The one we meet 

We meet a lot of people everyday. We forget some, we remember some. There are very few we want to keep forever though. Those very few strangers who make a huge impression, leave a powerful impact on your mind and soul. 

We all meet someone at a phase of life when we need it the most. The times when we are forgetting ourselves and then these stranger angels appear and give life a meaningful turn.

How skeptical we are to these new entries and only when we look ahead and beyond, observe deeper and down, do we overcome the initial skepticism. How I met the one who looked strange initially but after a while I realized it was me, standing right in front of my eyes, talking to me like I talk to myself, already achieving what I wished to, living a life I had dreamt of. It was me . I met myself and I absolutely loved it . I am profoundly in love with this image of myself. Meeting myself at a stage when I the image was fading off was the most exhilarating experience. 

I don’t know how to end this but I want me till the end .

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The Short lived Love 

How I wonder could something so magnanimous

Be so small to be concised 

In the page of a diary so small

At a corner in the brain so vast.
How could it be confined

Within the limits of a pink pen stand

And the memory of a red soft toy

Within the heart of now a stranger

Within the faded memory a the brain.
I wonder how the most powerful feelings of all

Which starts like it has no start or no end

Like the beginning of a new universe

Like the creation of a new being

Like the rise of a new star.
I am in a state of denial

As I fail to understand

How this new universe limits itself

In a tiny world of shrewds

In a mean world of hatred.
I do not believe in it’s death

It’s way too huge to die

The energy is spread somewhere

In the universe where I breathe

Now transformed to another.
The soul has changed it’s clothes 

Now not in the pink little pen stand

It’s out there but for sure

It has not died although

As huge as this can never die.
The toys have changed their shapes

The laughs are a little different

Those eyes have changed their colors

The humongous feeling but lives

This love can never be short-lived .

The Weaver Weaves

We all make plans; long term, short term, we all do. We all dream big and small and base our plans on these dreams. How many dreams keep shattering somewhere every second of every day.

How we collect those shattered pieces, join them together and weave a new dream. 

Rephrasing and rebuilding lives every second of every day. Trying to get up, dust ourselves and moving on every day. 

Had there been no dreams, the cycle of efforts would have stopped. So live, dream and keep moving. This is life, an endless pursuit of weaving and catching dreams.

A Delayed Meeting

Peeping through the corner of my eye, I immediately recognized that figure in the dim lighting. It was a get together and all the dentists from my branch were there, both natives and international. I had been trying to avoid this all through my life but destiny plays it’s own games. A small girl was holding his little finger. She looked like him.

My gaze was suddenly interrupted by a pretty looking tall and fair woman as she asked me, ” do you know him?” In a gust I replied,” well not that I remember very clearly” and pretended to look at the waiter’s direction. “Oh, I’m Mrs Gustavo and that’s my little princess. Very nice to meet you” she said.

I felt this strong weightless sinking feeling, like I couldn’t breathe for a while. Recollecting my composure, I smiled back at her and excused myself as I was about to throw up. Unable to handle the anxiety and my disturbed emotional state, I sat in the corner of that huge lawn.

Nothing seemed beautiful anymore, I kept sitting there, in a trans, lost in my world of 21, exchanging promises, smiles and kisses. 

The river and the cliff 

It had been a long week running after money, meeting deadlines and pleasing people. It seemed like a year. Only a month back she had moved to a new city where money screamed out loud and an unprecedented, never-ending race with dead end was been run by almost everyone with two legs. She joined too,  leaving behind her  peaceful life with grandparents. The pursuit of money ought to bring happiness she thought, but was taken aback by the cost she had to pay. In a month she had lost weight, her peachy glow  replaced by a tan and her mind had everything but peace. Weekend was here, so she boarded the evening bus straight to where she belonged finding herself sitting next to a calm flowing river bounded by a cliff on one side. With her feet dipped in and contemplating life, she realized it all makes sense. The cliff reminded her that no matter how life binds you, break free and flow like a river and find happiness in the path you traverse. Rejuvenated, with her smile back, she went to see her grandparents, all set to go to work the following week and the days ahead.

ACCEPTANCE OF LIFE 


We are born, we live, we grow, we sit back and one fine day we all see the end to our ravishing journeys.

As with time, the art of acceptance is the one to master for human beings of reasonable age. By reasonable I mean all those who know what is happening around them, how life is treating them and how they respond to the treatment.

Accept all the good and the bad as it falls your way. Accept love when it comes, accept criticism, accept hatred, accept a companionship, accept the loss and gain, all in all, accept life. These are all part and parcel of a long journey and the more we accept changes and the environment around us, the more we grow through them.
There is no journey too smooth and yet no desert without an oasis. No night without a day and no sea without a shore. Accept all within. The days when you do well are yours and so are the ones when you fall. Accept the rise and fall. The moments of birth and demise, love and separation, joys and tears are all your moments. Embrace each one without any discrimination.

 An old man, looking through his life, sitting at the corner of his room, has retired. He worked hard all through his life, supported his family, raised two beautiful and  children. He desired a decent abode, a fine car and successful children. Today, he has everything he wished for, however his children are gone, his house is quiet with just his wife, his car lying in the garage as he has not many places to go. He looks back and then he looks here. What had he lost ? What was all that he was missing ? Didn’t he have everything today. Somehow what he couldn’t accept was life. He retired and suddenly all his social circle vanished, a fat salary turned into meagre income. We will all grow old. No matter how hard we work today, we all will retire someday and that would be the time to accept the little pleasures of life. Doing the small little things that we always wanted to do, learning new things that we never had time for. Every phase of life has its own purpose. Read in between the lines and figure out what is in store. Life is best when it’s mighty ways are accepted. Let the rain fall over your window pane and listen to the song it hums. Life definitely is one beautiful track.

SMILING BACK AT ME

You are back with a million dollar smile

The happiness in your eyes

The light shining through your soul

Making the days so bright

And the nights so peaceful

There you stand far away

Yet so near my newly formed world

Its all your aura I begin to see

Need no words to define this

Nor complicated words to write

Life is simple again with the simplicity you offer me

Here I am with a new day and a new me !

It had rained that night too

As I lie on my just made bed, after a quick cleanup of my room, switching the tube light off to wave off the excessive light and light up a lamp shade now positioned on the right side of my head over a bookshelf, I think of my most cherished moment.
It’s raining outside accompanied by lightening and thunder. The rains never fail to bring along a feeling of enormous joy within me, a feeling so delightful and pure that can only be felt and not described.
Me and my friend decided to take up a mat and pillow and our favorite fiction to read along while enjoying the rain with a cup of coffee near our hostel’s main door.
It was cold outside and the rain was heavy enough to wet the staircase where we both were sitting.
We finished our hot coffee and decided to rather enjoy the lovely weather in our respective rooms under our sheets as our feet were getting cold.
As I lay down on my bed which is right along my room’s window,I thought it would be pleasant to listen to an old melody along with. However, the nature’s sounds are so pure that anyone would refrain from adultering them with some made up music and so did I.
What a coincidence, my favorite author has written a short story describing a surprisingly similar event. Could he be my alter ego, enjoying the same things that I do?
Rains always take me back to my childhood, when during summer vacations we used to visit our village in the Eastern part of uttar Pradesh.
Ours is a large house with open verandah and a huge courtyard that has a big jamun tree, some neem and babul as well.
Alongside we have these bamboo shoots grown to their full followed by a large open feild.
I wondered how it always had weed and grass and nothing useful, or maybe by the time we came, the yeild was already taken off the fields. That was amongst the smallest of all the rest of our fields, they said. Whatever it may be ,I liked it .
On the other side of that field were small houses of our ‘praja’, like we were rulers of some sort.
That name came probably because our ancestors had given them the land to settle down and this made them obliged to help my mother with some household chores or delivering milk and curd everyday when we would visit.
More than that they liked my parents more and the ladies would often come to chat with my mother, asking about how it is in the city.
I remained indoors with my mother and was always confronted with the same question ” buchi, do you miss us there in town?” I would give a big smile to refrain from lying. I hardly knew them much.
That was one summer night.
We used to sleep on the roof. Yet another lady used to come and help us pour a few buckets of water on the roof in the evening to cool the heat off.
So by the time, it was cool enough for us to sleep comfortably at night under the open starry sky and the ruffles of jamun leaves and bamboo shoots and the jackals howling at night.
Suddenly it started pouring rain that night. It wasn’t rainy season yet.
Hurriedly we stepped down, throwing our mattresses and bedsheets from above on a cot below.
Wasn’t it so much fun then !
Our verandah was surrounded on either side with this open space, an architecture so common in the villages of Eastern UP, where all our daily activities took place from cooking to eating,to sitting to chatting and sleeping, just about everything. We didn’t need rooms back then. This area was exclusive for the women in the house.
We had those big wooden cots called chowki. I had always seen it as a big rough wooden thing secured with big iron bolts.
I haven’t seen that design anywhere else. Maybe that was again a special one of my village. I loved that too along with so many other indigenous antique things in that house.
Hurriedly we came down and each one of us prepared our beds to sleep at the other side of that verandah which was covered by walls.
However, me and my father pulled our chowki close to the open side of the verandah where rain would sprinkle on our faces while asleep. We share this eternal love for rains maybe.
It rained heavily that night. The sound of crickets and frogs and droplets of rain in small puddle of water, the sound of a little stream pouring from one end of the roof, the gust of wind, ruffling the leaves of our jamun and bamboo, that created a sound much like the surf, bringing along the fragrance of wet earth from the fields. Had they all not conspired to etch a permanent memory in my brain which is still so fresh. For that one rainy night, I would go back in time and relive the moment,with my family, in my village, sleeping in the verandah on the chowki , listening to the sound of rain..that one rainy night .