Upon Dreams and Thoughts

Today is August 15th, 2016. India, the country, celebrates her 70th birthday. Of course, it is my firm (uneducated, uninformed, bigoted – to use the terms en vogue for folks such as ourselves) belief that India the civilisation can’t be dated.

Anyway, each year on this day, everyone and their uncles start harping about the “dreams” of a billion Indians. Right from the nation’s political leaders, the media, and increasingly, brands. What space you can find is plastered with proclamations of fulfilling said dreams, in whatever manner they can, by each of these entities.

And I have a problem with this…

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Winter in the City

Here’s something I had written earlier, forgotten about completely, and rediscovered recently. Since summer is still marauding us these days, I think publishing a poem about winter still makes sense.

After all, aren’t we all in a perpetual yearning for the beautiful days of the past or the beautiful days of tomorrow? Aren’t we all just looking for an escape even when we know there isn’t one?

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Suddenly in the Midst of Summer

Today marks the anniversary of this blog. Today is also the festival of Holi, the Hindu festival of colour and Spring.

This year, though, the festivities will be a shade calmer: the sudden cool prevalent over much of India will prevent many from indulging in the usual wild splashing and watering of people, emotions, and life itself.

However, this unexpected cold does have some benefits. Some I’ve tried capturing in the lines below. Like always, do let me know how you like them.

 

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All Vacations Must End

At times, your words don’t come from you. They are too powerful to belong to one voice, their meaning too deep for one tale. Recently, I uttered some of this sort. They were said to someone I know in a jovial tone, without much thought gone in their formation.

And yet, when I reflected on them, I was saddened. Extremely. By their weight, the lost possibilities they spoke of, the grief of demise they had. Moved, I wrote this poem, and made those words its title. Let me know how you like it.

 

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Ghosts

The last post might have led you to believe that I am quite bitter at the end of the year. But that’s not entirely true!

The end of any particular thing makes me quite emotional and vulnerable, and Nostalgia rather frequently gathers its dark clouds and pours forth memories and miseries in a storm I am quite incapable of withstanding. From this storm of friends and lovers, good times and bad, hopes and hermitages, alliances and accords, come scenes that were once lived.

I see them, feel them, but they are distant. I cannot touch them, but only endure them in moments of pathos and hopelessness. My friends, should you read this, know that I remember our time together. I am grateful that I found you, and you me, and of all that passed to this point. I am happy that I will always have you.

What time is once past is finished, and yet we keep going back, like ghosts.

 

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Intermittent

Intermittent

The Bombay suburban trains – colloquially referred to as the ‘locals’ – are a fascinating experience.

A strange, harmonious-amidst-chaos world in this city that is little-harmony-amidst-massive-chaos. They are a legend unto themselves, an embodiment of this city, a symbol of its liveliness, anarchy, and beauty, an icon. Maybe it is the innate desire for journeys that endears them to us, maybe the perfect cultural and socio-economic pot pourri that they carry each day, or perhaps it is, bereft of imagination, just the convenience of travel they offer in a city that is too large for its own good.

Just like this poem here, the following is something that just erupted on a ride I took on the suburban rail today.

Hope you like it…

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Her

Her (Click on the image for source.)

Her (Click on the image for source.)

Shakespeare once wrote a play that he couldn’t name. Ultimately, he went with ‘As You Like It’, leaving his audience to name and interpret what they saw the way the saw fit.

Now, yours truly is humble enough to recognise he’s no Shakespeare, or even comes close. But he was in a quandary quite similar with this post.

Let me know if you like the name, and, of course, the poem itself. It is something very different from what I usually write, and she who I’ve to thank for this will know how grateful I am to her.

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There She Stands

There She Stands (Click on the image for source.)

There She Stands (Click on the image for source.)

Hello world!

I believe I can justifiably say that, for I’ve been missing from this blog for the longest time – over a 100 days, WordPress tells me. During this, boy has a lot happened, most of which I wanted to write about here. But for reasons best known to Reason, I couldn’t. And then, suddenly, I couldn’t write at all. I wouldn’t call it any writer’s block, for the way I understand, that is when you at least have a will pushing you to write. In my case, I was blank – no ideas, no desire to write.

This morning, though, something just clicked. I’ve no clue why or how it happened, only glad that it did. Inspiration came, and as is usually its habit, at a place and from a source least expected.

It is a distinctly Bombay experience, the local trains. These days, I travel by two daily to reach the place of my internship at Andheri, changing at Vadala Road. So why am I boring you with the details? Because as I approached the latter, across the barricade that separates the first class from the women’s coach, I spotted this woman. Her expression I can’t describe – which is exactly how I believe it should be between Man and Woman – and stood staring outside the wide gates. As is usual in such cases, I’ve no clue to her identity, nor what she was seeing or thinking. But looking at her, and wondering what gave her the expression that she carried, somewhere Coelho’s divine Word decided to descend once again on my being.

And do I feel happy.

Here’s the poem this episode spawned. As always, I await your reactions.

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Nothing

Nothing (Click on the image for source.)

Nothing (Click on the image for source.)

I don’t know whether there is a method in madness or not, but there sure is a bit of divinity in it. In fact, in that state of existence, when we are at our most primeval self, we are closest to all that is good in us, all that the Maker put in, and all that Man, despite his best efforts, hasn’t been able to defile.

And in a morning spent in such phantasms of Life, I came up with this. Do let me know, as usual, how you like it.

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Longing

Longing (Click on the image for source.)

Longing (Click on the image for source.)

There’s something to be said about sadness – it brings out some rather vivid creativity from within. I don’t know what the reason or the relation is, but it sure is something that I’m sure most of us have, at some point or the other, experienced.

This is the product of one such experience of mine. I’d love to hear what you think of it.

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