Reality....

The pavement borrows romance
From dry smile of a dying moon;
The night bleeds in unprovoked assault of moments
Redefining the mirth and birth of hunger...
The dawn remains an elusive dream forever.

Summer Vacation Topic--Kids Zone !

Waste no time to become good….believe me…believe in yourself…you are good….spend every moment of life to remain just that….just not let it turn bad in exploration of becoming too good for this world….

The summer reminds me of those long vacations….of those idle afternoon hours of sitting alone by a deserted pond when neither fishes spoke to me nor did I….and of a simpler life…of crying every time when Joan sang Guantanamera….of people still having time to be by your side….of no racing around in the hollow of goodness !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Take care, kids !

Freedom

Where moist clouds are ginned upon wide floor of an azure sky

Where a mirthful forktail dances with an unnamed stream

Where the newborn Sun showers an orange smile upon grazing fields

Where fires of colours paint rainbow upon mountain crests

Where life walks on holding warm palms of joy and sorrow

Where expressions turn into whispers inside the soul

Where the finest tunes of the world take refuge in silence

There lies my freedom

The paean and the pyre

He had never seen gentle smile on his mother. Never had he known his birthday. Since sensing the beauty of this world, his only own and known person was Father Brown.
Father Brown was a clergyman who had spent several years of missionary service in his native place. Devastated Europe after two great wars had a handful of people of ability and sincerity to work for the society and after his successful attainment of a degree in medicine, he wished to spend rest of his life in social service. When he opted for serving lepers in some remote Indian village, a great society of missionary colleagues had considered it a huge loss for Europe; but he travelled thousands of miles with a sacred smile spread over his face like wings of a springtime butterfly. He was soon seen cycling around a few small hamlets—bulged with numerous humans of diverse age attempting to sustain with primitive superstitions, poverty, and ignorance. The soil of civil society was yet to be irrigated with moral values, education, and basic living conditions. It was long past when the man of fifty-four years started residing in a small hut at one edge of those clustered darkness.The boy pressed his weak palms over bearded face of his old friend; a few drops of blood oozed out from those lips that smiled for its last time. The boy wept for the first time in his life. Through a hot smoky curtain, he could see Mother holding her son; burning and melting, still holding. Within his swollen eyes he held that image so long he could keep those open. He stared at. His body, soul, blood and existence—all were melting along with his dreams—his mother. She held her close to lap, comforting. He could see that divine smile on her face. The boy smiled for the last time in his life. His eyes were dreaming—closed with pain, sorrow, and joy for being through the life; it went on dreaming until darkness evaporated into the eternal slumber.
The next morning was bright. The peace was perfectly pervading all over while a burnt hut and a bundle of charred life inside reflected its muted existence in life, in its entirety.

The End

The kite floats —just severed—

Seesawing leisurely

In rhythm of kissing ends,

Of promises and dejections,

Of remembrances and forgetting,

Of reliance and betrayal,

Of pleasures and angst,

Beneath dark eyes of monsoon clouds.

An element of renewal

I walk free. Yes, after quitting the job that I could neither enjoy being into nor could it enjoy being nurtured within dispassionate bed of thoughts of someone utterly oblivious to the needs and deeds it honours. I make it memorable in tearing of all cords of relationship. And, I walk free following narrow lane piercing straight through an overhung fortune of unemployment. In spree of pouring sense of liberty I had another journey of my own tonight in promising a faint dawn of hunger sooner.

Deep into winter the evening is slowly draping herself in a dark bluish veil. A soft moon would soon emerge. A few stars would peep through mists and twinkle. Nippy breeze binged on stinging with intense sullenness while faint tunes of Christmas chimes roamed in scrawny alleys of buried civilization of a proud city.

I walk on to embrace a new year—a wide new year of age-old hunger that I have so passionately desired for. A new horizon of freedom stealthily waits behind the faded texture of a nomadic life.

The sky blue envelope

It’s still raining here, my son!
The sky blue envelope sleeps in warmth of my palms. It’s yours, I know. I let it sleep, sleep for a while after miles of journey!
I open it up slowly, smell your sweet fragrance and run through the images in flashback—like a stream that never flowed before. Dear, I find you scribbling—pages used by—and sitting by a solitary window you look afar through drizzles of nature’s laughter. I can surely glimpse the face that lugs along the yokes of severance yet flashes in the mirth of ceaseless togetherness—I go on observing--smitten by bliss of absolute love!
You write, “It’s raining here, father!”
Every little drop descends leisurely from an unnamed cloud and enjoys pleasures of uniqueness and finally mingles into a pool of entirety. We remain captivated by its distinctiveness yet fail to delineate its pride of existence. We perceive of its sojourn that interweaves individuality with whole, still fail to behold of its meaningfulness.
It’s still raining, son!
Clouds meet above in hazy sky and greet each other with spurt of thunders—faces gleam in ecstasy of reunion and I sit quietly by a solitary window. Through the veil of cascading raindrops inanely I stare at— meadows and trees and mountains sitting speechless—the world pensively lying idle.
The drops trickle down the window pane; they yearn for what they know not, and rummage around to find ways deep into my soul. They walk past myriad ways that were never trodden before. They come out—drenching every bit of my innate pride with divinity—and bid adieu. I keep on wondering why they came and why they are gone. I remain captivated by such tryst, sudden although a certain one. I cry unsure of whether it is for pain or pleasure, but I cry aloud. Tears roll down my cheeks and drops find their way long, long enough through my soul, to meet into finality.
I could see only those innocuous eyes, which sparkle in thrill of delving into newer pathways—running deep into an unplumbed depth—that lead to the subterranean values laid hidden for years within, still uncultivated. I find reasons to believe in your eyes and start to learn why you wrote, “It’s raining here, father!”
I long to know why it is still raining, my son!
Let it rain, let those clouds roam around and meet in exuberance, let those raindrops fly down and find their ways deep into our souls and let us cry in joy of unearthing a true world of togetherness where only souls find distance annulled.
I close the envelope—a sky blue envelope—that I know to be yours only, my son!
I remain seated by a solitary window and find you by another, some hundred miles away.
It’s still raining here, my son!

[ This was my first post on this blog in another June of 2007....reposted again here ]