Convictions

Consider a convoluted maze its start point being the vortex called creation and the end point perhaps is the vortex called destruction. The maze’s palisade is composed of entwined thorns and bushes with spikelet and flowers protruding from it. The maze is the only stage where performances matter. The stage is set and ready to depict the prophecies of its puppets. The quill dipped into the bottled destiny, brought the musical notes for every marionette into existence. The piper is the playwright, director, musician, puppeteer and the audience as well. The puppets dance to the tunes of the piper.  Each marionette traverses from start till the end. In the vortex of creation it is brought into existence from the piper’s play dough and is tossed out to the entrance of the maze.  Now consider the dance, the puppet is pulled up and plunged as and when the beats of the piper’s music changes. Observe carefully the harnesses cum strings are the only means that connect the puppet to...

She exchanged all the pleasantries with me, the entire journey. She was whispering to me the engineering and design of deceptive labyrinth called life, and in it all the civil society living a pipe-dream . Her constant “wooshing” suddenly lulled as the brakes clenched the steel. The horn of the locomotive engine cautioned the arrival of Itarsi. The platform was comparatively less crowded in comparison to the platform of the capital city. Hawkers and vendors shouting tea (my favorite beverage indeed) urged me to slip my hand into my pocket to get my tab, in order to savor its aroma and thus aesthetically please my taste buds. This is another reason why I like window seats.  The only good thing about travelling alone is attention to detail. Never before was I amazed by the intensity of the nightly beauty, the fragrances of trees and mud, the weird sounds of creatures of night, all tranquilized me, made me forget the chafe feelings and soothed my chastised heart. The exacerbating...

Wanted to share this from a long time. Sung by the band named  Poets of the fall Hear your heartbeat Beat a frantic pace And it's not even seven AM You're feeling the rush of anguish settling You cannot help showing them in Hurry up then Or you'll fall behind and They will take control of you And you need to heal The hurt behind your eyes Fickle words crowding your mind So sleep, sugar, let your dreams flood in Like waves of sweet fire, you're safe within Sleep, sweetie, let your floods come rushing in And carry you over to a new morning Try as you might You try to give it up Seems to be holding on fast It's hand in your hand A shadow over your A beggar for soul in your face Still it don't matter If you won't listen If you won't let them follow you You just need to heal Make good all your lies Move on and don't look behind So sleep, sugar, let your dreams flood in Like waves of sweet fire, you're safe within ...

Another of my futile attempts to tell the people of something they already know of owing to the fact that there is lot of intellectual development this century (pun intended). A thought just entered while e-penning down this post..., the electronic media helps me in saving paper at the cost of energy, it helped in revolutionizing Egypt accrediting the legendary tweet that will be embossed in golden words on the “wall”. Please I would like to remain undisturbed will be the the nightly prayer of his' very soon. Tweet: Egypt’s mubarak wants to remain undisturbed. She’s in his subconscious claiming to hold the entire executive system of his conscious. (Subconscious a tricky term coined to part the conscious and the unconscious has a lot of strings attached given by Freud or Carl jung.)  It begins hours after the fall of the sun into the abyss when he has entered into the dream state, arrives a princess donning a black-pink saree draped around her so gracefully her aura beaming hi...

One fine Sunday afternoon the yellow dot on the sky was beaming with a new vim, the honking of vehicles, the shouting of the hawkers, the exuberance on the faces of school going children, the unfortunately underprivileged children playing marbles in the debris on the road side made me surf through the recollections of the days when I used to stay at my home permanently. It’s been many years that I am living away from my family for educational purposes. Usually Sundays are considered as the days for barber related work. So this particular post is a description of a saloon in my vicinity. You enter the shop finding new faces staring at you as if you were just released from a local penitentiary. The walls of the saloon are covered with morphed posters of celebrities depicting different hair styles, a chart showing different hair-cuts, a shelf on which the idiot box is kept since the time when the RAJ had come to an end in INDIA, the cloth used to cover the television set is not...