Sunday, December 25, 2016

A Musical Confession

When I type, I just don't write the words I think but the musical notes.  May be that is why both are named a keyboard. Like that of a melancholic musical notes that digs the hypothalamus and brings back the memory to eyes, followed by tears to wash it and clean it, when I write, these words plays a song that I wish I shouldnt have heard.  When someone asked me, long back when I was very young, to close my eyes and think back the mistakes and sins I committed; all I heard was a happy song though here and there it was off key.  But now when I close my eyes and think back through the path I walked I could realize I have crushed may roses with my own hands for its thorns has made me bleed.  All I forgot is those are roses and thorns are by nature. It was a beautiful music mixed with melody and rough strings.  The music enters directly to heart from ears before it could reach the brain.  Before the brain analysis what to do with the emotions that thorns already stings the hearts wall and thus my eyes bleed.  I do not want anybody to see that I am bleeding inside and that is why the tears are colorless and not red.

I sit in a garden, to write, filled with essence of flowers and aroma of grasses it was all magical to see the surrounding happy and fresh.  The song of nature was always refreshing, a mild melody that keeps hushing in the breeze that keeps the world moving.  But there also exists a song of sorrow inside the heart.  The sorrow of the bleeding wound, the pain of the scars that could not be healed.  And when I start to write happy words would not come.  My comrade, the solitude, wants to fill my pen with the mixture of my past and tears to write.  Never my comrade left me alone and that is why solitude became my best comrade.  I wondered many a time what makes a good poem or a prose.  I realized that it is not a writer or a poet who makes a piece of writing to enter into ones heart but the song they heart from inside.

My song was so special to me though it is always a sad one.  I know not to sing so could not explain it but I know the notes of the music that what I write down. This is my personal song that only I could hear; all others could listen but not hear.

A voice said Close your eyes relax go deep into your heart.  The expedition starts with a fresh day light like that of an early morning sun.  It won’t hurt.  Get deeper and deeper the music slows down like the ending note of a violin.  Go deeper, wipe the blurred glass where all the stains of the life was hiding; now the song will become melodic, romantic, filled with love and lust.  Get passed through the glass like the light and it begins to dim.  You sometime see twilight loving and harmonic and suddenly you will see dusk, then dark.  The songspitch changes; the drama of melancholy will start.  This journey is not so easy, not a narrow straight path but a wide road with multiple lanes.  Sometimes it brings you to the same road you walked before just to understand the path, make sense out of the experience the road has given you.

Don't open the eyes; just allow your mind to travel.  Do not shut your ears; allow the song to enter into your heart. The dark wall that you have painted with white will start showing its own color.  To show the world that the wall is only white and there exist not a spot of dark you would have painted in white.  But the wall always revel its original color to the one who painted. Only the one who painted can see the darkness behind the white shade. Only the composer knows the missing notes in the song.  Alas! My composer knows the mistakes in the song I just could hear and not correct. 
The voice again said it wrong time to open your eyes, get deeper, travel deeper.  The music now will become poignant.  Dont stop hearing; just keep listening to the music.  The unfaithfulness, the love, the lust, the care, the ambivalence, the malevolence, the gratitude, the good deeds, the bad sins and what not; all that you have done to your life pops out like roses and thorns. 

Remember, the voice said the flower you smelled, its softest petals that you caressed and sucking out all the honey from it you flew away like a cruel bee and the flower started fading.  You didnt look back for you are afraid that flower was fading and its because of you.  You do not know whether there may be a rain to water the rose or a storm to uproot, but you didnt stop to look back for you are afraid the sin might fall on you which are already yours.

Dont open the eyes the voice said again loses are always lose.  You were once a mother feeding the breast milk of love to the baby that was not born for you.  And there came a storm with turned your world upside down.  The baby disappeared leaving its heart in your heart blended.  Centuries you may live but the memory of that touch of the baby, those little fingers that scratched your lips and those tiny lips that sucked your lips, will leave you never.  You will still feel the weight of the baby in your hands for only the heart has grown hands.  Now the song is a sad lullaby which will make the baby sleeping inside the mud to sleep and keep you awake.

You are once in your mothers womb carefree, happy, enlightened, rejoicing the warmth of the amniotic.  And now you want to get back there for you can start your life anew; the same life in different fashion.  But you are not allowed.  More tears now running through the cheeks and it now has touched your chest trying to put off the burning heart. The song changed to longing, the music of guilty.

Open your eyes the voice said you do not want to open the eyes but its not the time to shut down the life so you have to open the eyes and look at the light without fear and guilty for days may not come back for you to correct. 

Deep inside every heart there is always a song of hope, a devotional song of faith and trust. Only the composer knows when to stop playing the music, till then just sit back relax, listen and enjoy when it is a song of joy and cry when it is a song of sorrow.  Hum the song of life and the life goes on till the notes are done.
                                                                                                          - S

Sunday, November 27, 2016

A Love Letter...

courtesy :
It was just another day I was sitting and doing the most difficult task; doing nothing. The park was less crowded, couples here and there was hidden behind the trees hand in hand and chatting.  Elderly couples were obeying their doctor’s words to go around the park how much ever times they could. The twilight made the place enchanting as the reddish yellow race of the Sun peeped through the leaves and branches of the trees.  Kids were busy in enjoying their most with the swings, climbers and the seesaw before their happiness ends up with the call for home works.  The wind was little heavier but soothing. I sat wondering how everybody else was happy except me though I was not sad.

An envelope slapped my cheeks, came flying from some corner of the park. Somebody has dropped it down as waste or might have slipped from their note or book, I thought.  It was not glued helping me to open it without tearing it.  I took out the folded sheet of paper from the envelope and could smell the aroma of rose when I opened it. The guy should have sprayed some scent after writing I guess. It should be a love letter, I thought. I was not wrong, the letter ended with “with love” and a heart-in symbol.  Should I read it or not, I didn’t know.  The handwriting was neat and perfect.  I looked around for somebody who should be in search of the letter.  I found nobody; everyone was busy with their happy life.  I then decided to read.

If I were you who were reading this letter, I would have crushed and threw the paper.

How bizarre to start a love letter.  I wondered who this guy could be, writing love letter when people don't even have a pen in their pocket.

But it is you, who could not crush anything with your rosy palms.

Aha! There he goes, brilliantly telling the lady to not to crush without reading.

I do not want anybody to encrypt my love, spread it in air and decrypt it to you to read that is why I choose the most ancient but lovable way to express my love – a letter.

Ancient! It was just a decade this technical chaos took over the love letters, anyways brilliant.

When there are many girls around you busy with their mobile phones in their hands, the day I saw you, you were sitting alone with your palms on your cheeks. It was not you for whom I was looking for but you replaced everything I was searching.  I wished you should see me at least by the corner of your eyes alike every other girl does. But you didn’t.  I learnt that that was not your style.  You looked straight into my eyes. I was not prepared for the spear from your eyes, my eyes stumbled.

Eyes stumbled! Mmm…

When my eyes waved to see the other girls sitting around you my pupil turned to you again and again.  Just like the wave from the sea, the pressure that pushes the water to the shore again and again, the something which I could not name, the feeling for which I don't have a name turned my eyes to you. I don't want you to move neither I want to move. You got up to walk away; angles do not listen to human’s, I know.  You walked like a slender vine. I wanted to whisper in your ears “Dear slender vine, catch me and roll me up.  I could stand by you for life long.”

Slender vine! A slim girl!

You walked only a little here and there crossing my eyes but with every glimpse I clicked a snap of your image and stored in my mind. You stuck to me and left me not from the day I saw you. Back home, next morning I was listening to a music which was soft and romantic.  I stood and danced slowly to the rhythm of the sound.  I closed my eyes and moved my legs; I opened my arms when the singer called for his lover for a hug.  There you come, in my arms.


We moved to the music, I listened to the acoustic of your breathe.  The music grew more romantic kindling more romance in air. Caressing you kindled little lust in my body.  I held your hips, you grabbed my neck. We were moving our legs with chin in chin.  When your nose kissed my nose our breath mixed and our sprites exchanged. I let my soul get inside you and you left my soul with me. We hugged like broken parts of mirror which shows two images when broken and one image when fixed together.

Broken mirror! Wow that was a good metaphor.  And Sprites exchanged! A confession! Hope she do not picks up the exact meaning.

You whispered something in my ear; I said that I didn’t hear. You placed your lips over my ear and said marry me.  I didn’t know how I should react so I left it to my body and soul to react. I leaned over you shoulder and tears drenched your neck. “Leave me not for a while, for I could drown in longing and die” I whispered. You tightened your hug.

Oh! Oh! This is an unusual love proposal.

“Take me and never let me go” you replied.  I scooped you in my arms and started walking toward the light. I don't want to open my eyes for you could vanish from my vision.  But all this to happen I thought I should write. And that is why this letter is in your hands.  “Will you marry me?” will be a question but I don't want to ask you for anything; just marry me, we will walk towards that light. 
– With love…

No name at the end. 
Aha! How does name matters when the guy hands it over to his girl.  I folded the paper and put it into the envelope.  The next moment I saw a guy sitting at the other corner of the bench I was sitting. 

“Will she be impressed?” He asked me. 
“All the best”, I said and handed the letter to him.

Saturday, October 8, 2016


courtesy :
My will is to write on what I am willing to write.  I force not my fingers to write the words I do not want to read.  I force not my brain to think the sentence just to seduce the eyes that is going to read.  I write because I do not do any meditation.  The knowledge of stopping my mind to think is something I have not been taught.  I decided to teach it myself – I write.  I think of writing so that I think not of anything else.  I look at every letter as a girl sometime, as a child sometime, as a cloud, as a star, as a new born, as a teacher and what not.  Only few times I looked those words I write as words.  Never my mind said I am running out of words because all that it was filled with is just words, all that I didn’t recite.  More than the conversation with my fellow humans I converse with my mind, I watch and it dictates.  Not all time it is my dictator sometimes I proclaim the dictatorship and enjoy the difference of opinion between me and my mind.  I love when it disobeys me. When the thoughts are like slow moving water I stop it with a dam built inside and redirect it to the canals to flow through.  Not all time it is possible that the water flows in tranquil sometimes it rains heavily and the water rushes to the dam with its full force.  The use of cannels makes no sense then; it overflows thus avoiding the wreckage in the dam. What makes one to write is a mystery; the divine code of secret.  When that code is broken and the secret is revealed then that is the day of books; no more books will be published.  Not to all the eyes these are words but to the few, may be to the many, this is just the permutation and combination of words.  Those are the beautiful minds that calculate searches and researches.  For few these letters jumbled in order makes all sense.  They read it with their eyes but what they look at is not the words but the heart of the finger that wrote.  Those were the beautiful hearts. They read, smile and cry at the words for they know under what emotions those words are knitted.  They know under what pain those mistake in the sentences are made.  To write is not an art but a science.  The science of stopping the mind to think, the science of redirecting the thoughts to the way the heart like to flow.  To read is not a science but an art of deciphering the heart of the writer and the art of understanding the pain of the others wounds. It is the art of falling in love with the one that has never ever has appeared before their eyes, never ever spoke into their ears; the real love that everyone is foreseeing for; the unconditional love.  Till that unconditional, unbridled love exists in this planet there will be hands that knit the letters into words then into sentence in turn into book that warms the eyes of the readers. What really is a miracle; the rain of gold from the sky or the sprinkles of water? Tons of gold dropping from the sky will only create fear in the hearts but the rain brings happiness.  Is it not the rain a miracle!  I was searching for bigger things, a great miracle to happen so that I could pen down until I saw the little finger of a girl standing before me.  I could look at nothing else but her finger in her foot; so beautifully sculpted.  I thought it was a tiny finger but the time I took to adore the sculpture made me realize that it is of the size of this universe.  The nail it held were polished and decorated and at the tip of the nail as grown after the coloring so that it looked like a crown of a princess. She moved it like a wand putting me in trance.  The spell that that finger spelled made me stay awake but in a mesmerizing sleep that nothing else around me existed.  Could a little finger can make put me in such a state! I then realized, understood the meaning of the words miracle.  There exist no miracle in the air, it is inside.  Sometimes a little wand like her finger puts spells to provoke it. The ups and downs of those little finger where the speed breakers stopping my eyes to go up or down; mesmerization at its height. Slowly the wand moved from its position and came closer to me.  I don't want it to move for I might wake up from the trance and face the real world.  But it moved, came closer to me, crossed passing me and disappeared. Nothing could explain that enchanting finger than the words; thus it is here. 

Saturday, October 1, 2016


courtesy :
I could near her not though she is not standing at longer distance from me. She stood by the shore of a mighty sea. Like those waves from the ocean that come touches and goes back my unbridled love waves to her and comes back but touches her not. Not one I have seen in my life that of the girl that stood mesmerizing the ocean with her legs.  I could call her an angel but I would not do for she is above that.  There is nothing to worship in her for she is the worship of God himself.  It has become natural to become unnatural and artificial but to be naturally natural is why we are made for. Going against the law of the commune is accepted for the dogmas are made for the arrows that go in the direction of few pointed fingers.  Those fingers do not want any arrow to go in a different direction.  Those were the dogmas which act as a spell from the dark evil.  Even the dark evils are corrupted now and thus knowing not either to do wrong or stay quiet they left their wands in the hands of human beings.

She stood by the shore.  The waves that touches the feminine’s feet were to wash the camouflages thus to unveil the femininity. Terribly it failed for the roots of that femininity was corrupted.  But when it touched the feet of the woman that stood by the shore it cleansed the sanity of the ocean.  The hot day turned to cool twilight the sky bored its own face removing the mask of the light.  The breeze crawled on to her face like a baby crawling to its mother.  Nature knows the nature.

Not in the wardrobes her femininity exists nor in her walk it could persist.  It is in her eyes.  She knows how to look at a man as a man, know how to smile at someone without bringing any lust in their heart.  She has a rich aura that protects her from the eyes of the demons.  Acoustic of her voice could win the softest sounding lyre of this planet; no music could be compared for it is the hymn composed by the divine itself. Once it was a rarity that some creatures goes against the nature and dwells in the artificiality but now it is a rarity that some beautiful creation walks, smiles and lives the life of natures benevolence.  She is one such creation, the beautiful, made by divinity alike every other creation but decided to perceive the femininity that of the nature.

It hurts the mother earth when some so called feminine walks with their spikes in legs, intoxicates the air that we breathe with the chemicals they apply. Few, with there eyes, provokes everything that was hidden in the heart other than love of those who encounters. Not the mistake of the creator, not the mistake of the creation too but the malevolence of the material world. Even the purest of the pure milk is contaminated with the slow poison thus making more evil and gaining more materials.

The one I saw watching the ocean with love and compassion was the one those evil hands could corrupt not for she is the abundance of purity; such amount of evil is yet not found to contaminate it. She is a flower that has the perfume by its nature, a vain that has grown bearing flowers, a tender grass that drinks the dew drops in the night and waits for the sun to flourish it.  To hold such a flower in hands and cherish just one day and get back to the universal soul will be the dream of any.  To live in the flamboyance of femininity and make some real meaning to the days we live is any one’s longing; mine too.

I wanted to take that flower in my hand and feel the aroma of freshness, to feel the femininity in real, to realize the goddess of love that literature spoke. But there were few drops of poison spread in my hands also to pluck the beautiful flower and hold it in hand to dry is something for which my heart says no.

She is the epitome of the gender of love, the true femininity.  Now I remember reading somewhere “they are not equal to men! But above them”

Saturday, September 17, 2016

An Angel in Black

Courtesy :
An angel dropped from the sky when I was thinking nothing as I had nothing to think.  The world around me was a total empty space, an air filled vacuum that made me suffocate. A delusion I thought when I had nothing to gain, nothing to lose anymore.  It was the time my brain was white washed to paint it with something anew in color.  I was sitting in a garden filled with greenish trees and colorful flowers.  Not one leaf fell from the tree, not one flower revealed its aroma, every vain stood unsupported. I wondered if such a place really existed in this planet.  There was a sound of rustling water, I ran to see if in curiosity how different It would look than the usual rivers.  And when I went near there is no different but the water didnt touch the ground.  I underwent a head whirling moment to see all the usual things in an unusual way.  A bird flew out from the running water and sat on the tree.  Though unusual at least it looked like a bird.  I am not a bird it said reading my mind.  I am a fish it said.  There is nothing to afraid of the strange happening for I was ready to face the unseen, see the light that could even blind me.

Walk back to the garden the fish recited meditatively.  I walked back to the garden and sat on a park bench in the middle of the garden. The Sun bid farewell to the day. The moon shone brighter as if it has stolen the light from the lightning.   Then she strolled down on the virtual steps from the sky.  Her wings are open, it was in black.  I imagined angels only in white but she wore wings in black. Her face was lit like a moon. The oozing sound acquainted her stroll, it was not the sound of her walk but the stream of the blood in min my veins.  I stood from the bench when she alighted from the sky.  She looked deep into my eyes with loads of compassion.

She turned towards the moon to brighten up her entire body.  She was half dressed, covering only what she felt like unimportant to revel.  She grabbed my hand and walked gently towards the running water. After few moments of silent and peaceful walk we stood in the dry shore of the running water.  The sound of the running water was high blocking any other sound that could interrupt.  She walked near to the water, touched and said silent.  The fierce water calmed down and touched the earth.  The rattling sound disappeared and the river went in a deep trance as if tranquilized by her touch.

Then she turned to me.  I could see her half naked body.  Too her she is half dressed but for me she is semi naked.  The perception of an angel and human.  She took my face in her palms to look deep in to my eyes. Too deeper where your melancholy she said meditatively.  Her voice was smother and sweeter alike a rose petal dipped in the pure honey and fallen into my throat. There is no much vain in living the life she continued in her honey dipped voice life the life, cry until you could then stop crying and smile when you are finished.  Tears rolled down from my eyes washing the cheeks and dropped over the earth.  Smoke erupted from the place where my tears fell.  Keep the sins aside, you never know until the events unfolds itself and make all your sins to make sense, She said.  I cried. 

Embrace me, drop all your pain and embrace me.  Hug me for all your pain will get evaporated in to the sky.  You can only see stars in the sky standing underneath here, there are lot more than you imagine that could exist she said and opened her arms.  I entered her arms as if entering the pyre.  But she was not a burning pyre, her flesh was made up of air that I breathe, her softness was like the slow running river.  The clouds covered the moon making the brightness to dim.  Her caress was tender and soft as if hugging an enormous rose.  The mind was empty, with no thoughts, no future, no past, no present event just being is.  Are you an ambassador of God, the great soul himself? I asked.  She tightened her soft embrace and said No.  Nothing changed inside me; the reply that she is not from the universal soul didnt shake me.  Is she an angel from the dark world? So what! God created darkness alike the brightness.  I wanted to ask a few more questions on who she is but what difference will it make to me.  I just succumbed to her.  She moved a foot apart from me.  I know when my chest touched her bosom she could read what is running in my mind. She looked like it didnt bother her.  She placed her hand on my bare chest.  It was soft and cold as ice.  The hand went slowly into my chest, there is no wounds, no blood but her hand entered my chest.  She pondered for my wandering heart and found it.  I closed my eyes towards the heaven and she grabbed my beating heart. Placing her other hand over my shoulder she crushed my heart and released.  In a fraction of a second a pain spread all over the body, a shock in my spine, a shudder in my stomach, the blood flowed faster, my eyes blurred as if stricken by the lightning. 

The slowly the heart came back to its normal beats, the blood flown slower, everything was back to normal.  The leaves fell, flowers smelled, river flowed normally, the fish-bird jumped back to the river and the sun was back to light up the garden.  I walked towards the light.

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!

Wednesday, January 27, 2016


It is the lust for words that enables to write,
It's the crush for metaphors that makes me bright.

It's love for writing I form some sentences,
Who will read! I don't care about future tense.

Every word is a woman of different character,
The curl in every letter! O! Wonderful structure.

I carve to write and I long to finish,
Let it not for anybody; my words I admonish.

I write or rewrite; there is nothing new under sun,
But, i create my own moon and sun, oh that is what is fun.

By the time I finish I find no reason,
But with no doubt I write; to write is there a season?

To write you need to love and hurt,
But I require no ambiance to write; I can even be a hut.

Writing is not a male or a female thing,
But its the romance of mind and heart in cuddling.

I am hurt deep in heart I talk to my pen,
To heal me, my pen talk to the paper and makes pun.

I love all those who read, sometime even mine,
But if you eschew it is okay I will always be fine.