If you look closely at him, you will see a labyrinth of lines. Curved lines. Faded lines. Intersecting lines. Lines which formed through ages of anguish. Valleys formed through the concealed dry tears of loneliness. Marched, the invisible soldiers of agonies marched through those valleys. Left . Right. Left and shoot! Killing the unarmed beggars of happiness on the road.
His clothed hands, clothed with loose folded, blemished and wrinkled brown skin, held an invitation letter.
What you see would be a painting- a dilapidated wooden house, shades of yellow and red enveloping the background, a recliner in the centre and the old man sitting on it holding the letter. The hands with clothed and wrinkled memories were the only thing which remained unsteady in that painting.
He would not know what was written in that letter. The boundaries were becoming addled to him. The black ink and white spaces knew no boundaries, his memories and dreams knew no demarcations. His memories were dreams …
"Baba" called Asmaan to his father, "When are they giving me the books. I miss my studies already"
His father had a small shop of second hand books. Books don't die, he believed. They don't have a shelf life. People die. They die of poverty - hunger, malnutrition, illiteracy, unemployment, politics and flood. But books don't.
But he was proved wrong when flood stormed, like an unwarranted storm, a storm which gulped down everything like an ugly demon never satisfied of preying. His tiny heart seemed to miss those blotted ink marks of yellowing pages. The roaring water not only drowned his abode but also his heart which kindled a dream to soar high, higher than the cupid's arrow for he had heard his devotion to books attest - "the sky is the limit".
Ironically, the only thing he could look upto through the shabby refuge camp was a gloomy sky which held no promises. But he held on to the promises which comes like the same deluge inundating…
Where did my voice fall?
Cobwebs on the wall
With a dead clock and lizards crawl
Staring at me, making me so small
The dawns and the dusks
The days and nights in this dust
Looking for my voice, used to trust
Looked at my mind, oh a rust!
Waiting for you here
Amidst my layers, within my fear
Steps away from my door, you there?
Where did my voice go?
A dead clock or is it slow?
Oh! I feel so low
Feel so low
What can I give you more But a letter with no words a blank sheet of memories! I thought of infusing the page with some notes some notes of music that my heart cries But what can I give you more but a silence of my sound! I thought of enclosing some moonlight on it some shy reflection of my dreams that I once dreamt with you But what can I give you now but a darkness of miseries I thought of giving you a fresh page with newly gathered hopes that I endeavoured to have without you But what can I give you now but a crumbled folio with creases of agonies What can I give you more But a letter with no words a wasted sheet of memories!
Your ticket has been confirmed. Seat no. 13W. Have a safe and a happy journey.
A part of the confirmation mail screamed at me. Why do they even attempt at writing the same "safe and happy journey" message to everyone. What is so happy about a journey, I thought.
My bus was meant to depart at 5 a.m from the terminal. I woke up much earlier than that. When you have ghosts of past haunting your dreams, the morning becomes the end of your darkness. The mind fears those monsters with such trepidations that the cobwebs of the nightmares have to be broken by the dawn of new rays, new hopes and new aspirations.
From the corner of my mind I can see those monsters seeking the darkness that I have been trying to thwart. "Thou shall not find light", they seem to say even in the midst of the morning light. Going to a new place would help me find my light, I thought and so did the doctor, with a bag full of anti darkness pills, concur.
It didn't take me time to pack my ba…
# Enough is not enough
I was a seventeen years old when I met you you were shy
I was bold
Gold! were those times when I didn't have to rhyme to put meaning to my poem
I look back to the time when you were what you were no pretension out of deception although, now, you are not the same as aforementioned.
You used to say you would never leave me no matter what
You know what, I was a fool to set you up as my soul cause now when you say you have had enough my soul cries with your every insolence add your silent monstrous, capricious violence my silence
I am not afraid of silence
I am just afraid of the silence of my silence
Are you still listening to what I say and mean be patient, I have lots to say and catch on!
I wont be silent hold on. let me grab the pen and paper Okay now! Time to scribble you down.
You live in an alternate reality the gravity, your nicety those bubbles I am gonna burst now
Can you say now
That you truly loved me when I was your only option no solution, just a notion
No guys to fall …
I have a firm belief that communication is an engagement of both the listener and the speaker in a clear, concised and convenient form, where the roles of the speaker and listener should be interchanged in accordance to the context of the conversation and it needs to occur naturally without anyone imposing the other to remain in his/her previous role.
Communication uses tools which forms the basis of language. A language, just like evolution of species, has been evolved through a myriad of civilizations right from the beginning of early man.
Communication undoubtedly has been the only sole means for the survival of homo sapiens on a planet which doesn't treat anyone with niceties. Nature is cruel to everyone and to not communicate with others leads to the natural regression towards extinction.
We have seen communication in the form of cave paintings which shows the human tendency to record events for the present community of human beings and also for the posterity.
But as the civ…
Brevity, that is so hard to find my feelings and my emotions my love and my affections Oh I go so blind for your love in my mind Brevity, that is so hard to find my feelings and my endearment my love and my sentiment Oh I go so inclined for your love on my line Brevity, that is so hard to find my feelings and my passion my love and my devotion oh I go so behind for your love is so maligned And I resign And I go behind I am so blind your love's maligned And I go behind And I resign
What does he run after? What does he want from his life? What is his true calling in his life?
Almost hundred pages are spent showing him lying on his bed. Those pages depict how he never steps out of his bed to enter into the rat race of the mundane life. He has a plot of land somewhere in the country side and when an ominous letter reaches his bed, he starts planning to take matters in his hand. He resolves to put an end to the financial crisis he might suffer if he continues to stay on his bed. But can it not wait till he rests his neck on the pillow for sometime. And thus he dozes off to sleep and the letter gets dusted with his intermittent cycle of sleep and resting of his neck.
Oblomov, the protagonist of the novel Oblomov, represents the epitome of slothfulness of mankind. We all at some point in our lives have suffered from the disease of slothfulness, a trait of human beings which disinclines one to exert his energy over trivial matters.