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