The Bubble

Have you ever felt a soul searching, numbing blanket of silence which envelopes the world of your existence? a silence so profound in nature that it shuts out all the noise, emotions and feelings and leaves you clean, calm and tranquil. All the heaviness is gone and your world is devoid of joy, grief, rage or fear. You are like steel or the silvery beams of moonlight on a starless night. It is not the air, but it is you who are cold. The waves of chill are emanating from you. The air around is so clean and thin that you have difficulty breathing. Your lungs don't get their usual dosage of dust and grime. Your system feels cleansed. You can feel every part of your body. You can feel every strand of hair swaying in the wind and every drop of blood gorging through your blood vessels. The pure silence is anaesthetic and yet you can sense the charge around you. It is as if an electric current has revved up your nervous system and for once you can feel the ever elusive spirit that everyone seems to talk about. Your eyes are still and sparkling with the light of reason and logic. You see things as they are and not as you want them to be. The pretence and the cloud of hypocrisy is gone and everything around you is naked and material. The colour has vanished and the world is bathed in a clinical glow of white and grey. This is a poet's worst nightmare. It is naive of you to think that this state will last but you are too involved to even comprehend an alternate state of existence. But then you are jolted back into reality. The noise pricks your bubble of silence and all the noise, dirt, emotions and colour come rushing back into your life. You feel heavy again and the energy and the soul has gone back into hiding. You feel gravity and your eyes have lost their sheen. There is not even a faint lurking of a smile on your lips even though you know that what you had experienced was pure bliss. The memories are fading into oblivion but you won't mock it's reality by giving it a tribute of emotion. The moment is too pure to taint it with feelings. The only thing that matters is that you know it exists and you have experienced it, even if it was no longer than a single heartbeat.

The Metro Ordeal

Calcutta had witnessed the infusion of the metro rails for the first time in India. It is something which is synonymous with the city. Travelling in the metro rail at 9 in the morning can be quite an experience. The city of joy has always sported the element of human touch. Whether it is the chaats, lovingly prepared by the vendors with their hands or whether it is the bustling population, or the shoving and pushing during the time of durga pujas. The human touch has always been a hallmark of this city and metro rails have added a new dimension to this. In the mornings metros can be the best and the worst mode of transport at the same time. people are squashed together in the compartments like a stuffed up soft toy and there is not an inch of vacant space. you will be pushed, felt, groped and strangled to such an extent that you that you are left feeling abused. You enter the metro smelling and looking mint fresh and by the time you get down at your station it looks like you have been through hell. Sweaty, obese, grimy men with stinking breaths are pressed so hard against you that you can almost feel their heart beat. Drops of perspiration trickles down their bald head and gets absorbed in your clothes. You have long ago learnt the art of fighting your nausea and the urge to throw up. But the skill of retaining your sanity and consciousness when someone farts is still alien to me. You want to scream but there is no vent for your pent up disgust and scorn. the sadists look at the ladies who are obviously in more pain and discomfort and wallow in their own selfish joy. Whenever a station comes, just pray to god and take what comes like a man. You will be pushed, shoved and jolted from your position. A handful of people get down while a barrage of men are waiting to get in. you would have stopped resisting now. Drenched in sweat (yours and a million other people), with your hair matted against your forehead you are one of them now. I simply don’t know how girls put up with this. When they enter the compartment everybody wants a piece of them. God help the girl who is even mildly attractive. The girls just cover up what’s important while the rest are left to the mercy of the crowd. Some women are war veterans. They just beat their path through the crowd hurling abuses, pushing and shoving people left and right. While the meek are left to wince in pain. It is a war out there and only the fittest survive. I have survived till now but the war has just begun…………

the lost pearls

my room is transluscent. tiny shreds of light have managed to sneak through the crevices of the rickety windows and doors. the tiny rays of luminance defy my sordid attempt to lose myself to oblivion. maybe it is the advent of "compres" or maybe it is the overpowering heat that is playing tricks with my mind. tiny beads of sweat have decked my forehead. on cooler days i would have referred to them as pearls but today they seem like shackles of heat which refuse to let go. just when the listlessness started to sink in, my reverie was abruptly broken. it was the intrusion of the high pitched voice of the spinster who collects newspapers. even though i had seen her countless number of times i looked out. attired in a ghaghra" emblazoned with a multitude of hues she stood there still as if challenging the vagaries of nature to stop her from her daily toil. her skin was wrinkled like the layer of cream which collects on cooling milk and her eyes shone with defiance. the old, dirty rucksack was lazily slung over her shoulders. she reminded me of the mystic sagas of the himalayas, the wandering lost ascetic and the whining melancholy of flutes in the distant lands of time. an epitome of elegance and grace, she had traversed the borders of age and had survived the angst of poverty and had emerged out unscathed. her cries were not unrequited pleas. on the contrary her voice was resonant with the confidence of someone who is much higher in stance and stature. unable to attach any meaning to my silent gaze she moved on. the emboldened sun blazed way but the lady's steps didn't falter. she cantered on resolutely. i stood there transfixed, staring at her till she was a mere dot in the spectrum of space. the beads of sweat still adorned my forehead but no longer were they the bane of my freedom. in a moment they had transformed into pearls. pearls laden with wisdom...........

The Black Rose

"sleep deprivation induced euphoria" a term inherent in the bitsian way of life. I for one love my beauty sleep and the notion of 'night outs' is still alien to me. But yesterday night i had an inkling what people meant when they used that term. I was fidgeting in in my bed and toying and playing with the bed sheet wasn't helping. I was in a subconscious state. I guess it was like a no man's land, where i was grappling between reality and the oblivion. the feeling was new, weird and very obscure. I wondered if the culprit was the "frappe" i had at anc. the whole situation was completely intangible and beyond the grasp of any reason.I was struck by a barrage of incomprehensible thoughts. the thoughts didn't pertain to any logic but nevertheless they felt important enough. I was swimming in the sea of my intellect and my emotions were overwhelming, even for me. In the heightened state of euphoria i penned something down. Now when i read it, it ceases to make sense, further adding to the mystery and the blurred vision of last night. Here is what i wrote....

The Black Rose

Frisky and frivolous, she toyed with the naughty waves,
her resonant shriek echoing against the walls of distant caves.
I dreamt of stony pebbles on a white shore,
in a heartbeat she dissolved in the haze and stood no more.

I dreamt of winds blowing against the barren lands,
she twirled and danced with the dry leaves,
she blew with the sand.
The winds were high and mighty was the gale,
her cheeks had lost colour and her skin was pale.

I dreamt of scorching fires in the inky darkness,
the black curtain veiled the eyes which shone like burnt coal.
the untamed glory ran wild and free in the lonely vastness,
the melting eyes stood still while the flames burned her soul.

I dreamt of life in the arid desolation,
from the ashes she was born,
the black desert rose,
the rose without a thorn.

written by me at 3.36 a.m

a torrid love affair

I have been in love. no wait. Before you start thinking "here he goes again" let me state some facts. i have known her and been in love with her for the last eight years. it's a true story and incidentally it didn't start off with a love letter. now that we are in the clear let me start off again. it was eight years ago when my mom introduced her to me (obviously my mom didn't know what was going to follow). she had come from darjeeling. i was introduced to her smell before i had set eyes on her. even though it's been eight years i can still smell the fragnance in the air and the effect that it had on me. in short i was mesmerized. it was something i had never felt before. i was twelve ,just on the threshold of puberty and my notion of love was pure, sweet and innocent.(love is so complicated now). but even at such a tender age i knew this was something special.she left on my heart an imprint so deep that i am still reeling under the impact. from that day onwards life hasn't been the same.

i was sitting at my usual spot today when she came to me. the same old aroma wafted in the air. she was dressed in pristine white. she sat there still, laced with cardamom with a slight sting of ginger. just the way i like her. my beloved "tea". we have had a torrid love affair and we are still going strong. there is nothing better than a hot, sizzling cup of tea in the chilly winters of pilani. sometimes she is sweet and mild. while at times she is strong and has a mind of her own. she does have her mood swings but she never deserts me in my hour of need. people say i am addicted to her. but with the kind of peace and solace i experience when i am with her ,it's an addiction worth having. i just can't get enough of this enigma called "tea".

My Valentine

Of late my blog has been at the receiving end of most of my emotional expression. It’s high time that I connect with reality again. Let’s start with an incident which has been a source of high entertainment for my friends. It’s February, the month of love, blossoms, spring and romance. It does lose its sheen in an obscure place like Pilani but nevertheless the valentine bug does catch up with you.
Engulfed in these emotions I wrote something down. Let’s say this is the closest I have got to writing something romantic. But before I could gift it to my blog it was ruthlessly taken away from me. As luck would have it my gmail account was also accessible. Now that message has been to all kinds of places. My stupid friends seem to be savouring every moment of it.
Even in today’s world when India is at the threshold of superpower we still cling on to our primitive beliefs and styles. I can’t help but think that this entire furore was created over a little message by the so called modern educated youth of India. The whole boy girl thing is still prickly here. I have always been an avid critic of the media when they sensationalize the most trivial of matters. But now I see that they just serve what people order. Now it’s time for the desert. This is just to make this meal complete so that it could be as enjoyable to you as it has been for my friends. Here is the letter I wrote.

Hi!!
This might come as a total surprise to you but I need to tell you this. You probably don’t even know me. But the thing is that I like you. I have liked you for a very long time. I want to be friends with you. I am not a person who generally bares his feelings but it has started to ache now. I could not muster up the courage to come and tell you all this so I took the easier way out. Every time I see you my heart skips a beat.
It has taken more than plain courage to write this letter and I would totally understand if you don’t want anything to do with me. Maybe I have seen too many romantic movies or maybe I have started to believe in miracles but I just cannot live my life thinking, if only I had done something about it. Even though we have never really met I feel I have known you for ages. You are probably laughing by now at the sheer absurdity of this letter. This might seem to you as just another letter by just another guy. But believe me this is the first time I have ever done something like this and I am sure this will be the last one. I have already crossed my line but I would like to take one more liberty. The liberty to wish you a Happy Valentines day!!

aayush

A moment at a time

Life is beautiful. It’s a blend of all the colours in the spectrum. Sometimes it’s a crimson red, sometimes a brilliant blue and sometimes a mellow green. At times it looks opaque while there are times when it is devoid of colour. Of late I have learnt the art of enjoying every moment of it. But sometimes I feel it does get a bit strained. With all the competition in the world and the quest to stay ahead in the rat race, life loses its sweet taste. We try to gulp down life instead of savouring it.
There are times when I am driven by a strong urge to drop out of this stupid race. I wish I could travel like the lone ascetic, the only difference being that I would like to do it with my pockets full. Is it unbecoming of me to think in such a fashion. Am I fragile? I feel that I am missing out on the softer and cuter moments of life, moments that make life worth it. But then again they say what is life without a challenge. Quite true. It’s a catch 22 situation. You cannot run from it and you cannot embrace it. The more I try to unravel the mysteries life has to offer, the more I get stuck in the maze. So now I have decided to take it slow, a moment at a time. It’s so much easier that way.

Me and Myself

Everyday you are hit by a swarm of pesonalities. you may detest some and you may like some but you are influenced by all. Each time you try to dust off the impact, the dust settles back on you. I don't know who i am anymore. I don't recognize the person living in me. The boundaries have blurred and the demarcations are fuzzier than ever. I have lost myself in this delusional mix of identities. My soul is diluted. I don't smile the way i used to.

But not all is lost. It's when everything seems dismal and lost that i find myself battling with the faceless personas. I cry and laugh with my old smiling self. The haunting demons vanish. But when things start looking upbeat the mirage like demons return. i lose myself again and what is left is just me!!

Stolen Moments

It's amazing how lonely you can feel even when surrounded by hundreds of people. I had a similar feeling in the lecture theatre complex last week. Suddenly the outside world shuts down and all you are left with is the silence knocking against your heartbeat. It feels as if you are stealing those moments from your life. A feeling similar in nature prompted this small lyric


The fragnance of the flowers beckoned me,
the colours played and toyed with me.
The wispering winds tickled and urged me
while the compelling beauty pushed away the guilt.
I faltered and i stopped.

I stopped, forsaking my given duty,
i stopped to kiss the rampant beauty.
I stopped to dance in the rain,
i stopped to laugh in pain.
I stopped to play with childrens' toy
i stopped to share someone else's joy.
I hopped, i jumped, i skipped a stone,
i wasn't in a crowd, i wasn't alone.
I smiled for no apparent reason,
but what i had done was no small a treason.

A couple of onlookers were jeering at me.
That was when i knew i was caught in the strife.
Time had caught me red handed
and i was caught stealing moments from my life.

Hope

Words are etched in the books of history not by men with money, power or fame. History is written by the will of man. Every day the sun gives birth to a new dawn, a new life full of endless possibilities, desires and aspirations. Everyday it withers away too but not with disappointment but with pride and a promise to come again. Anything born is destined to die. But one thing never dies. It stays on for days, months, years and even centuries. It is called hope. It endures the strongest of storms, the coldest of winds but still remains warm in the hearts of men. People with hope don’t go out to change the world. With their will power they change themselves and the world follows.

The malice of a few seconds can be the bane of centuries. But even centuries of noise and violence cannot withstand the silence of a few seconds. After its phenomenal development, mankind expects a standing ovation, but a muted silence is all that it gets. A silence so profound in itself that all words fall short in front of it. Even time cannot fill this vacuum. Only two things still hold their ground. Will and hope. I do not chastise and I do not praise. I just hope that together we can help fill this gaping void.