Ammi

Ghar apna phir bhi anjana sa lagta hai,

Sab apne phir bhi anjane woh lagte hain

Jin raahon ki dastak par umr guzri hai, un raahon ki mitti bhi ab raasta pooch rahi hai

Bus kuch jhuriyon waale haathon ki yaad zehn main bas gayi hai,

Verna mera mulk begana sa lagta hai

Woh aankhein jo bechaini se darwaze ko pakad kar rakhti thi, un aankhon ki nami kuch laapata hai 

Woh ungliyan jo khana khilaya karti thi, un ungliyon ki khushki laapata hai

Woh awaaz jisko roz sunte the us awaaz ki narmi laapata hai

Bachi hui hai kuch yaadein, par yaadon ki parchaiyon ki lakeerein lapata hai

Maut ek majma ban gaya hai, yahan kapdon ke rang se gham naapne ka dastoor hai

Dastooron ko barqarar rakhne ka bhi ek ajeeb dastoor hai

Har chehre mein, bus ek chehra dhundte hain 

Har jhurri mein bus ek woh jhurri dhundte hain

Mitti kuredte rehte hain ab paitaane baithe baithe 

Ek awaaz sunte rehte hain ab beawaaz baithe baithe 

Bus ek aas dil mein zinda hai, bus ek baar phir milne ki tamanna hai

The Man on Memoryville Avenue

 I saw a man on Memoryville avenue the other day,

We shared a glance, through a ring of “milds” smoke.

Both were caught in unchartered territory,

Both unaware, both uncertain, both misfits.

Our jokes crackled the lanes of our universe, together (by chance), we were on a journey of our own motorcycle diaries.  

 

I saw a man on Memoryville avenue the other day,

His smile was annoying and goofy, but there was a big heart behind those stained whites.

We were infectious, and Sinbad on those rapids,

While others thought we were “the chimneys”, we believed, we were nothing less than the flames of Solomon.

 

I saw a man on Memoryville avenue the other day,

We jumped to the other side of the wall together.

With dreams and aspirations in our eyes,

Our plans were big on changing the world.

We thought the camera was mightier than the pen or the sword,

but then we forgot that the bullet brings its own plight.

 

I saw a man on Memoryville avenue the other day,

We drifted away yet were strung together with a thread.

A thread, which kept us together through thick and thin,

Deep down, we knew we were a call away, always on the brim.

 

I saw a man on Memoryville avenue the other day,

Some referred to him as the burning star, some referred to him as their guardian angel

Some referred to him as their mentor, while some, their teacher.

He was a man of many colours, a man for all seasons, as they said.

 

But, between the two of us, you were always “Danny boy”.

The man I met on Memoryville avenue.

Disguise

                              

It has been more than a year since my last post on the blog, I was thinking of a new post when during one of my hard disk clean up expedition I came across the first story I ever wrote, I thought it would be fun to share it. This was the first thing I ever wrote in my life, it would be unfair to call it a story I would rather term it as an experience.

                              

It’s a not a story but a very queer incident, whoever heard of it just laughed it off saying it to be a piece of my vivid imagination. It’s hard to convince them but I leave it to you to decide whether it was a dream or a disguise.

It was a typical December night – dark, cold and shivering. My parents were out of town to attend a cousin’s wedding leaving me with something I had long desired – ‘freedom’ and in that spirit of freedom I decided to watch a late night movie show.

It was probably half past midnight when the show got over, transport generally is hard to find on such lonely winter nights in Delhi and it’s harder when you have just a few bucks in your pocket.

Cash strapped, I thought it was better to walk rather than wait for a rickshaw to have some mercy on me.

I had been walking on this road since the time I could remember but today seemed a little different. There was something eerie about the road, as if something in the dark was looking at me, watching my every step. Maybe this is how the mind plays its games when you watch a horror movie late in the night and then decide to take the walk back home on a deserted road.

I reached home safely, the clock struck one the moment I locked the door. There was a power cut, having nothing better to do I decided to go to bed. I don’t know when I dozed off but the cranky door bell of my home screeched like a mad maniac waking me up from my slumber.

I groaned, I cursed, I shouted but the bell didn’t give up finally, half asleep, half naked I went to the door.

I opened the door to find my mother standing with her bag in her hand and the usual ‘frown’ on her face, “What took you so long?”, she grumbled and came inside.  

My first reaction was ‘Shit!!! no more night outs’ but then I realized that the wedding my parents had gone to attend was supposed to be the next day. Bewildered, I asked her about it, she said it had been postponed and dad had to stay back to finish some ‘business’. Before I could say anything else, she asked me if there was any food in the house, there was some pizza in the microwave and I offered her that, knowing very well that I would get the ‘stop eating junk’ remark.

Thankfully, there was nothing that came off her mouth other than the burp which would be expected after the two slices she finished in a couple of minutes.

If you ever meet my mother you would know that you can probably stop time but not her questions but that was not the case tonight, she was in her own world and seemed extremely tired and exhausted. I asked her to get some sleep so that I could also get mine, we said good night and went to our rooms.

I woke up at about ten the next day, we still didn’t have the power back. I went out of the room to see if mother had prepared the breakfast or now but there was no one there, I checked my parents room as well which too was empty.

                                                            XXXXXXXXXXX

The phone rang then, my mother was on the other side. I asked her where was she and why did she leave without informing me. There was a pause and then she snapped if was still asleep or just day dreaming. I told her the whole story, she did not believe me just asked me to stop watching the shows that are meddling up my mind. I was confused, I argued but all I got back was how such shows and movies affect you when you are alone in the house.

I was starting to go with my mother’s version of the whole incident when my eyes wandered to the dining table, the empty plates of pizza from last night were still lying there and I thought if I was day dreaming then who ate the Pizza ………. 

The art of being lonely

Loneliness is a strange (b)itch, for there are times you just want to be alone and then there are times when the mere thought of being alone sends you to the underworld.

Being alone in the house and talking to yourself or being with a crowd and still talking to yourself both accessories of being lonely. Funny thing about these conversations is the horizon it covers, from acting like the superhero of the movies or looking at the ceiling and discussing (with yourself) where life is taking you.

On second thoughts when being lonely starts to take you to the point of wiping off everything about your existence from the planet, you want the misery to get over and you close your eyes forever and ever. It doesn’t get worse than this – the misery still doesn’t get over instead it sticks to you like a crazy witch.

Sometimes when you see others laughing around, having ‘fun’ you wonder what is it that you are doing wrong? Why is it that you cannot be like them? Why is it that just like everyone you cannot have ‘fun’?

You start to think if there is something that is defective in you/about you, as unlike others you are just not able to be happy or avoid the torture of being alone. If people can find people, if people can be having a good time being with people why is it that you are the exception.

Some time back I realised that this is not true. We try to be a part of the crowd, surrounded by people but we are actually nothing other than islands of our own. All of us clones of each other or rather lonely clones of our lonely selves.

Humans of this century talk of bringing countries close, cultures closer but strangely as countries come close and cultures closer, ‘the US’ beings to drift away. Just like the trees who stand next to each other on the sides of the road – looking at each other, breathing each other yet lonely as if they were the sole cactus in a mile long desert.

We the humans seem to have perfected this art of being lonely just like the trees did centuries ago..

Shooting Star

Of all the moments that I have had,

there were a few I lived for, there were a few I died for.

I wish to go beyond the times when these moments will cease to exist, the times when these moments will stop for me.

I wish to seek, who I desire in those moments

I wish to go beyond that passing moment.

the moment which makes me desire who I desire.

I pass that moment, just like the passing shooting star

For, I burn, in this milky way, just like that shooting star.

And I burn, just like the milky way, I burn like that shooting star.

One day, I will see the universe I crave for,

there would be a day I would see my desire

I will see that world in which I wish to live,

I will see the way to live.

Maybe I will leave everything to see that desire

Maybe I will the forget the mornings for you

maybe I will forget the evenings for you.

Because I burn like that star, the shooting star.

And there I go, much beyond these moments to get what I desire.

And I burn, just like the milky way, I burn like the shooting star I saw last nite.

And today, I am not with you

we don't share those moments

the moments which we lived for, the moments which we died for.

It pains, but the pain doesn't pain like pain.

Neither my pain nor what we shared is anything less than the extraordinary.

What you have for me is no less than what I have for you.

Still, I burn, I burn like the shooting star..

I burn, just like the milky way, I burn like the shooting star for you.

About the times when you cannot express

If there is anything wrong about this post, it is the name itself.

There are people who are lost for words and then there are people who never ventured out. There are times, when this second category tries to experience a new kind of feeling and end up making a complete fool of themselves. They had an idea to achieve something, and the idea like a dangerous parasite develops into something which was the last thing on their mind.

Not only do they self destruct, they end up hurting the world around them. What can be worse than being told that you are ‘insensitive’ and ‘immature’? Probably realising the fact that it comes from the corners of your own completeness.

I guess, it happens with everyone at some point of their lives.

No stranger to a feeling like this, I sometimes wonder why is that when you really want to make an impression you end up scaring away people. Under the surface, you are trying to break through the rusted façade of your own being. And then comes that inherent inability to not being able to express.

End result – instead of breaking the shell around you, you end up breaking the trust which you so craved for.

No matter how hard you try, no matter how much you wish to be at the best behaviour, chances (specially with me) are that you will end up falling short of what you had set out to achieve.

It’s like a dream, that keeps waking you, again and again. A dream in which all you do is scream silently – with no one to hear you, no one to see the pain. A dream in which you keep dying, not once, but again and again. I ask myself how can it be possible. Without fail, you always end up being the retard, end up being the joke yourself.

What kills you, brings you down on the floor is the realisation that you are just born with it – the ability/handicap of not being able to express.

It didn’t matter much, but suddenly you have this silly craving to make yourself known. To be appreciated for what you feel and see (what others might not have).

A sense of admiration often gives birth to a desire to be admired. Half awake, half asleep, half ignored, half ignorant, you start following the horizon. You keep following the desire to be at a place which doesn’t exist, you keep living in the fool’s paradise where everyone can say what they had to/have to say.

A jolt brings you back to the reality of life, you have been the same. You wonder, if you really belong to the world where people tell people what they have in the deep ravine of their hearts. Rightly christened as expressionless and emotionless by the people around you, you feel like going back to the world of machines and robots – the world where you belong.

And then, you see a ray of light coming from a tiny hole in the cave, a light which flickers against the winds. You are left wondering what to do – to believe or remain an infidel. It coaxes you, it teases you, it pushes you, it shoots you down and then, it ignites that desire again. You wish the light would stay even if the winds make you fear otherwise.

The light would guide you to that horizon, which can definitely exist amidst all the chaos and the imperfections no matter how the winds blow, no matter what the world thinks of you.

You wish your completeness remains with you.

Long live the revolution

Hail the lord, hail the freedom,

hail the power, hail the chaos.

Hail the confusion,

Hail a fool’s democracy,

hail the revolution, hail the revolutionaries,

Hail these buffoons, for they are here to stay.

You live in a world of your own,

You speak of a world of your own

A world…so away from the world.

How can you create something of your own,

When your vision doesn’t see beyond what it is made to see.

Hail this vision, for this defines the region.

You don’t thank Him for what he gives you,

And you speak of rights and fights

Ignorance for sure is bliss,

Had you known what is to be,

You would think twice

Hail the ignorance, it helps making you a hero.

You live in an ocean of your own vices,

Now neither the boat, nor the tide can help you.

I wish to be you, you wish to be nobody.

Do you even realise,

Or you are too intoxicated in your hollow pride,

Hail this pride, will help you on this path of self destruction.

A rich brat, a spoilt child.

And you call yourself responsible ‘reformists’

Did I miss a ‘point’, or you forgot to think of the ‘point’.

What is that you want, what is that you need?

Isn’t it important, to make the story a little sensible.

When will this lost and delirious clan realise,

In fact, when will the writer realise they being ‘lost and delirious’

For the sheep never has a path of its own,

the horses never run their 'own' race.

They Never learn,

they never learn, they never learn.

Long live this revolution.