LIFE’S MANTRA

You can cry, but you have to smile.
You can rest, but you walk a mile.
You may hide, but you speak it out.
You can be quiet, but you sing out loud.
You may lose, but you try to win.
You are broke, but you never give in.
You can keep, but you always give.
You can die, but you choose to live….

… This is LIFE…

THE REAL ME

I have one heart, but a million things to say;
How to say them, I do not know.
I listen to my mind but it prefers silence,
I just cannot let my emotions flow.
Hiding in me is a different me,
I am yet to be discovered.
I am vulnerable, but expressive.
The true me is still covered.
I want someone to uncover me,
But still keep me a secret.
Someone to know the real me,
Someone who respects my secret.
I know finding him is not difficult.
I just have to let myself be.
He would only need to look,
And he’ll know it’s the real me.
Maybe I am just afraid to show,
What my true self is.
My other side lies in a glass coffin,
Awaiting a prince’s kiss.
The spell would be broken
And the world would know me,
I won’t be hidden,
People would see.
But do I really want to be seen,
Or I prefer the glass coffin,
I still ponder on it,
As I always have been.
I guess I like being a secret,
Something the world is yet to explore.
They may claim they have discovered me,
But they’ll only know one core.
Just as love means a million things,
But still sounds the same.
Even I am an unsolved riddle,
I am an unconquered game.
I am unsure of myself, not knowing what I want.
But that’s the way I like to be,
Being confident of my ignorance is bliss.
Well, I guess, this is what I mean by the ‘real me’.
But then I am alone, though still with the crowd.
Only I know what I really feel.
I can act happy during rough times,
But deep scars take long to heal.
If only I had someone,
Who would kiss my loneliness goodbye.
Who would care for me and the real me,
Who would always stand by.
I knew is around somewhere,
I just need to look hard.
If only I would uncover his true self,
He would discover my second heart.

ThAt NytE!!

A dark night. 6 friends out at a hill station…. I remember it was Mussoorie. No one was sleepy. I remember…. There was nothing to do. Everyone was bored. There was a girl among them. Just one girl. They dared her. The guys did. They dared her to stay besides the open glass window hidden by a heavy curtain for 10 minutes. She wasn’t afraid. She agreed. The bet was for simple and sweet chocolates. Ah! She loved them. She stood up from the floor. Opened the window, stood near it with the hood of her little pink sweatshirt saving her head from the chilly wind. The boys scared her, made noises but she was brave enough for them. Faced it all easily. Then the boys decided to scare her off her feet. They planned to switch the lights off while she was still covered by the heavy curtain and sneaked off. Leaving her all alone. Time passed. The boys didn’t hear a single word from the girl. They thought that they had lost the bet. As losers they went inside. Opened the door making a loud creaking noise… ccrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeaaaaaakkkk….. No movement, no noise, not even sound of breath to be heard. Her dear friend, closest to her, called her. No reply. He became a bit worried. Called her lovingly and then he became annoyed. Irritated, he threw back the curtains. Where was she? No where to be found. He peeked down the window. The hotel was at height. Darkness everywhere. Just the wind blowing. Swoooossshhh…. He became worried. His friends checked the washroom. Not even there. Where could she have been? They were now scared to death. They went down hurriedly to the reception. Woke up the manager and told him the whole story. They searched the whole hotel. Every niche, every corner. No where. Time passed and the sun shined. A search party was organized. The whole area around the hotel was searched. No where to be found.
2 years have passed since them. All the 5 boys have seen the girl. One saw her standing outside his room’s window. Another saw her in the same pink hood staring at him through the mirror. And others just saw her face here and there. 2 of the boys are still in the asylum claiming the girl haunts them. What happens to the girl? No one knows… no one… and no one will…..
Hee hee heee

The Secret of Snowflakes


Far away in a little hut, huddled against a fluffy dog sat a little girl seeking warmth from the dead remains of the fire. Outside a little frosted window she could see snow falling in tender flaky forms. Enchanting! She thought. ‘Where does these beautiful patterns come from?’ wondered the little girl aloud, startling her big dog. She opened the wooden door and came out into the open. Behind her the dog came bounding in a playful mood, barking and snapping at the delicate snowflakes which fell on its wet black nose. Beautiful webbed patterns, gently crafted with the tiniest possible strand of snow. A little snowflake eased on the little girl’s nose and did not melt away like other flakes when the girl touched it with her bare hand. She closed her eyes and the next thing she knew, she was flying in the air with the flake still perched on her nose. She closed her eyes again and kept on flying, thinking it was a dream.
When she opened her eyes, she found herself on a bed made of clouds with beautiful and tender curtains at her sides. She could not help exclaiming when she found out that the curtains were made up of many snowflakes weaved together with a thread of ice. A little sniff diverted her attention from the snow curtain to a large white desk where sat an elderly young man. Elderly, because of his moonlight silver hair and beard and young, because of the enthusiasm and concentration in his ice blue eyes. He looked majestic in the white flowing cloak he wore. Curiously, the girl tip toed to the desk so as not to disturb and to know where the man devoted his concentration to. What she saw astonished her. With the finest and strangest tools the girl had ever seen, the man was working furiously fast with an unworldly calm on a little snow ball. The tools were scintillating and reflecting little rainbows from its fine edges.
The girl studied the man and stood still admiring his concentration.
‘What do you think?’ said the man startling the girl.
‘Huh?’
‘What do you think of my work? It is a new pattern I have been working on and you are the first one to see it.’
The girl looked down at the desk and where a snow ball stood was now a beautifully delicate snow flake.
‘It’s the prettiest thing I have ever seen.’ gasped the girl.
‘Thank you Mary. It is very kind of you.’
‘How do you know my name, dear sir? Who are you?’
‘Oh! I am so sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. I am the designer of snow flakes. People on earth know me as God.’
Still thinking of this episode as a dream, the girl tried not to show any surprise but failed. She stood awkwardly staring at him with her mouth agape. She recovered soon and went along with him to take a tour of his office. When the shock wore off completely, God made her sit down on an ivory chair.
‘God, you must be so busy. Looking after everyone on earth and making the world a better place. Where do you find the time to craft these delicate and pretty flakes?’ asked little Mary innocently.
‘Child, I know that you are the happiest when you play with snow and admire my snow flakes. And I like to make you happy so I make these patterns for you and millions of other people who like to share joy with me. Keeping you all happy keeps me happy. And now dear Mary, would you like to know how I make these snowflakes?’
‘Oh! I have always wanted to know. Do tell me almighty God.’
‘You just saw me create a pattern. The tools I use are made up of silver which lend a shimmer and sheen to the flakes and then I put life into them.’
‘The snowflakes are alive?!’
‘Oh yes, Mary! How else do you think they melt on touch? But don’t think they die. They just come back to me.’
‘Can I not make these flakes stay as beautiful they are for a little longer so that I can admire them a bit more?’ asked Mary genuinely.
‘Of course you can. There is a little magic trick. But I would want it to be a secret between us. Do you promise to let it be that way?’
‘Yes dear God. I promise.’
‘Okay then. Listen hard. Before touching these little pieces of snowflakes, just wink at them and they’ll be in your hand intact, for a longer time. Now that you know my secret, I hope you will enjoy it Mary.’
‘I sure will kind God’
‘Would you like to take a closer look at this flake I just made?’
And Mary held the tender art piece in her hand gently and she felt herself flying again. This time she woke up in her own bed. Little Mary peaked out of the window and ran out of the house when she saw that it was snowing. She held her breath and winked hard at a flake. The snow piece landed on her outstretched hand and shone brightly, as if winking back at her. Mary was awestruck by the exquisite beauty of the snow crystal and kept admiring it until it melted away.
But Mary was not sad seeing it melt. She knew she was the most blessed girl on earth because she now shared a secret with God. The secret of snowflakes.

Bus route 234

SCENE I

I was standing with a friend on Roop Nagar bus stand waiting for the bus to take us to the metro station with huge black and pink umbrellas over our head. We were already late for our first lecture in college. The bench at the stand was slimy and wet due to last night’s heavy rain but there was a lot of green color around. Only a few more girls, presumably college students, with hand bags and dressed in salwaar kameez were there. I and my friend were having casual small talk while waiting for our ride

NEHA: Traveling by bus is so cheap. We just have to pay Rs. 3 whereas by rickshaw it costs us ten bucks.

ME: Very true yaar. Just a little bit of inconvenience, that too if the bus is crowded otherwise it’s the best bet. I save a lot of my pocket money.

NEHA: Route no. 108 suits us best. But there is 234 as well, which is a bit stuffed but its frequency is better than that of 108. No?

ME: Yeah. I hope the bus comes soon. We are already 10 minutes late. Khanna ma’am will kill us if we are later. Let’s take a rickshaw if the bus doesn’t come in 5 minutes.

Just then a rickety DTC bus, route no. 234, rumbled along the wet road. It was stuffed like an overstuffed aaloo ka parantha with people ‘leaking’ out of the bus like aaloo coming out of the sides. The bus was dangerously tilted to one side owing to some school boys who preferred to hang at the pedestal rather than standing inside the bus. Both of us looked at each other, sighed, folded our umbrellas and proceeded towards the bus.

SCENE II

Getting inside the bus from hind gate was one hell of a Herculean job. The school children were wolf whistling at us and some of the other passengers were looking at us as if we were intruding in their private property. I was feeling so proud of having accomplished the heavy task of boarding the bus that I gave Neha a clap on her back but was stared dangerously by an elderly uncle on whose back I had accidentally thumped. I mumbled a quick sorry and quickly turned away. I had a wet backpack hanging on my right shoulder, the wet black clumsily folded umbrella in my right hand, and a Rs. 5 coin in my left hand for the ticket. The bus was in a very bad shape with grills missing from the windows, paan stains here and there, the black seat cover, once red, was torn at many places. There was no question of finding a seat. Hundreds of faces in colorful and monotonous colors were seen but the conductor was nowhere in sight. If he would have been at the other end, it would have been impossible for him to find his way till the back. Finally, after many jerks and stops, we reached the metro station.


SCENE III

We got off from the bus. The red and white pavement was decorated with cow dung by our mother cows (and father bulls) and brown and red paan stains and all sorts of wrappers and poly bags and many other assorted items. But to our surprise there was a team of government officials dressed in dirty while shirts and black pants sporting rubber chappals. They were hurrying after all the passengers who had alighted from the bus and were questioning them in a strict manner. We tried to slink away but a shrewd looking officer, strongly smelling of cigarette smoke and huge black framed spectacles caught us and addressed us in the funniest English we had ever heard.

OFFICER: Show your ticket. Hurry, hurry. Show ticket. Me from DTC want to see ticket. No ticket? Ticket? Show. Now.

NEHA (looking frightened): Sir, please sir. We are getting late for college sir. Please sir. The conductor didn’t come for the ticket. The bus was so crowded. There was no way to buy a ticket. Look, I had the change ready for it.

ME (trying hard not to laugh): Sir, we bought a ticket. But we threw it inside the bus only. I promise sir, we had the ticket.

OFFICER: Girls try fool me? Bad. One say no ticket, one say lost? Making an ullu of me? You’ll pay penalty. Take out a 100.

NEHA (almost hysterical): Rs. 100? Sir, its too much sir. Please trust us sir, the bus was very crowded. What I meant was that first we couldn’t take the ticket and then we bought it---

OFFICER: --Lie not. Think you smart? Sign this chit and pay Rs. 100.

I consoled Neha and took out a 100 rupee note from my purse. Neha did the same. A smile of satisfaction danced on the officer’s lips. With a quick ‘good day’ he marched off to catch other unwary people.
In order to save Rs. 10 we had to pay Rs. 100. This remains my worst experience till date.

Ecstasy!!

Ecstasy

Ecstasy is royal blue like ink and a wizard’s gown.
It smells like fresh wet paint.
It’s like a cold ice lolly, cold but sweet.
It feels like dry ice, tickles on touch.
It reminds me of my first swimming lessons
And of my first position in boards.
It just rushes to my head
Like my mum does when she is angry.
It makes me want to scream with joy and dance wildly.
I live in the sky and I eat the clouds.

What Do I Write?

I pick up my pen and wonder what do I write?
Should I write a story or describe a beautiful sight?
But then the beauty in the world has been praised before.
And the stories will always come and go.
But there should be something worth a mention,
Something which should demand my attention.
Maybe I can write about some global issue.
Or divert my mind to a social do.
But these topics are commonly read.
I may focus on technology instead.
But how would a poem on gizmos sound?
It won’t be worth even one pound.
Then what should I think about and what do I write?
Maybe I should think with all my might.
But then, is anything left in this world unwritten.
I guess to think of something new, I need a new invention.
Odes to seasons, birds, people and religion have turned old.
And old is no longer considered as gold.
My dilemma is going profound,
And nothing to dwell on have I found.
I grow bored and I will come when
I have found something to write; now I rest my pen.

The Curtain of Cloud

On peeking out of the window
I see a curtain of cloud.
Gray and white freckles in the sky.
So silent, yet still so loud.

As a kid, I painted images on them,
Taking as my canvas, the sky.
I drew pigeons, butterflies and bees,
It was fun to have my imagination fly.

As I grew older, I took to paper and pen.
I was preoccupied with friends and books.
Even the sky turned more gray than blue,
It did not seem to be worthy of more than a look.

Today, I realize, what it is like to imagine,
And interpret things on my own.
There is no one to stop you,
You are in this world on your own.

Then I see the clouds again
And images pop out of nowhere
I had been bereft of them for so long,
They have been forever here.

Time flies and we grow old,
The curiosity of a child diminishes,
But someone to admire its beauty,
Is all the curtain of cloud wishes.

Little Saint

‘Hare Rama, Hare Krishhna’ sang a shrill voice on the crowded nizamuddin station. Ten year old Trilok’s voice merged with the cries of the vendors and trailed off. His black eyes twinkled with joy and his dark brown face lit up when he sang and his dirty hands moved rapidly. His friends on the station, who sold peanuts and other things, often listened to him sing after their day’s job.
‘Ah! A 2 rupee coin!’ He picked up the coin which a passer by had thrown generously on his dirty and torn rag where he sat everyday from morning to night playing two broken pieces of tile and singing bhajans.
He had earned a good rupees twelve and he headed towards a local vendor.
‘Give a 505 beedi. Do you have a matchstick?’ And he stood leaning against a pillar surrounded by a cloud of smoke.
This had been his life from the past three years. He had never been to a school because he was afraid of the masterji, who beat the kids with a stick, as told to him by his mother.
As the night descended, he counted his earnings, Rs. 27. On a good day, he earned up to Rs. 40. Alone, he walked towards his one room hut, adjacent to the garbage place. His mother and sister were no where in sight. Maybe they hadn’t returned yet from their cleaning jobs. The hunger pangs rose. He hadn’t had a bite since nine in the morning. His father lay on the floor with an empty bottle next to him. Trilok ignored him and lay down near the opposite wall. He had never liked his drunkard father who didn’t work at all. Her mother and 2 sisters along with him ran the household. His father ensured that they earned enough for his alcohol too.
‘Oye, Trilok! Come hither. How much have you managed to earn today with your filthy voice, eh?’
No answer
‘Don’t you listen, you fool? Your Amma has turned you into a brat. I said give me the money.’
‘I won’t’ shouted back Trilok. ‘I don’t want my hard earned money to be wasted in your alcohol. Take the money from Amma.’
‘To hell with your amma. Give me the damn money.’
And without waiting for a reply, he kicked the boy’s fragile frame hard in the stomach and searched his pocket. Trilok gathered his strength and pushed off his father. He was dried off all the emotions and respect for his father long before. His angry father caught him by his dirty brown hair and smashed his head against the mud wall.
Trilok felt the hut moving around him and fell unconscious. He woke up with the noise in the street. It was morning; the street was full of busy people. He recalled last night’s incident and felt his pockets for the money and then his eyes fell on the three empty bottles lying near his father. His mother and sister had already left. He stood up, took his tiles and rag and proceeded for the station, where he could lighten his pain by singing out his woes.

Do you have a dream UNFULFILLED???

Dreams Unfulfilled

What happens to a dream unfulfilled?Has anyone ever wondered?
What becomes of the prayer that went up with it?
What happens of the success unconquered?

Victories are celebrated,
And cheered beyond its worth.
But why are failures depressing?
Oh do tell me, why on earth?

Life is short, as it is said,
But is it not enough for us?
Winning and losing are a part of it,
Then why bother to fuss?

Did you know that dreams unfulfilled,
Go straight to heaven, in god’s own hand.
In our later life, we get another chance to try.
But we chose to let it slip like the sand.

Is it fair to let go of
Our wishes, handled preciously by the god above?Should we not work hard for it?And achieve what we love.

There would be no one stopping us,
Obstacles are meant to be ignored.
Who said fate is etched on our hands?
He denies it, yes, he does, The Lord.

Let us cheer up and try again,
Tell every Madam and Sir.
That we are not afraid of losing,

We have a dream to conquer