Moments of magic
Begging to be captured
With deft strokes of a paintbrush
Or the illusory magnificence of light
And then the master without a brush
She paints them into a life stream
No paint, no prints, no photos
Just moments reformed into words,
Refreshed, redefined and recreated
This master without a brush
With a master-stroke unparalleled
Then breathes life into words
And sets them free to live
And then the words
Unrestrained and unrestricted
By physical forms and compulsions
Roam free and far
To spread the word
Of their masters art
And those blessed moments of magic...
This post is inspired and dedicated to This is That.... I am currently drunk on her latest post called... ahem... Wordsmith
People... the post is absolute MAGIC.... Read it to believe it...
Monday, June 14, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Story Teller
Sleep Like A Cat... Choco's Lesser known blog that contains one of the best blog posts that I have read... EVER...
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Summertime
The sun at its radiant best. Angry blue skies. Arid earth. Hot collars.
No cloud cover. No respite.
A few harried salesmen and other sundry parched throats trudge along towards their destinations. Beads of sweat wet the foreheads. Their thirsty eyes look up in hope at those delightful soft drink hoardings. High up in the air, the hoardings look down at the tired souls and give hope. Magical blues and revitalizing greens. Cool cubes of ice floating in those tall glasses with multicolored nectar. A sight to quench your thirst while a greedy corner store awaits you.
A sun burnt cart puller. Dark sweat laden skin and thin sinewy muscles bounce off the sunlight while they exert the very last bit of energy left in them. The malnourished man pushes them to the extreme to carry his cross and inch towards his destination and to the few rupees that will feed his family this evening. Each step costs a fortune in blood and sweat, but ironically, is worth only a few pennies. A drop of life trickles down his forehead, works its way down to the bridge of his nose, finds his parched lips, ignores his kiss, finds the chin, drips down to wet his bare chest and dissipates into the wetness of his chest.
The cart puller curses the sun. But then he repents. He is poor. He has no education. But he is wise. He knows deep within, that the sun may be merciless, but the sun is still a friend. Not like the rain.
The sun is always angry. But it is honest.
The rain, it is enticing and beautiful and pleasurable. But it is sly.
In the rain, no one will hire his cart. An empty cart is directly proportional to an empty stomach. Sorry. Six empty stomachs.
Not far away a man in his air-conditioned car looks out at the world. Cradled in his seat of luxury, awaiting a traffic signal to go green, he looks out at the beggar knocking at his window in disgust. The beggar, deformed and probably deranged, brings his sun burnt thirsty lips close to the expensive window pane. He knocks on the window and makes a sad face. A man pleading for life sustaining bread and a nourishing drink of water. A man begging to live.
In his mind, the beggar too curses the sun, for the sun cares not for those who have little. He sides with the rich and roasts the poor. The beggar tries to open his mouth. But his dehydrated lips give up. He mumbles some words that say nothing but mean despair. The man in the car, however, can hear nothing. His ears are tuned to the throbbing music that reverberates through the expensive beige interiors. He breathes in cool air and gestures to the strange life form outside his window. Be gone you creep. “Why the fuck cant they work. If I give him money I know I will end up feeding the beggar mafia”
The beggar trudges away towards other carriers of hope that await the signal to go green. One of them holds the key to nourishment.
And then there are the children. Hopping and skipping to nowhere. Their unruly hair and their oily pigtails braving the mighty sun, making friends with the scorching sunlight.
How can they be unaffected by the mighty summer? Does innocence nourish, shield, and protect. Or is it the benevolence of the sun for those that will, hopefully, one day, bring about compassion that the worlds needs.
The sun lives in hope and burns with anticipation. He lights up those little lives and is optimistic. One day, before he collapses into himself to become a supernova, these little ones will work up the magic of innocence and sing songs that extend compassion. One day they will eradicate sin. On that day, everyone will see the light.
God looks down at the sun. He looks down with a wry smile. A glint in his eye.
“They will not understand because they are not programmed to”
“Not many will understand that my greatest creation is not man or the sun or the water or fire or the planets. Not even the universe. Not love. Not the heart. Not even the brain.
My greatest creation….
Equilibrium….
Which I created in abundance….
Right and wrong
Rich and poor
Hot and cold
Life and Death
Love and hate
Creation and Destruction
Cyclical
Interdependent
For that which sustains also destroys
One feeds the other
One negates the other
One leads to the other
One balances out the other
Fuzzy logic… yeah… equilibrium…. My greatest creation
No cloud cover. No respite.
A few harried salesmen and other sundry parched throats trudge along towards their destinations. Beads of sweat wet the foreheads. Their thirsty eyes look up in hope at those delightful soft drink hoardings. High up in the air, the hoardings look down at the tired souls and give hope. Magical blues and revitalizing greens. Cool cubes of ice floating in those tall glasses with multicolored nectar. A sight to quench your thirst while a greedy corner store awaits you.
A sun burnt cart puller. Dark sweat laden skin and thin sinewy muscles bounce off the sunlight while they exert the very last bit of energy left in them. The malnourished man pushes them to the extreme to carry his cross and inch towards his destination and to the few rupees that will feed his family this evening. Each step costs a fortune in blood and sweat, but ironically, is worth only a few pennies. A drop of life trickles down his forehead, works its way down to the bridge of his nose, finds his parched lips, ignores his kiss, finds the chin, drips down to wet his bare chest and dissipates into the wetness of his chest.
The cart puller curses the sun. But then he repents. He is poor. He has no education. But he is wise. He knows deep within, that the sun may be merciless, but the sun is still a friend. Not like the rain.
The sun is always angry. But it is honest.
The rain, it is enticing and beautiful and pleasurable. But it is sly.
In the rain, no one will hire his cart. An empty cart is directly proportional to an empty stomach. Sorry. Six empty stomachs.
Not far away a man in his air-conditioned car looks out at the world. Cradled in his seat of luxury, awaiting a traffic signal to go green, he looks out at the beggar knocking at his window in disgust. The beggar, deformed and probably deranged, brings his sun burnt thirsty lips close to the expensive window pane. He knocks on the window and makes a sad face. A man pleading for life sustaining bread and a nourishing drink of water. A man begging to live.
In his mind, the beggar too curses the sun, for the sun cares not for those who have little. He sides with the rich and roasts the poor. The beggar tries to open his mouth. But his dehydrated lips give up. He mumbles some words that say nothing but mean despair. The man in the car, however, can hear nothing. His ears are tuned to the throbbing music that reverberates through the expensive beige interiors. He breathes in cool air and gestures to the strange life form outside his window. Be gone you creep. “Why the fuck cant they work. If I give him money I know I will end up feeding the beggar mafia”
The beggar trudges away towards other carriers of hope that await the signal to go green. One of them holds the key to nourishment.
And then there are the children. Hopping and skipping to nowhere. Their unruly hair and their oily pigtails braving the mighty sun, making friends with the scorching sunlight.
How can they be unaffected by the mighty summer? Does innocence nourish, shield, and protect. Or is it the benevolence of the sun for those that will, hopefully, one day, bring about compassion that the worlds needs.
The sun lives in hope and burns with anticipation. He lights up those little lives and is optimistic. One day, before he collapses into himself to become a supernova, these little ones will work up the magic of innocence and sing songs that extend compassion. One day they will eradicate sin. On that day, everyone will see the light.
God looks down at the sun. He looks down with a wry smile. A glint in his eye.
“They will not understand because they are not programmed to”
“Not many will understand that my greatest creation is not man or the sun or the water or fire or the planets. Not even the universe. Not love. Not the heart. Not even the brain.
My greatest creation….
Equilibrium….
Which I created in abundance….
Right and wrong
Rich and poor
Hot and cold
Life and Death
Love and hate
Creation and Destruction
Cyclical
Interdependent
For that which sustains also destroys
One feeds the other
One negates the other
One leads to the other
One balances out the other
Fuzzy logic… yeah… equilibrium…. My greatest creation
Monday, April 19, 2010
Still
Time was still. The man looked at his watch. Hours and minutes stuck in perpetuity. Defeated and motionless.
“How ironic” he thought. His lifeless watch reflected the barren landscape – dull, desolate, and still. Thirsty shrubs reached out to the dry, parched soil. The slight breeze that blew through the landscape during these acrid months appeared to have been imprisoned by the lazy dust that rested listlessly in the summer sun-baked earth.
The man looked at his car as it stood open-mouthed. Its defeated engine looking out at an angry victorious sun.
He had been there for a few hours now since his car broke down. His kerchief tied around his head and a bottle of water in his hands. A bottle that now contained the last few sips of lukewarm water after the liquid had made friends with sunshine. The poor man however had no choice but to wait.
Sweat trickled down his forehead and entered his eyes. He tried to flutter his eyelids to avoid the sweat trickling down into his eyes. Salt and sweat burnt his eyes and clouded his vision. He fluttered his eyes and looked out at the barren highway through a hazy tear screen.
He hadn’t seen a vehicle pass by since his car overheated and his driver had gone off to get water. Since then, it had felt as if his defunct watch had somehow managed to stop time and keep him imprisoned in a vulnerable, timeless and harsh present.
His patience had started getting the better of him. He looked at his bottle of lukewarm water, the acrid landscape, the isolated highway, and his useless car. He cursed under his breath. He cursed his luck, the weather and his driver.
“Benchut, why the fuck did the car have to get overheated today and where the fuck is Ramprasad”
His mind moved on. It moved on to unpleasant thoughts about a bag that was on the back-seat of the car. The bag worried him. The inconspicuous bag held gold, that generally, is a fortune for any middleclass father of an unwed girl child. The bag contained gold jewellery for his only daughters wedding, prepared by a family jeweller from their ancestral village, a few hundred miles away from the city.
The gold had cost him a fortune. It had cost him enough to make him worry about it.
He had set out last evening to go back to his ancestral village to collect the gold. He had to go alone, as the others in his small extended family were busy with other tasks that a grand wedding demanded of younger and fitter men. He had set out with his driver of eight years, a man he could trust with his soul, to collect his daughters wedding ornaments and issue the final payment.
He had forgotten about the gold since his car broke down. But now it worried him.
He pulled himself close to the car door and looked in through the car window.
And then all hell broke loose. His heart started pounding through his chest and worked its way up violently to his temple. It pounded in his head and engaged in a violent scuffle with his brain. He felt his heart and brain scrambling through his veins. His head exploded and his heart tore through his chest.
A lone man screaming on an isolated highway. His voice cutting through the caustic landscape, unsettling the lazy dust and ripping through the earth. Far away mountains, lying still, waiting in eagerness, unsure but eager - Can they absorb the angst.
A car standing still. Its open mouth seems wider. Terrorstricken. This is not the master that it has known
“BHENCHOT… BHADWA… MADHARCHUT”
A man he trusted for eight years had taken off with his daughters future. A man who he trusted with all his secrets, frustrations and happiness. A man who had, for eight years, been just another accessory in his car. A man he trusted.
He had to go after the bastard.
There was no point waiting here. His daughters wedding was less than fourteen hours away. He had to get back with the gold.
His daughter's father-in-law had said that he did not believe in dowry.But the man had also said that the only thing he expects is that his daughter-in--law enters the house like a princess.
Everyone knew what that meant. He, as the father of the bride, was expected to give. This was the social norm and this was how his society worked.
Of Course, the wedding was doomed without the gold.
Since the birth of his only child, a daughter, he had realized that the girl was to be his most precious asset and yet, ironically, his biggest liability.
He loved his daughter. He would not let her down. His family name was at stake. He could not let his ancestors down
He had to get home. And he had to get home with the gold. He had to act.
Waiting around was not going to help. He had to act.
Act now.
"Act now you you bastard. Come on. You have seen a thousand movies where the impossible has become real. There must be some truth to it. Miracles happen. They happen to those who are desperate and who believe."
"Pray now you bastard. Call out to the one who has blessed you all her life."
“JAI MAATA DI”
He tried to pull himself up and stand up on his feet.
His wheelchair moved away from him
He fell to the ground.
He looked up at the scorching sun, his car and then his wheelchair.
Then he cursed god and his fate.
Why the fuck did this have to happen to him.
Why was he cursed.
Cursed with a daughter. Then cursed with a paralytic stroke that had rendered his legs useless for the last one year.
And now cursed with this misfortune...
“How ironic” he thought. His lifeless watch reflected the barren landscape – dull, desolate, and still. Thirsty shrubs reached out to the dry, parched soil. The slight breeze that blew through the landscape during these acrid months appeared to have been imprisoned by the lazy dust that rested listlessly in the summer sun-baked earth.
The man looked at his car as it stood open-mouthed. Its defeated engine looking out at an angry victorious sun.
He had been there for a few hours now since his car broke down. His kerchief tied around his head and a bottle of water in his hands. A bottle that now contained the last few sips of lukewarm water after the liquid had made friends with sunshine. The poor man however had no choice but to wait.
Sweat trickled down his forehead and entered his eyes. He tried to flutter his eyelids to avoid the sweat trickling down into his eyes. Salt and sweat burnt his eyes and clouded his vision. He fluttered his eyes and looked out at the barren highway through a hazy tear screen.
He hadn’t seen a vehicle pass by since his car overheated and his driver had gone off to get water. Since then, it had felt as if his defunct watch had somehow managed to stop time and keep him imprisoned in a vulnerable, timeless and harsh present.
His patience had started getting the better of him. He looked at his bottle of lukewarm water, the acrid landscape, the isolated highway, and his useless car. He cursed under his breath. He cursed his luck, the weather and his driver.
“Benchut, why the fuck did the car have to get overheated today and where the fuck is Ramprasad”
His mind moved on. It moved on to unpleasant thoughts about a bag that was on the back-seat of the car. The bag worried him. The inconspicuous bag held gold, that generally, is a fortune for any middleclass father of an unwed girl child. The bag contained gold jewellery for his only daughters wedding, prepared by a family jeweller from their ancestral village, a few hundred miles away from the city.
The gold had cost him a fortune. It had cost him enough to make him worry about it.
He had set out last evening to go back to his ancestral village to collect the gold. He had to go alone, as the others in his small extended family were busy with other tasks that a grand wedding demanded of younger and fitter men. He had set out with his driver of eight years, a man he could trust with his soul, to collect his daughters wedding ornaments and issue the final payment.
He had forgotten about the gold since his car broke down. But now it worried him.
He pulled himself close to the car door and looked in through the car window.
And then all hell broke loose. His heart started pounding through his chest and worked its way up violently to his temple. It pounded in his head and engaged in a violent scuffle with his brain. He felt his heart and brain scrambling through his veins. His head exploded and his heart tore through his chest.
A lone man screaming on an isolated highway. His voice cutting through the caustic landscape, unsettling the lazy dust and ripping through the earth. Far away mountains, lying still, waiting in eagerness, unsure but eager - Can they absorb the angst.
A car standing still. Its open mouth seems wider. Terrorstricken. This is not the master that it has known
“BHENCHOT… BHADWA… MADHARCHUT”
A man he trusted for eight years had taken off with his daughters future. A man who he trusted with all his secrets, frustrations and happiness. A man who had, for eight years, been just another accessory in his car. A man he trusted.
He had to go after the bastard.
There was no point waiting here. His daughters wedding was less than fourteen hours away. He had to get back with the gold.
His daughter's father-in-law had said that he did not believe in dowry.But the man had also said that the only thing he expects is that his daughter-in--law enters the house like a princess.
Everyone knew what that meant. He, as the father of the bride, was expected to give. This was the social norm and this was how his society worked.
Of Course, the wedding was doomed without the gold.
Since the birth of his only child, a daughter, he had realized that the girl was to be his most precious asset and yet, ironically, his biggest liability.
He loved his daughter. He would not let her down. His family name was at stake. He could not let his ancestors down
He had to get home. And he had to get home with the gold. He had to act.
Waiting around was not going to help. He had to act.
Act now.
"Act now you you bastard. Come on. You have seen a thousand movies where the impossible has become real. There must be some truth to it. Miracles happen. They happen to those who are desperate and who believe."
"Pray now you bastard. Call out to the one who has blessed you all her life."
“JAI MAATA DI”
He tried to pull himself up and stand up on his feet.
His wheelchair moved away from him
He fell to the ground.
He looked up at the scorching sun, his car and then his wheelchair.
Then he cursed god and his fate.
Why the fuck did this have to happen to him.
Why was he cursed.
Cursed with a daughter. Then cursed with a paralytic stroke that had rendered his legs useless for the last one year.
And now cursed with this misfortune...
