I always give due reverence to my electronic gadgets (Whatever I have), clothes, sandals, jewelry (read artificial, oxidized, chunky…). Take good care of all of them. Forever trying to protect them from lecherous stares and black magic of vicious relatives.

Possessions stimulate my mind to greatest possible height. When I have to protect my attires the mind secretes ultra creative juices. It produces whitest of lies. Sometimes the beggar ends up lending me her clothes or at least the promise of crediting me one for a short duration!

To my amazement, pretexts make me look so cute, vulnerable and endearing to many! Honesty, truth, logics always put people off. They find you overbearing overwhelming and above all feminist! Who wants these adjectives? Certainly not me!

I can not understand one thing, every time I am down and out, I try to hug my finest jewelry, my best clothes, my branded TV (IMPORTED ONE), my pointed heel sandals. BUT they NEVER talk back! On my depressive bouts, the people, who understand me, talk to me, hold me and embrace me, are the same to whom I make excuses!

But this will not dampen my spirits. I have full faith in my belongings. One day a brand new technology WILL develop and my accumulated inventory WILL talk to me, console me, pat me. I will never need my people around me.

Watching it on TV was a truly horrifying experience. If I invest two hours in anything I expect something or to be more precise – results. What the result would be is debatable. What if I have a child and given 10 years of my life to the child? In the end, some obscure teacher from any maniacal background enters into his life, bangs his head with another fellow student in the fit of lunacy. And noting is left for the psychopath to bang again.

What is the child’s crime? O! The child has bunked school to evade the ruthless beating of the same teacher. Ultimately all that is left is my child’s lifeless body in my arms. How am I supposed to behave?

I could not shrug off that image; the small bodies of helpless children. The wretched father was cuddling his son’s body. He could enfold only one at a time.
Life is not already smiling at him. The surroundings reveal his background. Maybe he won’t get the luxury of grieving for his sons in peace and seclusion. Every-day’s struggle would drag him back to work. At the end of the day, maybe when his aching and tired body would demand a well earned rest, his heart would clamor for the sound of his lost sons. Hitherto annoying voices. But now…

He might make one desperate plea to God to hear to the daily squabble of his small sons, their raised voices or cute ridiculous talks. Just one more time! He may promise God ‘it’ as his last wish. Perhaps then his aching body would put him to a dreamless sleep.

I will continue with my daily routine till I see another ghastly news and think of taking it out on my blog, confusing myself as a fine, sensitive, empathetic human being.

I was reading somewhere about a brand new Hindi movie. Its USP is – its actress was given a contemporary New York look! Wow! What an achievement! I wonder whether those who ruled us before August 15, 1947 have read this or not? They might feel tempted to push their contemporary London look. We are lagging behind in taking inspiration from our previous rulers.

I am looking for the concerned persons and their mail ids. I want to put forward a valuable suggestion. Should “Bharat Ratna” be not jointly conferred on the dress designer, the hair stylist and of course the actress herself? She did India proud by donning contemporary New York look.

When I was writing all this suddenly a voice asked
“What’s your problem? What’s wrong in having any contemporary damn look?”
“NOTHING” I answered back.
“Then why so much venom spitting on a poor hapless girl?”
“ My PROBLEM IS WHY RIDICULE SOMEONE, NOT DONNING A CONPEMPORARY NEW YORK LOOK!”
The voice did not reply till now.

A river of cherished memories
Flowing gently in your heart.

I Tried,
Inundating it with poison of jealousy
Hope, the river was not
Desecrated.
Memories, still dancing
As waves, when
Wind kisses the river.

I Tried,
Throwing stones of insults,
Raising a storm.
Hope, gentle ripples of the past
Still lifting you to
Greater heights.

I Tried,
Emptying all the gems, hidden
Deep in the heart of the river.
Hope, they are still with you
As precious possessions.

I Tried,
Butchering, every lovely course
Of the river, you showed me.
Hope, the myriad streams of the river
Flowing uninterruptedly,
In your memory.

I Tried,
Piercing the spirit
Of the river, with venomous sword.
And washing away my pain with
The Blood, dripping from the sword.
Hope, the spirit still bathes you
With sweet scents, untouched by
Trail of any blood.

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.
–John Donne

Sunset and evening star
And one clear call for me,
Lurking on the horizon,
My unchallengeable destination.

There is music
Still left in me.
Romancing the impending darkness,
Seemingly an unpalatable indulgence!

What about promises made
To eyes -
Learning hope?
To parched fields -
Waiting since eternity for rivers
To change course?
To invincible mountains -
Challenging to match their greatness?
To hydra headed monsters -
Raising their heads in every nook and corner?
No! Dying now is expensive indulgence!

Small voices whispered,
Giving me a name
My grandpa, his grandpa, my granduncle�
These samplings grown barely
A few feet above
The ground.
Asking, probing, seeking
Not a pursuit of infinite intelligence!
Perceiving, exploring pour
As naturally as rain
From the sky.

Who says I have to die?
I will live forever in every
Inquisitive mind.

I am ready to listen
To that clear call

A face devoid of love and grace,
A hateful, hard and successful face,
Ah! A successful face!
Shooing away, all the
Demonic societal insecurities.
At a lowly price of
Shrugging off the liability, called
Self-esteem, opening
A stairway to elusive dream – flapping my wings
Amongst the Cream de la cream!

Hatefulness, hardness and inelegance, oh! The package
Compel the river of my creativity
To tumble incessantly.
Itching artistic best, a fiend
Feigning an
Angel’s apparels.

The face, unfailingly delivers
The promise –
Of patting
My faculties into a blissful
Slumber.
Of red carpeting
My self-worth, exchanging
Minuscule climaxes.
Of padding
The tiles with best acoustics, blocking
The echo of my conscience.