Come Clarity

Life's been hectic.

And weird.

Yes,a whole extra serving of weird.

It's like a crazy roller-coaster ride, running 24x7, hurtling through at breakneck speed as you try to make sense of the continually morphing kaleidoscope that is all around you.
The colours fly by, different every time, but still somehow mundane in their ways.

But what's interesting, is that every once in a while,there are these little moments of clarity that manage to break through the madness and present themselves to me.

One such instance, was in the middle of a crazy English lecture, which seemed more like a foreign film on TV( sans English subtitles)playing a mere three feet away.

The bearded, raving clown spoke thus:

"sukhiya sab sansaar hai, khaye aur soye

  dukhiya das Kabir hai, jaage aur roye"

In these words, I found not only meaning, but also a fitting reply to @chikki's comment on my previous post.

Also, dear audience and blog(yes, you are now an entity to me) I apologise for not having posted sooner, but i cannot deny that I believe that it is for the best.


ciao

Haggard

Hello people.
Its been 3 months since I last posted.
Its been a weird three months,fraught with change.
I never managed to post,because I never could land myself in that frame of mind.
Simply couldnt.

Back to change.
I am now studying in Delhi,and will be doing so for the next few years.
Hope itll be a good ride.
 
So here's the new post.
Hope you like it.

---------------------------------------------


Haggard, he walked into a tin box.
A shiny, air-conditioned box on rails.
His skeletal visage caught the eyes of many,but soon enough,
they turned back to their own pathetic microcosms.


All turned away, but one.


A golden-haired bairn, barely three or four.
Toddling toward the old hunchback,he motioned to his own empty seat.
The simple man, he started to make his way to the seat.


Quickly, the mother scooped up her son, and thrust him firmly back in his seat, with a resounding "hmph!"
The haggard prophet simply stood as he were, for it made no difference to him, to sit or to stand.

But within, he cried.
For another light had been put out,
never again to brighten this world.

-----------------------------------------


ciao

Is there a light?

Hello guys, its been a while.
Major change in scenery.
Moved from muscat to bangalore/bengaluru.
Been staying at a hotel for over a month.
Don't have a home yet.
Quite lonely.
Here's the first thing ive written up in a long, long time.


--------------------

He reached in.

Skeletal arms disappearing into a similarly skeletal torso.
Disappearing into a void, an abyss.
Flailing around desperately, but failing.
Feeling only the silky,velveteen touch of nullity.

He felt the voices resonate through his cranium once more.
 --

You are death, yet you are life.
You are sorrow, yet you are joy.
You are master, yet you are slave.


Reach for the light.


Reach for the light, and be whole again.
 
--


He said to himself:

"It must be there."

"somewhere."

--------------------

ciao

silent night

this isn't part two of the previous post i wrote up.
something i wrote up before math.
hope you like it.
don't hesitate to write back.

-------------------------

bloody hell.
the sound of gunfire rings out.
instincts say 2'o clock, over half a click away.
not to worry,I haven't been spotted.
they're just trying to spook me out of cover.
hah.
bloody amateurs.

these guys have plenty of guns,but a shortage of good shooters.
hell to that.
what the spooks really lack, are good thinkers.

I'm still concerned, though.
I'm getting sloppy.
I cant always bank upon their inexperience and inefficiency to get my ass outta the killbox.
gonna get myself killed,one of these days.

nevertheless,i was holed up pretty damn good.
dense african rainforest, the bane of any search party.

or so i thought.

shit.
a torchlight flickers through the undergrowth, accompanied by the crash of feet on dead leaves.
growing steadily louder.

lying still.
very,very still.

I see the all-too familiar AK snout poke through the foliage.
the stamp on the lower receiver tells me its just another chinese-made clone.
just another testament to the universality of 'Made In China'.
Clone or Kalashnikov, it still spews hot lead with as much benevolence as an angry ex-wife.
My angry ex-wife, if you want specifics.

Carrying it, is a kid in his early teens, wearing a stained t-shirt with some rapper's face on it.
He comes to a halt, looking around warily, his knuckles clenching tight around hot metal.

Bloody americans.
Thanks to them and their insatiable capitalist lust, this kid's life expectancy just plummeted off the goddamn chart.
The idiot can't even hold his gun the right way, thanks to those gangsta rap videos on mtv.

I really wanted to step out,and show him how its done.
Of course, that meant I'd have to kill him too.
And I couldn't risk leaving behind another body.
not now.

So I let him go.
Let him have a second chance, without him ever knowing.
As the crunch of dead leaves slowly fades, something monstrous starts to stir up inside me.
The feel of power.
Of holding consequence in the palm of your hand.
Oh, how it allures man,to touch that naked flame, not forseeing that it would be his hand that would burn first.
Someday it'll get me killed, it will.


silence is restored.
Just me and the jungle once more.
Quick glance at my gps.

Need to make some serious ground before dawn breaks.
Or ill find myself in the thick of a serious power vacuum.

The kind that arises, when you kill the one-eyed king of the blind.
The kind that arises, when a warlord dies in Africa.

----------------------


ciao

hello.

hello. 

been awhile.
board exams.
working on a few more posts(coming up after a week~math exam~)

onto more important things,
change is everywhere.
and god has a dastardly sense of humour.

turned 18.
didn't really feel anything.(contrary to public belief)

leaving the country thats been home for eight long years.
isnt as big a relief as some may think.
whats better,my neighbourhood is due to be leveled in a couple of years.
its like someone's trying to erase the "wali was here" stamp. 

effin' hell.

atleast 3 a.m. still feels the same everywhere.
or is it?
i'd like to believe 'tis so.


serene in its sleepyness,slowly stirring into morn.
slowly rises the sun,felling night with its scorn.


well,goodbye my love,and fare thee well.

ciao 

Blue-eyed blues(part one)

Sorry, my abysmal audience, I have been forced far from you by my circumstances. 
Board exams loom ahead, and I spend a lot of my time lost in the conundrum that is twelfth-grade chemistry.


Well, I still try.

This is the first of two parts of a story that i have wanted to write for a very long time.

The second will be posted soon .(I hope)

-------------------------------------------------

 Belgium,1944.

Somewhere in the countryside, near the ruins of what had once been a small town before the war, stood a lone stately home.
In it, lived an eight-year-old boy, Joachim, with his mother.
His father was a minister, and they had been hidden here by the government, lest Brussels fell to the Reich.
Joachim didn't get to see him much, unlike the old days.

Whenever he did happen to drop in, Joachim would bombard him with questions.
Questions about his classmates back in Brussels,about their old neighborhood,questions about his old nanny;questions his father couldn't bear to answer, for he knew better than most,that his dear Brussels lay in ruins, that they had left just in time, just before the Blitzkreig began.

Joachim's mother was a strong woman, able enough to run a house on her own, despite having lived the life of an aristocrat.
She had once served as the headmistress of the finest school in Brussels, L'academie Delacroix. Now the only student in her care was her son, whom she taught for hours on end, knowing that it was her education that had brought her into the upper echelons of society, to her husband, and ultimately to this secluded home, tucked safely away from the Nazi blitzkreig.

Joachim was a bright little fellow, and was quite at ease with his lessons.
But for him, his day began only after he stowed away his books and pencils in the big cupboard by the kitchen.
Every day, soon after his midday meal of chicken soup and bread, he would go off and explore the ruins that stood so desolate next to his own lively home.
His mother didn't mind, she knew no-one was to be found in the ghost town, and besides, it gave her some much-needed time for herself, to write in her diary, to think of the past and the future, and to hone her skills at her new found hobby, gardening.



Joachim was making his way through a the  first house in a ruined row of six, all joined together for some strange reason.
He climbed up a flight of stairs,and found himself in a room like any other.
Dust and grime, are all that live within these walls, he thought to himself.
All of a sudden, something caught his eye.
A trapdoor.
There is something, I'm not sure what, about the very word trapdoor, which pumps fuel to the lamp of adventure which shone especially bright within our young protagonist.
Unable to contain his curiosity, he pulled down on one of its corners, and a ladder swung down into view.
 
He clambered nimbly up the ladder, and found himself in a long dark attic, running unbroken through all six houses.
It was too dark to see, besides he could hear his mother calling for him as night approached.
He ran back home, promising himself that he would return the next day, armed with his mother's electric torch.


------------------------------

ciao(for now)

Grief

Wrote this after reading up on American Indian history,so that's the backdrop for the poem.
Also,as the title suggests, I wasn't exactly feeling on top of the world at the time.


I dreamt the dreams of better days
For they felt so far away
Of selfless love, and come-what-mays
Grew darker, day by day.

Gone, was the spirit, the fierce pride
Shriveled up, like autumn leaf
The shell was empty, nought inside
Nought remained, but grief.
 
Gone was the calm, my heart defiled
Filled with night even in day
Grief, not for the widow, nor fatherless child
But grief, for the the death of the way.

Still, my eyes well up with grief
Dripping from my lashes
To see the chief, no longer a chief
Living in his own ashes.



ciao

Up In Smoke

She woke up, about half an hour after daybreak, to the chirping of the birds outside.

I was watching.

She began to change her clothes, and I felt little tingles run down my spine, as I watched the layers come and go.

~most people don't usually change with the curtains drawn back, with nothing but a large french window between your privates and the great outdoors, but that false sense of privacy is exactly why you pay top dollar for a remote chalet in the Tuscan countryside~

In any case, I was quite happy given the present circumstances.

And before you ask, YES.

I did zoom in for a closer look.

Most guys would, given the chance.

For she had an exquisite body.
The sort of body that wouldn't just make most men break into a sweat, but the sort that would invariably land its owner in deep water (as seems the case here).

As I watched her walk out into the driveway, something made me want to change my very way of life, maybe find myself a nice mamacita, settle down somewhere sunny, restore an old '68 charger, hell, maybe even raise a family.

As that last thought soured in my mind, I decided it probably had something to do with the size of her breasts.

And her car.

Ooh, fancy women, and fancy cars.

Truly, a match made deep, deep down in the fires of hell.

A Maserati, a worthy example of Italian opulence, and their skill with cars.

Under its hood, lay a 4.7-litre V8, twin-turbo, with a 6-speed gearbox,the works.

You know me, couldn't help but check.

I really would have loved to hear her roar, but my thumb was already pressing down hard on the detonator in my hand.

Man, I hate my job.