The Usual Night

For him, Diwali may not be as happy an occasion, as it is for us. Wrote this poem while I was returning from home after celebrating Diwali there.Here it goes.....


It's her habit now,
The Goddess forgets our colony,
our conditions, our hearths,
our births and our agony.
One feet in the drain,
the other on the less-visited road,
I watch the train,
as it jostles through our slums on its troll.
The uplift-ers came yesterday,
to click some photographs, and
show-off to the world.
They, all, take credits and
take our hopes,
their festival of lights today,
daily does the light of our lantern elope.

I passed through the market,
well-lit, the fervor well-knit,
happy to see the "happiness",
forgetting the grief I've got to tell you,
the larks will brighten the skies,
bring smiles on your faces,
and silence our usual cries.
I hear your laughter across the streets,
colors, crackers, lights all there they meet,
then here's our road, and not the street,
colorless, ominous, dark, no life, no treat.

You'll visit each other, gifting the gifts,
to the undeserved, to the already flourishing,
the gifts that could have given us the reason to smiles.
You enjoy all night long,
the Goddess visits your homes all night long,
the brumal floor wrecks me all night long.

Tomorrow I set out, the usual schedule,
to pick up rags, no study, no school,
to walk your streets,
laden with crackers and joys of last night,
the night that makes your life bright,
but, for me, it's the usual night.

The Ending is not always Happy...

What pleases us the most is a movie with the happy ending, howsoever, unreal it maybe with respect to the actual life. We prefer an ending with all smiles. We doubt the message, a sad ending could convey. But we go wrong there. The sentiment conveyed by an unhappy ending, could be really lasting. We are used to life with a bed of roses. But what tests your mettle are not "happy moments", but they are those which have led you to the happier times, i.e. the hardships.
You see a movie with a sad ending, feel that it was merely a waste of time. But what about the message it carried, it was probably not to idolize the type of characters of the reel life, in the real life. I believe, we should to learn bit by bit from anything we come across. Life would be too monotonous if all is well all time. Water seems life-giving only when we are thirsty. The pleasure we get after our thirst is quenched, it's indescribable. No doubt, happy endings give us a ray of hope, but we need not ignore the unfavorable results we may come across. Because they will guide us into that zone from which all the troubles emanate, and help us find the epicentre of our sufferings and shortcomings.

Happiness does not add up, It multiplies.....

Passing through happy roads of Hyderabad, I gleefully adore the petals of festivities delicately protecting the seed called "faith". On left side of the road, you find a tent that encloses the colorful idol of Lord Ganesha, with priest enchanting the religious hymns. You go a bit further, and you see, the ever "green" mosque, wondrously lit with the bulbs dotting its sacred structure, and namaaz sessions in full swing. People looking happy, fervorous and shopping with an eagerness, that has quietly crept into them on account of a highlighted day in the calender and belief in the creator of this lovely world. Like the sun never sets, the night brings hope for the next day full of religious thoughts, the happiness that had prevailed the previous day. People are united, with tolerance power. This one thing I see in India, though, I am packed in an auto on one of those packed lanes, I become a part of them indirectly, as happy as them. The happiness multiplies...

The Gypsy

the joy of living free, as free as a bird......
Here it goes....

I pass the paths, only broken so far,
lost somewhere in the speedy, destined cars.
As free as the rag-pickers, I recite my song,
expectant of little courtesy, only pennies do throng.
A little bread from here and there,
some smile, while others do glare.
Have begged everything, but smiles, from all,
not settled like homes, my life does not crawl.
No belongings, no property, no greed, no lust,
no longings, no woes, no ageing, no rust.
Orphaned, young, the rules of a home were devoid,
i have roamed since then, witnessing sorrows, joys in life's ellipsoid.
Oblivious of what goes on, in the world,
I search for the joy, where they search for the gold.
The boulevards, lonely and curved,
beg me to settle, have my family and raise some cattle.

But then, the spirit shall be lost,
surprises and adventures gone with responsibilities' frost.
I shall continue my un-aimed tourney,
unfettered, unscathed, unfazed by temptations,
to bring about the smiles on faces that see me.

I lost my way

Fifth Sem begins so begin the boring classes. Wrote this in one of them...

Overwhelmed with the rousing applause,
smiling, hoping were the expectant brows.
The boy will cross the woods, they smilingly said,
terrains, slopes and the thickness, he will tread.
A sword was conferred, that would guard my back,
out in the wild, the sick food I was to stack.
Stunned, I was, by the ecstatic aura,
the brooks, the ponds, the fauna and flora.
The vigour, the bigger it got,
as, towards the wild, I began my trot.
Beauty overpowers the transient fears,
so beautiful seems the life, no tortures, no tears.
But, finally, I had it enough,
there the smooth home, but here it was rough.
Homesickness, that drowsy feeling, erupted,
tears trickled, as the determined mind corrupted.
Sighed I was, as I sighted a thorpe,
low in spirits, I decided to stop.
They encouraged, strengthened me to
continue the search,
to explore the unknown, and
to discover the paths.
I passed through the villages,
people helping me on the way,
extending all the inspirations,
allowing me for the one-night stays.
I saw her working in the fields,
her muddy hands, the sweating glands,
the traditional dress; the heavenly bliss.
Spent a few days at hers', we laughed, we giggled,
and the journey I undertook was, so forgotten.
But I woke up, broke up and continued the foray,
lost, I am, among distractions around, where my path is lay.

The Ash

Wrote this poem at the end of last semester(fourth)... probably in some of the classes.

As lifeless as the body which nowadays,
rising in the wind, do the ashes play,
the wind of transition has taken its toll,
in terms of a life that was perfectly on a roll.

Beholded had his eyes,time and a pain,
the job at the grave was solely to blame,
so into the life and so near the death,
regular were the people who taken their last breath.

Down-to-earth is a man,
who witnesses deaths in the human clan,
in the hue and cry of 'limited time',
his exploits, his evils, does he ban.

His daughter had excelled at educational levels,
as if in the dark night, a knight unravels,
But eclipsed has this knight unravelled,
the poverty line, through their bellies, travelled.
The pennies, the alms he got from the crying souls,
barely drove the house that stood on rickety wooden poles.
Never he prayed for the people to die,
though in those hues and cries, did his money lie.

Persistent smoke, suffocated his lungs now,
frail health, penny wealth, frowned his brows.
The bright future called upon his daughter,
the education, the knowledge that still eluded their lineage.

All to a day, when utensils rusted,
the cot trembled, and the tolerance tested,
the decision had to be taken,
no longer did he go to the grave,
for now the spirit was gone,and
broken were expectations from the fate,
that had once, made his feet stiff and brave.

Deaths became paltry in those days,
the cruel fate sometimes no bait,
somebody had to be rituatlised,
his lovely daughter needed the help,
a candle newly lit, the wick demanded,
the thread to the top.

"Me", trickeled down from his thirsty lips,
as thundrously, to life, the death pips.
Her face grew pale, the permission was negative,
how could she see him dying, just for the money,
that the neighborhood would give,
but he won't understand, the urge to do good for his blood,
the little angel, who, taking his motherly finger had, always tread,
how could she let him, the God she had known.

To him, his body seemed as a dilapidated log,
but direly wanted his spirit, to give her,
the furniture even if it was out of a mite-d wood.

Secretly he kissed the princess, while she was asleep,
the pills he took, he knew, would make her weep,
but the money the people would pay as the tribute,
would make her life easily en route.
All happened as he had thought, and
she still carries his ash,
calm, helping as he always was,
his face, always in front of her eyes,
today, as she nestles on the top.

The Transition

A smooth transition I had expected,
that all would happen in a second.
Faintly do I remember,
what actually had happened.
Merrily hath I slept in the bed,
until that breath,
the life which was so inside me,
had suddenly fled.
Dreaming was my mind,
of years, that were to come.
A list of tings, a long one,
that were still undone.
A long life full of sorrows and fun,
wonders my mind,
but, how could I be The Chosen One.
With great remorse and grief,
I started leaving my skin,
Shuddering, I remember His Messenger,
that demonic face and that nasty grin.
Ready seemed his vehicle to,
take me to the abode,
hell was in his registers,
while heaven was what I thought.
Sobbing, I could see people gathering,
wailing, weeping, and lamenting,
but now I could see the hearts,
those which beat for me and those pretending.
Joys of life, pain and sour berries,
I bag them all,
as I am produced in The Court.

A Morning Of An Evening

Started writing this poem in the bus, while we were on the way to Vizag during the batch trip. Completed it during some of the boring lectures. It describes a man in the later phase of his life, living in the countryside now, along with his wife, as he describes the morning.......

The main support has arrived,
the one-man army will lead the night's plight.
Vanquishing minnows with a swift delight,
as its threads conquer the sky.
Content with the night's sleep,
I search for my stick,
so as to witness the winning fleet.
I woke with these mornings and without them,
splendid were the scenes,
though sometimes through the dens.
She sleeps with a calm on her face,
as I kiss her gently to thank her,
for her ever-present praise.
As I take the road to stroll,
it was not as pleasant,
as it is now.
The chirping birds welcome my stick,
so do the blurred lanes,
with well-hued leaves.
Dancing over the leaves are the,
glittering lights,
as the petals yawn and rub their lovely eyes.
The grass in the lawns wait for the warmth,
to lighten their backs,
laden with the cold dew,
their hopes now rely on the winning fleet.
The symphonies of the temple hymns enchant my ears,
faith in Him has mentored me through the years.
Slowly I hobble down the twisty little roads,
witnessing the pine trees guarding the slopes.
Movement beings in the households I pass by,
journey to the wells begin,
as for the food and water, the cattle gives a cry.
Away from the city commotion,
where money makes the motion.
Where I spent all my life,
greed was the honesty and life was a strife.
In the 'Society', I now reside,
there, pocket was the pride,
here, simplicity rules and
in bins, does greed lie.
My home, my hutment,the same,
as I used to draw in childhood,
a chimney, a window, the slates,
and a small rickety door of wood.
I've lived my life,
plundered, blundered, walked the wrong words,
but now is the life of calm, peace, faith,
will repent it before I go into the Land of Nod.

The Eye

Thirsty,
it awaits the moisture,
Barren,
have turned all the pastures.

Fodder,
still eludes the cattle,
Discolored,
are the hesitant petals.

Incessantly,
blow the infuriating dunes,
Ominously,
echo the disastrous tunes.

Empty,
sound the earthen pots,
Counting,
the drops are the parched throats.

Impoverished,
are the souls to be seen,
Parched,
lie the fields that were green.

Adored,
it had, the prayers those were spoken,
Hopes,
of the clouds that were woven.

Occasionally,
oozes out the hopeless cry,
Tunes,
of the death now loom high.
As,
scenes from the drought enter the eye.

Man-Made

The hue and cry of life and death, what after death and those repetitive questions make me confused. But what if I see something, man-made, hopeful. The human imagination is strong enough that it can think anything and present it to the rest of the world. Seeing it lets us forget everything that has confused mankind since its inception. The war between the human imagination and unanswered questions will never be over.All I thought after seeing an animation movie.........

Teenage Gone As I turn 20 Today : Into Eighth Grade

An era has ended, the seven years that affected me a lot since mine inception, popularly called the 'teen-age', have left me. Drilling his pace through the woes of life, man often forgets what his past was, what its glory was and just aims to have a good future. Likewise, in 2 or 3 years, I will forget what my teenage was like and then regret that why has my foolish mind, the holder of short-tenured memory been so rude in storing and cherishing the past memories. But the sole reason is that your mind is so preoccupied with the present, that it has no room left for the past good memories. The urge to attain worldly benefits, outweighs the importance to remember one's past , to cherish , to thank Lord for all his blisses.

I had entered my teenage when I was in my eighth standard, the class, the standard that set my soar towards hard work. Before that in the school, I had long survived as a diligent but unconscious mind, who was involved in the mischiefs with the bad boys of the class. Good company and my teacher's timely scolding turned my path. It was in eighth standard, I knew what hard work is. Though the inference from the word 'hard work' was merely spending more time with the books, it was indeed an important development that was to guide me to the precise definition. Yatish, the class topper was inspiration for me. When he used to say that he would not sleep for days, myself, who had not seen the world after 10 pm, got something to ponder upon. I also began sleeping for sometime in the evening, then waking up late at night, increasing my wakening range up to midnight. Studying in the outer veranda (chaar-divaari), I enjoyed studying for the first time. That year was to give much to me. I got second position in the class after Aditi, and left him behind. It was like an unseeded player beating the champion unexpectedly. I was placed on the merit list, at stunning fifth position. I had realized that I could do something better to leave all behind. Kavita Anand madame's that scolding in the seventh standard also had made me full of fear. I had unnecessarily stretched the word 'madame' as 'mai-dum', which she heard and resorted strongly against it. She called me in the front of the whole class, made me stand besides the window and told Yatish to call Sandhu madame (Vice-Principal). The word 'Principal' had much more fear those days than 'Director' has these days. I began to cry, she stopped him from going and further scolded me and forbade me to do it again ever. Her fear terrorized me, I never did it again in her class. I tried to be erect. Realizing the efforts she undertook to teach us Social Sciences, I tried to study her subject with devout honesty. In the eighth final exams, in Social Studies paper, we had got two questions from out of syllabus , which I had studied and wrote confidently in the paper. But such narrow a line is, that separates confidence and over-confidence, I missed two in-syllabus questions. I wonder how come I even didn't see them....... how bad I felt, I missed 100 marks. It's not geeky nature of me, but I just wanted to give my best to the faith, she had shown in me. Hope I always honour her, and never forget any of my teachers. School is the best organization, I've ever entered into. The other teachers that taught me were Mathur madame - Science, Amarjit Madame - English, Anita Arora - Maths, Monica Arora - Hindi, Manju Bhardwaj Madame - Punjabi. Mathur mam, too, had full faith in me as I had studied from her in fifth standard as well. Even now, when I go to the school she meets with same eyes of faith in me, always rating me as a genius. I, sometimes, feel that I have done nothing to earn that faith in me. ALL HIS BOUNTY. Manju mam is into government job now. Amarjit mam teaches in the branch school, my sisters study from her. Whatever English, I know is because of the firm base she built. I recall when we used to collect 2 Rs fine, from the one who spoke in hindi or punjabi in the school premesis, even when there was no teacher. How honest we used to be. That era never comes again..

The Blind Eagle

Wrote this poem in school days....when creativity used to be at the fore - May seem to experienced poem writers....but still the original..........

He was born on footpath,
where only dogs, no else could bath.
His eyes were in the pockets of God,
But he was given a prize
despite that odd,
his brain was sharp as a twinkling
sword,
the courage he bore was only in
almighty God.
Father had reached the end,
Mother was nearby, but
she had the will to betray
the cruel fate.
Blindness was a bane, which
got on his body as a cane.
but his courage was his guard.
He learnt from his mother, the
notes of music and the poor
piano which he had his only
wealth and parents' will.
He got a glow inside,
and enthralled people side by side.
He grew to famous height,
but remembered mother-father,
with bright plight.
He was lowest in the overconfidence,
for "higher a person gets, lower
his self becomes."
He had not seen the sun, but
he was glowing Sun
who helped others discover that
who thinks that it is possible,
the winner is only that,
the winner is only that!!!!!!!