The cap on her flew away.

“My cap,” she said sadly.

“It is a sacrifice to the mist Gods,” Nandan said to calm her anxiety over losing the cap she had only purchased an hour back outside the Ooty Botanical Gardens.

Nandan gently held Pratheeksha’s face in his palms and looked into her eyes. She blushed. She was the most beautiful girl in the world. He moved his face close to hers. She closed her eyes. He closed his. Their shivering lips met, as if guided by some divine force, in the gentlest embrace and to reveal the blissful warmth of an inseparable union of lives.

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

P.S.:
-- It has been quite some time since I introduced a new blog. This blog is named "Kaleidoscope", and has been aptly named so by its author Preethi. Kaleidoscope is a photo blog depicting Preethi's exploration to find antique pieces, decorative items, paintings, furniture or anything creative. Note, "creative" is the magic word. You can visit her blog here: Kaleidoscope. I am sure you will fall in love with the blog.
-- I had entered this story for a short story competition on INDImag. I am republishing it here for my readers. I hope you will like it. :-)
-- Image credit: I clicked the pictures on a family trip to Ooty. So, the credit goes to me! ;-)

A Senseless Rendezvous with Intent

2010-04-03T03:03:00.009+05:30

DISCLAIMER: Guys, it seems many of you think this is my "personal" view towards life. This is just a story. "How I Wonder" is a space for me to try my hand at fiction, short story writing and poetry. Please read the following story like any other short story, and not as the writer's view towards life. Cheers!

The INSIDE

I am overwhelmed by a sudden surge of emotions. Rising. Searing. Numbing my senses. Promising to rip through my soul and shred it into a thousand pieces, if I do not take control. Control of my existence.

This upwelling of emotions isn’t new to me. Today, though, it is unbearable. Intolerable. The very fabric of my sanity is teetering on the brink of being unceremoniously exorcised out of me.

This is the end of my world. I don’t like it. I don’t like anyone. Not even my mother. My father… I despise him. Why on earth did they have to bring me into this world? Intentional consummation. Intent!

I cannot fathom the reason my parents, in their own words, brought me into this world. Such an innocuous little thought! Yet, profoundly ignorant. An illusion they are living. They need to be showed the light. They need to know their intent.

People advise I need to show a little gratitude to my parents? I ask them why. They simply don’t answer. They stare at me wide-eyed. Dumb. And, a little of those who conjure up enough strength to answer my query tell me I need to do so because they gave me life! An unacceptable answer. A very lame excuse to show gratitude. Why do these people worry about me? Why don’t they just mind their own business? Half of them have left their parents behind yearning to see their children before they die. What is their intent? Earn more money so they can keep their parents happy? Excuse me, but I must laugh.

What is life? Is it what I suppose they think I am living right now? All of these 27 years? All of that submissive childhood? The inglorious teenage that overflowed with failures? The glorified choosing of a career line which I knew not was not what I was supposed to course through? The crisp inflow of money that my job guarantees every second fortnight if I let myself be dishonored by my ravenous superiors? The errands I run to keep myself and my family fed? Is this the intent?

Who can answer me these questions?

Can anyone hear me?

Silence. What was I thinking? To even harbor the thought that someone would answer!

You are too engrossed in living a death that you are not made privy to. Not yet. I can show you, but will you accept it? Hell, you can’t even sense your own soul much less feel my physical presence. Hollow, lifeless people.

If only they could see the skies in the night, intently. But, this sense… these people are pitifully and completely deprived of. Who can deprive them of it? God? Bad luck? Destiny? Oh, give me a break. They have devoid themselves of it. If only they could see the skies! They would know the true meaning of insignificance.

My kin suggest me to get married. They tell me life cannot be lead as a loner. I need a partner to help me row the rocking boat across from the shore of birth to the shore of death. I ask them why? Their answers are as feeble as their wavering minds. Minds attuned to agree and concur with the unquestionable binding of societal rules. Baseless and absurd. Incapacitated to think through or beyond them. I ask myself. Am I to marry? So I could partner with a woman who is in dire need of a helper to cross the turbulent sea of life? How shallow is that? Must I wed so I can live the illusion of bringing another delusional mind in to this world? What is the intent?

I am already married. Don’t you see? I am married to myself. I am married to my thoughts that I behold. Thoughts of living. Thoughts of freedom. Thoughts of a new world I wish to create. I speak to myself. I think to myself. I am happy to be my own partner.

Friends and relatives visit me. I marvel at the innovative crafting of the words. Friends. Relatives. See them carefully. Who am I urging to see? The blinds don’t see. They grope about to find a firm grip on something to support them. Helpless, yet startlingly insufferable.

The words. Friends… just that I. Fiends! Relatives… totally relative. Kindness relative only to that of my own. The nearness is only governed by its intent.

They visit me to wish me speedy recovery. Am I ill? I have seen the light. I have never been more healthier. I have never lived like I live now. And, they invade my abode uninvited to wish me well. Am I to thank them for their concern? Are they really concerned? Or, are they here to check on the progress I am making in understanding the intent? Sneaking to take a peek at how it is done? Thieves!

A world of delusional minds. Minds that aren’t willing to reason. Pitiful individuals who run the never ending race of survival, totally oblivious to who or what is making them run the race. Unaware, this race in which everyone will eventually be the last to cross the victory line. This very race is leading them to the ultimate truth. A blinding light of truth at the end of it shrouded by an impenetrable veil of ignorance. Ignorance of existence, while the inevitability of non-existence stares and perhaps laughs at the delirious mortals. And when they reach the end… I know, they will still fail to see. They will still want to run another mile.

The vista that beckons is blissful, I know. The light is my beacon and it will lead me towards it. I need to calm down. Why do I rage about for people who cannot dare to care? Anger devours. I cannot let myself be devoured by the perils of mankind. I forgive them. After all, I am the chosen one to be invited to savor the sight I will see. Serene. Inspiring.

Tranquility liberates. My mind is serene. I have not let them pollute it. Negativity has no place within me. My visage is a sanctuary for my thoughts. Here I dwell upon my intent. I have figured at long last – my intent. And I am duly rewarded with the sacred heavens, that I am about to visit.

An act of bravery befits terming as cowardly. Such is the hypocrisy of the language spoken across the world. They all speak the same alphabet when it comes to describing a common act. They have shut their minds to see the courage it takes. The courage of relinquishing. Tomorrow, I will be a heretic to them, but I am my hero.

My intent is way too simple to comprehend for minds that have accepted that their existence here is too complex for them to fathom. My intent is to free myself of nothingness that gnaws from within and makes me hollow. My intent is to not be and not be part of you.

The OUTSIDE

A newspaper extract from the Daily Morning News, Sunday March 28, 2010.

Mentally ill Techie slips off ledge, falls and dies

Bangalore, DMN. Puneet, 27, suffered a severe concussion as a regular, casual stroll on the terrace yesterday night turned tragic. He slipped off the ledge of the unfinished terrace falling head first on to the concrete driveway below. He died on the way to the hospital.

Puneet had a turbulent past. He was rusticated from engineering college after having been found taking and trafficking drugs. College officials say that they were forced to take him back after his rehabilitation. His father is an IAS officer working as an advisor to the Home Minister of Karnataka. “We were forced. Politicians were involved,” says a Professor of Trent College of Engineering, speaking to us on the condition of anonymity. He took six years to complete his course.

He changed numerous jobs, mostly terminated for his obnoxious attitude towards his colleagues. In the past two years, Puneet had turned very violent. He was often seen talking to himself or shouting loudly at passersby unexpectedly. He threw furniture out of the house and attacked his family members with utensils from the kitchen.

Puneet had been undergoing regular sessions with famous psychiatrist Dr. J. J. Sharma who refused to reveal any information about his patient. He only said that Puneet was getting better with every session.

It is believed that Puneet’s last rites will be carried out today among the presence of vast number of relatives and friends. The location of the funeral, however, remains undisclosed.

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

P.S.:
-- I call this a concept story. What it is, is still a wild image in my mind. When I have finalized the description I shall write about it. :-) For now, I hope you liked my experiment, an attempt at what I believe in.
-- The last post "The Dawning" was my 25th post. I extend my gratitude to all my readers for making this blog a place where I can give life to my imagination, feelings and emotions. Thank you one and all.

The Dawning

2010-03-19T21:55:00.001+05:30

White light from the heavens, and

The inspiring warmth

That filters through the glass

Finds me a new day, a new birth.

Wings sprout and I soar

Over my little world,

To live again, I wish

On this day, in this birth.

Opening my swaying thoughts

Swaying in the cool breeze

Like a colourful autumn leaf

On this day, in this birth.

Entangled pathways below

Show me unexplored avenues

That I vow to conquer

On this day, in this birth.

These little houses below

Rest the sleepy, locked minds

They will awake and will see me

On this day, in this birth.

I let myself go far away

Into the elusive horizon

I'll touch it, I know

On another day, another birth.

Far away, the light shines,

Dispersed through a prism

A divine message I must find

On this day, in this birth.

For now, I must return

Back to my worldly form

My sanctuary, my body

On this day, in this birth.

Patiently I will wait

Until I am realized, and

Until my true awakening

Finds me a new day, a new birth.

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

Treasure of a Lifetime

2010-03-10T22:45:00.003+05:30

Twenty-four years into his life and today he stands here in the city of sky-scrapers and untouchable Corporates, at a very crucial juncture. Life is yet to begin for a novice software professional like him and the tough world is already calling out. To take up the challenge. In these relatively challenging times, there is one person he is grateful to; to whom he owes a debt that isn’t repayable by any means possible. It is a person who, he believes, impacts the lives of almost all individuals that survive upon the face of this earth, without whom life itself is non-existent. He hears from many people that this person builds citizens for a nation and he feels proud that she builds him to be one.

A wise man states "Character begins at home.” Well said, he applauds the thought silently. An infant just out of its mother’s womb is comparable to an empty notebook. The preface of this book is written by the people who take care of him until he acquires the capability to write his own destiny. When an outsider reads the initial pages of this book, it reflects the character the mother instills in him. The latter parts of this book show how he writes his own destiny taking away the values and principles he imbibes from her.

His story is no different from what wise men have written on the matter of raising a child.

Her character and attitude influences him. A character that is strong in the sense that is non-compromising and confident. A character that portrays perfection in all the things she does, and always sets high standards for herself. A character that wants her child to be as strong as she is. An unrelenting attitude towards life that inspires many people to realize that life is too good to be ruined. A character that believes, if it is to be done then it is to be done no matter what the neighbors or relatives think. She shows what people consider as failure is only a setback, the by-product of which is courage and strength – courage to move on in life and strength to come back stronger and better than ever.

He thinks many will form an opinion that all of this is nothing but exaggeration or distortion of facts. He pities them, because, everything is a distortion of facts until they experience it firsthand. They have to be him to know.

He hears many times that parents that have single kids tend to pamper their only child. Added to this is the belief that when the child grows up, he grows up with a wrong attitude towards life. They think he is a spoiled kid. A brat who cannot take no for an answer. In a habit of acquiring things very easily. Not striving to achieve anything in life, and solemnly come to the conclusion that he is or will become a loser. But it is a different scenario in his case. He is the only child, but she never compromises on her principles towards life while raising him. She loves him the way he ought to be loved.

She uses a simple yet effective sequential approach to raising him.

She punishes him for all the wrongdoings – ranging from simple ones such as not waking up when awoken to moderate ones such as not being able to solve a math problem to grave ones such as lying. But she doesn’t forget to embrace him in a tight hug when she thinks he is learning his lesson. Display of love is all tender minds need, and she knows it very well.

Into the teen-ages, it is time to instill principles and values. An age he becomes aware of his existence and starts to believe that he can write his own destiny. He thinks he needs no advice and needs no help making decisions. An age where his friends and surroundings have more impact on him than her. If his friends can do it, so can he, and if his friends can have it, so should he.

An age of defiance and unprecedented brashness. It needs character to keep him down from his insurgent activities. A character that is courageous and persevering. A character that is equally defiant to his character. He is physically more powerful than her and that intimidates her. But she must to do it. No one else can. It tests her patience to show him right from wrong, because once he forms his own opinion on something no coaxing or argument can change it. She thinks of reverse psychology. She tells him whatever he does is correct and that she trusts him. But also neatly slips in an advice and tells him to think about his family and people who have trust in him before doing anything. It touches the right nerve.

She uses her wit to steer him clear of dangerous paths. She helps him avoid taking the wrong diversion at a fork in the road to the future. Various diversions to different destinations but only one that will lead towards the right one.

Into his adulthood and she takes the next step in the sequential approach. He becomes less aggressive and more composed. He displays a better attitude towards life – a perfect consolation for her, for not giving up on him. This time, however, brings new challenges. She must really listen to him and support his decisions – whether choosing furniture for their new house or choosing his future career path. She knows it is time to relent and let him call the shots. She sits with him and discusses various aspects of life, often soliciting his opinion. He is capable, now, of taking life’s crucial decisions on his own. She teaches him how to make them. She tells him no one ever makes perfect decisions. Some decisions backfire and some lead to success. She doesn’t forget to tell him, all that he can derive from any experience is experience itself.

She can give him more moral than scientific advice. But, she wants to give him a better and secure future. The biggest responsibility that lies with her is to give him high class education and no less. This can get him into a job that gives him enough monetary returns to lead a comfortable life. A life where he doesn’t have to suppress his desires owing to financial concerns. A luxury that she did not have in her younger days and in the years she spent raising him.

He doesn’t know whether it is the value that he acquires from her or the grace of God that he is able to fulfill her dreams until now. He feels it must be her loving grace and blessings, and nothing else.

He hopes to continue to fulfill her wishes and keep her happy.

Life seems beautiful, the beauty of which he can appreciate because of her divine touch. In the distant future when he looks back into the years he lived, he will definitely sense the fragrance of the one individual that defines him. A priceless treasure that he cannot lose or that cannot be stolen from him. A treasure that will remain with him forever until he breathes his last – the individual whom he proudly says is his mother. A treasure of a lifetime that is secure in his heart. The warmth like the soothing warmth of the setting Sun. The fragrance that he can sense, alike, at times of distress and joy.

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

Sunset

2010-03-01T00:16:00.002+05:30

Sunrise Restaurant was bustling with activity on Tanker Street. Set at the corner of Tanker Building and at the Tanker Junction made it a premium location for a restaurant business to thrive. Outstanding food and outrageous prices commanded a richer class of people to dine and wine at the restaurant. Sunday February 14, 2010 and at 1925 hours in the evening it wasn’t a surprise that all tables were occupied, except for one.

Rajiv was sitting at table number 14 set in front of the bar. He had booked this table a week in advance. The table was draped with a neatly ironed cotton tablecloth with a beautiful painting of sunrise in the mountain ranges. It looked like a masterpiece of an anonymous artist. A crystal vase that held a single bright-red Rose, was positioned at the centre of the table. He gazed at the royal chair with smooth, velvety cushions opposite him. His eyes gazed fixedly and unblinkingly at the chair, as if looking at an invisible figure. He looked like he had lost himself in a sort of trance where everything else, including him had shut itself or himself off.

Just then, someone gently tapped him on his shoulder. With an expression of pain on his face, of being annoyed by the disruption, he slowly turned his head to his left. It was her. She had come. Feb 14 and 1930 hours, they had promised to meet at Sunrise Restaurant.

Sulochana looked stunning in the silky, blue saree she wore. A matching blouse, earring and a blue high-heeled sandal accentuated her figure and beauty, yet the expression on Rajiv’s face was blank. In fact, the expression on either of their faces was not of surprise or happiness. He stood up and took her by the hand to the chair opposite. He pulled back the chair for her to sit and then when she was comfortable he walked back slowly to his own chair.

The waiter greeted. He was used to seeing them often. It was routine for them to drink water or juice from the same glass and so he placed a glass of water on the table, in front of Sulochana. This always solicited bewildered looks, but it never mattered to them. Status and image were least of their concerns. Who would remember them anyway? Today people were too busy to look at other tables. The waiter left.

Sulochana finally broke the ice, “Did I make you wait long?”

“No,” Rajiv paused for a moment before adding, “You… you haven’t.”

“You… You look good… nice… gorgeous, in fact,” he said still looking lost, as if he wanted to say more but the words didn’t dare leave him. The lump in his throat swelled with the words that he wasn’t able to say.

A slow, acknowledging smile appeared on her face. She did not blush like she was accustomed to on receiving compliments from Rajiv.

“What if I had not come?” she asked, trying to ease the tension.

Rajiv looked intently into her questioning eyes. The hazel brown eyes looked back at him, expecting an answer. He stared over her shoulder at the table behind her, instantly. He did not want to answer the question.

“Tell me, darling. What if I had not come?” Sulochana asked in a jovial, loving manner.

“Sulochana, I knew you were going to come. We both knew we were going to meet here, today… at this table… at this time,” Rajiv said. Each and every word he spoke tore him from within. His body flinched as the words escaped his mouth.

A trickle ran down Sulochana’s cheek as she looked at him sorrowfully. Rajiv was finding it hard to look or was avoiding looking her in the eye. He knew she was crying, but still he dared not look.

Finally, mustering enough courage to look at her he said, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know…,” she whispered softly dabbing the tears off her face with a tissue and managing to sport a fake smile. For the first time, Rajiv smiled although his lips shivered as he tried to do so.

“But… Thank you for coming” he said, almost in a whisper.

“It’s Valentine’s Day today. So, I wanted to ask you, if…” He stopped and looked around. Everyone was too busy to notice a small, interesting conversation, a proposal, unfolding at Table 14.

“If?” Sulochana prompted.

“If… you will be mine forever?” Rajiv asked uncertainly.

“Rajiv, I was always yours and I shall remain yours forever.” She said, her voice shaking.

There was silence for a whole minute in which they simply looked at each other. Then, Rajiv took her hand gently and affectionately into his own hand. He said, “Thank you… darling.”

Rajiv felt Sulochana’s hand dissolve. He felt her hands grappling desperately and trying to find something solid. Her eyes were widened with horror and were frantically searching for something that was right in front of her. He knew. He knew – it was the end.

“I am sorry, sweetheart. I have failed you.” He said, but he knew Sulochana did not hear it. She was sitting there, horror-struck and heart-broken, and too shocked to even cry. “Be happy, always” he said before he felt himself being lifted, towards the heavens.

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

The Book That Made The Man

2010-02-19T18:29:00.002+05:30

The school and my mind took a break from books and black boards on a fine sunny afternoon.

I discovered a spark within as I let my idling mind conjure up colorful dreams. That day the beacon, the spark, the epiphany, guided me ashore to an interesting prospect. I decided to write a book.

The book, I thought, must move the world. There was need for a good topic. As the gears shifted and the wheels of imagination were set in motion, it occurred. People out there… They didn’t know what it is like coming to school six days a week. They didn’t know the hardships of maintaining an erect posture in class after the lunch break. They didn’t know the pressure of reading for a test the day before the wrath of the teachers descended upon us. No, they didn’t know anything. But soon, they would.

So, the spark ignited the fire. In less than 3 weeks, I turned blank, uninteresting pages of an unsuspecting notebook into a wealth of, what I thought, was divine knowledge on school, schooling and being schooled.

* * * * * * * * *

Why should anyone believe what I have written? The writer’s mind thought for several minutes when the idea struck. Yes! We need interviews.

One classmate, feeling groggy after a heavy lunch and also at the thought of afternoon classes, said, “What man? Interview, huh? You are writing a book? OK, what I feel about school? Um… I feel very sleepy.” I felt proud to have interviewed a fellow from class for the book. And then, the other fellow said, “It is fun. I get to meet a lot of friends. That is why we all come to school.” With two great responses, which went as-is into the book, my book had become, although self-proclaimed, authentic.

* * * * * * * * *

The day I held out the book to a classmate, he was awed and I beamed at the expression on his face. I thought for a moment his jaw had dropped low enough to touch the floor.

The mathematics teacher, our villain here, happened to hear about a student who wrote a book. That day, he, the sly teacher, asked aloud, “Who wrote a book in this class?”

“Vittal,” was the collective, enthusiastic response.

He said, “Show it to me.” This could mean anything, I thought.

The book had lost its brown paper bind, in which it was lovingly wrapped, after it had passed through several hands. He read aloud an excerpt from a page he had randomly opened, to the class. He read it in a tone and manner that saw everyone, except one, rolling on the floor laughing. A book that was to move the world, enlighten the ignorant, had found an unexpected purpose – a comic script for a one man slanderous stand-up act.

Sifting carelessly, he found another page and began reading it aloud, now that it was his script.

The page to which the class was enlightened was the one that held authentic interview responses. This time gesticulations and facial expressions combined with his obnoxious, derisive laughs made the act unbearably funny. Now, everyone except three was rolling on the floor laughing.

The end of the class found these three people hiding their faces in their hands. Big boys didn’t cry, but the three did.

“Why did you do this?” the perpetually groggy classmate asked, spit accumulated around his mouth and bubbled as he spoke, and tears streamed down his face across various tributaries. Too embarrassed and shocked, I remained silent and wept.

The very next day it happened again. None had warned me, “Vittal, don’t ever bring this book to school again.” And, none sure had told me, “Don’t give the book to him if he asks for it. Tell him you have left it at home.” If someone had, the book wouldn’t have found a place in my bag again. Moreover, why would they tell me anything like that? After all, everyone is entitled to entertainment. Again, the end of class marked the embarrassed, teary faces hiding in the hands of their owners.

“Let’s do a hat-trick,” the villain enthusiastically exclaimed. His intent – to establish a tradition of three people searching for places to hide their faces at the end of numbers class every day. But I had learnt my lesson by then. I had wised up.

“Sir, I have not brought the book,” I said in a defiant voice coupled with a stern look.

I thought I heard a collective “Oh!”, but it must have been booing.

He smirked.

So did I.

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

Condemned

2010-02-03T12:28:00.007+05:30

Your cold structure reminds me time and again, of my existence,one that has lost all meaning.

Thechains of dread

Cutinto my flesh;

Helpless,I bled

Entangledin the mesh.

You COWARD! Why don’t I see you when the afternoon sun burnsmy skin? You’re a parasite.

Aboutall the veils –

Anaura so negative,

Myship with no sails

Inthe sea of no give.

May be it is fun… living like that.

Ilook in the eyes

Ofunrevealing evil –

Theycut,

Theydice

Mysanity,

Myvanity

Sobrittle.

Yes! That’s it!

Ican’t fight them –

Thehold is too strong,

Ihave to condemn…

Myself…

Todo wrong.

I have to live… like you – dark, unimportant and… shadow-less.

Thechains have snapped,

It’stime they faced

Theirown reflection,

Trapped,

Despaired,

And

Feltmy Infliction.

Ihave condemned…

Myself…

Todo wrong.

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

P.S.:

-- This post started as a flash-55 story. The lines other than those that are italicized can stand independently as a short-short. I was writing a poem in parallel and got this weird idea of combining both of them! And hence, this hotch-potch. :-)

-- I am pasting the flash-55 story here (taken from the hotch-potch above):

Your cold structure reminds me time and again, of my existence, one that has lost all meaning.

You COWARD! Why don’t I see you when the afternoon sun burns my skin? You’re a parasite.

May be it is fun… living like that.

Yes! That’s it!

I have to live… like you – dark, unimportant and… shadow-less.

Crumbling Stones

2010-01-19T14:56:00.003+05:30

Terrible times come,
Be forewarned unawakened -
'I am your maker'.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Your day is over,
And so's your non-existence -
'Sacrifice this filth'.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Protectors battle,
For they dare defy our Lord -
'Liberate them all'.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

You serve the great Lord,
'Clean this earth with blood, and be
Rewarded in death'.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It is all over, and
The heroes have emerged tall -
Some dead, some alive.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Her heart is broken,
For all her dear ones killed, in
The name of noone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

© Vittaldas Prabhu 2010

P.S.:
-- Post dedicated as a tribute to the martyrs of 26/11. Why now? Because, I wasn't inclined to writing then. Today I feel I can express better. I salute the martyrs and all the brave soldiers (both professionally and mentally) who rose above and beyond their ethnic backgrounds, religious stands, and other impeding factors to save humanity.
-- Second attempt at Haiku.
-- The blog post I choose this time continuing the "interesting post introduction" I have been doing from the past few posts is from a blog titled 'Eloquence Redefined'. A thrilling post every time keeps me hooked on to this blog and I am on my toes awaiting a new post almost everyday. I really liked the post My Colourful World.

A Handful of Sand

2010-01-11T23:02:00.009+05:30

You came everyday
To pray at the place of hope,
I hoped you'll be mine.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A rose to express,
A card waiting to tell you -
How much I love you.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

'I am just a friend',
You said ever so softly,
And turned on your heels.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Orbs that have written -
Tell me now; show me the signs -
Is this how I'll live?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the roof, gazing
At the dreamy void, I begged -
Unite me with you.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

P.S.:

-- This is my first attempt at Haiku. This is more of contemporary Haiku than traditional. Though I have followed the 5-7-5 syllable rule, rest is a bit lax. Those interested in knowing what a Haiku is read this article: An article on Japanese haiku poetry. Syllable counting could get tricky. I used the syllable calculator at Haiku with Teeth to count the syllables in each line.
-- My previous post 'Remembrance' received really lovely comments. Everyone shared a small part of their lives with me. A big 'thanks' to you all. You gave this blog a wonderful start in the new year. Cheers!

-- I'd like to continue with the trend of introducing a new blog post with every post of mine. This time I'd like to present a link to a blog and allow you to pick any post. I am sure you will be blown away by the art of simplicity without compromising on the punch. Here it is: Welcome to my world of poetry.

Remembrance

2010-01-05T19:16:00.008+05:30

Remembrance is a way of expressing gratitude to our memories and to tell them 'I am thankful that certain happenings in my life are worth remembering for good reasons'. It is a way to express to ourselves that life has been kind enough to bestow certain things, animate or inanimate, which/who may no longer be with us but are worth treasuring in our memories. These memories are worth reliving at any time of the day and on any day. Remembrance is a way of counting our blessings.

I hope you have countless good memories of 2009 to cherish and many more such wondrous memories to be built during the year of 2010. I wish all of you, my dear blog readers, a very happy and prosperous year of 2010. This short story is dedicated to a very small object, its presence is no longer needed today, but it is an object that each member of a family spent some amount of their lives with.

I was always woken up by the Vividh Bharathi radio show on All India Radio (AIR) that mother tuned into every single morning. Sometimes I felt she worked in clockwork fashion. The radio was placed on top of a very old, low kitchen cupboard that was placed at the end of the wall adjoining the entrance to the kitchen. I could bet my life that she could find that radio and tune into her favourite station blindfolded.

          Not even a bomb explosion next to my ear would wake me up in the morning. So, I lied just a little bit! The only thing that did make me sit up straight with a start was the shrill of frustration from mother having given up on her attempts of waking me up in a relatively softer tone. The decibels on that, the shrill, was definitely much higher than those melodious tunes from the radio show. And then I walked past the blaring radio, sleepy-eyed, and into the bathroom to complete my morning ablutions. But yes, listening to Vividh Bharathi show was how I started my morning.
          This piece of instrument, the radio, also a tape recorder, was something that came in use to the three of us – father, mother and me.
          I remember the days I barged into the living rooms of unsuspecting neighbours rummaging through their neatly arranged stacks of audio cassettes for something that would interest me. Reluctantly they lent their precious collection provided I promised to return it in not more than two days! I rushed to my uncle’s radio house and asked him to record selected songs from the borrowed audio cassettes onto a blank one I gave him. I kept calling twice or thrice a day to let him know that it was urgent. No sooner I had possession I listened to the songs over and over again. Side A, Side B, Side A, Side B and on and on it went until some sound scolding from my father or mother had me give the poor instrument a break.
          Father never touched the radio until it was absolutely necessary to do so, as only in a life and death situation. A cricket match not telecast on TV, but commentary broadcast on radio, would qualify for the life and death situation. It took quite some research and trial and error techniques to figure out exactly from which station the commentary was being broadcasted. The distinct voices of two people rambling on and on would indicate that that was the frequency he was trying to tune into. The commentary was not exactly as melodious as the songs on Vividh Bharathi, but I would surely call it music. Two people providing vivid descriptions of the happenings on the cricket pitch seemed like a perfectly rehearsed duet. The background music provided by the crowd in the stadium – high notes at the fall of a wicket of the opponent and lower ones, the boos, as the local team fielder misfielded or the opponent struck a boundary. The occasional electromagnetic disturbance added special effects that only a present day DJ can provide.
          I sometimes wondered if some day when mother turned the tuner and adjusted the frequency to her favourite station, the radio would spring to life and ask her to leave it alone for a day! But, that was not to happen for the twelve years of service it provided at our house. And then the inevitable happened. The tapes got stuck often into the reading head and the cockroaches had somehow relished a great meal gnawing at the speakers. Heavy-hearted we gave it away to another uncle of mine who also owned a radio shop. He, we found out from him, had repaired it and sold it to some unsuspecting customer!
          It is over ten years now. That beautiful black antique piece with all those dials and buttons; two big round speakers that looked more like the dial on the telephone of yester years – only in memories now. Today we have a four speaker hi-fi music system and the television industry has made considerable advancements that we may not need to have a radio at home to listen to any sort of music, or to listen to the cricket commentary. But, I feel nostalgic at times and cherish the sweet memories of the Panasonic radio that gave us countless melodious mornings.

P.S.: Webneetech has published my first ever online interview. Thanks to the team of Webneetech. The link to the interview post is How I Wonder by blogger Vittaldas Prabhu.

Defiance

2009-12-23T11:24:00.021+05:30

It is just another day

I am bound by chains;

Only shadows crawl my way

Paying homage to my pains.

To live through it all

Is my purpose of life;

They want me to fall,

To bleed and strife.

This is my hell in heaven

I wished I hadn't seen;

Happiness devoured by the raven

Of enemies of the serene.

I have seen them go away

Wished it was me than those;

I have seen the bodies decay

Whom these shadows chose.

I am strong, I will live

They can't take my soul;

I won't forget, I won't forgive,

For my dear ones they stole.

I will wall against them

For people whom I love;

Destroy the encore of mayhem,

And this; This is my vow.

P.S.:

-- Wishing all my dear blog readers Merry Christmas and best wishes for the New Year. You have all made it worthwhile - your support, compliments, and most importantly your feedback and criticism has made blogging an enjoyable and blissful experience. I have come alive again with this blog. Thank you all.

-- I read a very beautiful poem, portraying more than what it shows on the surface. The blog is named 'Words of Silence' and the poem I am referring to is A dead night and a pack of cigarette.

Too Afraid To Love

2009-12-14T21:42:00.008+05:30

Her eyes await me,
I have promised to meet;
Unaware of my defeat,
I am afraid,
She'll know.

I wore these clothes,
To hide from the weather;
But I really wonder -
Can they hide these
Insecure woes?

I Can't let this happen,
I need to rise up,
I've got to wise up;
Or I'll die
As I live.

I see her now,
Eyes close and lips mumble -
Prayer innocent and humble;
It's no use, this
'Untold Love.'

Will she understand me?
Let go and not dwell;
But I've to tell,
Swallow my pride -
'I'm afraid.'

Why can't she cry?
Her heart's broken, I know.
She deserves much more, so
'Take care, Love -
Good bye.'

Her eyes tell something,
I've gone far, I can hear nothing;
I've failed to give,
I've failed to live,
I have failed.

A special note of thanks to "Brosreview" for your patience and support. Your invaluable suggestions have helped bring more emotions in this poem. Thank you. I am grateful to you, Brosreview.

P.S.: Here is a new blog for you which is being maintained by a very young, talented and passionate blogger. What I like most about this blog is the natural flow of unadulterated emotions that ooze out of each of the posts. There is nothing extravagant, but simple and pure truths told in the most beautiful of ways. The blog is 'Vicious Delicious' and the post is The Monist.

The Lunch Break

2009-12-06T00:06:00.022+05:30

The school bell rang at 12:30 PM sharp. I walked outside my classroom after everyone had left either to the hall or to their houses. The school would break for one hour before afternoon classes resumed. Out of habit, I turned left and walked towards the school entrance gates that were opened for the break. I had traversed half the distance towards the gates when I suddenly remembered that my father was not going to deliver lunch. His lean figure, carrying a lunch box and a smile were missing from the frame, but oddly his presence still lingered near the gate.

          I walked back to my classroom and glanced at my lunch box which I had been forced to carry to school since few days. ‘Potli baba ki’ my class teacher called me after she saw the lunch box on the first day I brought it. I was hailed by this name since then.
          I was hungry, but the urge to umpire a game of cricket made me abandon lunch. I joined my new found friends from another class that I had made during those few days of ‘freedom from lunch at 12:30 PM’. They too were not keen on eating lunch before they played a few games of cricket. We met in the dusty school ground immediately after the bell. Teams were made, the same coin tossed like always, and the umpire (me) took his place. A cardboard for a bat and an eraser for a ball made for very exciting game of cricket under the blazing Sun. I knew nothing of what no ball or wide or dead ball meant. But what made me a great umpire was my uncanny knack of calling a no ball when the batsman was clean bowled.
          That day, after a few historic decisions I walked back to my classroom, grabbed my potli hastily and strode towards the hall. The hall had served five purposes – a dining area, an alcove that housed a statue of Lord Krishna and a TV, a play area that consisted of a single slide, the walls against which formidable mothers leant and bullied their children into quick reading exercises and finally, a stage. Any other day, the time I walked into the dining area there would be very few children scattered across the multiple rows of low tables; at most times sitting there chit-chatting about numerous ambitious plans they wished to execute when they where the size of their fathers. That day there were none.
          I sat on one of the tiny wooden stools at the centre of a long table at the third row, facing one of the four exits. The staff room and the Headmistress’ office were in view through the door. I opened my lunch box and started eating the cold food distractedly. I glanced at the empty tables in front of me, then to my left towards the far end of the hall where few girls smoothly glided down a slide, and then towards the staff room and the seemingly empty Headmistress’ office.
          When I was done, I stacked the food boxes. I was just about to place them back into the carrier, when a gang of five boys from my class barged in from the exit I was facing. Their urgency did not startle me. But my expression turned from that of distracted to concerned to horrified when they rounded the table and closed in on me. A boy, round like a fresh and healthy tomato, grabbed my hair and jerked my head backwards. Before I could open my mouth to protest the rest of them had grabbed my hands and pulled as if they intended to rip my hands off my body. Shouting and kicking, I was yanked out of my seat and the hall.
          Exasperated and frightened I asked, “What are you doing?”
          “You are a robber. Miss is waiting for you in the staff room. You are going to get scolding and beating from her.”
          “I didn’t rob anything. Please. Leave me. My tiffin is still on the table. I want to bring it.”
          “You are telling lies. We know you have robbed money.”
          “Mother promise, I didn’t rob anything.”
          I was dragged into the staff room. Cold and mean stares from every single teacher in the room greeted my entry. My class teacher walked slowly towards me and bored her eyes into mine. Her eyes magnified by the spectacles she wore on her thin nose was intimidating. Like the cold stares around, her voice was cold when she asked, “Did you steal money from LK Printers?”
          “Miss, I didn’t rob any money. I haven’t gone to LK Printers even one time. Mother promise, I didn’t rob money, Miss.”
          Her eyebrows furrowed and her angry eyes bored even deeper. I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t because I was being held in vice-like grips by the gang that had turned me in. I could do only one thing a tiny boy of nine could do in the situation – cry. Tears rolled down my cheeks as the teacher asked the same question repeatedly, each time a definite rise in the intensity of her tone, and each time I swore upon different dear ones to make her believe that I was not a thief.
          “Where are the other boys?” the class teacher asked the gang.
          “Miss, they are searching for Sudarshan,” said a boy in the gang.
          “Fine. You boys go.”
          Blood rushed towards my fingertips as the boys let go. Each one of them grinned as they left the staff room.
          Just after the first gang had left, another appeared with another boy. It was Sudarshan. But he was not being dragged; rather allowed himself to be brought in. He was quite an infamous personality in the school; stealing pencils, erasers, books and anything he found unguarded.
          The teacher told the second gang to leave. She asked angrily, “How dare you run away!” Sudarshan did not react. The teacher asked, “Tell me again, did you and Vikram steal money from LK Printers?”
          “Yes Miss,” he said and pointing a finger at me he continued, “Vikram was also there with me. There was nobody inside. I went into the shop, climbed the chair behind the desk. Then I took the money box from the top of the platform. Then I came outside and gave the box to Vikram. He threw it in the gutter.” Sudarshan said without faltering.
          “No Miss! Sudarshan is telling lies. I didn’t rob anything. He is lying, Miss. I didn’t take any box from him. I was not there at all. Please Miss, I didn’t do anything.”
          “Let Madam come. The Printers people are also coming. When they are here we will know who is speaking the truth and who is telling lies.”
          “I am telling the truth, Miss. Sudarshan is telling lies.”
          “Silence! Go and stand outside Madam’s office, both of you. Stand there silently. No talking. ”
          “Miss, my tiffin is in the hall. Can I bring it back?”
          “Fine. Go and get it. Afterwards stand outside Madam’s office next to Sudarshan. Quick.”
          I dashed out of the staff room and within few seconds entered the hall. My belongings were there, the way I had left them. I gathered my boxes, stuffed them into the carrier, slowly walked back to my classroom and placed the carrier back on the top rack. “Kalla… Kalla…,” I heard the children from my class call me. I turned to leave, tears beginning to roll down again, and walked towards the Headmistress’ office. I joined Sudarshan outside the open window of the office.
          The school was a square-shaped building with a small playground in the middle of the square that housed a merry-go-round and another slide. The classrooms were at one pair of opposite sides, the hall, and the staff room and office made the remaining sides. The school ground was behind the hall. We were standing in a location where anyone peeping out of the classroom could see us clearly.
          I wished to punch Sudarshan in the face, but quickly suppressed the urge because at the end I would be the one with a broken nose. As I stood there beside him furious and helpless, every group of children who looked at us pointed fingers, shouted unintelligible words and walked away laughing. I couldn’t see the humour. Every teacher who walked past gave us stares of resentment and walked away expressionless as if their memories were instantly wiped off of our presence. The embarrassment was so unbearable that I stopped facing the square and turned to face the open window looking into the empty office. Sudarshan followed and turned too.
          The wall-clock inside the office on the right hand side of the Headmistress’ desk showed 1:30. The school bell rang. A short, stout, fair lady wearing a red saree entered her office. Mrs. Roberts (Madam), the Headmistress of the school, took her seat. She gestured to a stalky, dark-skinned man, who had followed her into the office, to be seated. He had his back turned on us. A fleeting glance from Madam had definitely caught us standing outside the window, but she did not stop to give us any bitter expression, rather started a conversation with the person in front of her.
          Few moments later, both of them walked out of the door that opened into the school square. They stopped behind us. Without waiting for us to turn around, Madam said, “Both of you, come into the staff room,” and walked away. Sudarshan and I accidentally saw each other in the eye for the first time after we were made to stand outside the office. Hand and feet trembling, and sweating profusely in the afternoon heat I slowly walked towards the staff room. Sudarshan entered first. The staff room was empty, except for the four of us.
          The stalky man, the only man I had seen in the staff room until that day, stood beside Madam. His eyes were vacant and his face had no expression. But the expression on Madam’s face drained the colour off our faces. She said, “You boys have brought shame to the school. Vikram I didn’t think you would do a bad thing like this. And Sudarshan, I thought you had mended your ways and become a good boy.”
          Tears flowed generously as I replayed my pathetic pleas for being believed and be acquitted of the horrendous crime that I had not committed. Sudarshan wore an indifferent expression. It seemed as if the consequences were too many for me and too less for him.
          Madam spoke again, “You can’t fool us by crying.”
          “Madam, God promise…” I started, but I was cut off by a sharp response from Madam, “Don’t swear in front of me. If you lie, something very bad will happen to you.”
          I was taken aback by the sudden outburst that I cried even more bitterly. The man spoke, “Madam, I can see the sincerity in this boy’s tears.” He turned his gaze on Sudarshan and said in a slightly rattled voice, “This boy has already agreed he has stolen the money,” pointing a finger at him he continued, “and I saw only this boy run out of our shop.”
          Madam opened her mouth to say something. Just then, a very skinny woman wearing a crumpled, pale yellow saree walked swiftly into the staff room and without warning burst out, “Madam, Vikram can’t rob. He is not a boy who will rob. He comes to our house everyday. I can leave one thousand rupees on the table with Vikram around and when I come back I will see the money where it was kept. His father is a very good man. He gives tuitions to my nephews. He had a major surgery and is being discharged today evening. Please leave Vikram, he is innocent. This news mustn’t reach his father.” Silence prevailed for a few seconds as Madam and the man, who it was clear was from LK Printers, allowed the flurry of words to sink in.

          Madam did not allow Sudarshan to attend the afternoon classes. I walked back into the classroom beaming and with my head held high.
          The teachers were rational and quickly freed their minds of the incident. But, everyday I entered the classroom I was greeted to shouts of “Kalla… Kalla…” These chants continued everytime the classroom was free of a teacher. The frequency lowered as the memories of the incident waded off slowly from their minds. Sudarshan, however, got into regular fist fights with anyone who dared to call him a thief.
          As for Sudarshan, there was a rumour that had spread all around that his father, an engineer in a chemical plant, threatened to throw him in a boiler if he received another complaint from school. For me, normal days had returned when a boy came to me and said, “I knew from the beginning itself, you didn’t rob money.”

P.S.:
-- This is my first attempt at a short story at this blog. Your comments, suggestions, opinions (feedback, in short :-)) is appreciated. This short story is based on a true life incident and has been embellished to a certain extent to make the incident presentable.
-- Continuing on my promise to present a link to another blog, here is my next pick. The blog is named "Idle ideas ... and dilemma within" and the post is "My 'Cattle-Class' Identity".

A Wait

2009-11-24T19:19:00.006+05:30

Cloud strewn
Skies frown -
I am waiting
To see the dawn...

I'm alive
There's love -
I knew it
No reasons, Why? How?

Wearing love
Donning hope -
He has come
Its time to elope...

Distant eyes
Grim face -
"No, we cannot"
Spelled in piercing gaze

Fallen promises
Consuming void -
Don't know why,
I wish I died

Eyes well
Lips dry -
Oh! My Lord!
I can't even cry!

Lonely again
Destiny ungrate -
An endless wait
Mournful days, I regret.

P.S.: Starting this post onwards I will be presenting a link to a post, that I find worth your time, on another blog. The first one here is from the blog "Shadowy Dreams" and the post is Charred dreams.

Anthology of Sorts and Shorts

2009-11-12T18:58:00.022+05:30

Craving for existence
Toiling hard
So people can see, is
A writer in me.

This course, some call it a workshop and few other by some other sophisticated names. However, the hosts name it "Fiction Writing". Ah! Nice and convenient, don't you think? The place they have was, once upon a time, a house. I must commend the organisation (pay special attention to the 's') on the facelift they have given to the rather indifferently designed domicile (which I owe to the lack of taste on the part of the Architect). However, withstanding the urge to describe vividly the location or the workshop itself, which I take the honour (and now the 'u') to leave for another occasion, allow me to present to you four short-shorts.

The whole idea of these shorties, as I lovingly call them, is to evoke the senses. You either say, "it makes sense," or blurt out in outrage "complete nonsense"! Whichever, I dedicate this post to all my blog readers. And considering the fact that this is the "unholy" numbered post, thirteen, I shall spend a few days in solitude and dare not see the comments! Note that these stories do not necessarily have a definite conclusion, and utmost care has been exercised to make sure that my readers will use their imagination to further the ideas (wink... wink...).

Here we go...

Shorty 1:
Raj opened the quaint kitchen cupboard. Like always he was immediately swept away by the strong aroma that emanated from the most exotic spices being stocked in there by his mother. As the pressure cooker blared for the fifth time, an indication of the exquisite Vegetable Palau being ready, bringing him back him back from the world of smells, she turned the knob on the gas stove anti-clockwise, the blue flames flickered for a moment and plunged the bottom of the vessel into darkness. He waited, doing nothing, until excitement got the better of him. He slowly slid the cover open, the steam gently swept past his face warming his cheeks. He closed his eyes, momentarily, and allowed himself to be taken away by the intermingled aroma of cinnamon, cloves and Bay Leaves. The dish looked imperial. The fine grains of rice were bedecked with finely cut vegetables, cloves seemed to have hid themselves with the depths of the dish, a couple of Bay Leaves, as if immersed in sand, peered out at him. He plucked a spoon from the utensil rack. The spoon slipped into the dish with enormous ease. He scooped up a spoonful of Palau, allowed it to cool down for a few seconds and put it into his mouth. The spicy, perfectly cooked dish evoked a heavenly feeling within as it made its journey into his stomach. No doubt his stomach was going to feel satisfied, but what mattered most was that his Soul was satisfied.

Shorty 2:
A new day has come. Prashant and Sindhu have been waiting for this very moment of the day. Sindhu looked into the deep brown eyes of Prashant, finding solace in the warmth of his kind gaze. Holding hands they walk up a flight of steps to the office of Jeevanashraya on the first floor of a very old building. Prashant saw that the matron was waiting for them by the entrance; a small boy of three clutching the veil of her Sari peered from behind her right knee. Her kind voice flowed when they met her at the entrance, “Abhinav, meet mummy and daddy.”

Shorty 3:
Suresh felt a lump in his throat that refused to budge and his left nostril was completely blocked. He stared at his morning breakfast – his favourite bread-butter-jam. As he munched the first bite, he felt as if he had bitten off a piece of cloth that could neither be chewed nor be swallowed. His sore eyes strained at the sandwich in his hand. It looked as if two miniature white mosaic tiles had been stacked one over the other with a layer of mud in between and an edge had been roughly chiselled off.

Shorty 4:
Angeline stood at the foot of a hillock, the name of which was unknown to her and to the group she had set out with. On top stood a Church, stark white and it looked immaculate in the distance. The hillock looked like a person stripped off of his clothes, bare and barren. The deserted, steep road uphill gave her the creeps. She shuddered as she envisioned dark hooded creatures lurking in and around the Church.

I shall watch you, forever

2009-10-28T23:02:00.014+05:30

All I had to give

All I had to live

It was my love for you

My son

I hold you...

I had waited for long

I had prayed along

The emptiness was haunting

You came by,

My life, got a meaning...

I saw you cry and smile

I saw you grow all the while

From my finger to thin air

You clutched,

And walked ahead, my life...

I saw the dreams you hold

I saw the places you told

You wanted to be the man

All I wished,

Was for you to touch the stars...

I have run out of time to live

I have this blessing to give

Holding your hands I whisper

From the stars above,

I shall watch you, forever.

P.S.: This post is dedicated to all the fathers in the world who hold a lot of dreams for their children (though this poem speaks about a son, but one is free to substitute it with a daughter too). :-) Cheers!

Nothing to Lose

2009-10-19T16:31:00.022+05:30

Day's Dark

Evil lurks;

Hungry shark

Demon smirks

Stealthy prowl

Thoughts astray;

Fragile Soul

Taken away

Road ends

No refuge;

Rips, rends

Storm, deluge

Crimson horizon

Silent screams;

Heavens emblazon

Shattering dreams

Chill bracing

Encompassed gloom;

Satan's rising

Impending doom

Shackles free

Rage violent;

Diabolical spree

Soulless advent

Innocence fraction

Kindness deplete;

Self destruction

Finally, complete.

The meadow that was once beautiful

2009-10-11T17:16:00.034+05:30

The weather had turned hostile, clouds as dark as the gloominess within, the ominous lightening threatening to split the earth into half, he stood there... All by himself, not a soul in sight, very high, overlooking the canyon beyond. Casting his eyes on the sweeping expanse that lay still in front of him, he felt an unusual emptiness within. His mind was clouded by the myriad of retrospective thoughts that came creeping up, making him restless by the minute.

He thought he was losing control of himself when for a brief moment he felt his vision blur. His sharp eyes had swelled. He was trying hard not to shed a tear, but a trickle had dared escape an eye. It went plummeting down below to the dry canyon floor that would in a few moments be soaked by the downpour. A tiny speck of dust puffed up as the lone droplet hit the ground. He did not see it. He had held his head high, like that day, staring at the inky sky above, making futile attempts to hold back his tears.

He remembered the day he had met her. Beautiful she was. He had heard his heart beat ever so loudly. He flinched suddenly, his heart missing a beat, when she had looked at him through starry eyes. She must have heard his heartbeats. The merry birds chirping, the rattling of the bamboo trees in the distance as they brushed against each other, the hollow wind whooshing past at sporadic intervals... All that racket, and yet she had looked straight at him. He had wanted to look away, but his gaze had fixed itself permanently at her stunning beauty... as if being attracted by a strong magnetic force. At the call, she had turned away and left, back into the woods. He thought she had given him a last look of assurance, "We will meet again".

He had stayed there for a good while hoping against all odds that she would return, "May be now..." It was monsoon. A cool, rejuvenating breeze swept past him, as he, as if to soak in the climate, closed his eyes and craned his neck skywards. He felt a single droplet of water slip down his silky neck, it was going to rain... and in a few moments as he stood still with his eyes closed, it rained. The meadow looked magnificent, its glory spellbinding, his heart leapt with joy as he slowly spread out his feathers, his green and gold plumage looking larger than life. He danced.

An age had passed since she had returned, this time forever into his life. They were left to themselves again; the retrospective past replaying the evergreen moments when they had met again. The days they spent with each other were glorious, the love only getting more intense, the binding grew stronger as they were blessed with countless offspring. All of them had found their mates, and now it was time again to spend the rest of the moments in life with each other. They had spent countless days wondering what kept them bound to each other, and only each other. It was him and her, and the ever so magnificent meadow at their expanse.

Another age had passed as they grew older, but even so fonder... he recollected today as he stood at the edge of the cliff. He remembered, the fateful day... She looked terribly ill; she could not stand on her slender feet. She tried to fake, to show him she felt fine, but he knew she was not. She had been paralyzed. He had assured her to return with food. He had fed her lovingly, for days... He tried to look strong, taking extreme care not to cry; trying to fill her with hope and strength all the time. He had come to this cliff a thousand times to vent out, all alone, before returning back to his sweetheart.

Today, he would not go back...

Oct 14, 2009 12:20PM IST
After long time spent thinking if I should reveal the suspense or not, I finally decided to give. The idea for this fiction flashed in my mind when I saw an advertisement for a program to be telecast on Discovery Channel. For a few seconds they flashed a small clip of a peacock standing at the edge of a cliff, in some sort of deep contemplation. Hence, this post is dedicated to the peafowls.

Savior

2009-10-04T03:01:00.005+05:30

Rock steady was her will,

Like the sole boulder

At the edge of the cliff,

Demonic forces strike -

Battered; Unshaken.

Fend for herself she had

For the kin had forsaken,

Strangers claimed akin -

Transparent and shallow

The eyes had learned.

Weathered by the forces,

Strode ahead strong,

Freckles divulge volumes

Of countless brave deeds,

Defying the conventional.

Peace must befall her,

Debts unpaid forever,

The struggle must end,

Redemption be gifted -

Silent life of a Savior.

All, An Illusion

2009-09-27T16:12:00.009+05:30

The loss has been too immense,

Can't figure out, It made no sense,

Heart has found no way to comprehend,

Again, Nature found a way to offend.

Mind will forget the day of the dead,

Time will heal, The mourners bade,

Effortless in speech than to feel,

Heart shall replay the cruel ordeal.

Life moves on before eyes can blink,

All is well until the last drink,

An age can pass with forgetful ease,

Memories, No cure for this disease.

The Force chooses to stay in mute,

Time not enough to reach its root,

Why have we to suffer such pain,

The Soul probed hard, All in vain.

Mystical Angel

2009-09-22T21:57:00.007+05:30

An Angel was born yet again,

One that had left, Had reigned pain,

To lift the burden of unforgivingness,

Had this beautiful Angel come to bless.

Her dear ones held her high,

Life had thrived that was once wry,

A new meaning had souls found,

Happiness and Joy in Hearts abound.

A heart so sweet that gave them strength,

They found it all and wanted no wealth,

They offered their breaths to life's extent,

So the Angel could find nothing to vent.

Almighty's bundle of Joy was this Angel,

Impossible for him to part with such a treasure,

Enough of waving the Happy Wand, He said,

Singing a lullaby to His Angel, "Get to bed".

Day had cried, the Clouds had shed,

Weary eyes had turned watery red,

No way will the lives find a new light,

The Sun has decided to never shine bright.

Trash Can Musings (Series): #2 - Promised Land

2009-08-29T13:51:00.024+05:30

Read Episode 1 here.

"Greens Botanical Garden" the Foreman directed the driver along the map he held against the body of the truck, indicating to him the major landmarks and detours. The truck, a mammoth yellow Volvo FH, that was going to transport us all to our final destinations, looked vibrant, glittering in the mid-day sun all set to elegantly cruise the not-so-elegant stretches of asphalt. I feel sorry for those tyres of this majestic behemoth that wear out steadily running tirelessly, probably unwillingly sometimes, carrying the heavy burden of the load. It seemed as if being at the mercy of the whimsical needs of these humans has been a mundane routine to these innocent victims. What do they get in return? A few kicks and several hard taps with a club everytime they roll a stretch, only to check if the air pressure's fine! "To hell with these humans" my heart bellowed in a silent scream of horror, instantly drawing my thoughts back to myself. It did not really surprise me to have sympathized with the stark black rings of vulcanized rubber. After all, we are the victims of "transformation" - a game humans find so amusing; a sense of unprecedented settling and achievement settling in when they "transform".

Maggot was standing close, close to me. He seemed engrossed, violently skimming through the stack of papers he held in his hand. Trying not to be intrusive, I requested "Take it easy, Maggot. You are going to tear them apart. Hey, can I have a look?" He did not hear a thing, I suppose. "Humans!" I said to myself. They wouldn't let me look into what's going on, yet their audacity allows them the liberty to deal with me and my destiny. I kept watching him while he put away with all except one sheet of paper.

I tried to take a peek, but the side of the paper facing me was blank. I tried to decipher from what I could see through the paper. "Maggot, is everything all right with the numbers in the Invoice?" the Foreman asked Maggot, startling him to the point that the Invoice slipped off his hand. The paper floated in the air, swayed for a while before settling down, right in between my opened beak. Embarrassed, Maggot sheepishly replied "All is fine, Sir. I have checked the numbers. But, these bastards are charging us a fortune". The Invoice was right below my eyes. I tried to roll my eyeballs downwards, towards the Invoice. In a spike of agony, my heart cried "Curse you humans" - I couldn't see beyond a straight line. The realization of this horrific fact sent a chill down my spine. As if to pull me back to my senses, in one jerky motion the Foreman pulled the Invoice towards him. He scoffed, "They sure as hell extort! Nothing we can do about it." All I managed to see in between the brief ordeal and mental agony I went through was "Hallelujah Transports Company" printed in large bold letters at the top of the damned paper. A sudden spike of irony popped up in my mind, "Trashy! Hallelujah!".

"Hey! You there. Get moving or you don't take home the bacon." the Foreman bellowed angrily.

"Good Lord!" It seemed as if the earth below me had vanished all of a sudden, a feeling of being uprooted from the state of being at peace with oneself. I was air-borne. A shabby person, his hair unkempt, his physique average was holding me by my folded hands. These hands served more as an instrument to pick me up rather than providing me an earthly shape. The man seemed ailing, his breathing was labored and he kept coughing all the while he walked up the wooden ramp and placed me alongside my mates in the truck. For once, I thought I could've sympathized with a human. I wished Maggot and the Foreman treated this destitute laborer with some heart. I surprised myself. I had wished well for someone not akin, a Human!

I realized that I was the last one in, when after I was placed and secured the doors slammed shut.

The profound silence that encompassed the hollow space, resonated harmonically with the silence in my mind; the darkness within the bay, synchronized perfectly with the darkness within my heart - my thoughts had abandoned me, my feelings had crawled away into the darkest labyrinths of forgetfulness. I tried to adjust my vision to focus on something. Anything! My life had been eclipsed by all that had transpired and I found no hopes of release from this curse. There was going to be no salvation from the sins I had not committed.

A sudden jerk indicated that the journey to the "promised land" had begun. The ropes that secured us held us snugly against each other - a feeling of oneness started settling in. The warmth of being with the ones I was once a part of brought a sense of peace and completeness. Yet, none of us muttered a word. I guess the feeling of being one again was too overwhelming for any of us to destroy with futile outbursts. Through steep turns and bumpy roads we traveled towards the "promised land" - all in silent grace.

We were there. The Promised Land. Here we would be finally rooted for a very long time to come. I heard the levers turn as the doors unlocked. The gloomy hollow was filled with light. The tantalizing air came rushing in, instantly neutralizing the stale air in the compartment. The light and the air had rejuvenated my spirits, filled me with irrational optimism. A few moments ago, life seemed gloomy, overcast with clouds of uncertainty and spelled impending doom. Right now, all those feelings tricked me, performing a radical vanishing act. I tried hard to remember my ordeal, agitate myself and try to bring the bitterness back - but the sunlight incinerated those thoughts as they raised their hood and the cool breeze blew away the ashes. "Lord, what are these signs? What is happening to me? Have you at last heard the pleas of mercy from my battered and bleeding heart?" I heard no response to my beseeching. I guess I am destined not to be heard by anyone. I guess being rooted where the humans would find suitable, I will lead a rather fruitless life listening listlessly to joy and rants, pleasure and agony, fortune and tragedy, and life and death; occasionally taking in the Trash that would come my way.

Trash Can Musings (Series): #1 - The Birth of Trashy

2009-08-14T18:33:00.006+05:30

Cheers. I am Trashy. My name is not a reflection of my character, rather they named me that way for what I was destined for. I still remember the day, when I was just a blob. "Aargh... This thing is gooey and hot. Careful there. Keep distance from that darn crucible." I heard the foreman tell his new attendant. He called him "Maggot". Maggot was getting too close, and he better stayed away if he knew what was good for him. Taken aback by the sudden alarm raised by his foreman, he stepped back - only a step or two, curiously looking at the mechanical arm carrying the crucible to the moulds. I was gooey and viscous, conjoined with several of my mates waiting for some sort of transformation to happen.

Alas! I could feel myself flowing, involuntarily - the feeling similar to tea being poured out of the kettle. "Is it going to be salvation?" I thought. "Wait and watch," said someone from within me, or was it the foreman, I cannot remember. In a brief moment, I was breathing air - rancid and musty; I was pouring out of the kettle, the crucible, into a mould. "The transformation begins here," I heard the voice again - this time I could guarantee it was the foreman who was now standing close to Maggot, his hand stretched across the shoulder of his young apprentice. The foreman had a smirk on his face - "What is he so proud about? Or is it that the whole thing fascinated him?" How would I know?

I was getting solidified by the moment as I lay silently in the mould. I did not know how long they would allow me to settle. It felt suffocated in there; I needed to get out - break free probably? But how can an inanimate being like myself "break the shackles"? I was stretched, and I was getting more and more stiff. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes into hours - as I lay there - inanimate, helpless, haplessly trying to scream my lungs out "Let me free. I cannot take this constriction any more". All hopes of "salvation" seemed to be wading off. All in vain did I try to make them listen to my desperate pleas for mercy and freedom. "It's time," I heard him say - "Thank God" I said hoping against all odds that I was finally going to be set free. The hopes of salvation and freedom came back to me - "I am going to be free," I yelled in joy to my mates. A ceremonious cheer erupted; but the world seemed unfazed - it seemed as if they were deaf! I was happy and contemplating on flowing, rather slowly, again. What if I am gooey and might not be able to flow like water? Being able to flow at will is a better proposition than being trapped in a mould!

I could feel the mould detaching, and I was going to be "on the move" in a matter of seconds. Seconds passed, the mould detached - I couldn't move a muscle. "What have you done to me?" I asked Maggot who was feverishly inspecting me. "Maggot, I demand to know what you have done to me!" I asked again, but he seemed to have not heard a thing. "Superb!" he exclaimed. "What are you so excited about? Why can't I move a muscle, Maggot?" I was getting restless and then the answer struck me like lightening, when the foreman exclaimed "Look what we have here! Our very first TRASH CAN!" "A Trash can? I am a Trash Can?!" "Our brand of Trash Cans will be called 'TRASHY'" the Foreman exclaimed. The smirk on the Foreman's face, the excitement of Maggot was now coming into perspective. "Trash can? Trashy?" the words seemed to perpetually reverberate in my ears. I was a flowing viscous liquid just a while ago, I contemplated flowing upon the contours of this earth for ages to come - all those dreams seemed to have been trashed. It seemed as if they crumpled my dreams; adding insult to injury they throw the ruins of my dreams back into me "like Trash!"

It's been a couple of days since I have been this way. I am now packed neatly and am part of a consignment to be delivered. They wouldn't tell. It seems they have decided that they were going to write my destiny. The machines have been tenderer than those humans, when they lovingly painted me. I couldn't look at my own avatar, but I could guess they must have given me the shape and then painted me like a penguin - I could see my other shiny mates! I heard my mates spreading the rumors that they were going to place us at various locations in a botanical garden. I have heard a lot of people come there; each one's purpose of coming different from the rest. I wish they put me close to a seating. I hope they would be kind enough to grant me at least one wish! May be being close to people and listening to their conversations would dilute the sadness, bitterness, and all that I have endured in my life.

Read Episode 2 here.

Hands of Art

2009-08-07T23:53:00.008+05:30

"Dexterity of the hand is a God gift. But, unless you realize you have been blessed with a wonderful boon all that dexterity is lost in utter ignorance. Can anyone, out of the blue, out of nowhere, draw a sketch of an adorable child? Peeping slightly from behind the edge of a brick wall, innocence in the eyes of the child, and at the same time an inviting smile gleams from his face making his onlookers gaze upon the masterpiece with stupefied awe. How I wonder, if I could draw the masterpiece myself!" I thought gazing at that simply framed charcoal sketch hanging from a simple nail about 6 feet from the floor, on the wall facing the entrance to the house.

"Are you talking about a series of paintings and sketches, hung at strategic locations on the walls of a house. A house that belonged to an extremely talented artist of yore whose name, fame and mortal remains have been hidden away in the deepest crevasses of the earth, never to be remembered again? A house that has now been converted into a museum, by those who believed in the talent of this long forgotten artist?" - some questions that might arise in the minds of the readers. But, the answer to all the queries is "NO". I have been describing the handwork of one of my extremely talented friends, who has won the love and respect of all his friends and relatives by his simplicity. By simplicity I mean simplicity in living, simplicity in words and simplicity in his extraordinary deeds of artwork.

Who said a painting needs extravagant and bright colors? "Ask my friend." All he needs to amaze you is few charcoal pencils and a sharpener. These simple looking pencils draw amazing lines and curves on a sheet of white drawing paper when it falls in his dexterous hands, finally yielding an extraordinary piece of artwork. No color other than simple black-and-white. Emphasis on different aspects beautifully conveyed by means of varying the intensity in shadings.

The hands draw joy and suffering with equal grace. A painting hung close to the one described earlier would definitely bring the onlooker to tears. The agony on the face that has been meticulously drawn is of unbearable pain and suffering endured to seek forgiveness for the sins of the common man. Christ, having been crucified on the cross which had been laden on him, the weight of which would cripple a soul instantly, his face bloody and battered by the crown of thorns crowned mercilessly by his executioners - looks mercifully and benevolently at the common man sympathizing with him, reassuring cleansing of all his sins. Two sketches hang side-by-side in deep contrast with each other - one explicitly displaying serenity of life and the other implicitly describing the horrendous sins of mankind.

A tribute to this great artist, who I believe would one day awe the world by his masterpieces and earn the respect of his contemporaries, is the least I could do to show my respect. Blessed are those hands that draw such amazing creations. Blessed I am, for I have been privileged to be his friend. The world calls him Vignesh, I call him "The Charcoal Genius".

When it rains... - Part 2

2009-07-31T15:25:00.003+05:30

(...Continued)

I shook my head to bring myself back in to the world of reality. By then the water level had risen up to the level of the silencer, or I must say when I was "night"-dreaming I had driven deep into a lane where the water level was already at knee level. You might ask, "How do you know the water was at knee level?" Because, that is when I decided that if I had moved further I would definitely be washed away! And then I knew I had to turn back and go back to that blessed "fork in the road". It was going to be dirty, it was going to be eeeeewww... - but it had to be done. So unwillingly and regretfully I lifted my right foot up the foot-rest and sent it plummeting down, plunging it into unknown territory. The water splashed a bit. Need I say, it wasn't the same blissful feeling I would have got plunging the same foot into a swimming pool or a clean lake? I could feel the water seeping through my denims, my shoe was wet and soggy, so was the sock. I am sure you now know how I gauged the level of filth?!

My heart was heavy for having put myself through this. Soon I realized the right foot seemed heavy too! With the shoe having soaked a gallon full of muddy, filthy, water (probably the drainage water would have contributed more to the misery too) and the sock giving a not-so-good feeling I strainfully (that was a little exaggerated, but was much needed!), yet skillfully maneuvered my vehicle around. The left foot was now feeling choked and was weeping for the agony the right foot went through. I heaved a sigh of "agony", and vowed to my right foot that I wouldn't attempt another heroic act like this. I threw a glance at the road ahead of me, never even bothering to look back at the legacy I left behind! I accelerated and moved on ahead.

After having passed, rather unscathed, from the ordeal, I was now positioned at the same fork-in-the-road. This time I knew where I had to go. Not the left. Straight ahead...

THE END

When it rains... - Part 1

2009-07-20T16:17:00.004+05:30

Today (whatever the day is, I bother not to specify because you wouldn't remember if it was today or tomorrow at the end of this post!) as any other "rainy" day in Bangalore was cloudy, gloomy and threatening enough to make you think if you should carry your raincoat. But, I knew better - about the rains here. All the glare, stare, intimidation and threats are like one of those chain mails that ask you to forward the same "crap" to all the people in your mail box, failing which your neighbor might not see the daylight or sunset depending on the time of the day you took the decision "not" to send the mail. Likewise, the rains here threaten you to carry your raincoat failing which you might disappear into a manhole that was specifically opened for you to make the "stinky ethereal" travel. In short, empty threats.

And when the Rain God decides that it's time to get a few souls cleansed by throwing a downpour the situation gets heavenly, er... messy. Something that happened to me a few weeks back. I threw a glance at the path to my rest room (which essentially means my house", not the toilet), I cursed myself for not purchasing a raft, instead shelling out a fortune on a car that I seldom drive. I let out a sigh, and decide that I "will" take the plunge and start riding my motorcycle (or floating?). I look at the dividers and curse them for acting as a barricade, a damn dam, sustaining the water onto the wrong side of the road (which is exactly where I am driving right now) - mind you, this was exactly the same concrete stuff I was feeling proud of a week back when it was sunny, because of the ingenious idea the corporation deployed such that desparate commuters wouldn't uproot the normal puny dividers to quickly sneak through to the other side of the road. "Oh well!", I say, and I move on with the journey.

I reach a fork in the road, and I know that both ones would eventually trace back to my rest room and would take approximately the same duration of time. I could either go straight or I could either take a left and I chose to take the left which to my grave misfortune would eventually result in the most disappointing decision made in my life. I move on and strike a main road - not far from here I see a car half submerged in water. I made a self-assessment and decided, thanks to my incredible intellect, that "half-submerged car = fully-submerged bi-cycle" and decided to take a detour, get back onto the same main road through another route a little ahead of the waterlogged area. The detour and many other detours that I eventually resorted to where all as impassable as the main road. The moment of truth had arrived, I could either take the "plunge" and drive through or I could go back to the fork where I had taken the decisive executive decision to turn left. I knew I was going to regret the decision, but I decided to get my hands dirty. I slowly and carefully drive my vehicle, praying to God to not arrange for a meeting with a manhole that could end my journey on Planet Earth and send me plummeting down to the deepest crevasses of the earth right into Satan's lair... ahem! Getting back to reality... The water level rose steadily and it took me not more than 10 seconds before I could imagine my motorcycle half submerged and stalled in the stinking river.

... to be continued

As I look outside my window

2009-07-09T18:37:00.006+05:30

As I sit here in front of my laptop on my office desk, lab desk rather, I was looking through the window right in front of me. Gazing outside the window I see a vast expanse of land covered in green, the horizon showing me the silhoutted grandeur of scenic blue mountains. And somewhere far away in the gorge I see a small river making its way, around the mountains flowing, everyday, religiously, no matter what comes in its way; finding its way through the obstacles. I can clearly see the shimmering of the water from here, right here from my desk and I am soaking in the atmosphere outside from this enclosed space; freezing under the effect of the air conditioner and yet desiring to be there than here. But all these picturesque views from the half-tinted half-clear glass-covered window are all what I imagine sitting from here, at my lab desk, while what I actually see is no close to the fantasy I dream of everytime I see outside the glass.

Let's glance back at each of the fantasies I wish I would visualize everytime I look... "I see a vast expanse of land covered in green, the horizon showing me the silhoutted grandeur of scenic blue mountains". I gaze outside and I expect to see far into the horizon, but the vision has been blocked. I try to penetrate cement and concrete, I do not know why I think I have the powers of Superman to see through things, but in vain. I wonder what it is that is stopping me from looking far into the horizon, throwing a disappointing look at the under-construction Apartment, almost complete, rising right into the sky. So much for the vast expanse and so much for the grandeur of the mountain. But hey, do I need to get so disappointed? All I wanted to see was a mountain! Isn't it right here? If I could imagine of things that are NOT, why not imagine this monstrosity blocking my view to be a mountain? All right, life isn't that hard after all. If not the natural mountain, here I am awe-struck (or am I?) by the man-made sculpted mountain.

"And somewhere far away in the gorge I see a small river making its way, around the mountains flowing, everyday, religiously, no matter what comes in its way; finding its way through the obstacles." Life takes a twist here. Water flowing around obstacles? Oh yes, what if there is no free-flowing water of the river originating from a place very sacred? - there could be a river created because the Rain God has decided to gift a donwpour for me to see the river that I longed to see! And suddenly it rained. "What luck!" I said. And thanks to the municipality, for the ill-formed drainage system, we have a free-flowing river on the road in a matter of minutes. True to my imagination, the divider on the road is not an obstacle for the water to change lanes!

It may not be picturesque, and it may not be the way I imagined it to be. Nevertheless, I still see what I want to see, but in a re-incarnated way - imaginative, yet serving the purpose. Now I sit here in contemplation looking outside my window. Do I want to see the fantasies manifested artificially or break out and see the glory of nature? "Born Free" and "Dead Bonded"? The glass is half-tinted and half-clear, and so is my life - half-tinted and half-clear. I do not know what I want to do and yet I know where I want to be. A question arises, my mind shifts gears - "When is it time?"