Thursday, 2 April 2020

चित्रण

उसकी व्याख्या क्यूँ नहीं करते हमें?” एक बार किसी दावत में किसी ने मुझसे पूछा |
मै थोड़ी देर सोचा की क्या वर्णन करूँ उसका |
अरे भई दिखने में कैसी है?” तभी एक और सज्जन ने उत्तेजना दर्शाई |
मैंने कहा "कह नहीं सकता, भ्रान्ति में हूँ” और फिर कुछ गुनगुना शुरू किया...
वो सांवली है, केश घुंगराले है उसके, ओंठ रक्त रंजित,
नहीं नहीं रंग साफ़ है, लम्बी है, नहीं, प्यारे से नाटे कद की है, शायद?
क्या?
हां, अम्म…
गालों में कमल मानिंद लालिमा है, नहीं, टमाटर जैसे रसवान हैं,
गोल-गोल, पिलपिले,
नाक चमकीली है, उसी चमक के नीचे एक गहरा भूरा तिल भी है,
स्वस्थ है, खुश है, जीवन से सराबोर लगती है?
हँसी… उसकी हँसी… थोड़ी शूकर के जैसी, कुछ मेरे जैसी है,
ज़्यादातर खिलखिलाहट भरी है और ठहाकों में उत्सवों की अग्निक्रीड़ा है,
चुहल जो लोटपोट करदे,
ताने कटाक्ष से भरे; किन्तु द्वेषपूर्ण? निर्दई?
कतई नहीं !
संजीदा? हाँ ज़रूर,
केवल प्रेम और सौहार्द, यही छुपा है उसके मन में,
छोटा मोटा कपट भी हैं और छद्म भी, किन्तु बेहद ही निर्दोष |
सामान्य वक्ष की है मगर सीने में समुद्र समाए रहती है,
दुबली है पर ठोड़ी जब छाती से लगाकर हंसती है तो
उसके के नीचे गुलाबी रंग का एक लोथड़ा दीखता है, मानो एक और ठोड़ी हो,
भुजाएँ मांसल, कलाइयाँ लचीलीं, अंगुलियाँ पैनी, नहीं-नहीं, मोटी और गद्देदार,
बाल लंबे, घने, पीतल जैसे, मखमली, सीध...
गज़ब करते हो यार, कभी कुछ बकते हो कभी कुछ” एक आदमी चिल्लाया |
मै तो अपनी सचाई व्यक्त कर रहा हूँ बंध,
तुम्हारे आयाम के सत्य-निरिक्षण के खाँचे में मेरी असलियत का द्रव नहीं ढल पाएगा |
छोड़ो ये बकवास और उसका नाम कहो मूर्ख!” एक महाशय चिंघाड़े |
नाम कल्पना है, कदाचित, अ… नहीं नहीं, कामना |

गंगलोड़ू

नदी किनारे एक बड़े से ढुंगे1 के ऊपर बैठा मैं कुछ सोच रहा था, क्या? पता नहीं | सर्दियों का अंत हो रहा था, पर फिर भी आज सुबह, सूर्य की आहट होने के कुछ समय पहले, मंदी बर्फ़ गिरी थी | कभी तेज़ वेग से बहती नदी, कुछ कोस आगे बने बाँध के निर्माण से, अब विरल हो चली थी | इसी विरल नदी का एक सुस्त, शीर्ण सा किनारा किसी कुंद धार की तरहं पत्थरों को अध्गीला कर रहा था | उस आलसी किनारे ने नदी के गोल गंगलोड़ों2 को, दोनों दिशाओं में, मीलों तक, दो वर्गों में बाँट दिया था | कुछ(जो दीर्घकाल से नदी के भीतर थे) चिफले3 , कुछ सूखे और उनमे से कई सूखे गंगलोड़े ऐसे भी थे जिनके ऊपर श्वेत बर्फ़ अलंकृत थी | यही बर्फ़ से ढके गंगलोड़े और उनके बगल में बहती नदी का धीमा किनारा मेरी मन:स्थिति को पारलौकिकता में भेज रहा था | इस भव्य दृश्य ने मेरे निर्विचार मंथन को और भी गहरा कर दिया था | तभी नदी के दुसरे किनारे से आती एक नर्म खिलखिलाहट ने मेरे ध्यान समेत मेरी दृष्टी को उस पार खींचा | वह किनारा, किसी टापू-तट की तरहं, बालू से सम्पूर्ण था और उसमे मेरी ओर के किनारे की अपेक्षा कम गंगलोड़े थे | उसी ठंडी, गदगदी बालू पर नंगे पैरों में एक छोटी नौनी4 खेल रही थी | परन्तु उसका यह खेल कोई साधारण खेल नहीं था | सफ़ेद कपड़ों और अपने चाँदनीं बालों की प्यारी सी चोटी में सजी वह बच्ची अपने इर्दगिर्द नाना प्रकार के, छोटे-बड़े ढुंगे इकठ्ठा कर रही थी | कुछ पत्थर उसकी हतेली में आ जाते तो कुछ, भारी भरकम, बड़ी मश्क़त्त (पर पूरे उत्साह में) के बाद, उसके द्वारा तय की गयी सोनियोजित जगह पर जम जाते | वो उन आड़े-तिरछे, गोल-सपाट ढुंगों को एक के ऊपर एक, बड़े विचित्र कोणों पर अकल्पनीय रूप से संतुलित कर ये मीनार मानिंद ढांचे खड़ी कर रही थी | जब अंततः उसने इन अविश्वसनीय मीनारों से बने घेरे को पूर्ण किया तो उसकी ख़ुशी का कोई क्षितिज नहीं था | वह उल्लास में उस घेरे के अंदर बाहर, नाचती-फांदती फिर रही थी और उसकी हँसी की संतोषजनक आवाज़ें नदी की कल कल करती ध्वनि की साथ मिलकर पूरी घाटी में एक आलौकिक संगीत बजा रही थी | मै इसी संगीत और रमणीय दृश्य में प्रमात हो गया था | तभी बादलों की गरज और सर पर पड़ते ढाँडों5 की मार ने मेरी मादकता तोड़ कर मुझे धरातल वापस बुलाया | मेरी नज़र जब उस पार पड़ी तो वहाँ कोई भी नहीं था | वह छोटी नौनी गीली रेत पर अपने नन्हे पदचिन्ह छोड़ कर उसी तरहं पहाड़ों में कहीं ग़ायब हो गई थी जिस प्रकार मेरे सर के ऊपर का सूरज पहाडों के पीछे कहीं चुप गया था | सब कुछ बदल गया था | यह बदलाव था सुस्त नदी का वेग में, सुबह का शाम में, धुप का बारिश में, संगीत का शोर में और समक्षता का एकांत में बदलना | यदि कुछ नहीं बदले थे तो बस उस नौनी द्वारा रचित गंगलोड़ों के अविश्वसनीय रूप से संतुलित ढांचे | किन्तु हाँ, उन गंगलोड़ों के ऊपर अब बर्फ़ की जगह ढाँडों का मुकुट सजा था |
गढ़वाली Glossary : 1. ढुंगे - बड़े पत्थर
2. गंगलोड़ों - नदी किनारे के गोल पत्थर
3. चिफले - फिसलन भरे
4. नौनी - लड़की
5. ढाँडों - ओले

Saturday, 28 May 2016

परिदृश्य

सर सर सर सर... सरल, सलील, चली वात आर्द्र, मस्तानी, 
वर्षा भी है सखी मृदुल, नभ में है खींचातानी, 
चाहे दिन का आदित्य हो प्रबल, 
या रात का मादक सोम नीरव, 
जब छाए मेघ पके चित्रफलक पर, 
झुक-छुप गए, दोनों देव देख ऋतू-वेग की तानाशाही, 
सर सर सर सर... सरल, सलील, चली वात आर्द्र, मस्तानी| 


थे छत पर तप-तप, टिप-टिप चूंते परित्यक्त परिधान उदास, 
हे मतवाली! प्रवाह से जीसके हुए बावरे, लहरा रहे हैं अब उल्लास, 
पर भाग रहे हैं इधर उधर, घबराते, छिपते कुछ इंसान, 
कुछ है खीज, कुछ तटस्थ तो कुछ हैं खिले हुए व शांत, 
कुछ हुए हैं धन्य इतने दे रहे है बांग,
"या खुदा तेरी मेहरबानी!"
सर सर सर सर... सरल, सलील, चली वात आर्द्र, मस्तानी| 


टिन, तिरपाल, झुग्गियों की छिछली, दुर्बल छतें, 
सब कर डोल रहीं उन्मुक्त, 
गलियों के गड्ढे, सड़कों के नरमोखे, 
जो थे कोरे, खाली, 
अब उबल रहे विकट, मचाते तबाही, 
पल में भिगा के फिर सुखा रही है,
फिर भी नहीं है कोई अणु शुष्क, 
कहीं सज रहें हैं खेत, कहीं हो रही बहाली, 
सर सर सर सर... सरल, सलील, चली वात आर्द्र, मस्तानी|


आकाश में अब बस उड़ रहीं हैं प्लास्टिक की थैलियाँ, 
पेड़ो, इमारतों की ओठ लिए पंछी ओझल हैं, 
पत्ते, खंबे, वाहन, खिड़की बजा रहे वाद्य, बाँसुरियाँ,
कुछ लिखते गीत, कुछ कह रहे ग़ज़ल हैं, 
कुछ डूब रहे मोह, प्रेम में, 
वाह! क्या मौसम है रूमानी, 
सर सर सर सर... सरल, सलील, चली वात आर्द्र, मस्तानी|

Wednesday, 18 November 2015

Crooked, Strange and Cockeyed


There is a difference between what we perceive and what we believe we should be perceiving and both of these are different from what it actually is. 

I was doing my daily chores of inflicting physical misery on my body this morning in a park because I am not a gym person, neither am I a dog or a cat person or a gun person nor am I... whatever that is in vogue. I think I am not a persons' person. I don't know if I am even a person. This could well be a dream but that’s a talk for some other time. Sorry got carried away there. 

So I was saying that I was in an park which is less popular among the locality people which makes it even more beautiful and desirable. As I was catching my breath (multiple) and wiping off my sweat of my forehead (and other questionable places) I saw a burned out Diwali rocket lying on the grass. It was a big ass rocket, the ones which i wasn't able to incinerate as a kid because my parents couldn't afford such travesty and i thank our subsistence for that. The red head of this exhausted rocket was almost in a decapitated state, holding on to its body by dint of some fibers. I might have looked at it half a dozen times and something in me was not feeling right about it. I could not shake off this feeling. I don't know what it was or why but i wanted to pick it up very badly. There was only one outcome which could follow after this i.e, breaking of the rocket's head and throwing the parts away, back on the grass. 

Why was this crookedness bothering me? Why did I want to break it? So that I could have a sense of symmetry? 

We were told from the early days to be straight(not particularly pertaining to sexual orientation), to be symmetric. We were told it is right to be straight and wrong to be crooked. But how can we say for sure that what’s crooked is also not right? This is a very debatable idea of perception. This is the matter of our belief or more appropriately our belief system which has been manufactured over eons of civilization and is still being manipulated by various forces. 

Whatever doesn't suit our eyes is crooked and hence is not right. If you are strange you better make yourself right or others will do it for you. In the process of transforming you away from this asymmetry we will break you if we have to. This 'breaking of a person' seems to be the most likely outcome without achieving the required transmogrification. May be that’s why I wanted to behead that cockeyed rocked. People will break what they perceive strange even if they are not being affected by it directly. This may very well be because they are hardwired to do that over millions of years of evolution. But, if we believe we are spiritual beings then spiritual evolution must require us to see beyond symmetry. We ought to learn that being strange is not bad but in fact is enthralling, and swaying us(and others) away from our quotidian believes to expand our spiritual experience. 

I did finally pick the cockeyed rocket and rotated it thinking all these things and suddenly one of its fiber to which its head was clinging on to its body twitched and broke. It made me stop doing what i wanted to do with it. I didn't care about its symmetry anymore. I made its crookedness a part of my belief system and i let the rocket with its bobbing head slip out of my grip and fall over the carpet of lush green, curly grass.

Tuesday, 10 November 2015

Don’t Leaves This


Trying to write something on this piece of leaf, anyone who gets this must understand that this is not a revelation nor this is a confession (well, I do have one confession to make. I have a very poor handwriting). It’s been ages since anybody wrote anything on a leaf. We are losing the habit of writing as the trees are losing these leaves on the advent of fall. This doesn’t mean that I am an avid writer myself but at least for the sake of practicing we should write often, if not for the mastery in calligraphy. I know that the people who are coincidentally like me will say that pen-on-paper writing means more cutting of trees and we are already running low on those homies. But then I look at this leaf and all her fallen brethren. What purpose do they serve (after they have been relinquished from their maker) besides making us able to click and post an erogenous shot of their demise on Instagram and accumulate a million likes? They just fade away in the ‘Poorwaiya’ wind. These leaves might aid us in recovering and recuperating the lost art of scribbling. 
Don’t you agree? 


P.S: I am pauper in spelling correctly, grammar and mathematics. Leaves fortunately don’t have autocorrect but unluckily they don’t have spell check and fonts too.

Sunday, 18 October 2015

Sequestrator

I saw the world in my confines, 
only to discover my petty finds, 
that I don't want to see the world anymore, 
don't intend to be doing any chores, 
wild the globule is, 
why shouldn't i be too, 
contemplating this, 
I request myself, 
to sequester myself, 
from the old world, 
to find the unknown one, 
and ultimately myself, 
showering in the light, 
enraptured, encapsulated by the dark, 
in pure delight, 
so there shall be some new uncovering, 
making of new sounds, 
that have never been in learning, 
make music of those newly perceived, 
dance to the orchestra of the nature,
in chaos if not in symphony, 
devoid of lore for sure, 
to eat from the soil, 
till I mingle in the same, 
come termination of my toil, 
to dive, to swim, to climb, 
to drink from its breast, 
until i rest, 
for good, 
lived in peace, 
now shall rest in... who knows where, 
what succeeds peace?

Thursday, 17 September 2015

The Great White Men’s Handkerchief



It was a perfectly stitched piece of cloth, 
'twas milky white, it was magnanimous and it was patriarchal, 
‘Twas The Great White Men’s Handkerchief. 

'Twas a reanimation of nature’s gifts, 
‘twas soft and ‘twas dear, 
It had a special power to ward the filth off itself, 
‘twas a social stature, 
‘twas a veneration of riches, 
‘twas The Great White Men’s Handkerchief. 

‘Twas a binding for the violated limbs, 
‘twas a throttler for an infidel lover’s asphyxia, 
‘twas a canvas for the beloved’s loving lip signature, 
‘twas The Great White Men’s Handkerchief. 

‘Twas the remnant of a universal fabric, 
‘twas the map of sophistication, 
‘twas the flag of cession, 
‘twas a shroud for the stagnant, 
‘Twas The Great White Men’s Handkerchief. 

‘Twas a clothe for the regal dinning etiquette, 
‘twas a duster for the blood dripping from the side of the lips after a cannibalistic treat, 
‘twas a bandage for a ripped visceral, 
‘twas a bond of an infrangible partnership, 
‘Twas The Great White Men’s Handkerchief.

Saturday, 22 August 2015

Time: Prologue


Have you ever realized that time isn't moving? Of course you all have felt the eternity of time i.e., it passes so slowly that its impossible to bear it getting by. But that’s not what i am talking about. By not moving of time i mean the stopping of it, literally. 

Have you ever felt like you are looking at your watch and the hands of the watch aren't moving, none of them, at all? You look around and there is nobody, no society, no meeting, no commuting. Just blowing wind, rattling leaves, a train passing by probably a metro or a subway train, dogs lingering around a dump of litter but not making any sound, birds flying around a magnificent but abandoned sky scrapers as if they were providing us a scale for the greatness of these buildings, magnanimous factories expanded over a vast, ungodly surroundings, throwing black and grey smoke in the sky, white clouds perpetually eclipsing sun every now and then, and just you and no more. 

The Time is really not moving, neither on your watch nor in your consciousness. You wonder what’s going on but at the same time you don't bother to care. Perceptive of your surrounding still lost in a pensive state of pondering. A new awakening perhaps; because there is no time at that time. Everything has inertia at that moment but the time and also your sense of understanding. 

You haven't found happiness or love there but you are not sad anymore. The morbidity has lost with the time itself. Reality is different now. Its bright, everything is bright even the darkness.

Thursday, 13 August 2015

Rumi’s Field

What is all that is wrong with this world? 

The world which we think we know so well or which we understand via experience and science. 

Is it possible as much clichéd as it may be that we could actually be living in a cat's or a dog's dream? 

What is that field about which Rumi brags about? 
Do the laws of physics apply there? 
Do the apples on the branches get hit by people with big heads there as a redemption from gravity? 

Ghosts and people must live in harmony there. 

That green and incredibly leveled grass in the meadow, those savanna-esque grasslands and the easily scalable ice-capped mountains with beautiful gorges and a crystalline river flowing in them, and the fresh water dolphins somersaulting out of the water, all of it in an existence beyond ours. 

There is no right or wrong there, no prejudice, no greed, no jealously, no possession, no pain, no grieve just bliss (not the kind you have on FB, twitter), actual, absolute bliss. 

Everybody is having an LSD trip every time but without esuriently swallowing one. Even the monsters are putting flowers in one others' hair there. 

God has no business being there, S/He is an ishmael over there. Just living in an old age home called The Heavenly Kingdom with pearly gates. People from the field visits her/him on her/his birthday i.e. every time S/He creates another universe. But that's all there is to her/him. The field has taken her/his progenies or creations to a dimension far from her/his domain which is almost everything. 

What do people do in this field? Is there any work there? If so then who assigns it? 

I doubt there are any ranks there. Hierarchy is an old concept of a festered world. But nothing rots here, everything is fresh, always. 

Everyone is here, everybody who wants to be here is here. It should have been crowded but it’s not. It’s open, open like a magnanimous heart, infinite. A paradox but not at all bewildering. 

There is no thin line between fact and fiction; there is no line at all. 

No lines, no queues, no coffee, no cigarette, no bear, no 'drinks on me'. 

P.S: मैंने रूमी को पढ़ा नहीं है, मैं सिर्फ बड़बोला हूँ|

Tuesday, 11 August 2015

पल भर की कविता

कबूतर खड़ी है छज्जे पे कहीं, 
चुपचाप, शांत, खामोश अभी, 
न गुटरगूं, न मटर-गटर, 
सीधी... देख रही है दूर कहीं, 
समझ नहीं आता है पर कहाँ कहीं, 
क्यूँ की सामने हैं घनेरे पेड कई, 
कलम निकाल के लिख तो लूँ ज़रा इसकी यह दुविधा ही सही, 
कम्बख़्त कॉपी ले कर झट से आया जब, 
फट से उड़ चली गगन में, फड़फड़ाती, सरसराती, ससुरी,
अब ख़ाली लव्ज़ हें जो एक याद पे निर्भर हैं,
नतीजों से परे ये पल भर की कविता यही|

Monday, 6 July 2015

Time: Epilogue

Time, a passerby, a regular here(everywhere).

But it wont reveal the path to you(anyone). May be because he doesn't know whats behind or ahead of him. In fact he is kind of blind, sounds familiar to justice right?
Justice for what? Our memories? Our apprehensions? Our healings? Our deaths? Or our rebirth?

I guess Karma circumambulates around him like an electron revolves around a nucleus. She jumps in whenever and wherever she likes. Don't know if she is a baby girl of Mr. T or his beloved. This just might  explain the famous 'what goes around comes around'. Anyways it looks like she doesn't bother time at all.

So where do we come in(or go out) here? We(individual) must feel like the dinosaurs; that is if we(our kind) have a collective consciousness. Not extincted but in the manger of extinction, undergoing, mediating, bombarded by the asteroids named Karma.

I wonder if we were to ask Mr. Theodore "whats the time dude?" and he would reply "my folks named me that, I don't know what I am, why don't you go get a job man." He could be an ass like that.

Recapitulating this ridiculous post I will advise you to not ask for time from Time and also where to go next. He wont tell you even if he knew and if you are lucky he will probably show you a poetic justice for wasting his precious time.

Friday, 26 June 2015

Cinema and questions?

Was The Departed written by a stand-up comedian?

Why the fuck
had Russel Crowe jumped into the river in Les Misérables?

Is Keanu Reeves for real?

How the fuck Morpheous made that jump, wasn't Neo suppose to be the jumper?

When will Natalie Portman... aa... they should not have shot her crying... i loved her when she went bald in V for Vendetta... i don't believe she is human, ghost may be, stuck between our world and the world beyond... where am I going with this?

Why in a god's world nobody is posting how brilliant Jessica Chastain is?

Are you going to spoil Irffan Khan like you spoiled Anurag Kashyap?

How can you confuse a strong female character with a girl swearing and doing trivial shit in the name of adventure?

Why haven't they given a billion dollars to Shriram Raghvan so that he can make movies every month?

Was Clive Owen born in his late 30's and will he ever touch 40?

Do they have a De Niro the Redeemer statue in Hollywood?

How the hell Koreans make such an orgasmic cinema?

Will you kill me if i say the voice in my head is the voice of HUGO WEAVING and not of Morgan Freeman?

Why they are making action movies with Danzel Washington shooting the fuck out of automatic guns when he can kill bad people just with his countenance?

Why would anybody wants to be a film critic?

Why Akshay Kumar Why?

When will they make a movie about NSD with all the NSD great in the lead role(s) in a New York I Love you esque?

Why Alejandro González Iñárritu's Birdman didn't have 3-4 different stories which ultimately melds into one like Amores Perros, Babel, Biutiful, and 21 Grams?

Why isn't Woody Allen starring in his own films anymore? :(

Shekhar Kapoor, Paani, When?

Whats went wrong with Ram Gopal Verma after the 90's?

Can you even guess one BAD movie of Vishal Bhardwaj?(except Matru, which wasn't actually bad)

When are they re-re-releasing Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron?

Friday, 15 May 2015

INDUCED

It was windy and the dusk was transmogrifying lento into night. Dick is in his late 20's, standing outside a cafe reclining against a brick wall. He was staring at a cigarette that was reposing between his fingers. And suddenly it starts to twiddle around his fingers. He is feeling angst and the swirling of the cigarette has now become so rapid that it got tattered. The tobacco fillings flew away with the cold winds. He sighed but for only a lapse of a moment the anxiety crept back. He unraveled the pack of cigarette from his pocket and draws another fag. 

He reluctantly put the stick to his lips. With an affirmative nod of head he fastens his lips around it. He then lifts his left hand snap his finger close to the front of his reconciled cigarette. 

He snaps it again. Befuddled he looks at his thumb with an inquisitive countenance. 

He again snaps it but nothing substantial happened. In frustration and withdrawal craving he started snapping his fingers with a non-stop and augmenting patter. The result was same as before, nothing, though he might have burned some calories along with the skin of his thumb. 

But this burning sensation was nowhere near to the impregnable frenzy which he was feeling inside. 

"Just this last time you cold hearted son of a… aah!" and he continues clicking his fingers until the thwarting rage gets the better of his addiction. He flung the cigarette and the pack into the breeze and falls back to the patronage of the brick wall of that cafe. 

The shopbell at the ingressive door of the cafe rings gently. He reacts to the aural stimulus and glimpse at the door. 

A enthralling woman walks out of the door wearing an efflorescent dress and a pearl necklace enwrapped around her nape. She draws a cigarette from her purse and puts it in between her burgundy lips. Dick brushes his hair back to get a good look at her. 

See recons the insides of her ostentatious purse ardently. "Shit!" she yells “argh!” with her hands lifted up in frustration. 

‘No light for her stick either. Is the universe sending me some signal?' thought the otherwise cynical mind of Dick. 

Here they were, pining for something lethal but bereft of the most indispensable invention of human race; FIRE! 

He wished he could show her his fire as he obliviously observes her leaning back on the same brick wall. 

She looks at him and their eyes locked for few seconds of eternity. He immediately looks down as if following a military command. She rolls her eyes and with a titter of head looks in the other direction. 

There was a tall sturdy man in his late 30’s, standing on the other side of the cafe door, blowing out the same evil. The man looks at her and her un-enkindled cigarette. He pulls out a lighter from the breast pocket of his suit. He proffers it by wiggling it and throws a leery smirk at her. Again rolling her eyes she looks straight. The man shrugs and turns around towards the other side exhaling a humongous cloud of smoke. 

Mean while Dick was witnessing all of this and now his craving for a fag has been transmogrified into a languish to provide that girl with his fire. After pondering and biting her lower lip for a minute (which Dick found very erogenous) she decides to relinquish the support of the wall and starts moving towards the stalwart. 

Dick's heartbeat shoots up as if somebody had pulled a 16th century gun on him. He helplessly looks at his left hand where his fingers are despondently brushing his thumb. 

He snaps them with a passionate determination and it lights with the brightest of the flames he has ever witnessed. 

With a lightning fast jerk of his head towards her direction Dick screams in desperation "EXCUSE ME!”

Wednesday, 29 April 2015

HIGH TIME TO DO THINGS IN A POST-APOCALYPTIC WORLD ALONG WITH THE OTHER IMPORTANT STUFF AFTER THAT

G was sitting on the door steps of an ostentatious house in brown study with a leather knapsack. He used to be a vegan.

It was dusk... or dawn, nobody could tell anyway. How can they? After all they were all dead and long gone.

Finally G stood up and a hissing sound followed him. Soon the big, opulent house engulfed in a frenzy fire. It used to be a house of a rich father not his though, but he liked enacting roles very much. This is the only game he enjoyed the most in the world of which we know as of now.

P.S: Read it again while listening to Coldplay's Rush of blood to the head.

Thursday, 2 April 2015

Blisters on the Palate

roof of my mouth  
there is blood up there 
bloody blisters all around, all over 
blisters on the palate  
bloody blisters on the roof of my mouth

can't swallow, can't eat 
can't help it, can't drink 
bloody blisters 
blisters on the roof of my mouth  

can't reveal'em 
can't see them either 
they are like spies 
they are like spikes 
they are like a ghost of a loved one haunting you in malice 
they are blisters on the palate 
they are on the roof of me mouth 
bloody blisters on the palate  

bloody bastards 
illegitimate, illegal, illicit sons of bad karma 
can't love them, can't kill them 
just can wait for them to pass away 
like a whore wait for a callous customer to depart 
can't claim them either 
don't count as war scars you see 
No honor, No shame 

bloody blisters
blisters on the palate of my mouth