FATE

I almost thought i may not blog again. Fate compelled me. I hate fate. I like blog-ging.

iLike iLike.

Good Good..!

Let us say and sing, ‘Praise be to you, Oh Fate’

For all that you are: Mighty, Cruel and the ever so Great.

We, litters of the human creed: slaves of a greater plan

Stare and stand - oh you lesser sons of Misery’s clan.

What must I fight…? Whom shall I wrong…?

To the side of an unknown master I must belong…!

Shall I blame providence, fortune or an obscure destiny?

For what good is it, if doomed forever is my silent mutiny?

Tied and tamed in forged shackles of helpless Rage

Joys of the soul are but a generous Fate’s daily wage.

They say, our spirits are free: of bound and of boundary

But indeed, we shall laugh at a world stooped in vicious melancholy.

Of Pretence

Squalling winds through a tunnel in my head.

Sometimes feels like a train racing past; flashing windows of light that leave an evanescent gleam in my contradicting eyes; and as it fades, daylight shines on my fake intellectualism, where facades over love and romantic hues become opaque in their mask of mystery. An inquiry into existing in a dark oblivious bliss pops up, looms over ones head and finally descends on you. Away from rational thinking, and the thinking of the ways of the world. In the dark where bats have their day- blind; and happy.

Other times it’s a ballroom, a regal banquet. Mindless clatter of mundane vocal chords in feigned ways royalty. Silvers plates beneath extravagant food for darkened hearts. Where formality is a way of life and true ardor a way of dramatic excellence. With a smile on the face most deceive and many an honest soul stands in reception- reception of disbelief and misunderstood faith.

Then there are times when it just feels a bit confused, anxious, and misjudged. Questions on ethics, truth, reality and who know what the human mind thinks. Vex perhaps is just another word for our very self. Who probably bothers...? Maybe just me or maybe the ones around. At dusk, as the sun set over the horizon; winds soothe with their now mellowed rage and new reflections take hold. We all act out our lives. Let’s just be actors then; at least live our acts.

...
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Mortal lamentations

The symphony of a soliloquy in slumber sheared the shallow stinging silence;
And Lost living left behind a lure of lust, known only to lonely limits.
As a bird flew through the underworld of dreams-
Trapped in the blizzard of gust-full thoughts;
A wild plunge into the final Poseidon of thoughtful vexation.
Strengths of mythical might and human disregard:
Souls of diminutive creations cry foul-
Under spells of ambiguity, a beast cried while its sinews scream!

People, Crowd and Me

I know the date but I don’t know when I was born.

Its been a long time since I had water bottles round my neck, since we all fell down with “Ring-a-Ring o’ Roses” and since I wrote my exams through “four plus fives” and “three into twoes”. But who cares about it now anyway. It’s a mad rush and sometimes I wish I were Thomas Hardy. I’m not brilliant enough to write a book such as his, but “Far from the madding crowd” couldn’t be a better option.

I see people; people who’ve come here to be the solution to their family woes and people who’ve come over coz … well, they had nothing else to do; People who are dressed up in nothing less than Puma shoes, Nike socks, Levis Jeans, Reebok T-Shirts, Fastrack watches and Jockey under wear and people who write on their hostel wall, “Fuck this money culture”; People who would shoulder a tearful soul or would give it all for a smile on her face and people who walk hand in hand to advertise their pseudo-romanticized chivalry. People who would hang on to a charming departed past to fuel their hopes for tomorrow and yes, people, for whom departed is no better a word than non existent itself; some, for whom dad is the any time money, for some the hare-lipped kite runner and for some, “who gives a f**k”. I’ve seen by this time, ‘The genuine friend’, ‘The outright enemy’ and also the ‘The benign backstabber”.

So compelling is the intensity of this madding crowd that new men are forged every single day; some for the better, others, well … they just cease to be them. Its not too difficult to foresee the change, it’s the acceptance of it that is tricky; Many of us refuse it, others I guess get forged into new men themselves. Men designed to be efficient and just that, no emotional hangovers, no sentimental backlog.

Its a strange place; or maybe it’s just an instance of the terrible face of “The beautiful world” I’ve never seen or I guess I’ve never foreseen. I find it uneasy. Probably I’m just too young to grasp the complexity or probably I’m just too old to be comfortable with this transformation or maybe I just want to be reborn. Afterall, I know the date but I don’t know when I was born.

Malady of Discontent

• My skin's changing hues every other moment watching random males and females exchanging RED roses, teddies, chocolates and objects of eternal, perpetual, everlasting, undying, ceaseless and timeless fondness. (Yeah, i copied it from an online thesaurus)
• I watched for the n-th time Tom Hanks standing on the cross-roads in Cast Away.
• I fretted at my exam time table for the 253th time. Yeah, again..!
• Bit Torrent’s f****d up … [shout]I want my downloads [shout]
• I’ve got a tooth ache
• I wanted to kill someone today but its both illegal and being Valentine’s week m not too sure…!
• I got rated an average of 2.5/10 on looks… [scream]/[sob]/[beating my chest]

If you’ve read Gandhi’s talisman, you know now whom to picture..!!

A Trip in Time

I now come to know, from a needle on my wall,
Seconds, days and years have passed.
Longing for the times I love,
A picture, a postcard and now myself at last.

In fond recollections of days gone by,
And thumpings of a reminiscent heart;
A breathless gasp and a saline stain,
For sure they reveal ; fate’s pungent tart.

I remember, innocent eyes that glowed,
And yes, the tiny nails I mowed;
I remember, inseparable sharpeners and broken pencils,
And also, feigned cries over fantasy tonsils.
I remember too, those colored school bags,
And skinned knees on spirited crags.

From days when my head was high
At a better toy or a flashing shoe,
Time has flown on fleeting sails
Now, toward forlorn lands I do not construe.

Forlorn lands they are,
Although here, a multitude is alive;
Each one in happy memories,
Holding on to shreds, of their childhood jive.
For we all, move on and march away,
But the eyes, the crags and the cries;
Immortal always and life itself, they always outplay.