A Nostalgic Fresco

On a Summer midday,I perch in a room,
Devoid of disciples yet full of vim.
Peeling paints reveal the depth of moil.
And,echoes of practice grease the walls.
Filling the envelope of air inside,
Dwindled tantrums dot the uptight decorum.
Musty smell leak from timeworn desks.
Mazes of cobweb creep to the alpine roof.
Long windows open to a flaring mud field.
Crumbs of chalk cuddle the podium beneath,
And, smudge the wash of a worn black board.
Fading words remind of days that blend-
Into the vanishing point.
A twisted smile, an array of gazes,
A flush of thoughts and a deep breath,
All together,paint a nostalgic Fresco.

The Comfort Quietus

Bleached by loquacious riffraff,
And scathed by pompous conflux,
I quest behind the vanished sense,
In the sepulchre of holy spirits.
The spirits of quietus and silence,
Of mild secrecy in life before birth,
Of dark enigmatic crux in afterlife,
Bent in the hungry tidal warfare,
Of belching sorrows and crummy ease.
Entwined in the web of civilisation,
Of cry,scandal,bruises and misery.
Ripping the threads of entanglement,
I long cannily for a haven to abide.
Cocooned beneath the clamoured arena,
Of voices,wishes, whims and vices.
I live with a penchant for placidity.
Forever and forever.

Warm Song of Summer Rain

Dry and parched wide city alleys,
Weep under the erring swelter.
Some mirage lakes troll at best,
Teasing the fated summer thirst.
Stunned by the fondling breezes,
Kisses of drizzle daze the torrid.
Petting the gush of dusky pillows,
High tears rush.Of lost playmates.
A sway brushes the crust of Earth,
Cleansing the dust,dirt and pores.
Sleets of shower vamp out in swift,
Shrouding the land with still mist.
Puffs of virgin sponges subtly pace,
Breaching glimpses of simmering sun.
Pigmented arches swell up in layers,
Improvising a fable of rich fantasy.
Ambience juggles the sentiments plain,
Greeting the Warm Song of Summer Rain.

He left without proffering Goodbye

Last day of exam for the academic year was over. She was hopping with joy of anticipated celebration of the summer break.She grabbed her bag with one hand while holding the pencils and pens on the other. Bidding a jaunty goodbye to her peers, she ran swiftly towards home to kickstart the liberty with a scrumptious lunch. Even the muggy weather that usually peeves her was not able to dwindle her spirits that day. Drenched in sweat and smeared with dust, she breezed into lush green avenue that housed her haven.

Never  had she been so panicky to step into her beautiful home after returning from school. But that day, things were afflictively different. The old steel rocking chair on the porch was empty and strangers with inelastic faces were ambling past her. The smell of burning incense, the fragrance wafting from  variety of flowers and  an eerie silence pricked  at her nerves. With a rummage of grievous thoughts, she peeped into the hall and all she could see - a dazzling white shroud which neatly covered an old gentleman.

The heavy bag slid down her arms on the floor. Keeping her eyes rigidly fixed on the stiff face, she wiped the sweat trickling down her temples and jaded cheeks.

Someone clutched at her shoulders from behind and whispered in an aching voice.

'Grandpa passed away this morning. Pray for him.'

Neck cramped with an ache, fingers turning cold and goosebumps raised on her tender skin. Slowly, she approached the gentleman lying calm on the bed and caressed his toes. They were colder than her fingers, stiffer than her muscles and lifeless than her spirits.

'Why didn't you tell me ? We have lots more to share and play. Wake up! grandpa! Wake up!' She hit him hard with tears streaming down her cheeks.

That man who had never let her feel dejected was gone, once for all, without even bidding her Goodbye.

An Ode to Light

On the International Year of Light: 2015.

The aura of enlightenment, the spirit of victory and the joy of beauty convene to celebrate the antecedent of all things positive. 

O Light, Thou shall be the Master!

From the cradle laid on wild heavens,
Acumen spread athwart the cosmos,
Crucifying murk, christening shadows,
The spartan dances to a jingle fast.

O Light, Thou shall be the Master!

Cajoling folks to race behind.
The silent alchemy of distant stars,
Fleeting sunsets,lanterns,lamps
And a multitude of imposing impressions.

O Light, Thou shall be the Master!

The superlative heuristic wisdom,
The vision of venturing the unknown,
The aristocrat of modern Science,
The morale of the populace.

O Light, Thou shall be the Master!

Books, Me and a Cup of Coffee

Dribbling the last drop of filter coffee onto my ever gastronomic neurons, I kissed goodbye to this year's reading. It is time to catch a gasp of fresh air and recollect the bountiful times of the year spent in reading. The journey began with The Myth of Sissyphus, a philosophical account by Camus that imparts a sense of life and existence in a world torn apart by chaos. No one will back up on our ardent fervor to pursue personal objectives is a fact and this is subtely pointed out with remarkable clarity.

Stephen Chobsky's epistolary work The Perks of Being a Wallflower precisely details the growing up phase of an introvert and the poignant yet lucid style would have made me yearn more if I had read this book as teenager and not young adult. Nevertheless, the lessons learnt there were amplified by Scott Peck's lauded bible of living with spiritual values- The Road Less Travelled. Few sentences out there are to be read not once or twice but over and over again until the ideas seep deep.

Among the travel writings, Around India in 80 Trains by Rajesh Monisha wins accolades for celebrating the spirit of Indian Railways with wit, humour and a mild dose of sarcasm. Though the book was chosen with not much expectations, the writing was at par with my all time favourite account on Indian Railways, Chai, Chai. Hail Indian mass transit system!

Set around the same theme, both Tibet, Tibet and A Journey in Ladakh are classic renditions portraying the culture, tradition and ideals of Buddhism and pilgrimage. It is high time that I set out on a trip to the mountains and not confine myself to be an armchair traveller.

To spice up reading in a light way, Le Petit Nicholas and Tom Gates' Everything Amazing were picked up. The former one has deep-seated philosophy hidden beneath humour filled lines and the later is a musing of childhood and innocence. Once in a while, it is vital to slip back to tender age memories so as to replenish mind, body and soul. That said, nothing can perform the stint better than good books.

Let me write about the next book before the clock strikes the dead hour for The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova still gives me chills. Wound around the lives of three folks from three succeeding generations, the gripping tale will make one conveniently realise that blood sucking draculas are living amongst us- along crowded streets, silent racks in a library and brightly lit rooms but that is not all. Speak of the devil and it is here hunting for the most inquistive and intellectual breed on earth.

For once, I learnt that a piece of writing can make one both curious and furious. Thanks to J.M.G. Clezio's Terra Amata for that. The book is so overpowered with details that I lost patience just after second chapter. However,the intricate details cast a spell on the reader to slow down and enjoy the world one sip at a time. On the whole, Terra Amata is a fine substitute for meditation.

While the above mentioned books were instrumental in bringing about a change in my attitude towards reading and life in general, two well known books, Reginald and The Prophet gave me sleepless nights and palpitations. I am not leaving them here. They are reserved to be reread and analysed in 2015-New Year, New Thoughts and New Ideas.

It is she, again.

Angst ridden rants of a sleep paralysed specimen.

Curled up like a shrimp, I sleep
To the hush lullaby of distant winds.
Concealed under the diaphanous sheets,
A tranquil trance on my cradle neat.
The Teak door creaks, whines and moans,
A hard run breeze assaults her ribs.
Some rich gloss leaks from the orb of night,
And scantly veneers the floor inside.
An agile stir, my eyelids squint,
Loathing to stare the dead of night.
A swift slant at half open door, I curse
Intestinal fortitude. Damn, what I see !
Cold sweat trills, down the temple raps,
Feet teetering on the brink of torpor,
Fingers fizzle, heart flounders and
The ball of fire in deep skull quavers.
A voluptuous form, beguiling indeed,
Strides onward,chanting an aria of her own.
Plopping down by my frosting knees, she strokes
my cheeks that stiffen with unease and terror.
The heaviness hikes, my forehead shudders.
Angst hidden underneath my flesh oozes,
With every diabolical shear upon my neck.
Shedding invisible tears at vain attempts
To gasp fresh air and gain a spoon of life.
Owning a latched body and a clamped mind,
A game, I am, to the ogre besides.
Decade back, she made a scene on a pitch dark night,
Sending bouts of dread down my choking throat.
All set to plunge her nails acute, 
to savour my vital body juice under the night tide.
It is she, again.