The lone flower

Sitting by the ghat like i always did, at a distance I saw a bed of flowers. Somehow I hadnt noticed it before. I thought that they must have been seasonal. Even a lazy person like me got attracted to the flower bed. I moved towards it, almost involuntarily. It must have been around 20 meters from the flower bed, that i stopped! I thought that I did not fit in the scheme of things! The whole scene was mesmerizing. The morning dew created a spark in the flowers. As I watched senselessly, this yellow flower caught my eyes. It was so different. All other flowers were either blue or red. But this one was outstanding among the already beautiful ones.

From a distance I saw the flower. I wanted to get a closer view. I moved towards the flower now. At around 5 meters, something stopped me again. I thought it was there, so tender so gentle. how could I change that! I stopped there looking at the flower. For 5 minutes all i did was saw the petals and the center of the flower from where the petals emerged, wondering how the petals meshed with each other beautifully augmenting each other's beauty. How the dew drop just held there at the edge of the petal and the flower shone with the dew drop. I felt that the flower had given the dew drop a meaning. The dew drop would have been so worthless without the flower! I thought of myself.

I looked around the flower. It was so dull. Except for the colours of the flowers which made the whole bed look brilliant from a distance, I could see nothing much to appreciate. The bush on which it grew was thorny, the soil was muddy and even weedy. The other flowers were pale and dull. All I could think was how this flower was a misfit in the surroundings. Something told me to pick the flower and take it home. I stood there for a moment. I went ahead to pluck it from the bush. The next moment, I stood there in a strange disbelief! Something stopped me. May be the brilliance of the flower itself. I went back and sat on the ghats.

That night, there was a lot of rain. It was the monsoon and I loved the rain. I Loved the ghats and the water in the river. It gushed with more energy and the air would have more mist and chill. I slept well that night. The next morning I went to the ghat. The first thing I did was go to the flower bed. As I went closer, my heart shook with fear. The flower was no longer there! The downpour of the last night had taken the flower off the bush. I stood there wondering why I had not picked the flower the previous day. I stood there wondering. The temple bells rang. The two children still fetched water from the well. The water in the river kept flowing faster. The chill of the air hit me differently. I stood there like a stone. Unmoved.

The White Scar

First the palm, he loved it there. It was such a sensation. Deep inside, he feared it would end him someday. The touch would be gone and so would the sensation. It would be numb. But he let it grow. The whole hand felt the same. Wasnt it good? White, his hand seemed strange. He loved the sensation. It was a disease, he knew. But then he was enjoying it. That day, while taking bath, he realised that it was there to stay. Scared he jumped around trying to get rid of it completely. Most of it was gone. Just a bit remained on the palms. He was happy. He enjoyed the sensation. He could not get rid of it completely but was happy that he subdued it completely. Just that a thin layer of the skin went with it together.A skin disease. Was it?
A few days, the white marks grew again. He wanted that sensation back again! He let it grow a bit. Again one day he was at it. trying to remove it completely. Some of the skin went with it. Again what remained was in the palm. He just had to close his fist to get rid of it completely. He thought of that sensation again. Didnt he love it? He couldnt kill the sensation. Something did not let him.
Days passed, the scar grew again. He did not know what to call it. It was a skin disease he thought. A beautiful one. This time, he was caught up in a lot of weird stuff. The scar reached his neck! He realized but knew he could get rid of it as he did the last couple of times. It was just that he had to do it once. A few days later, he decided to remove it. This time, it was more difficult but then he managed. Managed to remove it completely. Even from his palm. He could not react. He looked at his palm, touched it and felt that it was gone! He was happy that it was gone, but that sensation had too!
A couple of days later, he saw the white scar on his forehead! He looked at the mirror again. The scar now grew from inside his head! He shook in fear. There was no way the scar could now go! It was a part of him. He could only hide it by removing it each day from him forehead. But the scar was deep inside him. To end it completely was no longer as easy as closing his fist! He had to get rid of himself this time! It was a part of him.
He did not care. He loved the sensation. He would not kill either his self or his own self! He could not. He closed his eyes and let all senses enjoy the sensation.

The Line Maker with no name

A child
A small kid of five, he frivolously kept making linings on the sand.  He made those lines, stood up, went around, saw the lines, giggled cutely, jumped in joy at times and then waited for the sea wave to erase whatever he had done so far. He would never go towards the sea, just stand there at the shore keep scratching the surface of the shore. A few meters away, on the sand, lay his mother looking at him from a distance. She could die seeing him giggle like that forever. These were the best moments of her life. She could feel him so close to her heart. As if her heart pounced with each of his jumps, it pumped blood each time he giggled. It stopped each time he drew the line on the sand as if he was making those lines on her body and she giggled instead. His laughter sounded like the whisper of the breeze in his ears. The wave sounded like the beats of his heart and each would sound like music to her ears. Each time the sea wave came close to wipe the lines drawn over the sand, she anticipated a new beginning. She waited for the same cycle of joy all over again. She had all her senses mesmerized.

Still a Child
A couple of years later, he would still keep making those lines. A few boys of around his age would play football at a distance. The ball would take a leap and he would look at them and wave his hands acknowledging them. He would turn around and see them laugh all soaked in sand and water. They would occasionally come to him after the match and they would chat. As they left him, he would sit back making those meaningless lines on the shore again. The wave would come and blur those lines as they did for years now. He did not care.
As days passed, he would see these guys starting to mock at him, first it was a crooked smile. Then it turned to comments that they would make. Slowly it started to be loud laughing voices mocking at the lines he drew. They would often come to the place dance over his sketches and then rush back to playing football. He would step aside and let them dance and let them hate him and then when they went back he would get back to drawing lines again!

The mockery increased, he suddenly retreated. He was no longer to be seen. Even though the guys playing football hated him to the core, they began to miss him around them. His drawing those lines on the sand was a part of the picture now and a major part! He was there no matter how hot it was, how cold it was or how much it rained. Suddenly one day he wasn’t there. The village was small and every corner was known to everyone. His mother had died a couple of months back. He had always been a quiet guy. Just a gentle smile when someone came close to him. As friends, he knew these few guys playing football. He would never forget to bow his head and give a gentle smile when he passed by any familiar face, just to acknowledge their presence. His evenings were spent at a tea shop. The shop owner would pay him 20 bucks for a day and give him an afternoon meal and the dinner. That is how most of the villagers knew him.

The Anticipation
The coming week, there would be a huge mela, an annual celebration, where people from close by villages would come together and have a lot of fun. It was as cherished as a religious festival. The kids waited for it even more. It was the celebration of the harvest each year. 

This time, they all heard of a sculptor who could make statues that looked exactly like a person. They were all waiting for him. People would have to travel 4 miles on foot to the mela. Some rich ones would use the horse carts or the ox carts that they had. But for most it would only be foot.

The Mela
At the mela, there were lights everywhere. It was fun filled. It was frolic. There was a charm in the air. There was a scent of flowers, there was music and there were chirps, chirps not of birds but of men, men and children. It was here that one realized that humans also chirped and it was not just birds that knew the art. There were thugs and there were saints. The women dressed up beautifully, so were men. Only Itra would differentiate the rich and the poor. Young girls dressed cutely looking at guys from the nearby villages and then laughing loudly when they saw some guy look at them.
As one entered the mela, one could see the tents. Each tent trying to be the center of the mela. The magician had 3 shows every evening, limited seats, 50 each show costing 10 bucks each. Then there was this tent with a baboon that could do tricks like humans did. People in the village had rarely seen a monkey. A baboon was a fascination. One ticket cost 2 rupees. Then there was this dance troop from somewhere in Arabia. It was ballet and was a rage among young and old men. They loved to see the ballet dancer. It was a place not for most women and children. Each ticket cost Rs. 10. Show for 45 men at a time! Then there was this game arena. The children and kids loved it. You had to throw rings over the dolls and the games. Each one who did, won the prize. Rs 2 for each try. There was the famous Bombay chat and the Delhi chat, both trying to beat each other. Both Rs. 2 for each plate.

The Art
At one corner, stood a lean guy with a small stick. No one would even notice him there. He kept working on sand. He made lines in the ground. He was looking at no one. There was no price to look at him. There was no fun either. He kept making lines. The only difference was that there were no waves here. All that he drew remained there. He did not call anyone to pay attention. He kept making lines and groves for an hour. A few kids that went that side in excitement saw some marks in the sand and left the scene seeing nothing great or fun.  As everyone else engaged in the frolic at mela, he kept carving shapes on the ground. He hardly noticed the other tents and people around him. To him making the curve here was the same as making them on the sea shore.

An hour passed and the mela was at its peak. Suddenly people started circling the work on the sand. They were all bewildered to see the work. No one had ever realized how he had become an exponent at carving those lines and how his lines were so perfect. He could not just draw lines on the sand he could make figures with depth. The shapes now had not just the borders but also a curvature. He made them look so real. The figures would stand out as if shapes covered with thin sand. You could see bubbles of water in his work.  Even the sound of the waves seemed complete given that the mela was just around 300 meters from the sea.

He kept working on his artwork for another hour. He hardly noticed the people around him. Once he was done, he receded into the darkness of the night, not to be seen anymore. He did not care what the world thought of his art. He knew what he could do and how much he had to improve before he could call himself a genius. Probably he never could. He never would. A life time he thought would never be enough to get to the depth of an ocean and understand it. He was at the shore of the ocean drawing curves. That is all that he had learnt in the last 10 years! All he knew was that he loved it and that is all that he cared.

Back to the village
The villagers talked about how the young village boy stole the show and left the famous artists completely pale. The next evening he was there at the tea shop as usual. The shop owner was happy to see him. People who had noticed him there began to appreciate his work. He looked at them, smiled, said “thank you” and quietly kept serving tea to the other customers. He knew this was his source of living. He could not sell his art. It was not for money. It was his love. He could not sell it. He would not either. 

Imperfections.

It is not for the perfect to see and appreciate the beauty and perfection in imperfection...

Relegion.. My views...

This post is just a reflection of my opinion about religion in general.


The problem is that it is very easy to generalize, very easy to type cast things. I dont know if i should be saying this on an open forum, but i am generally very clear about my views (specially these)... The fact is that hindus/ muslims/ whatever are not good/ badd.. Everyone is human. And every human can be modified in a way that is defined by the environment and conditions that he lives in. I am also racist at times. I am sure there would be atleast 50 people who will hate me for writing this as well. A lot of Hindus have decided that all Muslims are like "that". Same with a lot of Muslims. They have decided that India is not for them and they cant progress in India or that they will always be oppressed. Look at what has happened to Sufism in Kashmir due to the minority hardliners and may be the oppression by the Indian forces and hatred there! I am not religious but i get attracted to Sufi music, so i pity what has happened there! Do we hear any sufi voice from Kashmir? I guess all we hear is war mongers and people ready for death. The beauty & softness associated with Kashmir is getting lost. The majority has lost its voice and has become the minority.

The important thing is that the SANE majority (I hope that the majority is moderate) should not let such insane minority take over.

It is a general notion that the past was perfect and the present is bad and the future far from good. I always remember the lines "ab na rahe wo peene wale ab na rahi wo madhushala" when i think of it. The fact is that there have always been good and bad people. People who have been moderate and people who have been intolerant. It is nothing new. Infact I think that the present is better than the future in this respect no matter how bleak it may seem. The fact is that there are no Crusades any more where children and women are sent to war because there are no men.

This is a gentle reminder to the sane world not to allow insanity to engulf us!

Helpless

At the bottom of the waterfall.. i enjoyed the rain and the forest, wondering where the water came from and where it went from there...  There was happiness in every drop that fell on my forehead. Every green leaf would spark its colours on me. Every splash would sound like music so pure.

Suddenly i realized, I did not know how to climb up to reach the source nor swim deep inside to find out how deep inside the earth the water went! All I could do was to see the water pour around me, soak me, and disappear. I wanted to force it to stay like that forever.

I stayed stranded hopelessly knowing that it would all pass and I would have to leave the forest like that. The waterfall all gone and the senses deprived of the magic. Forever.

Attempt at shayari :P

tum thi ya hawaa ka ek jhonka tha...
hawa thi ya ek saaya tha wo....
ek khushboo thi betaab kar gayi wo...
ek ehsaas tha jab tak tha, madhosh raha mai...
chu kar aise gayi ki begana raha mai....

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Tumhari ek jhalak ke liye main yun bekaraar hoo..
Tere  ek deedar ko meri rooh betaab hai...
Tum kya gaye alam ye hai ki tanhai bhee saath nahi
Bas tere chehre ki ek jhalak ka mujhko intezaar hai

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PS: No one laughs. If u do be silent... If u cant be silent then just laugh in ur mind... If u cant laugh in ur mind, let a bit of it pour out... :P

The lies on Truth

They told you not to lie,
but truth they never told

Lies are so smooth and nice
Truth such a vice.

Never knew truth hurts so bad
Lies keep you so glad.

Truth they say cant be hid
Lies can be said to every kid

Voids that Truth creates
Lies can fill them all?

Remorse

Today I come to thee with a repent body,
a beating heart and a flow of blood unusual.

Words I have none, and silence as you know
hurts more than a thousand bad words

I stand for penance, feel like totally naked.
Eyes not able to look into yours.

I know not the punishment but the pain is so severe deep inside
that it seems nothing worse can happen!

All night did nothing but buried my head into the pillow,
as if hiding it even from the darkness around.

Here i stand now ready to be dissected into pieces.
The body and the soul, both ripped apart!

The hollow world...

Some people are so hollow that you hope not to talk to them again. All they are interested to know is how much money you earn! As if it is the end of the world! I dont know other societies but Marwaris know just this. Most of them!

Sometime dont feel like meeting relatives cos all they will try to extract is the number :D (Then I start to wonder shayad koi ladki khoj rahe hain mere liye :D) :D

The worst part is that they will not be straight! First question: so how many students.. 2nd Question: What's the fees.. 3rd: so u are alone?
and then they know enuf "maths" and i am like WTF!

If only life was such an easy calculation! Yeah money is important..

I feel so pathetic when i go to these parties and then see women wear gold ornaments... and feel like this is all they are living for! Some who dont have enuf keep feeling ashamed for no fault of their own.

Dont have a lot to say... but just hope that i dont become one of these people someday!

Revenge

Seema looked at the baby in the cradle. Its small round eyes could hardly open. The face was red. The wrists and fingers hardly bore any bone! It was all muscles and red skin. The bells on cradle chimed beautifully. It giggled like it wanted to say everything but the joy deep inside did not let it speak a word. The chime she thought was useless there! She just wanted to see him giggle.
She had just returned from her office. The house was all empty. The baby and her. Manoj had probably gone out to the grocer. He would be there anytime soon. She had decided this long back. It was her turn now. She had it in her arms. She closes the gate and moves to the parking area. She puts the baby in the side seat and starts the car. Manoj had still not returned. Wasnt she pleased! She steered her car past Malviya Nagar to the very old looking area behind Sarvapriya Vihar. The fort was here. An old dilapidated one. A sign read "Archeological Survey of India, Protected Monument." The fort was not a famous one. Probably calling it a fort would sound strange. But then this is what it was. The walls were made of red sandstone, but it had linings of black. One could probably say that the wall was made of black with some linings of red. There were lot of shrubs growing around. Only the passage to the inside was cleared. Probably a lot of kids entered that fort through this path and that prevented the grass growth.
She gets out of the car with the baby. Climbs the couple of stairs that led to the open yard in the center. It was a small place. On one side was an old lady who looked like a beggar woman. Her hairs were all clumsy and her saree's colours were not at all visible. She ignored the woman and moved to the other side. There she put the baby on the floor and hurried to the outside. The old woman screamed something that she couldn't hear. She rushed to her car, sits inside and takes a long breath. She just sat in there for some time.
Inside, the old lady had the baby in her arms. She had a smile like any mother would. She kept looking at the baby. Suddenly she realized that it was the young girl who had left this baby here. She rushed outside. The girl was nowhere to be seen. A car stood there but she couldnt see the girl.
In the car, the stereo ran the song "ek bewafa se pyaar kiya... " Seema's eyes were remorseless. She hardly thought of anything. She took the car for a drive across Delhi. She crossed the AIIMS flyover, Akbar Road and then the India Gate. She made three full circles of the India Gate and then returned by the same route. She just kept driving for two hours. Probably she did not want to return home so soon.
Her phone rang. Manoj.... She looked at it and smiled. He now knows the pain. A drop of tear fell from her eyes. Just one. As if she drank the remaining like she did the last time. Her throat was heavy. She could not speak. She disconnected the phone. She stopped her car somewhere near Green Park. She closes her eyes. She sees the days when she and Manoj would sit together on the lawns of India gate, Manoj promising her a bright future. Her 19^th birthday, when he sang "gagan se bhee ooncha mera pyar hai" for her. How happy she was! Suddenly the betrayal. She could recalled how Manoj disclosed the secret marriage with Anu, her elder sister. Wasn’t she shattered!
Now she was here. She had no idea if she should call back Manoj. She decided not to.
The beggar woman took the child in her arms. Played with it. She loved the baby giggle. She had her grandchildren. Her son was very hardworking and had left home when he was 17. She lived alone in a shabby house and had almost no reason to live. Chirag, she started calling him. He gave him a new hope to live, a new reason. She wanted to see him grow older and wanted to work for him. The same evening, she went to the old lady at Sarvapriya Vihar, where she used to work 4-5 years back to see if some work was available. She thought the land lady was kind enough to give her work. Now she would be able to feed Chirag. 
Meanwhile, Seema returned home with expected scenes. Anu was there, almost half fainted. She had nothing but tears. She cried like a baby. Her hairs where all messed up. She looked like the beggar woman in the fort. Anu was a girl who lived in Green Park before she got married to Manoj. They fell in love after she met Manoj at college. She had known Seema through Manoj for all this while. Anu was not very ambitious in the worldly sense of the word, but she had seen a great future with Manoj. She wanted to see Abhay as a very successful person. She was already dreaming of the grand children she would have. She had so far built a whole web of the future which included everything one could think of. The whole castle of sand seemed to have turned to dust.
Seema couldn’t look into her eyes. She went upto her and took her face in her hands. She tried to remove the tears but they wouldn’t stop flowing.
Manoj stood there at one end of the room. He was totally shattered. Tears did not flow, but he had lost everything. The police would be here anytime soon. But like most other incidents, this one would also go unnoticed. He had put an advertisement for a lost child in the next day’s newspaper. Seema looked into Manoj’s eyes. She had sympathy for him now, remorse she had none.

Khushi

On the bed of the old shabby government hospital, lies this unnamed child. The mother's dead. Who cares? Its a hospital, people come, if they are lucky get better or else surrender to death.
The middle aged nurse, dressed in white, picks the child, hides her in an old newspaper wrapping. Slips out of the hospital early. Who cares about the child anyways? Reaches home, unwraps the baby, gives her a nice gentle bath. She's like the moon, gentle, tender and unadulterated. She reaches for her lips, gives her a kiss. Its her baby now. Ramesh sees the smile, and drops of tears. For Sana, married for 12 years without a child, Khushi is a gift of God.

The scenes

Scene 1:
An old street. An shabbily dressed woman in her 30's, a baby in her arms. Looks around carefully in the dark of the night. Slips the baby in a fruit basket. She fades in the dark of the night.

Scene 2:
A hospital bed. A nurse dressed in white, a baby in her arms. Looks around carefully. Smiles a bit. Was it real. Slips out of the hospital.

Scene 3:
A Posh House. A rich girl in her teens, a baby in her arms. Looks around carefully. Cold eyes. Drops the baby in her car. Hurries outside. The car stops in an open area. Leaves it in under an old tree.

Scene 4:
A very shabby hut. A poor woman, a baby in her arms. Looks carefully around. Smile on her face. The child is hers.

Scene 5:
A leper. A baby in her arms. Looks carefully around. Drops the child in the well. Tears drop from her eyes. Smile on her face.

Gulmarg

The sound of the guns had receded. The hills had gone silent. It sky had no birds. The war had ended. So had the village. Only the punctured houses reminded of something wrong. Twelve mile away on the other side of the hill was a different world. People, mostly women, children and some old men. Some of their eyes couldn't yet stop flowing once in a while. They were not in their  control, a few children played hide and seek in the same camp. They had no idea why the tears were flowing at all. Probably they did not even know why tears were.
A young girl Rukhsaar, around 18 sat there unmoved. Her eyes were deep, as if they hid a whole world in them. She was fair as most of the other Kashmiri girls. Her face was white. She wore an old robe which covered her almost completely. She had almost no ornaments, as simple as a new born child. Who would she dress for in any case? Both her parents died the previous Sunday when she had gone to fetch water and her house was hit by a shell. She would have died crying that night itself had her neighbor Asma not visited her. She fainted multiple times during that night. The tears had almost dried out. She knew most of the people there. But she hardly talked now, no one did. A week back, the whole village was her own. Its the same people, but the village! She doesnt think that much. The day passed on.
That morning, a young man in his twenties had come to the camp. It was not very common after all. Why would someone want to share the sorrows of others. He was in his mid twenties. A lean tall man. He wore a pagdi, traditional among the shepherds. He did not smile. Hardly gave an expression. He had a flock of 40 sheep. He had been roaming in these forests with the sheep for three days. Yesterday he was in the village. No one lived in the village anymore to tell the story but the houses did. In these three days he had met just 7 people. He saw her in a minute.
All through the day they hardly exchanged an eye contact. Deep within, her heart was throbbing. She could feel her palm beating. Her heart gave the beats that it would when she had first met him. The wait for the night was way too long. The sun did not seem to move all day. She could not share her feelings with anyone around. Finally, the moon was in its full glow. The wolves cried from deep inside the forest. The crickets chirped. The camp was absolutely still. Even the children were asleep. The sky was dark with no stars. It was all open and clear. The moon did not want to hide that night. It wanted to see them. Rukhsaar knew exactly where he was. Her eyes might not have spoken a word but they could see it all. He huddled his sheep moved across the camp passing through it. She stepped out behind the sheep. She was one of them; following the master wherever he led without questioning why. Thee hours later, they were 4 miles from the camp. She stepped out of the sheep. Came closed to him. She smiled for the first time in the last many days. He was here. Gulmarg was here. Summer was here. The flowers in the valley looked at them, the moon did, the stars shone. They sat in the full view of the moon in each others' arms. The two were tender like the flowers. One flower entangled in another. A new day was to dawn. The valley was now silent. Not the sound of the gun, it was their giggles that filled the Gulmarg sky every evening for many days.

To Mom and Dad...

Mom and Dad are here...

It has been good to see them each single time that I have over the last 10 yrs since I started living away from home.

This one is to you for being there all the time, having never complained... always for me whenever i needed. Even when I did not. Making me a spoiled person that i am, for not killing me for the evils that I have done!

Mom keeps reading my blog sometimes... This is to tell u that u are the best and one who has spoiled me so much :)

Taj Mahal

He waited there under that dark banyan tree surrounded on both sides by open land. It was dark already and he was charmed  by the green eyes. He could see everything around, the squirrel that ran close to his legs reminded him of her walk, the half dried leaves reminded him of how autumn was behind, the green fresh leaves reminded him of his present, the new beginning. The slightly orange looking sky without the sun reminded him of how easy life could be. An old woman still worked in the farm all alone and the three kids played at a distance. Water in the canal around five hundred meters from him. On the other side of the canal was the Taj reminding him of how romantic his life had been recently.
This place was one kilometers from Agra, where he lived. Every day he had waited here at this time to meet her. The enchantress. They would sit there under the banyan tree for a couple of hours before leaving back. He knew she would come. They had been here on every single day for the last one month. Deep inside he was happy. That excitement to meet her was still there even after so many meetings. That feeling of joy, victory and possession ran in his blood. He was thrilled.
It got dark. The orange tinge in the sky had gone. His excitement started turning to anxiety. Suddenly no one was there. The old woman was nowhere to be seen, the kids had all gone. There was nothing but silence. His cycle resting by the banyan tree seemed like dead. Suddenly the banyan tree seemed too old. The leaves looked black and the half dried leaf reminded him of dead leaves! He wanted to run.
He rode on his cycle to the canal. That is where her brother had once seen her with him. It was a silent stream of water. Absolute silence. His life came to a still. He was robbed. He touched her face. She lay there in blood, a dagger in her. Her shirt was red in blood. Her fingers bled. Her eyes looked into his and said nothing. She couldnt move but he could feel her happy in his arms. The eyes closed slowly. He was helpless. He would not leave her. Tears flew from his eyes. They were red. The darkness of the night could not hide the colour of his eyes. He knew this had to end. Blood soaked his shirt, even the stars were not there to weep with him that night. The moon hid under the clouds, as if the whole world had betrayed him. He pulled the dagger out of her and brought slit his wrist, he couldnt feel the pain but saw gush of blood flow through it. The dome of the Taj looked dark, the moon light that kept it visible betrayed it.
The next morning the sun shone on the Taj the way it always did as if to remind that they lived on forever.

Separation

I park my car and rush to the flower seller on the footpath. 10 each he said. If i took them all? All yours for 5 each. He packs them and puts them in my car. I hurriedly drive home. She isnt here but her fragrance is. I blush seeing the broken Vase. Tonight is another night.

She doesn't know that I am here. I pick the flowers one by one remove the stem gently and get the whole room flowered. Jasmines. White and pure. The drops of water make them shine. I love the aura. Nothing comes close to her, but this remind me of her. Time has slowed down. I cant wait for her. She is still not here. Time has stopped. I stand up to the window and look outside. The streets are now empty. Its 9:00 PM and she would have just left her office. I sit on the sofa just near the window. I stand up again, walk around a bit carefully not to step on the flowers, look outside and sit back again. Its 9:24. The large white clock has finally crawled close to 9:30. This agony has passed. She could be here anytime soon. I hurry to lock the gate. I sit on the sofa, on the left wall of the gate, calmly as if not waiting for her at all.

The footsteps break the silence. She was here. She unlocks the flat with her keys, opens the gate. I did not move. She switches on the light, looks around. Her mouth opens up in surprise. I keep looking at her. She smiles. She laughs now. Her lips move. She springs in Joy. I keep looking at her. She had still not spoken a word but I knew what this meant to her. Her giggles ring like bells. She comes towards me and pulls me. I cuddle her in my arms. This was our first anniversary and I had to be here. I knew what this meant for her. We stay like that.

Time could keep running, we had come to a still.



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PS:
1) Again not a true story. :P
2) Part II only for the closest friends (too explicit to be posted here :P)
3) Suddenly I am in love with writing :D
4) Mazaak mat udana :P all serious feedbacks and criticisms most welcome :P

Kindness (Short Story 2)

A child cried alone in a basket of fruits. A passer by looked around, seeing none around in this locality of Old Delhi. He called around and hurriedly left the place before someone could see him. Another car passed by, a couple around 40 stopped by, saw the child, waited around and called 101. It was past midnight. Not many lights were on in the houses nearby. The couple picked up the child and cuddled it. It felt as if it was their own child. The hugged it and hurriedly left the place with the child in the car. Probably they did not want the police to take it from them. It was a girl and they did not have one even in 15 years of their marriage. A cute one. One window on the 3rd floor of a wretched house, Neelam kept crying in her old house at GB Road till she finally fell asleep. The most peaceful sleep she ever had. Her daughter wouldnt have to live that life ever.

Attempt at Short Stories...

The cute little girl giggled seeing the old friend, the auto-rickshaw walla just took the dangerous turn, the old woman ]frowned upon by the rich old man in that honda city, the traffic signal, the loud noise from a college fest, the queue of a million cars waiting for the traffic signal, my mom and dad sitting behind me in the car that i drive from my office at hazra to the hotel at Camac Street. Its all happening here. We get down at the famous old Camac Street, park the car get down, take my mom and dad along to see the girl who they think could be a good bride. There's so much giggling around, so much chatting, people trying to find out and judge both the girl and me. So much facade. We have the hand-shakes a bit of chatting and we are back in the car. Mom and Dad look at me. I smile. We are seated. I look at the seat on my left. You are no more. No one can fill that void. The whole world without you is but empty. They can get someone seated on that seat again, but the emptiness will forever remain.

Real Long time after which i tried writing again. 6-7 years. PS:  a couple of you have asked if this story is real. NO nothing is real about it except the city and the location :D. I dont own a car and never had a break up or make up ;) :P :D

Moved Back... (dont know for how long..)

This person called lokesh verma seems to have lost my blog in his computer garbage :P

:x

Waited for too log to blog... so decided that this is the better place to start again...


So here I am....