Trick of Time

Time has stopped ticking for now,

a long moment, held awhile

i linger on that pleasing smile;

taking in the bewitching gaze

and skipping a beat or two.

As she pauses.

With a rush of heady emotions;

time slows and halts for me

and rewinds and plays for me, and fast

like a gasp of scant breath in me

like a thunderbolt from the heavens

as she walks away.

Ticking as it is, the world moves on

And time and everything else, the same

i am breathing ,dead all the same

As everything is new and lit

words fail to describe my spirit ,and feeling

blessed,elated to see her now

As she turns again.

and reality, in a land far away

strikes like early doomsday

as time hastens and swoops on me

and the earth is pulled from under me

and all happiness is snuffed for me

as she smiles and waves goodbye

not to me, but to a passerby.

GOlden Tears

A swift wind blew through the gilded woods. Uplifting in their mood yet chilling in their manner. Swiftly as she rode toward the west, carrying the tidings of fate for her land, her golden hair streaking behind her, her white hands clutching the reins with measured determination, her black stallion charging towards vengeance, retribution and peace.
He could see her as she rode, down the valley opposite like a sweet flowing river. Her words had the charm of an angel and her wrath, the destitution of hell. Her lips, softer than rosebuds. He was pining for them, and there she was, riding toward him. High on the precipice of his castle, he stood, waiting.
She was blind, like she had been for the last twenty years. The purulence of her septic existence was an abominable blight on the quiet, honourable street. She lived there, but withdrawn into herself, destitute and surviving on scraps and leftovers. If she was in her right mind, she might have been inclined to seek justice, but she was mad. She was crippled and out of her mind, had been for the last twenty years.
He was a good man. Very shrewd and very kind. He had fed her and clothed her since that terrible night. People often asked him, in high-end parties, why he cared for the old witch. He just smiled. He had his own penance to pursue, he said.
And who could forget the night, of course. The night was dark as hell and the winds forlorn and whining. The soldiers were meagre and certain of their death; they were shivering and filled with dread and despair. The villagers too were fazed and had surrendered to their fate. Rape, pillage and destruction. Then the attack came like the swoosh of an unfailing tide. Merciless and determined, the swords of the attackers chopped, swerved and slashed through the defence with disdain. In minutes the resistance was crushed and the village was won over. It was not how the villagers feared however. They left most of the businesses intact. But she was too bewitching to ignore, too ravishing not to defile. Her husband was murdered, her children disembowelled and she was raped, over and over again, by a hungry pack of wolves, rabid and putrid. When they were done with her, it was dawn and it was red and she was going to die. But they all went away, satisfied in their heinousness simply because none of them remembered to kill her.
He had been the one to take her. Not like the other villains took her. But otherwise, to safety and a place of relative calm. He took her away across the valley, across the river to this village, where they had been living for years.
She and her daughter, her beautiful daughter, who had escaped death that night. Like her mother, due to a stroke of derisive luck. Her suitors were nonplussed by her coldness and her friends vexed by her perpetual distractions. Their neighbours smirked at her swordplay and her lack of propriety.
He was struck by her loveliness though. And his infatuation was as if, meant to be. Governor of the region, a man in good standing with the king himself, was considered a splendid catch, even if he was a bit old. And she was pushed into the wedlock and engagement by her people. He went back early to handle state affairs and she had some time to say her goodbyes.
Her mother was a destitute and she could barely think coherently. But she could remember vividly the night that was her last and she told her daughter, amid hiccoughs and struggling breaths, of her villains and their faces.
The Gilded woods stood between her and her husband. They stood between her mother and her vengeance. They stood between a place of life and a place of hate. They stood between her sword and his slain body. The wind blew swiftly and it seemed to be whispering. At last, vengeance was riding home as a bride. And it was going to be swift and sweet.

I railed

Trains should have an enchanting aura around them.As we see these chugging beasts huffing and puffing their way through picturesque forests and enviable travails, we want to be on them, but the trains should have impressive personalities of their own.Otherwise, i soon realised, It is just a wait for the picture perfect moment,for the saving grace in an otherwise forgettable, unremarkable journey.

Maybe because i travel alone, mostly.But thats the point.When you travel in company, the train is just means of conveyance.When you travel alone, you interact with your surroundings more.You develop a rapport with the train, with its people, with its sounds and moods and colours.I traveled from bangalore to bhubaneswar recently.The train took 32 hours for a journey of 26.pain.

There is this old lady from puttapurthy.Her grandneice was getting married, so she had come to bangalore.I now know that she has 3 cows and 2 goats and her husband suffers from arthritis and diabetis.Her children are all over the country with one of them in the gulf.Her smile is infectious and disarming and her unassuming happy declarations about life, children and god are warm and draw me in.But musing on those is another story...

It must be nice, aging gracefully with your partner and near your beliefs and your god.And there is this another guy sitting opposite.Pods in his ears he is oblivious to the worlds.He is reading gokulam.I used to, when i was a kid.I especially liked the general knowledge portions.Now i wouldnt be caught dead with these.Either the guy is much younger than he looks or he does not care what people think seeing him read a children's book.

My earphones are broke.So i cannot listen to music.After puttapurthy, after some other destination, all my companions are gone and there are new ones.The train chugs on.In the midst of a cacophony of vendors' calls and children crying and boisterous males in the next compartment, i sleep.This journey is not the one that goes into travelouges...It is one of the countless ones where you go into a trance of sleep and non-sleep and are happy when its over.It is one of the 'other ones' which are forgotten.

This particular journey is all about reaching the destination.This particular train has no character.So, i rail, to travel another day.Another place, another train, maybe...

Shot to Shame

Sometimes it rains.It then seems that god in his infinite benevolence is showering us with sustenance and faith.It seems his word is being heard as a few,if at all,raise their faces to heaven, as the tatoo of cleansing grace rises over the filth around us and washes away our sins,greatest of all is to be alive now,spectator to the rape.It seems as if the pain and anguish is come to an end and the sun at last, is going to rise.It seems that hope itself is around the corner and the nightmare of reality is finally to be brought to trial before the jury of divine retribution.It seems,just for a moment, that it is a dream.Hence it is cruel to wake up.

For as the dust settles in the aftermath of the downpour, the stench of insanity overwhelmes.It does not fail to arouse pity and tears.It does not fail to reveal humanity, as it was certainly not meant to be.

His family was murdered before his eyes;brutally,non-chalantly,his life spared by the cruelty of chance.A lifetime of turmoil and daily worthless deaths he had lived through before puberty.The scarring images of a inhuman warring nation were already his inheritance.Then,his destiny drove him to this camp where his world now revolves around the single meal he gets daily and the extra bowl of water that he can sometimes scavenge.He lacks an arm and sports an infected eye.I find it difficult to see how he can last this year here.His first.He looks up,however, as it starts raining,thinking no doubt, about his emancipation.Or the extra bowl of water.He smiles.Unaware as they pour in more misery and sorrow.

He is lucky yet;well, luckier than most in this city of a million.A million dead souls rotting in ghoulish bodies.The land has been scarred by death and destitution for so long and with such vengeance,that virtues,blessings,goodwill and prayers do not tread here anymore.

But cloth stashed over his shoulder,covering his skeletal frame,stump of a limb held limp with confusion,his prized bowl and his ghostly face,his gory past and his unfathomable future get captured in one unflattering flash of my camera.This will go into my journal.And i will be one of the many, shamelessly sterile to help,except through pointless prose and inadequate journalism.It is one shot.And that is enough to glimpse only the shamefully emasculating nature of reporting genocide.powerless to help.POWERless.utterly useless.

He is standing there still.Like all the worthless souls around him.In the godforsaken camp.Right Before me,but in the deepest dark of tartarus, on the darkest of continents.

At least it rained.

Steeping Emptyness

He was trudging along the path slowly,being jostled by the multitudes of uneven humanity brushing past him.Cursing his lethargy.He looked around to see scowling faces around him.scowling at him, pushing at him, clearly blaming their problems on him.As if he was the cause of their misery, whatever that was.He could not bear it, so he looked up to the sky.But what he saw was a smudged old piece of rag masquerading as the heavens.Even the gods were displeased.
It was raining.His new suit was sodden and clung to him.His shoes complained with every step.His shoulder felt infinitely burdened and he seemed to shrink under the stern gaze of fate.With the rain,it felt like it was his sorrows raining down on him all over again.It washed him clean of hope and left him craving for the comfort and warmth he had always found at home.At the end of a killing night, a roof, a hearth, a quiet corner to wipe your tears in, and mother.

He had a Home.He had just left it in order to attend to his mindless wanderings.Well, not entirely mindless.Because he also had one purpose.He lived now to fulfill that.to achieve that solitude he had craved so badly recently.To be alone.Once and for all.Alone with himself and at peace with the world.Or so he thought.
Purpose gives light to some people.It guides them not, but it gives them determination.It transcends hope and faith.Purpose is the ancient part of our existence that is more basic than humanity.Purpose outranks destiny.Indeed, purpose moulds and creates our individual destiny.The purpose of our existence and eventual death seems to hold some purpose in the greater scheme of things.It is pleasurable to think so.For him though, purpose was life.Distilled and unadulterated.And he walked on...purposeful, but as yet unaware of the fact.

It was raining.The smells of a sinful, revulsive city rose up to mock him.He met them with equanimity.He was no more than a shell now.It could be rain running down his cheeks,because his tears had run dry.He had nothing left in him to pluck out and wager for his life.He did not know what he was doing.He no longer cared.And so it was that when he climbed the rails and jumped, he did not know that the bridge had made the final decision for him.
As the slush rose up to met him, he was not thinking of his purpose, of the resulting destiny or of his ailing mother at home.His last expression was that of a mask straining against itself to achieve an etching of a smile.A crooked wretched look that oddly enough suited him.He was thinking how the colour of his suit matched the colour of his coffin.

It was raining.And he was falling with it.

A VIrtue and more...

The deepest of emotions are those which are not easily discernable...quite obvious from the term "deepest" actually.But the concept itself is not self-explanatory.You see, what you think is the deepest of your thoughts might just be a projection of your desires and therefore not true emotions...what you want yourself to want(the eternal question of "should") is very often not what you do want and then it becomes difficult to be honest to oneself and find that twitching conscience inside which points us to the right answer.Since it all takes place in the subconscious mind, it is layered and the difficulty in peeling through them to indeed reach out to and pull out your deep emotions is a gruelling pilgrimage most of us never take. So, dear reader, that sea of self-acclamation and and secure satisfaction may actually be the spillage of your delusional oil tanker of desires...and underneath lies a vastness of grime and sewage (nice image?). in juxtaposition,There are a few precious people who epitomise the so called "one-ness with one's conscience".Their deepest emotions and sentiments are as gratifying to perceive as any virtue.Music in an honest world of nobility and courtesy will sound like speech and noise is music in ours.Hence, compared to us masqueraders of life, such people are artists of perfection and endlessly chisel away at our conception of perfection to produce ever astounding works of sheer divinity.Their work is their life and love, much in harmony with their senses and this makes them worthy of the highest form of respect that us minions can devise. Theirs is not a virtue. Theirs is a benediction.Being as humble as they are and as righteous as any, they will hardly be aware of it, but just by association with their life and working methods, we feel blessed and honoured.My Dear reader...The people i am talking about in general (and someone in particular) are far and far between and moments spent with them are to be cherished forever...Au Revoir to you ladies and gentlemen.