The Souvenir

It was one of those wonderful nights,

when her head still

used to rest against my chest;

And when my heart would play

all kinds of music to her,

which she probably heard too.

And this souvenir suddenly slipped,

from her hair, to around my wrist

and has stayed there ever since.

Sometimes it hides underneath

the red Kalava threads on my wrist

yet still visible…

Sometimes, it climbs up on my right arm,

at times, it slips down to its wrist.

It refuses to slip away…

it plays on my arms, with my arms

hiding, revealing, moving – itself..

like there’s a person living on my arm

it has a heart that beats,

it speaks to me at times,

it has a vision that often ignores me

it has a skin that feels me at times..

it is probably deaf all the time.

I wonder if I give life to it, or

it gives life to me and

I am the person growing on another person…

Everyday it is growing older and weaker,

and  I fear that it too,

under the everyday turbulent currents of water,

might someday snap…and two lives will perish.

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About the Unsaid

I have published 94 posts since I started blogging on this new platform. They have generally reflected the state of my mind and heart. The intervening period between them too reflects the same. The longest gap between two posts was of 4-5 months. There was a time when I wrote a weekly diary, and there was a time I wrote my own ‘eulogy’. Then I had described my love for the English language. Here, I also worked on writing poems and sonnets. Sometimes, I indulged in my regular haughty, arrogant and inconsiderate self and published tosh. However, I still haven’t said all what I wanted to say or have got to say.

There are, as I write this, 89 drafts in my blogger. I sometimes wonder whether I will be able to publish those drafts ever. Some are quirky, some are bizarre, some betray my inbuilt arrogance, some expose it, some are herculean in task, some are as simple as algebra. There is a pending open letter to the open letters, and then there is incomplete essay on box and innovation. In one pending post, I uncover my personality and I have titled it “Uncovering”. There is a poem titled “As I collect” pending for I am not yet done done with collecting. There is a short story I titled – Beast of Burden – whose only three paragraphs I have written.

One day I talked to myself about story with no ends and the conversation is incomplete. Then there is a post seeking answer to fight or embrace the absurdity. There is a pending poem titled “Anomaly” pointing out ironies and anomalies, and then a collection of prose titled “Perplexed” at about the same time also lies pending. I started an essay, but humorous [and little scholarly], titled – Best Discoveries of All Time. The essay is yet to go beyond the list of 5 discoveries. Then there’s a pending “experimental version” of Sonnet LXVI. One pending posts roars about the “Need of a War Cry”. Then there are pending rumblings on death, aftermaths of breaking up, a poem on solitude titled “Fortress” and a long rant on “The Selfie”.

One post telling my favourite rhetorical devices has been left hanging in the air. I have an almost incomplete schizophrenic dialogue on “Regrets”. At one time, I indulged in, through way of writing, developing a process of forgetting. Then, there’s the writing about The Lament, a post explaining my “constant grudge”, and then a long pending rumbling against “Photography”.  A sonnet that I grandly numbered as III is still pending while one pending post describes my preferable way of dying. One meditation on “Vairagya” is also not complete and  so is post on how different professionals will express or profess their love on Valentine’s Day. I have a grand post pending titled as “Review of Mankind”.  The Queen of ALL pending posts is named-“How to kill people non-violently: A lecture on peaceful and pragmatic misanthropy”.

In the end of it all, I have only one thing left to say:

How many posts must a (wo)man publish, before you could call him/her a writer? 

The answer, my friend, is buried in the drafts; the answer is buried in the drafts. 

So long!

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The Secret Password Is: Thanks!

Originally posted on From Crazy With Love:

Another Friday is upon us folks. And I did know today is Friday but only because I’m positive tomorrow is Saturday. I didn’t know my Wednesday or Thursday at all this week.

Since it is Friday I wanted to kick-off the weekend with a big THANK YOU to all of you.

Besides reading my attempts at stringing words together in the hopes of forming things that resemble sentences and even possibly little stories (a girl has to hope), why thank us, you ask?

Unbeknownst to you, my fellow travellers, I had a tough yesterday, a total freak out, to be honest. A hello-darkness-my-old-friend type of day. But (always a but), last night I sat and scanned through my reader on here. I saw beauty and wonder, poetry, stories, lovely photos, and awe-inspiring ideas…all at the click and scroll of my mouse. I regained my footing because of all of you…

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A Memory Past

My memory takes me to eighth day of October

when the northeast monsoon rains are closer;

it was, as I beheld the moment, a regular gathering

with a subtle uplifting feeling in air travelling;

A dazzling womanly scent had me captivated

as I walked to the table conquered, infatuated;

She, like a princess, was seated on table’s head

I, as conquered soul, sat beside her on longer end;

I saw her eyes full of charm while she talked

In that wonderful gaze my fortunes were locked;

I was intent on opening the fortunes’ gate

while others left, we had another wine till late;

We talked and laughed, laughed and talked

made merry, none caring, if anybody watched;

By midnight the place was soulless barring the two

We got up and towards a rabbit hole we flew;

In the hole, we sat drinking wine full with bliss

From the blowing breeze, we stole our first kiss;

Since that day the kiss is entrenched in my memory

its firmness, its lightness, its softness, its melody;

though the kiss and the woman are now in the past

in the largest portion of my heart, they will last…

PS – I wonder if this is a poem or song or just gibberish — It is more likely to be a gibberish – but – I just wanted to capture this memory not in prose… this is more like a nursery rhyme perhaps…but made me feel happy…rare feeling these days! 

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Glory of Word Throwers

The word throwers – are the ultimate and most socially advanced forms of humans – as far as subject of language and societal interactions and relationships are concerned. To attach no value to your words, and throw them at random and then keep repeating them to every other person you come across or meet or establish any relationship with, without any sense of guilt, remorse, worthlessness, or shame and without any of loss of self-respect – is indeed a miracle of sorts! Those who throw away words just for the sake of it, especially in close professional or business relationships, just to get by or get what they want or for the sake of making other person feel special or different to extract something from them and then repeat those words to some other person only to get what they want or get their way or justify a relationship to themselves, are capable and socially more evolved humans.

The word throwers are the awakened humans. Those who have realised, or were born with the wisdom, that happiness is the only pursuit one must engage themselves in and this can come only by attaching more worth to yourself than to your secondary existence i.e. the words we speak. They keep their interests higher than anything else in the world, and as such, are insulated from the shocks that life so regularly likes to give to its bearer. The word throwers are also more evolved in considering the word of the other person as worthless as theirs. Therefore, they tend to get in and out of life’s situations such as friendships, romantic relationships, love, business associations, promises, etc. quite comfortably, without any sense of loss or without any mental or physical turmoil. They always have back-ups ready.

Consider Presidents or Prime Ministers of strong democratic countries – economic, or cultural or military power. To get elected to the highest office – they must’ve said and made many a promises to their electorate, or said words that their electorate felt to be genuine. They would’ve all done so all through their political career to reach the highest position. How many promises are fulfilled by them? Almost none of the promises are fulfilled. How many of those words are genuine? Almost none. They have a tendency to make promises, give hopes and the electorate has tendency to believe in those promises and words, for the average person is more evolved in accepting the reality or the truth of the worth of the words. These people owe their success to the worthlessness of the words uttered by them, and their utter disdain for attaching value to words. Had any of them been a person who attached value to words, they would’ve struggled a lot, with their conscience, for contesting in the very next election and may have dropped their names from the election altogether, but we all know that this doesn’t happen and that electorate rewards them by voting for them. Again and again. The bigger the lie, the bigger the hope and the grander the words – the more chances of winning.

Those who consider words to be precious and as possessions that carry infinite value among all the items or objects or skills in a man’s repertoire are the less socially evolved humans. The love for words, their impact, their worth and the right place of saying them – it all means a lot to them. They don’t understand the worthlessness underlying the worth that they attach to their words they speak to people. For example, they give a deadline at work and if it is not fulfilled, they cringe and feel lost, while figuring a way to make the cut just in time of the deadline. They continue to struggle with the mundane business of putting worth to what they speak while others get ahead in the corporate rat race just by their more socially evolved skills.

The word throwers are leaders in politics, corporate world, relationships and general sociability. They find “love” everywhere and they “love” everyone as well. As such, everyone “loves” them too. The word throwers are peace mongers. They are diplomatic and versatile in art of deluding the other and their own people. They can do the Orwellian doublespeak and doublethink with panache and give a lesson or two to Big Brother in refining this art. The wars happened in the past because our ancestors took words seriously. The love stories happened in the past for same reason. Shakespeare could write a poison-drinking Romeo, and self-stabbing Juliet because in the good old days, people attached value to the words.

Future is glorious and all this glory belongs to the word throwers. There will not be major wars except against and/or among people who will attach unfounded value or worth to words of a religious book or a political dogma or those of a perceived enemy. In the world of word throwers, there is not a human being or a group of human beings who cannot be won over merely by throwing words with no intention of meaning them. As their kind grows, the world will hurtle towards peace like it never has in its entire history. The word throwers lighten up the world. They make it an easy place to live and eventually die. As the numbers of word throwers increase, there will be certain casualties. First, of the minority who will continue to attach value or worth to their words and those of others.  Second, of the poetry. Third, of the figures of speech. Fourth, of the tears. Fifth, of the good old kind of love too. Sixth, of friendships reverberating through ages, and many more such trivial casualties. In attaining happiness and perpetual peace, these are collateral damages and of least value.

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