Time

Time. The thing that once gone makes even the most successful person long for it. The last few months flew by me, while I was just sitting on the pavement, watching the cars bearing the dates on their door pass me by. The cars sped by with so much speed, that it dazed me for some time, and so much so that I couldn’t even make out the number on some of those. Even today, as I sit in one of the cars that did stop, I repent my inability to flag the others down. The feeling of loss for the time gone by makes me laugh sheepishly at my own mistake. The nervous laughter that emits from my mouth clearly indicates what I actually feel, the look in my eyes cementing the feeling in place. No matter what I say, what excuses I make up, the thing always remains, the amount of time that has gone by is astronomical. Time, just like water, follows past you no matter what ever you may try. If you try to put in your hand in the stream, the water would just flow past the hand, through the cracks. No matter what you try or do you cannot stop the flow of water, since ultimately it has to go back to where it belongs, the cycle of life. So is time also a part of the cycle of life, does the time lost at some point of time return back to you at some later day? Or does the time not return, rather comes back to haunt you? And when in fact it comes, is the haunting doubled or tripled, making the cost of one month in the past into three months in the future? One thing is for sure, time is never wasted. Maybe it is used in something’s that could decide the next course of life. Could I be missing the point here? Was I to busy just watching the cars pass me by to see the people that walked along on the pavement behind me, now and then, inquiring about why was I not walking along with them? Was it my fault that I stopped on the Path of Life, just because the speed scared me? The fact that if I had walked along the path, the speed of the cars could have appeared slower makes a timid motion from the back benches. The fact simply stands up and says, “What if?” to which I have no reply. Hanging my head in shame I step down from the car, and walk back to the house just across the street, the house that harbours the repenting souls that are dissatisfied, the House of Life. As I take a walk along the wall looking at the Tapestry of Life, I can see the strands that have broken away from it and now hang loose. These strands of the thread make me believe for a moment that there is in fact a single quick fix solution to make things right. That solution is to use a cello tape and to join everything together to the best of ability. But then when I really try to get down to do the thing, it seems to me that the solution is as mentioned nothing but a quick fix one. My mind wonders, “What if I take up a needle and a few extra threads and spent time carefully sewing back the unsettled threads.” What then? Would this stitching hold? Or by the time I finish one of the ends the other one would start to unravel. One thing is for sure, no matter how hard I try threads would always spring up from the tapestry. But the only thing I hope is that these threads are in fact from the farther ends, so that they don’t trouble me.

Even as the owls start to yawn, I sit in the front of the computer smack in middle of the night, with nothing else on my mind except as to how I wasted the last few months, my mind begs me to reconsider the fact that what is gone, has gone and that time has already left the building, you cannot do anything about it, at least not by writing things in metaphors, things that you think mean something but sadly would make even an ounce of sense to people, because it is too abstract, nah who am I kidding here, because it is too much of bullshit (:D).

Writer's Block

Sitting here in the front of my window,
I think to myself what is that compels me,
To be here with a pen and paper?

Is it the story that is doing rounds in my head
Or the article on a topic I feel strongly about?
Or maybe it is the poet in me that wishes to express himself.

Should I write about the big sun in the sky,
Or about the white moon, small in comparison,
Waiting around the corner for its turn?

Should I write about the dream I had last night,
Or about the incident that happened yesterday,
Reality or something that makes your mind soar?

Should I write about the harsh realties of life,
Or build castles in air,
Enabling someone to live in them?

Should I write about the wind in my hair,
Or the tree that fell outside my home today,
Broken by the relentless gusts of air?

My mind fills up with images,
Images of my childhood,
Images that fill volumes.

But alas my hand as ever,
Poised in front of the paper with touching it,
Gripping the pen with force.

What should I write about?
Other than writing a poem,
About not being able to write?

Give Me...

Give me love; I’ll honor it,

Give me advice; I’ll follow it,

Give me hope; I’ll live with it,

Give me hate; I’ll burn with it,

Give me money; I’ll buy with it,

Give me a pen; I’ll draw with it,

Give me knowledge; I’ll spread it,

Give me a word; I’ll write a song with it,

Give me a character; I’ll write a story with it,

But then give me life; so that I can do good with it.

Introspection

Quite recently I became embroiled in a situation that, I had hoped I wouldn’t have to face until much later. But as it is there are some things in life that are never meant to be. It had been too naïve of me to call together a group of so-called ‘like-minded people’ that I had handpicked from my own classmates, creating a storm that I hadn’t even anticipated in my wildest dreams. That particular event, all of it, from my ‘stupidity’ to the long hours spent to pacify people who never even wanted to calm down, taught me one thing- people will misinterpret everything you do, just because what you did was something that hurt their sense of being, even though they know at the back of their minds that the thing you did was the correct one. The main thing that stung me was the fact that during the course of entire conversation or discussion as you might call it, I was constantly reminded of the fact explicitly that this was not a personal attack at my integrity or my sense of judgment, something that hadn’t even knocked on the doors of my mind even once. All the time I was under the impression that people had questioned just my actions and nothing more, but the fact remained that my motives, though clearly stated to everyone, were been put to scrutiny by people who sadly believed that everyone in this world works for only himself. That evening after the fateful meeting I spent more than 5 hours into deep conversations with people, even though others on my side gave up and simply left because they couldn’t take this closed mind concept anymore. I had to tap down into my deepest reserve of self control just not to raise my voice and make those in doubt see the light at the end of the tunnel as clearly as I could but alas, their eyes were so hazy with smoke of burnt egos that they couldn’t even make out me standing there less than a feet away, stretching a hand out in order to guide them to outside the door. Those on the opposite camp, when asked who they would pick up if they were in my shoes gave the same names. This was one thing that didn’t make sense at that particular point of time. But more I thought about it, the more I became aware of the underlying question, hidden behind those replies that I received- why is that you did not pick me? The answer was so simple that it could not be even grasped by the ever over-thinking minds that raised doubts. I just said that based on the past record that I am aware of I caught hold of people, people I knew would work, taking care to bake the cake without wishing to take a piece for themselves. To this came back the inevitable reply- I was not given the proper platform in order to showcase my talents. To this I could only sit there and make no comment. What would you reply when people say like that? For one whole year you live in the same place, interact everyday and then you say you didn’t get the chance? The fact remained somewhere in the minds, who gave him the authority. The word authority demines the thing that I did. What I did was just to take the matters into my own hands, at a time when nobody else bothered to. Where were the naysayers then? Sleeping in their holes, waiting until somebody pushed a hot iron down their throats? Where were these huge egos when I was trying to take a small step in making this a better place to live? I don’t say what I did was completely correct but then again I also am not saying I was completely wrong. All these things lie in the gray area, with the decision to term them either black or white resting solely with the listener after and I say only after listening to the both sides of the story. At the end I can only say this- it is does not matter what you think about what you did, what matters is how many egos were burnt in the process. Just one thing makes me feel good, thankfully this happened at a low level and not at corporate level where I could lose my job over all this!

Losing Her

That morning, i woke up to find that
Skies were overcast and a feeling of
Foreboding was upon my heart.
As I strode around the house,
I chanced upon her lying in a heap,
In the middle of the room.

Rushing to her, i tried waking her up,
But she didn’t respond,
Several tries and cries later,
She still hadn’t budged.

In a vain attempt i tried waking her
Once more, but alas my luck,
To no avail. In desperation,
I called up a doctor friend of mine.

He came at once to my house,and
Knelt down beside her,
But soon looked at me with those graves eyes,
It was the i understood that,
I had lost the only one i could call mine,
My Lappy.

Memory of a Memory

Staring at the blank page,
In front of me
Thinking of something to write,
I chanced upon your face,
Among my wanderings through memories.

I saw your eyes,
The most beautiful ones
Till date for me,
Blue color like that of the sky.

I saw your heart,
That you wore on your sleeves,
Pure as gold, the only
Thing you said you’ll give me.

But then your face vanished
Like a puff of smoke,
On a windy day, leaving nothing but a
Memory of a memory.

Riverside

Standing on the riverside one day,
I could see the trees going green,
Birds chirping, and the wind was new,
But alas morbid thoughts swam in my mind.

Thoughts of failure, of love lost,
Thoughts of life and death,
Thoughts of money,
And that of crushed dreams.

Getting up I walked along the riverside,
Seeing the blue water through misty eyes,
Sadness at the way I choose to leave this world,
Apprehension at what lay ahead.

I saw then a child,
Not more than eight years of age,
Crying as he waded into the welcoming,
Dreaded waters of the river.

Wading into the water up to him,
I asked gently, “What is it, child?”
To which he gave an answer,
“My ball is in the river.”

Picking up the child,
I took him to the shore,
Murmuring assurances that I would get his ball,
And with that went into the river.

I strode into the blue water,
Up to my waist,
Before I could see the ball,
Bright blue in color, hidden in the depths.

I put my hand into the water,
Reaching down into the riverbed.
But the ball eluded me,
Like the cunning fox eludes the hunter.

Again I tried, harder this time,
Putting my hand up to the shoulder,
But to no avail because the ball,
Seemed to move to inner depths as soon as it felt my touch.

Looking up I could see the child,
Yonder on the distant bank,
Still crying softly,
With tears running down his cheek.

Harder I tried,
Time and again,
But these tries were just failures,
Not unlike I faced in my life.

Then when I lost all hope,
And with desperation I plunged,
My hand into the water,
With all the force I could muster.

Wonders of wonder!
I held loft the ball,
That had so far eluded me,
To see the smile creep back unto the child’s face.

Coming to the shore,
I handed the ball back,
To the child, with a smile on my face,
Wiping the tears on his cheek.

I looked into his eyes,
They had a colour I couldn’t make out,
Something stirred inside of me,
A feeling of awe transpired.

The child turned away,
With my feet rooted to the spot,
I could see him walk away,
Leaving no footprints in the sand.

The Choice

Walking down the lane,

I could see thy silhouette in the evening sun,

Like a picture frame,

Making out just outlines I stop,

Trying to distinguish between them,

But alas! For me the sinking sun still holds fire,

I see you waving, clapping,

As you urge me on,

“Don’t just walk, run, dear”,

I come across a fork,

One path going straight and one going left,

If I took the other one I shall lose sight of you much earlier,

Than I would like,

That’s why I took the straight one.

Ghost Train

“I really don’t believe in ghosts”, I said, as I looked out the window. Shaking his head, my friend Manish ruefully said, “You know that you just walk with your eyes closed, don’t you? Have you ever seen air, or seen a word striking the heart, so much so the heart bleeds itself to death? Does that mean these things don’t exist? There is something out there that is way outside our thinking but all the same, it is there. Some thing, somewhere is there. You can always feel its presence, feel the shake in the air around you but you may never see it. Anyway I don’t like the sound of the word ‘ghost’. That sounds like something that is bad. I hope you have heard of ‘Atma’? You must have. There is this Atma inside all of us, which in fact is connected to the Supreme Being. Our bodies are nothing, but a covering a hide that it has to wear. After we die, the Atma inside is free from this earthly guise, and free to go back, back to whence it came. Sometimes, the death occurs far before the Gods ordained it to. So, there is some work that is incomplete that the Atma has to do before it can be freed. Oh God! Stop rolling your eyes at me! Its impossible to talk to people like you!” Manish heaved a great sigh and went to sleep.

We were in the first class compartment of a train that was to take us, two students of Political Science at the Delhi University, to Utare where Manish’s grandfather had his home. During the night, our conversation had steered from the annals of politics to the talk of ghosts. Manish maintained that they existed for sure but I, ever the cynic, thought this was something that was made up just to scare small children. Our argument had reached such heights that our co-passengers, bewildered at the two young men obviously from good homes shouting at the top of their voices, left the compartment quite hurriedly. By morning, barring us two and an old wizened man the compartment had completely emptied out. Taking in the savoury feeling of having a compartment to ourselves in this huge rush season, that too in the morning, we both took as much space as humanely possible and fell down to sleep. I woke up to find the old man staring at me as if he was contemplating something. Stifling a yawn, I glanced down to see that we still had a good seven hours journey left. Beaming at him, I took a swig out of my water bottle and out of courtesy, offered it to him. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed my gesture but with a smile added, “Thanks but I have my own bottle.” Trying to make small talk, I informed him of our intention to go to Utare and meet Manish’s grandfather, gesturing up at the seemingly lifeless body that just grunted and rolled over to the other side. The old man told me that he also incidentally was going to Utare.

“I could not help overhearing the argument between you two during the night about ghosts”, he said. “Guess it was hard to miss, since we were shouting at the top of our voices”, I said with a grin as I crossed my legs, hoping my gesture would convey to him that my interest in the conversation was over. But that thought evidently did not occur to him. “You know, I also did not believe in all this stuff, until one of my friends had such an experience. He was going to Utare at that time, by this train in fact.” By now my curiosity was sufficiently piqued and I moved closer to listen.

“ My friend, lets call him Anuj, shall we?”, he asked. As I nodded he continued “ Well Anuj was the typical cynic not much like yourself. He was well educated, from a well settled family in Mumbai, and a rather jovial person. I must say he was well-travelled, seasoned in that area he was. With a balanced head between his shoulders, he had the same old flame that I can see in your guys now. Nothing could ever stop him, natural or supernatural. Well, I can talk about him for a long time but, yes the story. Like I said he was well-travelled. But the thing that always remained in his itinerary was Utare. You know why Utare is so famous, don’t you? Well gauging from that look in your face I can confidently say no. I guess in your history classes you have wouldn’t have heard of Raja Loodha? Well, he was a ruler of a small princely state which was barely 100 sq km in size, with his capital at Utare. Well, what he had less, that is land, was made up with the amount of skilled labour he had at his disposal. The princely state of Utarekand was known throughout India for its finest craftsmen and skilled artisans and everyone who wanted to get something done would get on his horse and rush to Utarekand. For a long time, the Raja saw the dealings that went on his state, but he was sad. He wanted something that he was to be remembered for, something that would make people say ‘Aha yes Raja Loodha! I have heard of him. After thinking it over very carefully, the Raja decided to make a monument that would eclipse the greatest monuments ever built on the soil of India? After all, his artisans were famous all over India for their work and he had enough gold in his coffers to convert such an idea into reality. So he called every one of his artisans and told them of his plan. Every bit of it, why he wanted it, how he wanted it, etc. As he motioned them to go and chalk out a plan for all this, one of the artisans present there, I don’t remember his name, stood up, and did something that the rattled the nerves of the people around him. He dared to question the king. He said that although they were the best artisans money could get but still none of those present there had the capability or the vision to make such a thing. With all the artisans looking at disbelief at the utter disregard for His Royal Highness, he slowly explained what he thought could be done. He wanted the Raja to make a monument that contained all the monuments in India , a place where one could stand and see the Sun Temple with his one eye and the Taj Mahal with the other. You know what the good king did? Instead of clamping the artisan in chains for his outspokenness, the Raja went up to him and said ‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time’.” Perceiving my well meant message that I had in vain been trying to convey to him all this time, he hastily added, “Okay now, this was the monument that Anuj wanted to see. So, he packed his bags and took off. Everything went smooth until he got to this train.”

“So, you mean to say that he met a ghost in this train only?” I inquired much to the chagrin of the old man, annoyed that I couldn’t let him continue with his little history lesson. “You want to hear it or not?” I nodded as he continued, “ Well, he had the option of taking other trains, but when he heard about the ghost sightings in the train, ever the cynic, he decided that he would seek to end this gossip for everyone’s sake. So, he spent days and nights, poring over the different accounts of people who say they have seen a ghost in this train. He found that although many of them were just baseless lies, told by people desperate to shine in their own fifteen minutes of fame, some of them matched out. Amongst those too there were discrepancies, some saying the saw an old man or some saying an young man, but the thing that jumped out to him was that the were all centred around to one particular coach, serial no 23BE487 and that the person in question was always seen with the same scar down his neck, a scar that was shaped like the letter S, that appeared out of nowhere. Some also claimed to have spoken to the spirit, but then the chances were pretty slim that a spirit would want to talk to them. They said when they talked with the spirit, the spirit would be like any other passenger in the train, laughing, joking, basically having a good time, but as soon as the train neared a particular spot, which interestingly matched out in almost all legitimate accounts, near the Utare station, the passenger in question would get pretty agitated and started behaving like he was very uncomfortable. Well armed with all this information, Anuj decided to travel on this train. Although a little sceptical, some part of him said this could be true, since when you look at all those accounts that people have given over the years, then you can never look over the uncanny similarities that threatened to jump out of the pages and force you to believe in them. Anyway, he boarded the train with a little apprehension of what he was to see and feel. Finding his berth he sat down, wait what are you doing?” he asked as I started scratching my neck like crazy. “Nothing just felt very itchy all of a sudden.” “Let me see, I was a well-established doctor once, you know, back in ’83 when all was good.” He said as he bent down and took a look at my neck. He shrank back as if he had seen a ghost, going straight out of the compartment, taking his things along with him at a pace that would have put an Olympian Gold Medallist to shame. Unnerved by his action, I started scratching the queer shaped scar that had appeared out of nowhere on my neck.