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Saturday, 30 August 2014

The Blunt Truth



"Good evening and welcome once again to this week's Prime Time Debate; I'm Abhishek your host for this evening and tonight we'll discuss the case of the Sharma couple who are being tried for killing their daughter.

What has become of us? What evil has possessed this country’s men and women that they are killing their own children? Is this how we plan to build our nation? By killing in the name of honour? To discuss and debate these issues I have with me two very eminent personalities who in their own fields of work have earned great repute. To my right is seated Mr. Ashok Gupta, practising Advocate, and to my left is Mrs Anjali Priyadarshini, women right activist. 

So Mr Gupta, what do you have to say about this dastardly crime of the Sharmas? How on earth could the Sharmas kill their own child? And why are not we doing anything about it?

Gupta:  ‘I deem it to be my duty, before I say anything else, to humbly caution you and Ms Anjali. We must refrain from accusing the Sharma couple yet since it's slightly premature to declare the guilt of....'

Abhishek (almost yelling and cutting off Gupta) 'Nothing is premature here on the PTD. It's an open and shut case. The Sharmas murdered their daughter and they should be punished for their heinous act'

Gupta  (resuming carefully): 'We don't yet have facts supporting that, do we?'

Abhishek (leaning forward with bulging eyes): ' We don't have facts? Are you serious? I mean the girl was found stabbed to death in her bedroom, with no one but her parents at home that night, what more facts do you need?'

Gupta: 'That alone does not prove that her parents killed her. And by the way how are you sure that there was no one else there during the occurrence. There are Courts, there has to be evidence, there has to be proof of.........'

Abhishek : 'Oh so talking like a lawyer. You need proof, sure, a young innocent girl was killed  and you need proof.. Mrs Anjali, what say you Ma'm?'

Anjali : 'I am not surprised at all by Mr. Gupta's non chalance considering that every technical detail is always used as defence when it's a crime against a woman'

Gupta:  'What ?? When did I say that....'

Abhishek (again cutting Gupta off): 'I am in complete agreement with Mrs Anjali that we should be not be getting technical here.

Gupta : 'What do you mean 'technical'?....I'm only saying that there are Courts in which guilt of accused persons are proved, not on TV channels'

Abhishek (literally shrieking) : Let me tell our millions and millions of viewers that here at PTD we believe in being blunt and in being bluntly truthful. Perhaps Mr. Gupta here does not know that.

Gupta'What truth? We don't even know whose finger prints are there on the knife and who else were there in the house, the investigation is still going on,; why are you.....'

Anjali'Technical again'

Gupta to Anjali: 'What technical technical technical are you crying for? It is pure common sense that.....'

Abhisek (yelling again): 'It is an open and shut case Mr. Gupta. We at PTD believe in being blunt and in being bluntly truthful when it comes to crime against women'

Gupta: 'No one is denying it is a crime against a woman but the truth of the crime is yet to be.........'

Anjali'Technical technical'

Abhishek'PTD never supports crime against women'

Gupta'No one is supporting any.....'

Abhishek (interrupting again) :' At PTD we are blunt and we will find the truth...'

Gupta: 'But the truth is not...'

Abhishek: 'No no Mr. Gupta, we're not serving diplomacy tonight. We have only bluntness in our menu tonight’

Gupta‘What’s with you and bluntness anyway? Can’t you simply understand that that the truth will come out, but not here, it will come out in due process....’

Abhishek (completely rejecting Gupta's words): ‘No no Mr. Gupta...’

Anjali (sarcastic)‘Ohhh..So Mr Gupta thinks this murder to be something simple. See ?! Didn’t I tell you? Men never take us seriously’

Gupta: ‘When did this become about how seriously men take women?’

Anjali: ‘Mr. Gupta is clearly discounting my intelligence to understand what he is trying to say here’

Abhishek‘Hats off to you Mrs. Anjali for being truly blunt here on national TV. We at PTD welcome it’

Gupta: All I’m saying is that Courts will find out the guilt of the Sharmas. We are not the ones who......’

Abhishek: ‘Come’on Mr. Gupta. You can do better than that. We ask you to be blunt and truthful’

Gupta: ‘What do you think I’m doing?’

Anjali: ‘You are missing the fact that Sharmas have murdered their daughter.’

Gupta: ‘What?? Didn’t you hear anything I’ve spoken so far?’

Abhishek: ‘Excellent, Mrs Anjali, that’s more like it. So much bluntness and honesty. You truly know your facts right’

Anjali: 'This is a crime against a woman. And she must get justice'

Gupta: 'Clearly, that justice is not to be done in this debate...'

Abhishek (intervening again abruptly): 'The verdict is crystal already. The Sharmas are guilty as hell and they will be sent to the gallows'

Gupta: 'Are we to fix guilt of Sharmas here on TV?'

Anjali: 'Now Mr. Gupta has a doubt on your abilities too Abhishek. Why don't you go ahead and call us all wrong Mr. Gupta? Me, Abhishek and the rest of all, with the exception of you'

Abhishek: 'Oh so blunt that one, Mrs. Anjali. We'll take Mr. Gupta's response to that'

Gupta to Abhishek: What exactly are you anchoring? A news show?  A debate on the merits of a legal case or the guilt of Sharmas or my guilt? Surely you aren't hosting a circus, are you?'

Abhishek (nodding vigorously, interrupting) : 'No No No Mr. Gupta. I anchor only the quest for truth and a blunt one at that'

Gupta: 'Well the truth is that you are impatient, speculative and verging on absolute vanity....'

Anjali (jumping in): 'Are you saying that the Sharmas are innocent'

Gupta 'I'm not saying anything about innocence or guilt. I'm just saying that.......'

Abhishek: 'Yes say it bluntly'

Gupta : ' Do you ever let your guests speak?'

Abhishek: 'We like blunt people'

Gupta: 'Well you can go ahead and like whatever and whoever you want but I must get chance to speak whatever I want to. Ok?'

Anjali: 'Perhaps you want a ceremony of bugles and trumpets for proving that the Sharmas are guilty, Mr. Gupta'

Abhishek: Oh my God, that's as blunt as it can get. As we can see Mr. Gupta has no blunt truth to offer'

Then in a sudden inexplicable moment of frenzy and unrest which simultaneously gripped the host and the guests, beginning with Mr. Gupta losing his patience and banging the table hard with his hand, each of them began speaking and yelling at the same time. It was difficult to decipher what they spoke. The words all tossing over each other, blending in a manner so as to sometimes sound like Arabic, sometimes Hindi and partly like deafening war cries. The two gloriously suited men and the  bespectacled lady seemingly full of intellect spoke in such aggressively disregarding fashion that one grocer in a nearby ‘Hat’ who was watching the show at his shop reportedly remarked ‘Arre baba, they are shouting like they are in some ‘hat’. Abhishek, with some residual propriety of a decent host stayed quiet, but not for long. He soon resumed his race of words with the two. The picture was somewhat like this. Mrs. Anjali’s mouth had become so wide open in cut-throat oratory even the dumbest of brains could have assumed that she cawed only three words ‘Justice’, ‘Women’, ‘Technical’ . Atleast these were the words which could be faintly audible from layers and layers of thunderous eloquence from all three directions. Gupta kept banging the desk and pleaded for a couple of seconds so that for once he could speak fully. None heeded. He resumed his assault on Abhishek for being a poor host. And Abhishek kept his banner of bluntness flying high. His voice was the loudest and the others were no match for his roar. Ofcourse, the other two didn’t have his advantage of habit. Some respite was offered when Gupta furiously yanked out the microphone fitted to his shirt, slammed it on the table and walked off the show yelling ‘To hell with your blunt truth.'

Director of the show to Abhishek(on Abhishek's earpiece)'I just got a call from Legal. They are saying we should not discuss about sub judice cases till Court has not decided the case. Now go and get Gupta back'
Abhishek: 'Ladies and gentlemen we'll break for commercials and return in a moment with other debates. Stay with us’
Abhishek jumps off his chair and runs after Gupta "Mr. Gupta please listen to me. Just for a moment, please listen....."


** 'The Blunt Truth' is a work of fiction and any resemblance of any part or whole of it with any person, people, organization or any event is coincidental.



Friday, 29 August 2014

Tell Me Your Dreams..





Tell me your dreams -
Mine are long strewn;
Weaving yours to life
I’ll gather mine again -
Perhaps then I'll live again















Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Tip Toer of My Dreams





Oh tip-toer of my dreams
And the healer of pains                                         
The rain of springs
And song of autumn evenings

The rainbow of fancies

That you paint in my eyes
With your ardent passion 
And touch of million affections

That you make me believe

In all the richness of life
Amidst the chaos stubborn and glib
You are what holds me alive

Your kisses I have known

And I've frozen in them all along
Your touch I have sensed
And celebrated it like a songj

Oh fairy of my tender days

One with wings bright and golden
You have come and graced
My barren nights with your love unspoken

What mysteries haunt thee eyes

What moistness await on thy lips
What delight hide in your embrace
What bliss hold your elegance

Your promises are my sunrise

Your tears a somber dusk
Your joys are my nurture
Your love, all my life giving blood

Loving you and your soul

I rise far in the heavens above
I am a canvas of emotions
A gallery of moments

In days fewly numbered
You've brimmed me with ecstasy
Of a thousand eons
Yet forever isn't enough

Let me hence while away my time

All that is left of it in saying 
And taking in return
The only three words that ever mattered

What I'd ever be without your love
Whose flux is as wings of dove
Our love is passing time
Without a beginning or stop
In it I'm tranquil, forever and whole


For me, the gardens of paradise 
And the springs of dreamland
Are here in your embrace
And in your loving smile






Saturday, 23 August 2014

Turning Day



Sat a friend across my end
He said a thought he'd lend
'twas a bright mornin'
birds singin, corns dancin';
I hadn't a clue that 
He’d with words lay me flat
So I asked clear 'Say brother'
He looked near and he looked far
And then a smile made his lips ajar
But 'twas not a smile but a scar
He said 'Pal, she is my life
But I ain’t her love',
He slipped then to the quiet
So did the singin’ birds and the
Corns in flight
And the sun turned harsh
And the wind sparse
The lovely day  had taken a turn 
From birds and breeze and corn
A worse one - a bitter time
Had just said ‘Hello’ sublime


Thursday, 21 August 2014

A Stroke Of Will



It was almost for forty eight hours Milan had lain like a vegetable on the flexible hospital bed, strapped to the tubes and pipes, his once eager eyes now blinking, each blink separated from the one that followed by an undue hiatus, suggesting a faint forgetfulness. His eyes were the only parts of his frail form, which were capable of motion. In a stark contradistinction to his being, everything outside the window always moved and changed in a predestined fashion tormenting Milan, reminding him of how inextricably he was tied to his still fate. The toxins had cost him his power to move. They had spread through his body and numbed it entirely.

‘It’s good to see you Lucy’ he murmured, his words barely audible. Lucy had tried to tip toe into the room but he had sensed her coming in and feebly greeted her without opening his eyes. Milan did not need to open his eyes for Lucy's scent was siren for him. Those inconspicuous flight of stairs, the fleeting lounge, the bus seats, the waiting cabin, the deserted conference hall, unknown lobbies so many places had enslaved his senses to her fragrance. Her magnetic scent evoked the exact same vibrations and the fleeting memories every time they filled his existence.

 ‘You smell lovely’ he remarked after a weak attempt at breathing in a long gust of her perfume. He smiled though. So did Lucy as she glided her fingers on his blossomed palm. Then like a sudden gathering of overcast clouds, her face assumed a strained expression as she gave a glance of regret at Milan’s numbness and sighed ‘Milan, you did not deserve this’, tenderly caressing his forehead. Her gesture clearly evidenced how contrite she was about his state. That she took upon herself the burden of his present condition. The long flowing end of her gown brushed portionally on Milan’s limp hands, sparking a spontaneous smile upon his pale face, as he spoke.
 ‘Perhaps I didn’t. But I deserved you. Don’t you think?’ he spoke faintly, mustering remnants of his feeble strength; he still hadn’t opened his eyes fully. But a wholesome smile denoting a certain satisfying realization, which comes when one is absolutely sure of his choice, adorned his drained face. ‘Ofcourse my love. Who else but you'  Lucy consented. She took his hand in hers and kissed it. ‘You know there’s no one with me. No one. I’m very loney. I miss you Milan’ They looked at each other with unhidden anguish. Milan looked at her eyes for a very long time. They were angelic and signified his ultimate refuge from every distress. ‘So am I Lucy. And I know how it grinds you. The solitude, the melancholy and the writhing ache that comes alongwith it. Once you’ve known loving company you cannot stay without and then it is stripped from you. I know how it must be scraping youI know my love’ Milan spoke with eagerness.

He rolled his tongue to wet his parched mouth and resumed ‘The worst part is that you know none of it is ever coming back. It’s just irretrievably swallowed by the obscure depths of your past. You can’t move ahead without it. You can’t go back to it. You can’t think anything except the limits into which you have been ordained. You cannot want anything except that one wish, fulfilment of which, every rational sense tells you is beyond possible. I know Lucy, all the nights and dusks in such loneliness. They are infinite and rigid’ He stopped to resume breathing. Lucy was nodding her head fondly playing with Milan’s fingers as if those were more precious than rare gems. She knew he understood, because he was likewise consigned to sufferings. 'Still, you deserved to be happy, to move on and find your life again, the one you had sacrificed away in devotion of abiding love’ she remarked

What I did not deserve was you leaving. What I did not deserve was free falling in love with the absolute faith that I will land safe but realizing mid air that the ground is gone, you are gone. What I did not deserve was you being taken away from me’ Milan asserted albeit with no strength in his voice. He continued feebly but with distinctness of a man who has been in distress for a long time to be sure of its strength.  'You know Lucy, I often think about those days of joy and sunshine; when we began our journey. I remember everything as if those events occurred yesterday. Just as if I would turn sideways and I would meet all those moments which would stand gathered at a point inviting me to walk back into them' he grimaced in pain again. Lucy tried to comfort him by placing her palm on his chest. He smiled instantly under her touch 'When pain exceeds its threshold I close my eyes in surrender and there is this peaceful gallery of memories which just comes to my rescue everytime and steals me away from that pain. I see us walking together, holding hands, I feel your lips under mine and I literally feel you hugging me. And I feel alright. I open my eyes and see everything blown away by my very breath. When the bubble bursts, pain returns with a swift vengeance. And I kneel in prayer. Asking the powers that be, the very powers that split us into two worlds, to take me to you' he confided.

Lucy was quiet. She wondered if what she was about explain Milan would be sound acceptable to him. Yet she began 'For a daughter who has seen so much hardship suffered by her parents when they were raising her, it is difficult to consciously put them through hurt's path again. I could have chosen to be with you, but that would have certainly meant the end of the two persons who brought me into this world and raised me with profound care. They would have never been able to put up with the mercilessness of the world, given the orthodoxy of my their homeland and given that I was their only daughter. So choosing them meant leaving you' she paused momentarily as if recollecting her last days. 'I tried Milan. After I decided to part from you, I tried a with every last bit of my strength to move ahead for the sake of my parents. I swear I did. But I realized soon that it was impossible for me to be without you. And it took me days and those thousands of seconds and nanoseconds in those days, of thinking over and over again before I gave in. I wanted to be sure that I won't be brought back and promised all vain hopes of being without you. So I had to go' By the time she finished, Milan lips seemed as if they would never part again to say a word. He was seeing flashbacks of that ordeal through those two endless nights when Lucy struggled on her deathbed and every day since the night Lucy died. Then he shut his eyes gain, tight, fighting tears. Lucy placed her hand on his face and cupped it and with a glint of pleading said ‘I can make all of this go away. You know that. I’ll fight whoever and whatever I have to and I’ll give you back to yourself’ Lucy offered with sincerity. 

‘Don’t go. And if you must then I’ll come with you. If you leave, I'll try to give up my life again, and again and again, till I have you.’
 he confidently replied. She conceded to his surrender. How could she not? It was brimming with his love for her, even after they had been separated. The temptation of their togetherness was hard to ignore. It was what they had fought for and waited for so long. Now all of their dreams could come true. They could then make up for all the lost moments of affection and care. And this time it would come with an assurance of eternity. All of it seemed so near, so real. All it required for happening was a stroke of will, to hold Milan’s hand and take him with her into everlasting companionship. She stood up. She extended her hand at Milan and held his hand. Milan felt a never before sensed lightness and freedom. He could hear exquisite music of eden birds and the never fading light of love engulf both of them. He could see the greenery ahead, the lush endless bouncing grass and a hundred rainbows cascading along the horizon. The waves of the sea were pristine, the water calm and tranquil as a bright sun scattered its shine all over it. A land of dreams, just as they had fancied in their love. The soul of Milan was ready to join Lucy in the quest for eternal togetherness.

Lucy heard urgent beeps of the multiple digital gadgets tasked to reading Milan’s life signs, denoting imminent ebb. One after another they kept going off. Lights in those devices blinked in rapid succession. Soon the doors of the cabin flung open and men and women in white aprons barged in, ominously observing the lights, the sounds and Milan’s frigid body. One of them exerted himself on Milan's chest, kept pressing it hard repeatedly in strokes, doing it continuously, stressing himself with visible expectation, but to the point of futility. In his career he had seen enough acts where promising young lives were ended over broken hearts; he felt no control over himself, his usual composed demeanour was taken over by a feeling of deep helplessness leading to verbal outburst. 'Dammit- wake - wake up..dying for no one.....get up dammit. your mother, your father.....waiting for sons to grow to their wishes and dreams...fools, all fools..wake up nowww..dammitt"  he kept blabbering while pressing his palms hard on his chest, all the time grumbling, cursing, challenging knowing well his impending defeat. Lucy saw the door fling again. Only this time Milan’s mother rushed in and fell down on her knees by the bed where he lay. His father stood howling behind her. A hundred names Milan’s mother wailed away by his ears, the ones by which she had called him from the time of his birth and when he used to be a solemn boy and when he had cradled in her lap and when he would be adamant and stubborn and she would cajole him by those tender sounding nicknames.  She kept pleading for her son to wake up, to be alright. Lucy observed all of this with her hand in Milan’s.

She wondered of her wishes a moment ago. Not a word left her mouth. Ahead lay the road to everlasting love and bliss and behind her were parents losing their only son. Crushed by the penetrating guilt, Lucy’s grip on Milan’s hand softened as she began letting go of it. She leaned, her hair covering his face, and kissed his forehead, and whispered ‘I Love you. It’s alright. I am always with you. Whenever you need me just take my name and I’ll be there’ Milan begged her to take him, gasping and waving his hand to catch hold of hers. But Lucy’s will was apparent. She wasn’t going to consign Milan’s parents to immeasurable grief. That was a cost not worthy of their pious dream. After that point, no matter how much Milan tried persuading her, she could neither stay nor take him along. Fate had written thusly for their story. There was a gradual glow of blinding white light which filled the room and Lucy began walking toward its genesis, as if her permission to be here had expired. She wore a long flowing white gown, the one which Milan always imagined her to wear in evenings they would spend together. It’s free end kissed the floor and dragged on it as she walked into the source of the beam. At its point, she turned back and looked at Milan. He had opened his eyes and turned his face at her. The thought that perhaps, a deep permanent bonding awaited them beyond life, did not leave his head. It broke him, the thought of staying without Lucy. Lucy’s heart sobbed inside, not letting her cries be heard, but she gave him a tender smile as if to say ‘My wishes are always with you love’.

Milan’s eyes opened. The shrieking beeps mellowed down and all readings began their descent to normalcy. He saw his mother hugging him and crying. His father stood nearby cupping his hands offering his deepest gratitude to the heavens for having returned them their son. The doctors and the nurses around had a faint smile on their face. Everyone seemed relieved and happy. He searched for Lucy as if he had woken from a dream. In one corner of the room near the window sunrays illuminated the cabin. Milan stared at that corner, wondering about Lucy’s presence there, where she last looked at him saying ‘Goodbye’. He instantly remembered Lucy’s stroke of will and its influence on his own. He felt his depression recede and a strong positivity fill his senses. He knew he was always going to miss his Lucy. But she wanted him to stay, to live, perhaps live for both, his share of joys and that of Lucy’s whose life had met an abrupt closure. He promised himself that he would live. That he would be happy. That he would never let anyone curse their story for having weakened him. That he would carry the legacy of their love into the world and spread it everywhere. That he would carry her love for the rest of his life. He smiled thinking about her smiling face near the window. That’s where he last saw her before the gates of clouds closed swallowing her immortal soul within their bosom.









Sunday, 17 August 2014

A Writer's Melancholy

I am watching the rains in evening. I look up and see a beautifully unique sky. Half of the sky, the part which spans over my head, is smeared with clouds that are draining down and the distant half of it is moonlit with the white full moon so prominent and distinct on the mundane heavens that it suspends like a beauty spot on its gloomy visage. This decorates the expanse of the sky with countenance of a newly wed bride, expressing a quaint sadness blended with sublime beauty. People witness her beauty only to that consented limit, yet admire and cherish forever its sublimity. I look to the sky and marvel how it is draped with cloud all over, except for that small distant patch with the silver moon, just like the form of a bride whose entire body is clad except her beautiful face. So beautiful is this sky that it could evoke tenderness among stones. I reckon this sky is like a partitioned land, a neatly carved piece of it for the clouds and the other for the moon, as if the moon and the clouds have fought for their respective shares. But I cannot stop from marveling how the raindrops which originate from clouds cannot detach themselves from the influence of moon. They shine ethereally in the moonlight as they descend from the endless firmament’s bosom. Their beauty is unforgettable due to handiwork of moon rays. This is how it always is with partitions. The architects of partition may try to separate physically what they seek to divide from each other. Never, however, they accomplish in absolute terms, bereaving them from each other's influence. These estranged components, notwithstanding the whip of partition, are bound to sway each other in more than many ways. Sometimes making their purport more meaningful by that influence. Just the way the marble moon beam bath the translucent raindrops and make them look extraordinary. 

I sit by my window and rest my head on its frame, my small orifice to the world beyond my confine. The rain kissed zephyr affectionately runs her fingers through my hair and spells herself all across my tired body. I observe the grass waving quickly and the leaves cradling musically in the hands of the breeze. They shine benignly for my seeking heart and draw tears in them. Often when I am deeply hurt inside, my eyes flow under the spell of such unrestrained beauty, as if nature assumes such loveliness to allure me to share my sorrows and let my cry in her lap. I have known over the years that these tears are wild and beyond my control. They flow at will. They are reckless, they do not heed to my esteem. They come out ignoring where I am, with who I am. But I understand. I understand why it is so. When life is full of unfulfilled longings, and the heart is tired of pleading and being let down then the tender sweet beauty of nature and its visible affections in the fragrance of the wet earth and the numbing charm of its gentle wind assume the form of my lover and hypnotize me. And before I realize, my hurts melt into tears and start flowing as they would have in my beloved’s embrace, kind and compassionate and receptive to my laden love. I hide my face and cry more. I become disenchanted with reality. And that disenchantment brings me the reward of heightened love for nature. I attain a sort of melancholic peace in the bosom of the balmy ambience.

I turn to nature, this time consciously. I notice how the drenched grasshopper seems blind but hops, perfectly to its targets on the glistening grass. Both blend with such perfection that it is at times difficult to tell the insect from the lawn. The band of crickets sings abruptly yet with a predetermined success of finding their mates. Frogs leap after each other on the muddy grass as if they have been unexpectedly released from long incarceration. They grow fond of one another in the immediate scenario and unabashedly move ahead to more gratifying indulgence under the rain. It is a rainfall of euphoria. The plant leaves around, dance everytime the rain drops land on them. They merrily toil in receiving the rain drops and carrying them gently to the ground by bending their forms. Everything everywhere till my eyes can survey is bathed and soaked and shines in an enchanting shimmering hue. It is a mesmerizing scenery. I smile. Not for long. My melancholies return.

I wonder vaguely. Why can’t I know the beginnings of my sorrows and the end of my joys. Why can’t I convey everything that mires my heart. The hiatus between what I feel within and what I am able to say strangely become the lines of a story or the verses of a song I write. In those lines someone may find a relation and through that relativity I discover pleasing company again. I remember the hackneyed adage 'write from your heart' and wonder if I do that completely. Mostly my deepest thoughts, stay unexpressed in even the most detailed of my writings, poems and stories. The deeply personal nature of my torments makes it impossibly difficult sometimes for me to share them. After I have penned the last word of a poem, there is still a nagging residue of feeling that begs attention, but it quickly reconciles to obscurity. It is not that I do not try to achieve absolute expression. The truth is that certain things in me howsoever weighty, do not demand expression. They are habituated to anonymity, they are better off that way. They prefer the dark comfort in the depths of my heart, unshared and unexpressed than facing their fears of popular rejection or earning embarrassing infamy for their host. Most of my melancholies stay inside me. Despite every endeavour of nature to relieve me of them, they remain trapped by will. Despite nature's design to stir my fingers to the will of my mind to write, they don't find words. Such are my evenings at times.






Thursday, 14 August 2014

Soul Of A Nation



In matters of conscience, the law of the majority has no place.
                                                                       - Mahatma Gandhi


Howsoever clich├ęd it may be to write about our nation and our independence on Independence Day, I still choose to write about it on this day. Maybe because I am old schooled. Maybe because I believe this is the day when we all stop and ponder over issues governing our nation like no other day. I will not convey the hundred afflictions that mire our country today, I will rather tell you my desires, my hopes and my dreams which I often see for my motherland. In doing so I will simply ask of my fellow citizens, especially men and women of my generation and the ones who came later than us to endeavour toward a particular few goals. I will talk rhetoric, that which have been sermoned a thousand times before me, for the reason that despite the efflux of time and the burden of repitition they still unchangeably remain the key to unlock the destiny that our great country is made for. 
 .

I beseech you to not take your duties and jobs for granted no matter howsoever irrelevant you may think it is in the running of our nation. Be role models for your successors, no matter how small or big you perceive your jobs to be. Raise your voice against oppression and injustice, notwithstanding your disconnect from any such incident. Live an honest way of life. An honest way of life is probably the hardest one in today's time but if it's lived with conviction and moral courage then one can live with dignity and without any regrets. If each one of us can inspire honesty and sincerity in others by practicing these virtues ourselves then the dream of a just and corruption free society would be achieved without any revolution.

When you choose a path of service to the mankind and a life of truthfulness, you may perhaps not get the credit for having chosen such a noble way of earning your livelihood. This might burden your hearts - but remember – many years from now you will not be judged by the degrees or medals or the glittering materials that you may or may not own, but you will be judged by what you did for mankind. You take on a responsibility above and apart from the rest of society. You accept new obligations, standards, and principles.  In your small yet significant way you would be the defenders of the Constitution, the guardians of our liberty, the advocates of just causes, no matter how unpopular, the protectors of the powerless, the wise counselors of our society—that is what you will end up as one day.

Something within me tells me that a generation of new ideas and talent is about to change the world. We constitute that generation.  I am therefore sure that you will bring about marvellous changes all around. Do so with pride and dignity while ensuring equal opportunity and dignity for all.  I will part by saying that listen to you conscience. I know and trust that each one of our conscience is in its right place.  I believe firmly that no matter how much disenchantment might pervade our minds regarding the state of our nation, there is enough goodness and righteousness around us and if we collectively assert our conscience then the day we dream of, the country that we dream of is not far from becoming a truth. I don't have the slightest of doubt that while you assert what is right, you will perhaps face stiff opposition, overwhelming and large. A surprisingly large number of people may stand against you. That is why I began by quoting the Mahatma's words assuring that in matters of conscience, one need not heed to majority opinion. Go ahead. Do what you feel in your heart is right. You will enrich the soul of our nation. Because each one of us is a breathing part of that soul.







Punishment of Dreams



There is a certain severity and embedded inexorability about dreams, the ones which are for all intents and purposes, by definition placid imaginings, but leave you gutted shoddier than ancient spells and the hyperbole that come wrapped about it. When you wake up and return to the globe wherefrom the dream had tempted to become your saviour and your refuge from nocturnal disappointments, you have already, by then, become an outcast for the transient moments that immediately follow your return. Where reality rejects you, you reject reality, you turn your face to dream and the dream stands long wrecked. Such absolute is the wreck that not a trace of it can be noticed, only felt, and sensed deep, intrinsically like a rudiment of human birth, true and sure. Like a glass breaking in vacuum, the shattering complete and irrevocable, yet the effect diluted by separation from air.

The struggle between conscious and the imagination starts to break into the nerves tightening the pieces that reflect in your eye. Pieces from a lost trance. What is not possible turns impossible and what cannot become is unachievable. There remains no more a prospect of turning the shreds of broken dream into a thread of hope. Because of the challenge of the truth, the fierceness of the battle between the hopes and their veracity, the unfeasibility of the dreams right to become and the defeat of the very existence of its purport.

Because after one dreams, the retribution of reality begins. It unleashes its wrath more outstandingly with vintage vengeance. The punishment of dreams begins after their end. They get back at the dreamer.