Thursday, August 11, 2016

Modern Art

courtesy : Google Images

It is colorful everywhere around; blue in the sky and the sea, yellow in the sunlight, brown in the soil and tree trunks, green in the leaves and grass.  Different shades of race in the humans, animals and birds. And when it rained everything unhide its hidden colors.  The seven colors of the Sun, wet brown of the mud, bathed trees and trunks, and dark clouds.  Only human’s safe guards their original color until it rains in their eyes.

From the sky it all looks like an art of a child that played with all colors.  Few places looked liked as if the paints are wrongly mixed; later I found the original color was right but somebody has mixed has poured black and gray to pollute the picture.  Here and there it looked dirty after it was polluted but still the painting remains a master piece – Master’s piece.

A peculiar arrangement has been made to show case the art, to whom is something mystical.  We call it a day but it is the light pointed on the art to show the color with increased brightness.  We call it a twilight but it is the view of the picture in fading light; the changing red, orange and gray light from the sky.  We call it a night but it is an arrangement to show the painting in the white light of the moon.  We call it a no moon day but it to illustrate that the art looks beautiful even when there is no light.

O! My fellow beings, I know not the child who painted the picture. All I know is; to see the art you must look at it as a child that painted.  To appreciate you need not find the artist but find the art.  O! My dear humans, the art need not be corrected nor needs any changes, just do not add any color or erase any color from the painting.  The child that painted needs no appreciation nor praise, just appreciate the art and live with it in beatitude.  The extreme goal given for anything in the art is to stay alive until the child rethinks to modify and not to modify itself.  The more we modify the art the more we are provoking the child to repaint the picture.  And we do not know what that child will do.  Do not grow up and think that it is a child’s painting so that we could change. Sometimes he may white wash it, understand my fellow beings he is a child; you can predict very less about him.

O! My beloved beings that talk about unconditional love, if you think what you do to you children is unconditional love then laugh at yourself, it is all selfishness.  It is not what we show to our little children is unconditional love it is what they show to us.  We corrupt them with materials and money then unconditional remains but love disappears.

If you still think that the greater child that painted our planet could be mesmerized with the offering and money then close your eyes and light to the laughter of that child.  He does not know what you are giving.  He painted tress in brown and green but we are offering him the same in the form of printed papers.  What will he do with it? Whatever given to us is by him and whatever we are trying to give him is his.  O! My poor fellows, listen he is a child digging the mud and taking the diamond as offering to him will not please him.  No not grow up as an adult and bargain with him to he might seem to listen and act up to you but, for he is just a child, he might have a different plan once you settle down.  Be a child alike him, talk and play with him as a child then you would require nothing but the love of him.  This painting is already a modern art, what we see is just a minuscule part of his work.  Do not try and repaint.

Saturday, July 16, 2016

The sea and the wave...

Image courtesy :
When I start I do not know where I will end,
For only the starting is mine, rest flows like a wind.
Life or the poetry, it is just hidden from our eyes,
To blow the dust and unveil is what remains.

Every move towards next move is like archery,
Stop not though life sometimes shows treachery.
Tears are the pain of the soul; the colorless blood,
It is hard as a task to swim and get out of the flood.

To get out of the flood is not so easy but what really pains!
You will expect only pangs from the water whenever it rains.
When being rotten in fire you think you are gold,
But when molten by wrong hands you story will be untold.

Only the swords with the handles are good to fence,
Double edged daggers give you no defense.
Where there is love and when it is true,
There exists no reason to be shrew.

When you float in love there is no master or slave,
You need no boat for you will be like sea and the wave.
When you go far in to the sea away from humans
You will see Wales and peace at same time, to make you a shaman.

To blame or shame for the aches are not in love’s dogma,
For it is all the style of God to make life an enigma.
No proof that God exist, no proof that human will persist,
Happenings are not to resist, accept; then you need nobody to assist.

Life can be a journey but death can not be the only destination,
Love can be an oar but certainly not the boat, it is only an intimidation.
The force of love dies when you force to insert pain in the vain,

In fear nothing could last, when you realize it will be late to refrain.

Ammoi - Book Review

Image Courtesy : Amazon

Only a writer knows that there exists nothing new under the sun. Every word that a writer writes is already written by divines’ hand in the heart’s tablet.  With the accumulated dust from the world around us hides the words in the tablet that was engraved in the heart. What a writer supposed to do is just to blow the dust from tablet and unveil it to the world.  ‘Ammoi’ is once such engraved book in the heart of the author; Arjun.

It is interesting that the protagonist – Shiva – starts explaining his story even before he was born and thus bringing back our infancy to vision. The story revolves around the plot which every one would have gone through and when it progresses it takes a different dimension of love towards his grandmother (Ammoi).  Words are so light, sentences are not very allegoric but the emotion it carries is sometimes heart crunching.

In few places the words are rhythmic and in rest of the places the love of Shiva towards his Ammoi was nostalgic.  This book really makes the readers to miss their own Ammoi and the real beauty is not just Ammoi but also will make the reader to miss anybody who loved them like Shiva’s Ammoi.  Life’s beauty is not in bigger things we do but in the tiny beautiful things we go through.  Beauty of a book is not in complex statements and philosophical thoughts but the words that wither from the heart of the writer. This book is an epitome of one such heart winning work.

Whenever I hear the word angel, so far, my brain frames an image of a beautiful girl in white dress, with charming face, with wings at her back, standing in dim blue background with a wand in her hand.  But from now on the first image that will come to my mind will be an elderly lady with shivering hands sitting in a wheel chair.  I found a metaphor that I could remember for the rest of my life which in one word the author stolen my heart and made me realize his love for his Ammoi; God’s chariot.  A mixed emotion of heart warming comparison and overwhelming expression of love is delivered in the metaphor of Ammoi’s wheel chair has God’s chariot.

This book shows how beautiful the life will be with an angel by your side showering infinite love and care.  Few places I felt why such things have not happened to me!  Arjun started this book with his mother and finished with his mother and that’s the beauty. And at the end, if somebody asks what is the take away from the book it is pure love – Ammoi.

Wanna experience it?  Grab your copy @ Amazon :

Sunday, June 19, 2016

The baby was lying next to her.  She saw him smile only once and after which it is all his silence.  She didn’t cry, she could not cry, she was exasperated with the pain of her labor.  The piercing feel in her lower abdomen because of the shrinking of the uterus killed her, but what slaughtered her more is the fact that there is only lose after her pain.  All the warmth of her heart could not bring the heat back to his boy’s body.  He lay still as just a body. 

  It was a century back she lived in the same planet and the same nation and the same cunningness of epitome of heartless rulers.  Since then nothing has ever changed not even the proverb ‘change is the only permanent thing’; what has changed is the numbers in years, type of destruction of this planet, names of the nations, and style of cunningness.

He was laid to sleep in the breast of the earth.  Not a sip the baby has drank from her breast.  She sat in a room locked with her bare breast covered just with cotton piece of cloth.  There was a rule laid for the women, who are not born in the cult of the rulers, not to cover their bosom; the height of cunningness and harassment against the women. The food that she had to keep her womb healthy made her a healthy mother to feed her new born baby.  Now that her part of his soul has gone to take rest in the bosom of the mother earth she has nothing to do with hers’. 

‘O!  Mother earth feed by baby for he might be hungry now’ she cried. 

She cried and cried and cried.  Her cry made her neighbours to shiver, it made a shock in their spine for she kept quiet and numb even when they carried her baby from her.  The fear that she might ask them to bring him back made them too cry.

From her healthy breast the lactic hormone secreted the elixir that keeps the baby strong rest of his life.  The mother longed for the tender lips to suck her lips and drink the milk that she nurtured.  The fact that he refused the milk and were eating the mud plunged a dagger in her breast.  She wanted to dig him out and breast feed once but what use does it brings, he cannot drink.  The milk from her breast wetted the cloth she wore and drenched the floor she was laying.

‘Dear Mother Earth, take this milk to my son’ she prayed and kissed the floor.

The night has gone and the light has come.  She woke up in pain that the milk that secreted has become the stone that almighty has thrown on her bosom. In the pain she walked out from her room and went out to get some light that could warm up her body and soul.  Forgetting the rule that she should not cover up her breast, she covered her breast with a piece of white shawl that kept getting wet because of the white color blood that oozed out from her nipples.  No, she didn’t forget the cunning rule but she didn’t want to show her leaking bosom that his son has not seen.  She walked like a dead body on the road when it was the time for the royal brutes to cross by.  People on the road, of her own cult, shouted at her to but nothing entered her ears.  She walked in silence, mourning.

The rattling sound of the horses that crossed her stopped and a cruel animal sitting on back of a silent animal jumped down looking at her covering her breast.  He stopped her but she walked crossing him in trance.  In anger he whipped her from back. The pain brought her to reality.  She turned with her wet eyes and breast.  She saw the animal looking her breasts; he looked at her breast as a piece of meat he could eat.  He asked her to remove the cloth so that he could see her.  She looked into his eyes and said no.  He whipped her again. This time she showed no pain in her eyes for the pain in her breast is heavier that the whip splash. 

He came near to her to pull her cloth from her shoulder and he did.  Animals over the humble horses surrounded her and laughed chanting comments about her body.  She stood in the middle with her bare breast with pain.

A drop of tear and few drops of milk from her bosom dropped down to the ground.  She looked around her people who stood helpless.  She felt pity about her cult, and she knows if this wear to continue there would be more people in her cult born with bent spine.  She stopped the one who whipped her and looked directly into his eyes as if to burn him down to ashes.  He was startled to look at the woman with a fire in her eyes.  He took out his whip to slash her.  She stopped him by holding his hands.  He realized that she was stronger than him.   She dragged him close and took out the sword from his scabbard.  Realizing the danger he stepped back from her.

She laughed loud. ‘You spineless animal, yours are not eyes but the wounds of God. All you need is just this flesh!’  She raised her sword to the sky.  Everybody around her stepped backed in fear.  She looked like a lioness that lost her cub. 

‘Take this home and eat this cooked’ she shouted to cut her paining heavy breasts and threw it over the animals stood around her and fell down to the earth.  Nobody moved an inch knowing not what to do.  A young lady who watched this from the window of her home came out with her bare breast.  She walked to the dead women and collected the shawl that lay next to her to put it over her breast.  She also grabbed the sword from the woman lying dead and splashed the one stood next to her shouting ‘kill these animals…’ none of the animals left that place alive from the crowd that thrashed them into pieces.

Wednesday, February 17, 2016


>> I have no idea to stay long in your life for you just belong not to me and, you know, you belong just not to me.  I belong to nobody, not even to me.  But the case is not so for you.  But that does not stop me from loving you

<< I heed it

>> I have love, I have lust, I have all the feelings for you but all those are unconditional, without expectations.  In short I want a hug that will last long till you like to hug not one second more that till you get exhausted.  And when we leave we don’t carry each other in brain; just in heart.

<< What do you name this relation? I don’t understand you.  You are lovable same time scary.  You know I have another life I am living still I am attached to you.  I sometime feel guilty for doing so but when I see you all those feel fades away.  I want you throughout my life as a lover in utopia, without affecting my real world. But I would not stop you when you leave because I know you should have a real life.

>> This is just a relationship, don’t name it and make it dirt.  Only when our body scrubs together people call it a so-called dirty relationship.  You know, most of them have somebody else other than the one they say they have so-called commitment.  Let the relationship between fleshes be within the dogmas of this world but the soul that is invisible has no dogmas, it do not even has its own dogmas.  It is free to do and feel what it likes to do.  It can come out and search it mate and can mate.

<< That is funny.  Though it all feels quizzical and malevolent there is a taste of oldest wine in it.  I want to be someone that follows the rules of the society and live up to the expectation of my family.  Serve my spouse, raise my children and obey my elders.  But above all my soul is not with me it wanders always out from the place I sleep and whence I saw you I rested on your shoulders.

>> This was the situation for all those who seems to be living strictly to the society.  No idea I have why there is so much of rules and regulation when every heart is ponding to break the cage.  No idea why everyone blame the one that crosses the line when they themselves want to cross it.  May be the grudges that they could not break the dogmas so that they can blame the others and kill them with words.

<< You talk all bizarre things which I understand half and other half reaches only till my eyes.  But I am in need of your aura the same time I am detached from you.  I could find no plausible reason to break all the rules because all those are bestowed in my orthodox nerves, but there are some neural ravines in which my soul escaped out from my body and pondered for you.  I feel guilty the same time euphoric.  What feel is this!  Sometimes it kills to think what I am doing is wrong but sometimes it kills to miss you.

>> I have no answer for your guilt for I am not meant for salvation.  I love your aura, your presence.  Sometimes I feel like embracing you, take you in my arms and stay put for hours long, but just your aura will do magic I need no physical quench.  Take me in to your eyes, walk in to my heart, live by all your so called dogmas same time visit our utopia once in a while. I have no attachments; you are a free bird in my world fly by anytime and leave anytime and where ever you want.  I love you but I don’t belong to you.

<< It’s time for me to fly. Bye.  See you soon.

Femininity... Bird's eye view - II

Tired of flying up and down, the bird searched for a shade to sit and relax.  The place is full of buildings of stories after stories.  Tired of sitting on the concrete walls the bird decided to search for a tree to sit on its branch.  He flew for miles to find one and sat on it.  A nasty noise disturbed the bird.  He looked up to the sky for the roaring clouds; no, it was a machine with fangs not just one but in hundreds of fangs that saw the trunk.  The bird understood that the tree he found will lay and soon die so he has to leave.  Suddenly the sound went off and when the bird look down the machine stopped working.  The workers went away.  Thank the holy technology, the axe was long forgotten.  May the brains that operate the hands change its mind to stop killing my shade, prayed the bird.
        Now that he has some leisure time to enjoy the temporary shade he looked around in tranquil.  Bunch of humans, few were harnessed to their dogs that walked before them and few were carrying their off-springs who, one day, will walk away from them.  There were few young girls in their colorful attire.  Long and short were their wardrobes.  Those who dressed less were the one that veiled their brain with longest cloth of equality and individuality and those who covered them more were the one that who dressed their brain to the minimum thinking their individuality was their native femininity.  There is no female in a male, he will look all hands and legs may be tough and tight but there is a male in every female.  She could rule the world same time ruin the world.
        The bird cried: O! Beauty gender of humans, think not that you are what you dress; wardrobes are just to cover your skin and flesh.  You could walk and talk like the petals of rose or be stubborn and rigid like that of the thorns of its stem.  Do not become a hybrid with the words of the so-called activist and become stems without thorns or petals with thorns. Be tough in your stems and elegantly soft in your petals that are what makes a rose a rose.  Let your skin be exposed or you make a choice to expose your heart, people look at only what they want waste not your time on what others think but think on how well you proclaim yourself.  May you announce yourself with high regards!
        By the time the birds cry was over he saw a girl walking towards.  She was dressed neither too short nor too long.  She looked like a native rose with softest petals and sharpest thorns.  Her legs were strong though her walk was like breeze.  She swayed her fingers like jasmine dancing to a song and moved benevolently like a vine moving in wind.  So much was the enchantment to see her walk by as the aroma of the herbs she used activated the nerves of the nostrils’.  She was not fair but her genes were not unfair, her dusky skin glowed like gold in the golden sun rays.  May the sun go blind in the process of tanning her skin!  Like a cradle she moved her hips to and fro and she knows one day it will become a cradle for a little one to sleep.
        She is a cup filled with femininity, it is a cup of elixir no more drop could be added and not one drop could be taken out. Deep in the heart the bird thought: may all the empty cups be filled with elixir.  As the bird was looking at her, she stopped to see the bleeding tree. Could she do something to stop the tree to cry?  No use as the trunk was half depleted.  She took a small branch from the tree and caressed the half broken trunk.  O! My lovely lady, cried the bird: I could see your heart that you expose, I could hear what your fingers said to the tree: ‘my friend, I am taking a part of your heart in my hand and will plant in some distant land where I can water it and grow. I will tell him one day that you lived in this land and gave shade and purified oxygen. Worry not; what my kind is killing is not you but the future generation.’ 
    My beautiful lady, you exposed your heart to the world taught everything could be rebuild and the generation coming next would not become extinct.  The aura you spread is more feminine, mercy is feminine, and bravery is feminine. With little melancholy in her heart, she smiled at the branch to see a new life that she is going to give to the world.  Motherhood is feminine.
Enough food she gave for his thought now the bird wants some for his little stomach.  When he was about to fly the tree spoke from his death bed ‘hey little creation who rested on my branch, all the fruits are stolen but one was hidden take it and eat before I fall and it gets trodden.’ Listening to which the bird fasted for the day.

Chaos... Birds eye view - I

 A bird that spent half his life time in big trials and bigger errors sat watching the comers and goers.  Not one turned to look at him as everybody that come has something running in their mind and everybody that goes was carrying some burden in their heart.  There are few who were fresh and anew but lacking something; lacking aura of youngness.  When all the old, sick and adult comers and goers were carrying luggage of life these young once carried the most sick luggage in their hands.  It was a technology chaos that kept gossiping about others, trolling the knowns and unknowns, answering the skeptical question of what everybody else in the world is doing. 
        The bird that was watching all these were no different.  Even he carried bigger luggage of sins (that is what all others named it).  This planet saw many comers and goers, suffered rumors and gossips, trauma and tranquilizers but the intensity was lesser than that of now as any epidemic was slower with the non-existence of the technology.  Now the saga is different.  There were more facilities to live long but the epidemic is higher; man made.  The planet as turned to a different place where everything is destructed by the hands that pretends to reconstruct for the cause of some printed papers hidden and some digital numbers in the light emitting screens. 
        The florescent screens have devastated the effulgent light of the life.  We are now in the mid sea, trapped and betrayed. Water! Water! everywhere not a drop to drink. Life has become a daily exhibition just not to the exhibitors but also to the fellow exhibit.  How foreseen somebody to say life is a stage for drama and we are all actors.  Now, everything has become a melodrama.  Thought the bird: life was slow and steady once upon a time when only older people thought the world is fast growing and adults longed for the life of the present young ones. Now, the bird thought, methinks adults started thinking just a decade back slowness in life style was good that the fastest journey towards the emptiness of the present young ones.  Everything was pole shifted.  
        When trapped in this thinking the bird saw a little one holding one of the comer and walking past him like a breeze holding the hands of the tempest; as and when they stroll the breeze will become a storm.  But for now the breeze doesn’t know the hand that she holds is all full of life’s experience.  She strolled slowly as if the earth is not rotating.  Her soft legs are veiled with chemical wardrobe preventing her to step on the bosom of Mother Earth; how sinful.  When everything was taken from the Mother Earth, though she bears the throbs of daggers that was put inside her breast still little amount of joy was not allowed for her.  May be that is why she has heart attacks sometime.
        Somebody said a mother bears highest decibels of pain during her labor.  O! You wise, do not you know she suffers more decibels if she has not visited the labor at least once in her life span.  Becoming a father or a mother is not enlightenment, O! My comers and goers, it is a cycle of life.  Praise not just your mother but the motherhood; praise not just your father but the fatherhood.  Everybody that feeds the empty stomach is a mother; mother is gender motherhood is a state.  When priests are believed to have godliness we started to believe priests as gods.  
    And he prayed: O! The force that runs the universe, may you send some waves that is not blue or red but green, may you change this minuscule planet and tiny living beings.  May this earth become a better place for all that evolved and evolves and for all creation that are left to exist!  O! Life, create no more sinful birds but create more forgiving hearts, create not more humans but humanitarians.  O! Dear humans create more tranquil life than more tranquilizers, create more cures than victims.  O! Nations, create more warriors but not wars.  
    When everything continued, the comers and goers still unnoticed, the bird flew when his stomach crunched for food!