DROPOUT

Lethargy. Complete lethargy. A numbness spreading down the body , from the brain, down the nerves, touching every organ with a loving wand, a caress, enough to turn them off. The back sags down, a crushing weight pressing upon the chest shifting the body down and down in to the cushion. The fighting backbone rests, catches a hurried breath, again takes a shot,- a quick impulse…and then, hey presto! It realizes that the muscles intend to do no further work. It nudges the spinal cord. it lies relaxed…no sharp jab from the CNS. The drummer in the heart seems to be reaching the climax…faster , faster goes the beats..into a frenzied dance…like the intoxicating tarantula venom….
The stomach muscles contract and then abruptly give up. The thighs twist a bit, the knee-caps creak and seems that a light pressure runs through the length of the legs…till it almost absolutely dissolves near the toes .Oh! The hands..well, then lie as they were; uncared and unwanted. The taut face relaxes, the mouth opens a bit, the chin falls and rises up playing to the inaudible sound of the drum-sticks of the drummer lodging in the heart. It’s almost a ripple. Not even that..only a rush of gentle whispering of tree leaves..as they pile up on the autumn lawns. The sound coaxes..It asks the brain to relax. The eye drops lid. Slowly there is a transition in the brain. A world leaves……slowly as smoke trails out of the end of a deserted pipe...and another world enters…like water filling up a fish tank…

AN U-Shaped umbrella of smoke coiling and trailing up into the sky………a blinding flash of light……pin-pricks on the eye-lids that strain to hold their own against a powerful understanding that evinces at the bedlam…..asphyxiated, nostrils clogged instantaneously and momentarily……….One singular impulse pulls the entire body into the position of total command as the protesting mind fights against the possibility of a reworking….



Let me make a well deserved kind request. don’t ask me how I got to the details, if they can be called the details: don’t enquire where I was standing, what was the frame of reference…leave all the wh-words out for a moment, except for why and ask me now an eager then. I have a family to run. now don’t go asking what is that family ok. My perceptions are devoid of your understanding and they do not incorporate your definitions. Please don’t ask me the irritating questions that they did…Ok now I guess comes the inevitable question ”who/what is they?” to know that you will have to bear with a frantic boy and his last …well that will come later. Take it for now that I have got a power to observe a person and I am just narrating that .Simple! So lets get back to it.



Actually I wasn’t supposed to be here right now. It was completely by chance that I came here. The boy wasn’t also supposed to do this .But as you can well see , perceptions and situations change and so changes the destiny. When I got the wind of what was about to happen, I had to rewind actually-to the very day he was born. Now I know this is not a biography, and I have no intentions of reading out the exact duration of his wails in early childhood, because he did cry a lot. But I must explain those inevitable wh-words in the end so I better get a start from now on.

They didn’t have enough money to afford a separate cabin in a posh hospital, and the connections in that nursing-home helped. Precisely after 8 Pm, the wails of the new born startled the maternal grandpa, and he rubbed his eyes and said, "Well! bring the sweets someone”

This boy I am talking about, he got enrolled in the best English-medium school of his city. As if enrolling in an English-medium school ensures that there is going to be a perfect fruitful future. Well that’s not my point of writing this. The point is narrating what I saw. This boy…lets call him E...he had developed a complex nature since childhood. A perfectly natural and normal incident always took a strangely distorted and mangled shape to him. Well put the blame on any one you like..his parents…who he took as hypocrites or his family who really were complete hypocrites. Obviously he had a complicated childhood…going to the school and coming back to a crèche all because his grandma(paternal) wont accept the responsibilities of caring for a grandchild whose arrival and existence(mind you his existence) she had repeatedly boasted to her relatives; and with particular savory to those of them who didn’t have a child or had given birth to a girl. So can this boy really be blamed if he develops a sort of attitude which instilled in him a belief that males were more superior than them who were cursed by God to always get a swollen belly, generally nine months after an intercourse? Well each of you shall have your own opinion ...but mine you will get at the final stages of this narrative.


Ever wondered how an adolescent develops a physical understanding? Well for the ones who don’t know because they missed out on the chance to realize it, and the ones who would like not to recall the first-time when they had a craving for their next door neighbor , let me remind(and inform ) you that this feeling develops all of a sudden, just by chance, at any age, and its mainly got to do with hormones and genes. There fore it won’t be a bad thing after all to own up: this boy’s developed very early…and his first crush was the first girl he encountered closely with. Would you all be shocked and ready to abuse him if I told you that the girl was his cousin??
Well to tell you the truth I really don’t care. This boy was imaginative(at least till he didn’t start growing a beard!), and he dreamt of fairies(not too literally dreamt!).he thought that one day he would be meeting a fairy ,like the sugar coated princes in fairy-tales ;and so he kept looking for them.Actually can you really blame that boy? Say that since his tender age his parents taught him-“Beta! Live up to your age, not above it.You are still too young …”
And just when he was happily fantasizing those fairies, quite oblivious to the changes that took place around him, he woke up to find that the very pedestals of safety that he thought supported him were rusted by the winds of change. And then, came the cry of despair..not from him..he was after all too young to worry at all ; the cry came from his mother, half-muted by the fact that her son was scarcely living up to the level demanded from a student of his school. And the father? Well he found in his son an unlikely person to pass his mantle of “the best student of the school”. So he kept mum without actually keeping quiet-he avoided responsibilities at the earliest. The boy came to be educated in the hands of his mother. And what could the poor lady do but to vent her despair at the lad..he was compared to the best students, his confidence was trifled with and surprise! surprise! That didn’t wreak him. He tried and finally got himself satisfied and actually got his mother to smile. That I guess is taking the shape of a tedious case history. The preamble calls for so much explanation, where the main text is only worth two hours. I mean seriously, a final effect is overshadowed by the sixteen years of lead that accumulated in the burden that an Indian adolescent hailing from an upper/lower middle class has to bear . And what’s more strange is that this is the load that is usually taken up by a person, who is ahead of his time when he finds no takers of his beliefs. All because there is his society which finds him incompetent for a public display of his ideas :just because he has not got the tag from the Government of India that calls him an adult!

Now they say love is blind. Nay love is not blind my dear reader, love is sadly blinded by situation. Consider a case when you have the girl you love beside you all the day…you won’t exactly dream of telling her that you love her(well, unless you feel that the final manifestation of your existence is say out those three words over and over again). But when there is a situation of alarm; probably a rival or probably she isn’t there by you so frequently…what happens then ? You go all the way to convince her that you are insanely in love with her. Well that is a blindness of love induced by the situation. And this is exactly what happened with this boy. Fell in love with a best friend. Well, he was still in dreams over the fairies who never came...she, I am sorry to say preserved her love for another guy. And that’s where the present tense takes it over from the past.


I could clearly see the lines on his face when he entered the room today. The trimmed moustache , and the mowed down beard. He took the customary glance at the mirror, to search obsessively, for any flaws on his countenance that would make him any less desirable. Then with a heavy sigh that is very normal, (given his nature), he departed to his study table, littered with backlogs and sums never touched.
That was all so normal. And that alarmed me. The sheer fact that all is so tranquil and fits so smartly into the jigsaw puzzle-that really rings the alarm bell. Factually his normalcy is desired but actually the non-chaotic representation of his life that I am so unused to, is a nerve-rattling experience. Aah! don’t you see that boy is a hot –headed person of sixteen, and he has radically different views on every matter ranging from Globalization to Ganja- and all you see him doing is sit silently there at his desk and think. Oh! Yah! His thinking is something so very dangerous. Can you imagine a person who can have all the complexities-Inferior and Superior, who has high ego and a conscience that forbids him to be anything but humble? Well if you can’t then I guess you have a completely natural perception of human reality. Because this boy is a creature-yes, a creature possessing or, well, thinks that he possesses that concoction of every idea.

His later antics were nothing of a describable one. But I shall describe them nevertheless: because to me they are very valuable as a testimony of how the mind works for a different person in a trying situation. He got up. I could sense.. no, feel the reactions in him. His thoughts were blaring like loudspeakers on my ears. He had an altercation with himself that day. He wanted to be sure that he had found out the point of existence of his life. And every time he took up the question there came a blank reply. He was frustrated from within. That frustration took the form of mechanical energy, when he punched the table top with his fist, and threw himself down on the bed. Then came the similar reaction that I had so painfully interpreted from his psychological bearings, at the beginning of this writing.
He sat up abruptly, and the drums began to play in my heart now,…. action time??
I clearly remember each moment of resolution that I have seen, and this boy’s was very different and is still clearly etched in my memory. Boy! oh boy! He was so much like a volcano raving to go: it was like the eruption, rudely interrupted by a rock clogging the vent; and he clearly struggled to remove the rock, blast it to pieces, his past, his family, his society, his religion, his love, his perceptions and himself…the great bunch of mistakes, lies and elaborately advertised untruths. He couldn’t stand the lies blatantly existing all around him, - he was like a Copernican fellow, forced to preach that the earth made annual trips round the sun. He felt clogged into the drainpipe of high social expectations, and crushed under the overwhelming weights of the previous generation; tortured by the fact that his ideas were correct. He strove to understand where was the grand flaw? In Fate? Fate that made him get born in an economic setup that refused him pleasures . “Who was responsible?”, he asked, “the family that I am a part of?”.
They had not judged him on grounds of actual reality, free from the constraints of weak-spine diplomacy and conservative purdah. He was tired to be the last person to know of the economic strain that his family went through, and yet he was the first person to know that his actions needed to be rectified, just to stall the economic strain. He could not bring up to himself, to agree, to his own habit of praying at the alter, before any major work…when he had so assiduously studied science and found no trace of the divine grace , he bowed in front of.
He simply failed to explain why he had to change his own self before embarking on a new attempt to love, to feel wanted, to find someone who showed that she cared, by showing the affection, not by verbally promising an affection running deeply in the veins. Living alone since the age of four had only made him create a microcosm , where there were only his perceptions and where he had so unhesitantly declared “Forever! Trust who you are…because nothing else matters”. His basic thoughts were making a similar outburst…

I quote it as exactly I heard it…

“Look I am stagnant. I am not working. I am just rolling on the cushion. I am wasting my time. No I am thinking. But what good is it going to do to me. I am just one of the millions others who love to sit, combine heavy words put in smart phrases: a bit out of the ordinary. But guess what we seldom read what the other person is at.. There are so many theories and some of them are so painstakingly similar that it is very boring to even read at the titles: same diamond viewed a thousand times from the same combination of angles and the new angles are even exhausted. then why do we exist at al with our branch of philosophizing that is promised(I don’t know when) to be different from what was there before. Let me attempt ok? There are people who shall refuse to see sense( if any) in our works. They are always there, the target of out angst…we call them the generation-Ex…their philosophers are the crack force of crack-heads employed at the crack of dawn of our life to crack the phial of zeal that nourishes and replenishes the stock of dreaming{well, everyone dreams…but we (especially I) dream of becoming just different}We are here to make these crack-heads understand that the mantle needs to be passed...for good or for bad.
If we the youngsters are laughing for we find it funny :and if we are smiling because we find the conception of passing the mantle, encourage able for our type of people…then I have a last word for that too…..

We are the future and so we must also be the future representatives of the crack-headed people…etc . etc. I am sure if reality is taken into account our self-proposed laws that govern, our thoughts wont be of any logical avail to even us….”




That was so much like a modern Vesuvius. A boy who only wanted to be perfect, craved to escape his theories of life and those of the previous generation. He spotted hypocrisy in places, that were the abodes of just rationality-and he interpreted, that it was getting too tough. Publishing an idea is like being diplomatic and employing hypocrisy…that was just too much………

He walked into the balcony…looked at the still evening sky..the prickle of lights, like flashbulbs that failed to highlight the tornado ravaging his innards. Choking him in the full realization of the enormous complicacy of the mesh that wound itself around each life, in the name of society and world. He felt that the web was only too gratefully ignored by the ones who lacked the stamina to enquire.

Then in a gesture unprecedented he shouted aloud in the night life….

“Are you satisfied? …………is that what it required me to know…..have I got anything more to offer to you?? I have shredded each ounce of my sanity to interpret….I have found my point of existence….then ..then.. Its time in the end….I am the only person who wilfully decided when to cast away my life in contempt …”


And he fell………………..



The wind soared up to him…the heart-beat increased manifold…and he encountered blackness….

I was there to write it down.

Who am I? I am , rather was, his destiny, that he wished to control…his final words certify that.

I wrote it all down, the true feelings of a boy who died self-willed, for he had nothing more to discover out of the stagnant, smelly magician called life, that pulled out the same ruffled rabbit from the hat…and mesmerized the audience with a dazzling smile….


I am destiny…about to write a new story…

COLOURBLIND

Same features looked back at me. Same eyes, noses, ears, hands feet, skin and…yes, colour ,same colour. Jet black skin and a pair of white eyes stared back. The shining mirror could not mar the luster of my black skin. I was here because of this skin. I had been so abused, tortured and maligned because of my colour, that it seemed only natural that I develop some strong pride for it. It was a regal insignia – the colour of the oppressed.
It took me a while to realize it. I still remember being flogged. When I couldn’t stand it any further, each whiplash came as a boon. The final one didn’t fall upon me- it went through and I was jerked up in here. In this hallway of marble and gold. At the end of the hall there was a heavy golden door and there was a huge Venetian glass (well I know it was Venetian because someone told me later) mirror beside it. There was a huge inscription on the mirror “CHECK THY REFLECTION”. The door was plain gold- Spartan. No handle nothing. It all seemed very silly. No instructions like “Knock before you enter”- just that “Check Thy Reflection”. Since there was no one around, I took a tentative step and went through.
Oh! I forgot to mention. There was a murmur in the opposite side of the door. When I entered- it ceased abruptly. The room was semi dark.
“Ah! There’s another one of ’em”-came a drawling voice.
I was bathed in a flood light. It was so bright that I had to cover up my eyes. When I became accustomed to it I could make out shapes in the darkness around me. It seemed to be a kind of room. There was the dim glow of a fireplace at one side and there was a huge table in front of me. The dancing flames of the fire seemed to be etching charcoal relief on the table, and the shadows oscillated, looked faint and then again relapsed into pitch blackness. It was through this alternate play of light and shadow that I could actually make out the features of the table. And there were shapes behind it, engulfed in dark. They watched me, examined me with their eyes, like an animal at zoo, or a new exhibit in their museums. All the while the flood-light shone down upon me with the natural high-nosed complacency of a white master.
“Seems to be of fine built,” came a wheezy voice.
“Would be very effective in leading the mining team at hell” replied a drawling voice.
“Out of question!”, snapped a voice.” The tribunal surely recognizes the fact that such an allowance would seriously hamper the progress we have initiated out of serious mismanagement and…..”
“Aah! Sir Raleigh! Calm down. We all have our best interest at heart. We shall of course as always judge the newcomer” , the drawling voice spoke again.
Well to say that I was baffled, would be an understatement. It really went over me. Firstly, I didn’t get the reason for a light and darkness show. And then the voices, it was like people arguing in a courtroom. I felt afraid. Actually we all (we blacks) are afraid of courts. Four men from my village were taken to court by their masters and since then there was no news of them. In fact, I had no idea what happened at courts. But then I heard someone mention ‘hell’. Can’t describe how my heart just jumped into my mouth. So was it that I surely had died? Were I then in Heaven…the pedestial of highest judgement? I still remember the feeling- I trembled from head to foot, a stark realization that sent pulse of muted euphoria through my veins. To me, heaven was synonymous with freedom. Hadn’t the Father said at Sunday Mass that in God’s house every one was equal, irrespective of colour and social position. My heartbeat quickened and excitement showed clearly on my face as I eagerly took a step forward. Instantly, the voices broke off, the spotlight turned off and a mellow pleasant light lit my surroundings. I saw the Tribunal.
My jaws dropped. In front of me sat five white, decked in attires going back to my grandfather’s era. And more amazing (and disturbing!) was the fact that they held the similar appearance as that of mortals: a shiny whitish skin, and a frosty contemptuous haughty sneer dominated their lips. They sat in comfortable chairs across a huge rectangular table. Looked like I was in a Rectangular Table Conference.
“Consider yourself lucky, you people rarely form the centre of such an animated discussion”, a portly man spoke.
“Yeah!” , seconded the wheezy voice, a man in tweed coat, “generally you stuff are unceremoniously thrown into hell.”
“Gentlemen! I suggest we carry out the similar treatment with Bill Churney. After all he doesn’t seem to be very comfortable with the surroundings “, Sir Raleigh spoke.
Indeed Raleigh spoke true. I was speech bound with the flamboyance I saw around me. Generally for a slave it was hard to imagine the true essence of the term grandeur. But occasionally, I saw in my master’s house what magnificence meant. The rich, naked display of wealth : money spent like water on all sorts of entertainment. I had grown up witnessing the beauty, splendour of money ,skin and social position. As a result what my brains recorded was just a pinprick of light- I never caught the sheer radiance of the sun. My grandma spoke of stories of kings of a bygone world- but those were dazzling wealth- what I encountered now was far more awesome than any thing else.
It was immense- a structure of swirling clouds; the expanse of the room lay shrouded in mist. And it continuously morphed into shapes. The outright brilliance of the golden hue which seemed to encase the entire place stunned me: and Dawson’s remark singed me with his sarcasm, evidently aimed at my pathetic life on earth. His comment was aimed at my discomfiture in a setting far above my bearings, and the slur in his casual remark gave me voice.
“I am afraid you all are being very vague misters. Who the hec are you anyway?”.
“Silence!”, thundered the drawling voice, “You impertinent beast, how dare you speak out of turn?”
“This ain’t life mister-and you ain’t ma master-so could you please come to the point eh!?”-strangely I seemed to be harbouring on the borderline of outright courage and immature recklessness.
“So you mean you don’t know who we are?”-spoke a younger fellow, with amusement in his eyes.
“Nope.”
“We are the Tribunal-administrators of heaven.”, spoke the wheezy voice. “We decide upon what goes on in here, who gets in and who get out to hell-in fact we are the Government of Heaven.” “Wait a second!” , I cut in, “I knew that God, stayed in Heaven. He is in-charge here; that’s what Father said in church.”
“Your sickly Father is thoroughly backdated and misinformed. God stays in Heaven no doubt, but it’s a rare case when he chooses to interfere in petty things as you. He dispatched a Tribunal, to look after heaven, and now we are practically the head of heaven- God, bless Him, rarely makes an appearance,”
“And a fine job you are at- you people have taken over the highest abode of power?- I said, incredulous. Their words were as stunning as seeing it snow in July.
“No! you retard,” said the drawling voice,” we have rightfully acquired what is ours-in life or after life, know this, that –our colour retains its superior stature.”
I simply went hollow. To say that I was thunderstruck would be an attempt to undermine the tremendous impact that those words had upon me. Was there a ringing in my ear? Did my heart tremble or did it just miss a beat? Or did my blood boil and my lungs crave to scream out so loud that I got aroused into a frenzy of a psycho? It felt like they had crushed all my hope like they’d make us crush cane in the windmills. At the end, the prospect of getting this treatment, the situation of encountering the similar phenomenon that had ruled over my life was a fresh whiplash on my tortured back. And in reaction- I stared blandly across the table. The colour, the whiteness in their demeanour- it would forever, in eternity out shine our pitch blackness. My whole body went rigid at this revelation- I stood up abruptly: and like the fires of hell, there rose in me a fierce resolution. I decided to stand up to the test. I relaxed and I formed a plan. At least, they can’t kill me after my death.
“---- and duly sent to the Gates of Hell. You shall carry out work in the Necropolis, under the supervision of Satan. Any misbehaviour on your part will only make you more eligible for perpetual service in the worst dungeons of ---are you listening?”
Somebody was probably reading out my judgement.
“No!, I said coldly . Well, my heart trembled anyway! Nevertheless I continued with as much courage that I could muster, “I am not interested in listening, so why don’t you stop speaking crap and come to reality? You can’t just force me into hell if I choose to stay here at heaven. That too ,if my “deportment” can be challenged in front of God himself. I am not a dog, that you will put me in a lash and make me do rounds!”
“Really?”, spoke the young man, “ you seem very confident about yourself, eh? How about taking a look at this?” He pointed to the fireplace, which burned with an increased fervour. And through it I saw---- Hell.
I am not interested in recounting what I saw there because everything was in a whirlwind. The young man crept up beside me and suddenly he touched me and said, “I condemn thee in the name of my Lord”. The flames leapt up at me, I was sucked into a whirlpool of fire and ash- acrid fumes singed my nostrils- I was thrown into Hell. Oh! What a sight it was. To speak of Hell in Heaven is one thing and existing in that torturous place in full senses in another thing. It was also magnificient…indeed hideousness can’t really sink any low. The rotten smell, the changing skyline burning with the inhuman cries of pain from the condemned prisoners in there…the black dungeons, hidden inside the deep chasms of Hell, lava and muck pouring over them meticulously… the sub-creatures of Hell and their master…Satan-the unseen being. It was custom( I learnt later), that Satan welcomed the newest unfortunate lot. And precisely that happened with me. There in front of me stood grinning a toothy rotten grin- Satan , enmeshed into a swirling darkness , like a chasm with two red pricks of light.
“ So, the rebel comes. Would you like to lead the next work group Sir?”, the shadow spoke in a mocking high pitched voice.
Now this was different. I was in Hell no doubt, but I was not speaking to a white skin: Satan or whatever, it was decked in black-my colour.
“I am sure I don’t think so” said I equally cheerfully.
The shadow flustered. There was a momentary lull in the roar around me- I grabbed that opportunity.
“ I am not going to see this bloody colour code determine my future-enough of this crap- I protest. Where is the God who we worshipped. Where is the Divine Power that is supposed to guide us after life? I demand open confrontation”. My voiced boomed in the gorges of hell- the labourers, a multitude of blacks looked up, their tired face showing an unreal amazement. I stood there, fist clenched, a figure of defiance, upright against the black shadow. The red lights of the black chasm dimmed.
Suddenly, the stone ceiling of hell cracked, and through the crack came a white light engulfing me, it dazzled me, and then spoke, God. “I am touched, Bill. Your information is really remarkable .Who could have guessed that the Tribunal set alight the embers of flame in your heart?”
I was thrilled …. And determined. ”Yes, I shall grant you more than what you bargained for. I shall re-judge the decision for the condemnation of so many of your kind. And you, you shall have no respite. You will be resurrected. But in a new form, in another man who is fighting for his life. Bill you must continue what you realised today. Philosophising and enactment in real life and two incidents starkly different from each other. Bill, make a mark in your life. Live a new life, and give new lives to hundreds. Go, Bill, …..Go.”
The white light enshrouded me and then it lifted.
I gasped and woke up. The room around me was overcrowded. People drew breath and looked horrified .A Father on my left dropped his Bible in shock. They seemed to be reading the final mass for somebody. Someone muttered, ”He was nearly dead, how did he come around?”
“Yeah! Looks as fit as a horse.” I felt confounded. None of the faces were familiar. My hands and feet did not seem mine --- like my soul in another body. Memories of the new body came creeping in my mind and so came God’s last instruction and my beliefs. Then….A boy of seven broke through the crowd.
“Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom! You are alive! You have awoken!”

ODD MAN OUT: SAVING THY SELF

Lethargy. Complete lethargy. A numbness spreading down the body , from the brain, down the nerves, touching every organ with a loving wand, a caress a feel, enough to turn them off. The back sags down, a crushing weight pressing upon the chest shifting the body down and down in to the cushion. The fighting backbone rests, catches a hurried breath, again takes a shot at a quick respite…..and then hey presto! It realizes that the muscles intend to do no further work. It nudges the spinal cord..it lies relaxed…no sharp jab from the CNS. The drummer in the heart seems to be reaching the climax…faster , faster goes the beats..into a frenzied dance…like the intoxicating tarantula venom….
the stomach muscles contract and then abruptly then give up. The thighs twist a bit, the knee-caps creak and seems that a light pressure runs through the length of the legs…till it almost absolutely dissolves near the toes .Oh! The hands..well, then lie as they were; uncared and unwanted. The taut face relaxes, the mouth opens a bit, the chin falls and rises up playing to the inaudible sound of the drum-sticks of the drummer lodging in the heart. It's almost a ripple. Not even that..only a rush of gentle whispering of tree leaves..as they pile up on the autumn lawns. The sound coaxes..It asks the brain to relax. The eye drops lid.Slowly there is a transition in the brain. A world leaves……slowly as smoke trails out of the end of a deserted pipe..and another world enters….like water filling up a fish tank…

AN U-Shaped umbrella of smoke coiling and trailing up into the sky………a blinding flash of light……pin-pricks on the eye-lids that strain to hold their own against a powerful understanding that evinces at the bedlam…..asphyxiated, nostrils clogged instantaneously and momentarily……….one singular impulse pulls the entire body into the position of total command as the protesting mind fights against the possibility of a reworking….

I am lethargic…so lethrgic that I cant even write proprli.wait…….@$%^%*

…………………………………………

Look I am stagnant. I am not working. I am just rolling on the cushion. I am wasting my time. No I am writing. But what good is it going to do to me. I am just one of the millions others who love to sit, combine heavy words put in smart phrases..a bit out of the ordinary. But guess what we seldom read what the other person is at..there are so many theories and some of them are so painstakingly similar that it is very BORING to even read at the titles..same diamond viewed a thousand times from the same combination of angles and the new angles are even exhausted. then why do we exist at al with our branch of PHILOSOPHISING that is promised(I don't know when) to be different from what was there before. Let me attempt ok? There are people who shall refuse to see sense( if any) in our works. They are always there, the target of out angst…we call them the generation-Ex…their philosophers are the crack force of crack-heads employed at the crack of dawn of our life to crack the phial of zeal that nourishes and replenishes the stock of dreaming{well, everyone dreams..but we (especially I) dream of becoming just different}We are here to make these crack-heads understand that the mantle needs to be passed..for good or for bad. We must experiment and not spend a better part of the evening writing about how exactly lethargy is spread through the body…

If you are laughing for you find it funny ..and if you are smiling because you find the conception of passing the mantle encourage able for your type of people…then I have a last word for you two……..

We are the future and so we must also be the future representatives of the crack-headed people…etc.etc. I am sure if reality is taken into account our self-proposed laws that govern our thoughts wont be of any logical avail to even us….


Accepting the mantle requires responsibilities are you ready to be made to rise above the proposed level and shout out loud that you have been different and can, shall or might mingle with theories in a wholly different way that shan't perpetrate another person like me to write a piece very similar to he one you are reading……..


A clarion call…..the intended person varies as a function of perceptions………


Lethargy. Complete lethargy. A numbness spreading down the body , from the brain, down the nerves, touching every organ with a loving wand, a caress a feel, enough to turn them off. The back sags down, a crushing weight pressing upon the chest shifting the body down and down in to the cushion.BUT…

The cushion is not so smooth this time…..

RELIVE...

RELIVE...

The night-sky of south Lindogn was an inky acrylic paint of fused , muted, somber darkness, interspaced with some misplaced brighter hues…remnants of the departed daylight. The immense dome of heavenly bodies, gracefully dipped into the chaos of the industrial city…it kissed the polluted roof-tops, and caught the spiraling smoke lazing out of the chimneys. The dark-set clouds descended grudgingly into the crammed canvas of animalistic urban life. There was no mystery, save the furtively tense lone, lady crossing the street hurriedly, or the loafer who stood half-hidden in the gloom of a progressive city. The rhythm of the fast descending night life was normal, and the muted evasiveness of every person in the road was a reflection of the attitude of submission to a well programmed life , devoid of any reason to stand in the roof and shout out in joy at the moon, or to pat the back of the sweet kid next door. A wisp of smoke trailed behind a long overcoat, polished black leather shoes shone in the gas-light. A slender figure walked down the shadowy, deserted pavement on the lower suburbs of the city; as the man rounded the corner a sign caught his sight...Miss. Martha’s Home For Destitute: a low-wattage bulb glowed on the sign board. He stopped , unsure of what to do, a sudden impulse made him take a few steps towards the iron door that led deep into the red-yellow building, and again an unseen hand forced him to retrace the path...as though escaping from an evil shadow, he ran and crossed the street...panting under the lamp-post. The vendor squatting underneath the post looked at him questioningly...startled by the gaze the man straitened his countenance.
"You up to somethin' mister?", asked the vendor,” saw you shiftin by tha' house"-he pointed at the destitute home.
"N-no! not at all", came the stuttered reply,” I was wonderin' if I knew the place"
"Well your business. Went in there once to sell some wares...grim lot all of 'em...specially the ol' granny Martha...though the girl at the reception was a nice creature...Agnis...erm...ya that’s wha we called 'er......hey mister what happ'nd...wher' cha runnin'?"
The man was already running, the overcoat billowing at his wake.
The next day he was at the reception of the destitute home. The room smelled strongly of phenyl. A lone flower stood untended on a vase which was even more neglected...the desk looked like it was cleaned last when the home was started. The rickety chair, only adding to the miserly state. The man sat on the sofa, the covers moth-eaten. He stared at his hands, and a patchwork of lines stared back at him. He wondered if his life was as cries-crossed as the lines on his hands.
Twenty years ago he and Agnes, last met on the subway .She was still the sweet girl who lived beside his house: he couldn't recognize Agnes at first; he watched the woman beside the window for a long time, wondering where he had seen the jaws, that nose the lips, the curls ...curls. Yes! the curls. He went up and sat beside her, excitement throbbing in his heart like a hammer, he called, "Agnes." A pair of white eyes , concealing some pain within, like the veil of a Spanish senorita conceals her features only too partially, looked up on the man. The stare changed to uncertainty, and crossed into a frown, as annoyance took over "I am afraid I don’t know yo.."

"Its me Agnes, its John.."
The same eyes sprung into recognition and a light grew inside it.
"John!!" she gasped, "John Forbisher...that silly sweet boy who lived beside my house"...She laughed aloud, jerking back to wake, some slumbering passengers..."Oh my god!...you have metamorphosed completely, you are a man now, look at the moustache you have got."
They got down on the next station and talked over a cup of tea, spilled over their secrets, drowned in the sorrows of each other, the childhood buddies relived the younger days. For John it was recreating the uncompleted jig-saw of his fragmented childhood, the chasm that was left when Agnes departed for Millenshire, leaving behind memories that haunted John at night. Now seeing Agnes he wondered how friendship could run so deep that it infused a newer zeal to urge the self for a meeting with the past.
The next week was a blow to John's dreams.
"I am leaving for South Lindogn. I have taken a work out there in an institution I am sorry, but I don’t think we can meet any more John."
John was not listening, in his mind he saw sea waves drifting two bodies away and away from the shore, his parents had streamed far away from him...

A muffled sound of laughter broke his trance,: someone was coming through the door behind the reception table. John understood why he was shocked to see the sign last night...last time Agnes and he had met, she carried a packet bearing the same sign, Miss. Martha’s......The door started to open, John heard a familiar voice issuing instruction to someone...he felt relieved ..it was time to relive.....

To Catch The Goddess

Titir is a wonder to me, a ray of light that has purged and forgiven me of all the felonies I have commited.Her forgiveness is unbelievable, and her tolerance is unattainable..she has tolerated all my foolish ideas, my imbecile understanding.To me Titir is more than a friend. She is a part of my life, a position which make her attached to my perceptions. She is above a best friend, and yet is not my girl friend. She belongs to a different genre, where two lives merge into one.I have been a fool not to have taken the path which was open to me, and yet after losing Titir in an unusual way i have gained her in a new light.The place she holds in my heart..there love is not of posession or attaraction, love is devotion,Bhakti.That's why I say Everything I do i do it for you.If i am to complicated in my words, let me quote, "Only after Loss do you understand Love". God keep her happy, My Beloved!!

Fall Of A Goddess

Her chair was my belief,
A high abode of consciousness-my life elixir,
A support commonly confused,treated maliciously, tried and tested
She resisted, a tolerence shown to a confused Friend,
She moulded,scolded and shaped my soul...
She was my goddess..

Shock came the first realisation
But she had left with a better man,
I missed the shade of friendship, failed to taste the scent of the blossoming flower,
Never heard the chirp of the bird,
Her shadow strangled me....
NO! I lost not a love...only a mental wall separated me from a friend...
"Love is poison"- i wrote,"it burns even the cover of friendship!"
I saw her fall,
Unseated from the chair,
In my heart she still were,
For our perceptions had gone wrong.

And so like a meteor The Goddess fell,
Casting me in the dark abyss of mine,
Where i lay waiting for a similar ray of light, another chirp of bird....
Pained by the crater on my heart....
The Goddess fell...............

Racism...

racism is not only a war on colour....it is a war on a form of living different from the form prevalent in the world leaders....i really got the first touch of racism here in the net...in different chatrooms ppl refused to converse after they came 2 kno that i came from india...that i am a black...not all of them but some are really really living off the idea that they are enclosed in racial superiority........

i think the only counter 2 racism is to black and outcast those who support racism.....and that requires co-operation of the highest degree..its time 2 decide if racism is going to b a passing polluter of peace in the mind or is it going to b wiped out by the growing chants of equality against it

the problem is that for the ppl who are against racism , some of them tend to develop a inferiority complex...actually we are the superior ppl the enlightened ones who believe that racism is pure shit...and the division prevalent is a waek attempt by power, priviledge loving ppl who are afraid of a conglomeration of ppl who actually are dead against racism.................

we need a colour in our mind to differentiate skills not a discriminating colour on our skin.........

The Last Of The Argentinians and The Wizard Of Bleus

The scene was a courtroom. The judgement was due-who was the greater of the two: Zinedin Zidane or Diego Maradona? The judge and the jury had gathered and the session was about to begin. The judge was Pele and the jury comprised of Roberto Baggio, Ronaldo, Romario, Gabriel Batistuta, Roger Federer, Michael Schumacher, Stephen Hawkins, Oliver Kahn, Thierry Henry, Kiran More, Aishwariya Rai and a top American diplomat. Surprisingly I was the invited journalist, asked to cover the entire proceedings. Oh! By the way, everyone was assembled but Maradona and Zidane were absent.
Romario: So whats the point in inviting jury from the tennis or kricket (sic) circuit? Why should they comment upon our greatest players?
Batistuta: Humph! Why is Nalbandian not here? Why Federer?
Kahn: But where are Diego and Zizou? They are supposed to be here.
Pele: Since when has Diego cared for protocols, eh?
Zizou enters; sly smile on his face.
Hawkins: Is Diego lost in a space-time curvature? Collective laughter
Baggio: No wait! I guess he is busy acting smart outside. Ha! Ha!
Maradona enters. Glum look on his face.
Maradona: Baggio, at least, I didn't miss a penalty like you. Keep your mouth shut!
Baggio shuts up; and guffaws by Kahn and More. Henry looked surely at Maradona.
Pele [to the diplomat]: Sir, you have not stated why you are here?
Diplomat [distracted by Aishwariya]: uh! Er..Erm!Ah! Well! you people are sports person and film star.I was wondering how you could debate..so I am here as your guide.
Ronaldo: As if we need a guide! What! Are we School children!
Pele: People! People! Calm down. Were wasting time. The point of trial is to settle the dispute once and for all-
Maradona: I see no reason why that should be a matter of decision. I am the best..I mean..
Kahn: (snorts)Yeah! Big thing coming from a superbly egotistical fellow, who substitutes his hand for the God.
Federer:What! You sacrifice a part of your body in Football?
Schumacher: No silly! Its all about Maradonas famous Hand of God Goal.
More:{furiously nodding his head): That was a thing of past. We must look forward for a better optionNo point in looking back.
Hawkins: I thought Zidane had retired ?
More flusters.
Aishwaria:(looking suddenly excited) Where is Beckham? I so-o-o like him. Shouldnt we discuss Beckham (sighs)-
Batistuta : Beckham! That stupid guy-incapable of making the simplest of passes-struts around with his silly hair-(contempt)-as if my hair is not good enough.
Henry: and in the process the great Zidane is forgotten-really is football more important or style?
Diplomat:(very wisely) stylised football is more beautiful than football-ic style.
Hawkins: We find that we are steadily attaining the structure of a non-linear chaotic system.
More: Why Zidane? He is old. Chapell says thats not an age to play even chess.!
Kahn: Tell that to Romario! Playing club foot ball at 40!
Romario: "18 Till I Die La La La La!
Federer: Why is Zidane so quiet?
Schumacher: Yeah! Whats up Zizou?
Zidane (after a long contemplation)The sky?
Ronaldo : What an observation!!
Federer:Yeah! The sky is up. But say something in defence.
Zidane : Mr.Maradona my credit lies in the fact that I did not use any drugs to enhance my capabilities.
Henry, Kahn, Baggio -Hear! Hear!Hear!
Batistuta :Thats an off incidence.
Baggio: Really Batigoal ? what about character of a footballer? Are we not role models for the public?
Aishwariya: Role model! Thats me and Becks.Where do you fit in? look here, havent you seen how I jumped from Bollywood to Hollywood and back??
Ronaldo : I say, why are we wasting our time on these two? I scored more goals than either, should I not be the cynosure of all eyes?
Romario : Cyno- what??!
Batistuta : never mind !
Hawkins: The characters show an inherent tendency to modify 11-dimensional system attaining speed of light...
Schumacher: Is he going nuts?
Baggio : I guess Federer may say something on the best part of sports men. Fed, what is to be the best?
Federer : Oh! Paparazzi, complementary invitations to top restaurants and glamour I guess.
More: Swollen headed! Just like an ex-captain of our team.
Aishwariya : He had a nice personality though.
Maradona : Dont you dare to compare my charisma with anyone else. I was the fastest on the field.
Schumacher: I can beat you anytime I wanted.
Pele : now people, lets talk about the controversy.
Diplomat(to Pele) Ill grant you concessions if you rule in favour of Zidane.
Angry murmurs from Ronaldo, Romario, and Batistuta. More applauds and Aishwariya is preoccupied with her lipstick.
Federer: What a thing to say-match fixing is it??
More: Did any one say match fixing?
Hawkins: Concessions cant be plotted in a p-brain hologram dimention...
I: Shut up you self-centred , wolfish diplomat.
Suddenly Materazzi peeps out from behind a door and shouts something incoherent to Zidane. Zidane pulls out a rod and starts hurling abuses at everyone present, upturns tables and runs like a bull, head docked.A squabble begins. Batistuta and Baggio start fisting Kahn and Ronaldo start abusing each other. Romario makes gestures at Schumacher, Federer appears deeply interested in Aishwariya , Pele is confused, Maradona howling. suddenly More holds my ear and says Day dreaming is not tolerated in this institution. his face metamorphoses to that of my history teacher and hey! There was I on my desk day-dreaming.

Inside

What goes inside, is a conjecture,
Unfathomed depths of consciousness,
A blanket may cover the mind
But the feelings cannot be.

Restlessness continues unabated
Feeling of failed life?
Complain about a bad luck?
Many are there worse.

To try and bite more than chew.
Impossible! say History.
Who am I to break the chains of routine?
Extraordinary are those failed.

Ink sketches the output of mind
But fails to divulge the truth.
What we write is for praises sake
Can we ever know ourselves?
Inside out?

The Inevitable

What have I done to deserve this?
Tired eyes and fervent readings,
Promises to excel.. all failed
Dismayed.. Distraught

Shadow in the mind, heart
Asphyxiated feeling,
The gleaming edge of razor
Red I see.. spilling, drowning me!
But I fail.

The moon waxes
Red carpet is my reception now.
In high abode of my fame
Yet, I have failed.
To understand.comprehend
Why did I not realisethe scar on my hand cries out!
Moments of pain.. caused by delusion!

Alas! Had only I realised
I wouldnt be a potential psychopath!
If only I knew
In the end it doesnt even matter

POINT OF EXISTENCE

Have you ever wondered what is the point of existence? Everything in this world has an unique point of its existence..that transcends the barriers that hold it to the earth or to the darker sides of life...the object is to find that point of existence...I search for this elusive point....it is this that marks my attempts...