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!!!!!!!

Quack Quake

Wrote this poem a few years ago(2005) in the wake of Kashmir Quake that rocked the Kashmir valley on a gloomy morning, the heaven of India's crown.

It goes like this....

He came early in the morning,
not the sun nor light did it bring,
just the doom for thousand lives,
on the back of death they did cling.

He betrayed the bright destiny,
by giving the pills of long sleep,
to those who hoped to start,
a sunny and lucky day and life.

He knew not the needs of people,
but only the time when it had
to come,
and turn the buildings and
dreams into the slums.

On earth, rested the sky-high towers,
and all the almighty larks,
and this unqualified, un-awaited,
guest did come to
quack us all.

The school, a temple did stand
last night,
to groom young minds whose,
future was bright.
But the sun did not shine,
the death did.
The future's inhabitants were
compressed under concrete structures,
wailing were their parents reading,
the graveyard scriptures.

It knew no bounds whether
POK or LOC but knew its
time to come and go, leaving
behind a pall of dense blurred,
futuristic snow.