Anaahat

Is it necessary that you have something to say when you write? Can you write just utter nonsense - catching the words in your fingers as they erupt in your mind? Just like that. Leaving the critique on your shoulder. Locked in the bathroom. Locked away. With ear phones in your ears to block out all the noise. So that all you hear is your own. Not the audible one. But the one which sees, hears and notes down things in everyday life to re-visit once you want to say something. Say something. Anything. Don’t look at the white of the screen or of the paper. Just let your fingers run with a life of their own. Let them be the only cord connecting your heart with words. Say everything. What you didn’t want to say. What you never will say. What you will work on, to get rid of. Say everything. All those days of pain. All those days of laughter. And the momentary life of all those things. Say how stupid you have been. Say how you will work on that longing, until it washes away. Until o...

What I know is to live this life, to see the beauty, to enthrall, to enthuse, to revel, to feel the magic that holds the world together. This magic which astonishes. The magic beyond anybody’s control. The words, the inspirations, the wonder that people see. The passions that they chase. The dreams that they follow. Doesn’t matter, the logic. Or if it can be broken down in to levels of reason. Doesn't matter if you don’t understand, what matters is that you are blown away by it. To see, to be and to give yourself completely to these moments, is the end of life as we know it.  From then on, the definitions change.  The plates move, ever so slightly, and the core has altered in greater degrees. Giving rise to that moment which gives the absolute meaning for your existence on this earth. And, that is the purpose of life.  The moments when you feel as much alive, breathing and sensing. To slowly, flow in these moments, and to get free off them. To reach a greater plane whe...

Enough of lines of feelings which cannot be quantified. Enough of the hopes which cannot be fulfilled. Enough of the lies which escape those bloody hands. Enough of the days of longing and wants. Enough is all I say. Enough of trying to change The muddled world. Enough of wanting fairness, From the greedy souls. And then,  one day arrives. with no more space for desires and wants, in the vacuum filled, empty cup of life.

Darkened, bulging sky, Rain exploding on the earth, resonating my thundering heart. (This is my first attempt at writing a Haiku. Inspiration from here .)

"It is beyond those two hills - the boundary," the Tree told Ms Elephant and Mr Dog. Stars lit up the dark sky and showed them the way. They were runaways. And had walked away from what they knew as homes. Where they had grown up, where they had had many falls and where they had learned to stand. They left it all behind: the people, the lovely zoo-keeper, the cages, the sniggering of the observers, and the pokes of inquisitive children who treated them as specimens. For the quest for a world with dignity and respect - across the boundary. They were not always unhappy at the zoo. There were lovely days in the beginning: jumping with Ms Monkey, laughing with Mr Squirrel and eating with Ms Bear. Their world fell apart the day Mr Moose came to the Zoo. Mr Moose would cry every day, and rattle the cages for hours together. And for those hours, the ground of the Zoo would shake. It was he who brought passion for Freedom into the Zoo. After a fe...

Two years ago on this day, ban on smoking indoors was imposed by the Maharashtra government. Then, there was a huge uproar about this, views were expressed in favour and against. Smokers were angry and non-smokers were triumphant. Today, life has returned to normal. It seems normal to expect clear air in a nightclub, to expect smokers standing in the office corridors bonding over a smoke and coffee, to expect separate smokers rooms, etc. Here is an fictionalised story of an opinionated gentleman writing on what transpired on 2nd October 2008. *** To Smoke or Not to Smoke   Ramanikbhai logs on to his blog. He bangs the keys, patriotism oozing from every pore of his body. The keys taking life of their own and speaking Ramnikbhai’s mind. He writes about how this country for which the great Mahatma fought for has gone to the dogs, he writes about the hindu-muslim divide, he writes about the westernization of the India culture, about short skirts and cigarettes, he writes about alco...

On that temple on the faraway hills, wise mountains  wait in peace, worn-out staircases ache   for footfalls, with that endless supply of nothingness. Run away to that temple  on the faraway hills,  beyond the, airwaves, radiowaves, microwaves. Leave the busy streets with chaotic, stress crammed bodies. Shrug away those high hopes, extraordinary expectations, those aspirations, guidelines and rulebooks. Now drop your pen, wear your running shoes, leave your plastic cards and, plastic smiles ting-a-ling-a-ling for the faraway hills, with that endless supply of nothingness.

The colours faded, and the peace gone, an empty echo remains, a blank space, where once, a throbbing town resided. Aftereffects of sedation, of busy dreams and quiet screams. of fake sleep and wakeful slumber. of visting blank spaces, where once throbbing places existed.

The day was like any other day, I was working typing at my computer cursing its stupidity Thinking of you. Wind gushes, the white sheets flutter a moment in time something within myself is alive through you I feel dissolved the constant motion of cars buildings douse in the summer afternoon sleep I watch your un-even breathing I smell your skin your touch magnifying somewhere deep within and the screams of the cars evaporate. After centuries, and eons, births of suns and deaths of stars, I re-think of you, the loss of you something missing, something missed. Past that corner, I see her with you I see you smile with her and I am still stuck with you, just stuck with you, Simply stuck with you.

The face in the picture stares at me. A cry erupts from the deep recessions of the heart. I am taken by surprise by the sheer emotion it evokes I stare back at the face with all that it stirs. Satisfied to, I shoot daggers How much I loved you. Or perhaps still do. How much I ache in places I didn't know existed. The picture blurs. And I think - this is where love meets hate.

After the events of the 3 terrorising days, a sheet of anxiety hung in the air. Not like being in a war; in a war you know the enemy is, he is identifiable. Here he was faceless. Someone standing next to me? “Let us start something. A non-cooperation movement. Something to show we are not taking this lying down. Something that can tell the leaders and politicians that we want our safety. A nameless, leaderless movement. Lets show them how many we are and how angry and tired and frustrated we are. Let us all come togehter at the gateway of india - on Wednesday, Dec 3 rd @ 6pm. Please spread the word if you agree it's time we send a message too!” This message blinked on various cell phones, emails, networking groups in the days that followed. Quite rightly catching on the general mood: anger, the feeling to do something, to voice out confused voices, somewhere. And, hoping someone hears them: politicians, terrorists or perhaps “we – the people”. I was ticked too and...

I remember the first time I read the novel. During my summer holiday with no studies. All I did that year was read. Among the memorable books that I read was "The God of Small Things." I read while the sun shimmered outside my room and while the silence of the night enveloped around, me pushing me more in the world where ‘the God’ lived. Carefree and secluded from the my world and its worries, I read and rejoiced in Rahel and Estha’s imaginary and real worlds. I read of Ayemenem and of pickles. Even now, I remember details from the book as though I lived through everything depicted there. As though I was the optimistic Rahel, the lovelorn Ammu, the touchy-untouchable Velutha, the quiet Estha, the drowned Sophie Mol, the angry Kochamma, the dreamer Chacko and the servant Kochu Maria all at once. Or perhaps have been each of them at some stage in my life. I'am awed by the writer. How did the story come to be this? Was Rahel sitting in Ms Roy’s head and compelling her to wri...