Pens and Pages

A ll these quotes are from the book Illusions : Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach. They all speak about changing your mindset, your perception and hence, your reality and life. The truth is that we can choose to suffer or to thrive. Like they say, pain is inevitable but suffering is optional. What would you choose? 1. If your happiness depends on what somebody else does, I guess you do have a problem. 2. Argue for your limitations, and sure enough, they're yours. 3. You will wonder why some people are unhappy. They are unhappy because they have chosen to be unhappy, and, Richard, that is all right! 4. We cannot die, we cannot hurt ourselves any more than illusions on the screen can be hurt. But we can believe we're hurt, in whatever agonizing detail we want. We can believe we're victims, killed and killing, shuddered around by good luck and bad luck. 5. If you really want to remove a cloud from your life, you do not make a big production out of it, you just ...

I cannot stress on the fact enough that life has changed after working. Well, it should because what good is stagnancy anyway. After a year of working, I find myself tired by the second half of the day. No wonder, every time I take a flight I doze off even before the flight takes off. I remember, I was traveling on New Year ’s Day and the flight was delayed by multiple hours. That was the first time when I woke up from a nap on a flight and didn’t find myself on air or on a different city. I woke up and we were still at the take-off area. But I had a good nap anyway. It was last week when I took an afternoon flight but couldn’t fall asleep for some reason. Like most journeys I was seated near the window, but unlike my previous journeys, this time I looked out of the window. We were just a couple of metres above of the clouds but the view was great. A blue horizon on a sea of clouds. I was lucky enough to spot a rainbow amidst the cirrus; the hues getting clearer with ...

I can tell the time of the day just by looking at your face- a glow of hope when it's five you rejoice the new day, tired eyes by it's nine- same old story, same old game, at four you need your coffee during the office cigarette-break, at ten you look so exhausted as another day comes to an end, you'd draw the curtains at midnight- another day closer to death.

My car moved when I typed 1 It stopped at each 0 I type 1 and the lights were on, At every 0, it was dark again... I look away from the perfect screen Through a glass window covered with dirt, And I see beyond the translucence A dimly lit house on the hillside, A broken door left ajar, A worn out roof that'd still let A few raindrops seep in, A man limping his way home the way he would have run if he could. I see the imperfections  Of the enormous tree Under which a child could still be drenched- One drop at a time. I see a half-torn ten dollar bill, Lying near some worm-ridden mangoes The owner of the tree couldn't pluck on time, Useless as both could be, the way A writer would think away his time, Without words to put on the paper. I come home late at night Another day of programming  LEDS and wheels of the tiny robot car, Coding 1 or 0, I kill my day, Only to find my night dimly lit Like the house on the ...

Photo taken at Plitvice National Park, Croatia by Vibhor Dhote Oh! What are these days I have found myself in! The bagpacks I carry no longer feel that heavy; What have they lost if not for a few coins, a few notes, some letters written long ago, a few locks, a few clothes? Or is it the loss of some fears, some shackles, some thoughts tied to their waist belts several years ago? Where is the fatigue? Where are the tears that drenched my pillow? Where is the inability to wake up early in the morning and the incessant desire to sleep forever? Today, every time I close my eyes, I need to type, I need to write. Where is the indolence, the procrastination, the lack of, as I would say whenever they ask, the "limited time"? What is this insouciance called? Where have eloped the eternal need for love, money and the things I've already sold? Why Plath has shut her eyes today whom I so deeply adored? Bukowski's Bluebird is set free now while Sahir's pleas ...

A world full of "certainties" All the plans, all the vanities. Where black covers the white Suited in "confidence"- the constant fight. A million roads I dream to take One destination, knowing not I turn where. A green veil covers for two years, some two decades. But the "plan" awaits, new roads to make. I pant, I struggle, I do my best While they say, "You are, dear, but so inadequate".

He says 'tis not poetry what you write. Where are the stories, where are the rhymes? Though we look into each other's eyes for hours From one sunset to another sunrise. He says 'tis not love if we await another day. Where are the words you and I didn't say? He says 'tis not about my daydreams. He says we don't hold hands very often. For the world is filled with contemporary poets, He says mine don't fit this world of substance. Where does the heart of your poem lie?, he asks. A poem's not a breeze, long, that doesn't last. A minute longer that doesn't stay, 'Tis not a poem, 'tis what your feelings say. A floating second on someone's news feed, No dearth of meanings for those who read, Not my stories but 'tis what I think, I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

( Because everyone around us pretends to be someone they are not and, maybe, so do we.  Maybe the person you truly are is only when you're all by yourself. ) I hope it's you The face you show me every morning, For I have torn masks before, I have detached pretty pink masks from dark red faces, I have burned those wooden masks so that they can Reflect the faces they hide. They don't. They veil a different anatomy altogether, A face that only a mother could truly love, A face that would push me to trauma for a few months, A face that brings along depression and loneliness. I have fancied those faces would one day turn white, Or a lighter shade of grey or blue. They don't. They bathe with blood every night I kiss them goodnight. They have bathed in the blood they stole from someone else alike. Every time I pull out such masks Stuck to their skin Knowing not the thin boundaries For they have, over the time, erased, ...

Jesse-James Black Photography Tears not wept out from a long, long time When days turn into meaningless nights. She shall smile some other day, Some other time. Each word she writes holds a story within- She shall make you read it some other day, Some other time. With a million stories so hard to tell, Poems so hard to narrate, She shall write it with each tear she drops, But another day, Another time. She picks up thorns The way you collect coins, Found on a happy day On an empty street. She has made her own museum now Of thorns that didn't pinch her skin, But yet made her bleed. Some day she shall spend those thorns, Like you'd spend yours On some crowded river-side On a weekend away from home. But she'd save those like you save your coins, To let them loose only when she'd weep for the first time, On some other day, Some other time....

The thing about promises is that they can be broken. I was almost on the verge of breaking a promise before I sat to write this saviour blog-post of mine. Courtesy: LinkedIn The promise or the goal was that I’d ignore the negativity around me and write about the positive things, the little acts of kindness, love and hope on my blog this year. Two and a half months have elapsed and I haven’t written a word. In my defense, I was busy writing hatke marketing-related articles for Marketing Buzzar (You can find them here ). So like I promised in the month of January that I will write about people who help me restore my faith on humanity in this world of today, the person I pick today to write about is Suruchi Gupta, a fellow student at MDI, and her “The Umbrella” incident. It so happened that we, the members of the Counseling Cell of MDI Gurgaon, were at a meeting discussing future plans for the college and also, our individual career paths when one of our seniors ment...

A tribute to the Nirbhayas of this world, to those who did not get justice, to Jyoti #IndiaFailsNirbhaya They were my sisters- Those two poor daughters of an Indian village, Clad in what they call decent clothing for women, Found one morbid morning, Dead and hanging from the branches of the tree, The same tree around which you and I had played once. Yesterday I saw my mother, with tears in her eyes, When she said she saw no hope Of justice in this nation where once I lived. “Avenge my death,” I had once said to my friends, To the people who once loved me; Maybe they still do And fate must have silenced them. Maybe the sticks they were beaten with While protesting against what was wrong, Have put lashes on their hearts, and locks on their mouths. The same juvenile lad who had once Watched me writhing in pain, Probably, with a smile on his face, as I moaned, I heard he is now going to start working soon. And have a “career”, I heard t...

Where does the serpentine road lead? To the hill's top and beyond. A tiny hut resides at the end of the road, The road ends where people do not go. There rests in peace my muse and love Within a coffin made of soil and leaves. Sometimes, she sits atop the mountains people do not see, Touching the clouds, she smiles in glee. And when the wars will end and birds will sing. She will turn the serpentine road around, For a new world to lead.

Someday you will tell them your story. But darling, do not think that they'll listen to it. They will hush you up. "Pretend that it never happened," They will tell this as they avert their eyes. They will not pat your back. They will not see how brave you were. They will only see the scars and not the wounds. All they will wish for is those scars to disappear. But dear, when you have born those wounds With all your heart and might, Dare you not lose the scars. Scars that define who you are now, Scars that will tell your story When the world will shut their ears, Scars that will pat your back And remind you of the courage you had shown, For, darling, you will need to be brave Again And again.

Broken bones and a bruised face, He checked the mirror- The nightmare's back again. Palms that bled and fingers without nails. An empty heart and a blank page. He feeds himself on the frozen salad- Last year's leftovers, he did not forget. He could let go of sleep Or he could sit and bleed. He chooses to embrace the red So, within the four walls, he stayed. Why stay when you can leave? But all of this has happened before, Not a curse, it's a habit, he said.

Exactly a year ago, I was stranded all alone on the highway of Kharghar​, devoid of people, with the cell phone on my hand losing its marbles just when they were needed the most. Two men and a flock of goats were the only living beings to be seen on the road, if I do not take in account the grass that lost its greenery to the dirt of the vehicles that pass by, probably years ago. I went to one of the two men - the one whose clothes were less disheveled than the other, but disheveled nonetheless and as dirty as the grass I stepped upon. He combed his dark, oiled hair with his long and thin fingers as I approached him. I ask him in a polite tone, hiding the desperateness inside me," Bhaiya, aapke paas mobile phone hoga? Ek call karna tha". He shakes his head and I almost lose all my hopes on making a call to my friend. He says, "Phone nahi hai. Par mere tab se call ho sakta hai, Chalega?"

I wasn't old enough When I first believed in magic. Over the years, I have learned To believe in it, Even more. Believe that doors will open, Or at least, a window will do; Believe the bars will be shattered, Or at least, they will melt The way blocks of ice-cream do. I wasn't old enough, When I first saw magic, In a stranger's smile, In a bar of chocolate Handed to me out of the blue. Over the years, I have seen Magic still lingering around me. I have believed in magic, I still do. The way I stumble and fall, The day when things can't go more wrong, The way it's all good again, Faint smiles And the tears I wipe. And I still see magic Before I go to sleep The way the bird near my window Probably smiles with its weird beak. And everyday I wake up, The bird awaits my call, It flies away As I take my morning stroll. Gestures of kindness And the humble people I meet, I believe there is magic, At every step, in every deed. I am old en...

Morbid days and morbid nights, Trees that no longer live, Blood in grandmother's hands, Red fluid that bled thick. The blood now powdered By her hands that crushed The necks of mint leaves. Baby faces on the walls Painted yellow and pink. The same faces haunt at night, Nights that remind them to laugh, Laugh and giggle Over their dead bodies Thrown in the kitchen garden. Trees that no longer live, Plants that died in grief, The tiny yellow leaves Of the stems that grew on the bodies, The roots that captured the hearts. The blood is now powdered, Maybe underneath grandmother's pestle. The mortar smells of rotten flesh, Grandfather's misery and mother's tears. The babies laugh as they protest, They would have bled every month anyway. Ten dead babies and a newly born, Grandmother's love and souls torn. Let the baby live That bleeds only once At the time of its death And not every month...

I turn out the lights And he turns on the radio, And it's almost like a routine The way he approaches the bed And I approach him. We smile at each other With other people On our minds. We start with a gentle peck And then probably a kiss Of feelings close to disgust. He kisses my scars Scars that remind me of wounds- Wounds that he wasn't a part of. It isn't love And we both are in pain, And we make love, A good night's sleep is preordained. I turn out the lights Inside my head as well. "Oh, stop thinking." He turns on the radio And a million thoughts Approach his mind. Tomorrow, We shall not remember each other for I have someone else to go to And he has someone else in his mind. But we'll smile at each other- Smile close to disgust. And we'll call it love When naked bodies meet Knowing not, That love it is not. For our naked souls await To be revealed And a good conversation Was our sole need.

So many years have gone by And age has made both of us A lot older than we used to be, A little wiser than we used to be. And when the yesteryears Enter stealthily through the doors Of a veiled moon and a dark cirrus, We look back at what we used to be And what we have become today. So many years have gone by And I don't see a single sign of you And you see me not in who I am today. I have changed as I should have - I have built a small hut in a new village now. You still are in the city we used to live in. And maybe we'd have been so much happier now, But I have changed as I should have And you, you still have those grey hairs Like the rays of moonlight falling on my face now. And when I have changed as I should have, You still live in the city we used to live in, Looking the way you used to look, And maybe, just maybe, you haven't changed a bit, The way you should have changed.

I was just going through my diary to find out what happened the same time last year. Here's what I found worth sharing. Food for thought for me. What about you? * "It doesn't seem like you're living a life, it's almost like you're travelling on a train with a destination unknown. You're sitting on a seat near the window looking outside, imagining how things are there outside, how is it like to live in the houses that you pass by. And when you’re busy noticing the outside, you at times do not pay heed to your surroundings inside the coach. And thus some passengers who got down at a station midway fail to capture your interest, or maybe it is because of your deviation of interest towards the outside. While at other stops new people get up, and you like their company, you share and you laugh. But sooner or later they get down. Because it's your journey, you're the traveler and they just accompany you for some distances. An...