It’s called a ‘NEW’ year for a reason

01.01.2015

A new year starts today

Let last year’s regrets & sorrows be left at bay

 

Live more, love more & laugh more

Don’t look at any bleak day as an eye sore

 

Just because it’s fanciful you needn’t make a resolution

Most of the times breaking it is the only solution

 

Find your beacon of happiness & treasure your island of hope

Push yourself only to a limit you can cope

 

Don’t be too harsh, give yourself a break

You deserve it for your own sake

 

Stay your dreams, don’t let them go

Even if the learned tell you so

 

Harness your strengths, be your own superman

Give your all to everything you can

 

Polish your mind, dazzle in your sheen

Wish you a wonderful Two Thousand Fifteen

Let my country live

Our country is on the threshold of a long awaited shift – mental and political. Will this change sustain long enough? Will the change initiators and change influencers have good heads on their shoulders? Only time will tell. 

28india1

Courtesy – Google

We have a chance for fair redemption from errors of past

Don’t be selfish when change is upon us

Let my country be born again.

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Rest your ungainly demands for power

Don’t choke us during this fight to the top

Let my country breathe.

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There’s a new wave of emotion running through our veins

Don’t pull back when all is finally falling in place

Let my country live.

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Support those who lead us towards a better future

Don’t be leeches that suck every ounce of progress

Let my country sustain.

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Is the wait too long? – Christmas special

[Why am I not writing? I asked this question to myself often over the last month or so. I still have no idea, I really don’t. But then, inspiration struck today (yay!) and I went back to my old friend senryu. Merry Christmas y’all!]

Decorating-Christmas-Tree-with-Colorful-Lights

Courtesy – Google

Forlorn, unhappy miserable

In the room of happiness

In the room of happiness

The celebrations loud

No one hears the muffled sobs

No one hears the muffled sobs

Or so he thinks

For there is still hope

For there is still hope

In the form of

The little girl with pink bows

The little girl with pink bows

Comes up and touches his browning greens

Her eyes cloud with emotion

 

Her eyes cloud with emotion

“I’ll take you home”, says she

No tree will be unhappy this Christmas

 

Hope

 (This is an old story which I think fit quite well with the new Weekly Writing Challenge on writing a Descriptive Piece)
There is something special about the morning today. The warm sun envelopes her like a soft blanket and discourages her from getting out of bed. The chirping of the birds sounds like a sweet lullaby to her sleepy ears. But she does not let this dampen her plans for the day. She soaks in the tub for a good hour or so, acknowledging the aromatic genius of the bath salts. The freshly laundered Turkish towel feels like cotton wool against her cheeks. Donning her favourite skirt and blouse, she is off to the beach for the ritualistic walk.

The air tastes salty. She can feel silken sand caressing her naked feet. The waves create a beautiful symphony as they crash along the shore. The gentle wind blows about; whispering sweet nothings in her ears. The seagulls call to one another in the far off sea. She imagines young couples walking hand in hand with slow lazy steps. There will be the older children making sand castles and the younger ones parading as sentinels to prevent the destruction of the castles. There is the sound of laughter and merriment coming from all directions – everyone seems to be reflecting her happy state of mind. A hot lemon tea reinvigorates her to the core and she gets back the zing in her step.

Wrapping a jacket tightly around her, she proceeds to her favourite restaurant at the end of the beach. The smell of roasted corn kernels wafts through her senses, creating a tantalizing effect. Without referring to the menu, she orders for the usual. The spluttering of the oil as the bacon rashers sizzle in the pan, the sound of the eggs being gently cracked to make a fluffy omelette, the smell of fresh scones being removed from the oven – all promise to deliver as well as always. She takes a moment to take a deep breath as the food is placed in front of her before digging into the gastronomic pleasure. As a celebration for the advent of this wonderful day, she decides to order a beer instead of the regular dose of raspberry and banana milkshake with extra cream and cherries. The beer tastes like drops of sweet poison sliding down her parched throat.

She is aware of everything going on around her but nothing is successful in perturbing her today. The cars seem to be honking in a weird sort of melody. The clashing of pots and pans, clinking of cutlery, water droplets from an open tap falling in perfect rhythm in the bare kitchen sink, the whirring sound of the radio being tuned, the drone of the ceiling fans, the constant bickering between the waiters and the kitchen staff, the well-timed snoring coming from the adjacent table and the occasional pop of a beer can being opened – all seem to be contributing to orchestrate a perfect harmony.

The way through the fields to the church is her favourite part of the town. The grass swishes under her feet, still wet from the dew last night. Many church goers wish her on her way to the church, and she politely returns the greetings. The church bell gongs and startles her for a moment. She thanks God for this wonderful day and the promise it brings to fulfill her hopes and desires. The sanctity among the church walls calms her, as if asking her to be patient for just a little while more.

She walks to the old age home that she visits every week and spends the afternoon with the elderly. No one fails to notice her excitement, flushed cheeks and the radiant smile. They all are extremely happy for her – she has been waiting too long for this day to arrive. A quick lunch follows and she is on her way back home, after a stopover at the bakery. She purposely takes a longer route across the bridge over the creek. The croaking of a lone frog indicates the arrival of monsoons. She bites into a delicious brioche, strolling through an apple orchard and over a small hillock, where she used to sit for long hours till her mother would come to pick her up after work. But she does not have the time to sit – there is good news waiting to be delivered to her and she does not wish to tarry. She wants to stand on this very hillock and scream out the news to one and all – it is going to be the most memorable day of her life.

On reaching home, she is so deliriously excited that she begins to shiver slightly and has to be helped by her mother to put on the seat belt in the car. Each minute of the drive stretches for what seems like hours. She continuously fidgets with the hem of her skirt as she waits for the verdict to be delivered. The long wait has been extremely excruciating and she knows she surely deserves this chance to happiness.

She can hear her mother’s voice whispering softly and the raspy voice of the other person, as she impatiently walks up and down the corridor; but nothing is audible. By the time she hears her mother approaching, she is shivering so badly that she has to hold on to a chair to steady herself.

“C’mon mom, spill the beans”, she blurts, unable to contain her excitement.

“I’m sorry honey, the doctor said there wasn’t a match. Probably there will be a donor next year……”.

But the next few words by her mother fall on deaf ears as she tries to make sense of the situation. For six years she had looked forward to receive a favourable news, but the unfair world comes crashing down on her head. She wants to scream and wake up from this awful dream. But a sudden hush sweeps over her and she regains her composure. “Yes mom, I’ll get a donor next year”, is what she manages to feebly say.

Once again she is left to fight this darkness alone. Dejected, she steps out of the hospital wearing her large black sunglasses and back to where she was…

A chance to live

(Written for Alastair’s Photo Fiction)

If the rumours were true, I was on my way to get the key to eternal happiness. I was desperate at the time. Exhausted with my broken life. Seeking redemption.

“Find the purple flower with a red shadow growing around the roots of the tallest tree on the banks of the Ganges”, the cherubic monk had said.

It took me 8 months, 21 days, 5 hours and 33 minutes. But I did find the flower.

17-07-july-21st-2013

Photograph by Alastair Forbes

“Run towards the end of this platform and you will see –”

I didn’t wait for him to finish. I ran as I had never run before. The sweet taste of freedom on my lips.

Closer and closer to the darkness. The flower gripped in my sweaty palm.

I was out of breath by the time I opened the Great Oak Door.

What lay ahead surprised me.

“THAT is the key to life’s secret!”, I laughed aloud. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? It was the simplest answer.

What I saw was a –

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Look inside you. Maybe you won’t take that long to find your key. 

 

The First Haiku

Yellow summer morning sun shines 

Shadows melt through blue tinted window grills

New beginning to old end

 

I have been used to writing long winding texts – using words and more words to portray the minutest of details. Descriptions, observations, storytelling – I always felt more comfortable using more words.

Was recently introduced to a newer style of writing – lesser words to provide higher impact. Haiku – an unrhymed Japanese style of poetry. It is diametrically opposite to my usual style of wordy writing, but I’m sure I’ll have as much fun composing my haikus and someday be proudly known as a haiku artist.

An attempt will be made to compose a haiku a day.

Thanks Tarun Mazumdar. You’ve opened a whole new world to me.

I Believe You

I believe you when you tell me the world is a beautiful place

Of blue skies, mighty mountains and the gushing breeze,

Of the colourful birds and the open fields

Of windswept deserts and lush green trees.

 

I believe you when you tell me nothing can go wrong

But you miss the roaring seas waiting to devour me,

And the colourful rainbow that is but a farcical fantasy

Or that endless dreams are not a part of my destiny.

 

I believe you when you tell me that I will always be loved

But you don’t tell me about the black monster out there,

I see it watch me as I go through the chores of life

Wondering if the monster is a giant cuddly bear.

 

I believe you when you tell me that there is a world of opportunities for me

But you don’t tell me how hard I will have to fight and still fail,

How society casts a roving evil eye

Leaving me, at every step, to fight tooth and nail.

 

I believe you when you tell me it is the safest place to be

But what do you say about the shadow that I am pushed towards,

I try to ignore the discomfort by singing my favourite song

But how can I when the monster clamps me shut inwards.

 

I believe you when you tell me that a prince will come and whisk me away

But shouldn’t it feel like I am on cloud nine,

This cruel shadow leaves me by the road, ashamed of myself

I feel unworthy of living, doubting what in this world is mine.

 

I believe you when you tell me the pain will go away

Though I can’t ignore it, try as I might,

I see the helplessness in your eyes as you watch life ebb out of me

But I want you to hold on and continue this fight.

 

I believe you when you tell me it is just a bad patch

But I cannot forget the dark night and the way it changed me,

The constant losing battle with life begins to take a toll

The only wish is to be set free.

 

I believe you when you tell me the journey beyond will be smooth

But I can’t keep my eyes awake to see your smiling face,

I want to soak the sun in my bones and run in the wild

I still believe you when you say the world is a beautiful place.