“Flying high away in freedom,
The birds find their way in the blue,
A clarion call amid the silence,
And the flock gets ready to glue.
The breeze from within the gather
Catches the eye of an aged soul,
Famished and battered by slavery
His old eyes glitter at sight of one whole.
The idea spells fire in the hearts
And the minds of the ravaged, the conquered,
It strikes deep within a place called hope
As the heads long fallen rise towards the sky.
The wind kisses their zeal, enriches their spirit,
As they gather together under the old man
To march their union, to show their solidarity
To make themselves the master of their own fate.
They stand their peace, they hold their chain,
With their sight in place for freedom and freedom alone,
They gather their courage, they bury their hatchet,
To see the long whisper become a roar again.”
“I usually heed to those who question why we celebrate a particular day for love; isn’t every day, one for love? I silence myself with a makeshift happy nod while trying hard to keep that itsy bitsy part of me that still believes in this day from exploding all over the other. But today when I look back at all those questions, and my stand of supporting the naysayers, my silence sounds completely illogical to me. The hard truth that we happen to realise a little late is that not every day we give for love, I mean in literal sense; just try to question how often do we go out of our way and compliment someone or how often do we utter the words, “I love you” to that special one, even though we know that the other might be the perfect one for us. It just doesn’t happen; it stays in our mind for an eternity before vaporising in the mystery of our confused mind. So sometimes all we need is a day, however cliched it might sound, we need it to ease the unease and give a push to one’s hopes only to see where the thoughts in our mind finally lead us upon to. So in this world of unlimited technology decorated with artificial emoticons, I meant the emotions, it’s okay to take a day off and be with your loved ones to make them feel special in the best possible way. It could be with that friend you fell in love with years ago but still are too scared to say, or it could be your parents who haven’t seen you since ages because you are too busy making excuses, or it could be as simple as a compliment to a random stranger who you find amusing while your lonely walk back home. It could be with anybody, it could be anywhere, but make sure you convey your emotion, your care, this day. Because the other thing about cliched things are that everyone knows about them, making things a lot easier for us to convey. So go take your chances, and make this valentines worth remembering.”
All the very best 🙂
I often find myself staring at the blank word document absent-mindedly, lost within my train of thoughts and the little world I so price upon. The music breezes around these phrases, the incomplete things which I had never chanced upon to say and probably would never convey. In between those “I wish that happened” and “I regret doing that” thoughts, I find my piece that fits for me to write. The piece which stirs my universe, pushes the boundaries, and allows me to live a character of the stories that I try to sketch. That moment of time, when everything comes flying together, I see my piece wide and clear. Rushing with this sense of enigma, I journey along with my ambivalent thoughts to finally arrive at the top of the mountain from where I see my piece coming to life. And the time when the journey ends, I find another story sprouting out. The process remains unfinished; a story more remains to be told.
Picture Courtesy: Google Search
“There would be life within the fall.” Those moments when we languish among the dirt, we come to know what survival is really about. It’s like climbing a mountain every single day only to end up falling from the very cliff which separates a winner and a loser. But the addiction with survival is so fatal that with every dawn we make an attempt again. The pain, however, gets excruciating with every fall, and with every passing day we lose our devouring confidence of making it ever. But a ray of hope is like the tinsel town in a dead city which lights up at every bit of goodwill thrown at it. So with scars all over the body and the moment of giving up not very far, we make a final attempt.
The eyes get shrouded with mystery as the dazzle of fear from a loss slowly wanes away from the fingers, and the moment arrives when the leap is finally made, and a new winner emerges from it. The paradise that we had awaited for time and again had finally fallen to our will, and our footsteps behold the change the world would now bear upon. We get a wish in return to clear the scars on the quest for greatness, that we respectfully ignore “Those scars define me, they make me who I am. They remind me of hope, and hope is eternal.” We march ahead with this memory in mind and with a hope to rise with every fall we encounter in our life.
“No pit is ever so big that we could never escape; there is always a way, there will always be.” We thump our heart, and take a leap again.
“Did you see the rainbow in the morning?” enquired Tara with her curious eyes still stuck to the sky.
“I was too immersed in the drizzle that I failed to notice it” Neera replies back as she continues tapping her hands playfully over the pool of water that had formed in the verandah.
“There was a faint lightning that I could see around the rainbow, it was like the story Kishore ji was trying to tell, the story of Lord Indra. Do you remember?” hinted back Tara.
“I do. The story where Masterji had said that when there is a war in heaven, Lord Indra uses his thunderbolt weapon to destroy the evil forces and thus causing lightning in the sky” Neera still wondering as she says; why rain, which comes after lightning, is so beautiful and serene; how could war provide something as beautiful as the rain?
“Do you believe in this story Neera?” It was as if Tara knew exactly what her little sister was thinking.
“I really don’t know. War never produces beautiful things, it only takes our close people away. It can never produce something as beautiful as rain, it surely can’t” Neera answers as she moves closer to her elder sister, though only by a year.
“Neither do I believe in it” Tara replies with her vision moving towards the sky again as she holds her sister close. Her eyes carry a bit of gloom as if she is praying for someone’s safe return, who she knows clearly will never return.
In the meantime, a woman cladded in a white saree with her hair tied closely behind her back with a faint fickle of greyness in her hair walks up to the verandah of her home where the two little girls are sitting and gazing the innocent sky above.
“Neera, Tara, It’s going to rain, and you don’t want to get yourself sick again. So rush down, there are hot jalebis which your grandfather has brought. Go eat them before they become cold” the lady, their mother said in full authority yet with love.
As the little girls in their pre-teens run down, the lady stands there for a while. Trying to savour an old memory which she had shared with her deceased husband in the past. It brings up a smile on her face but a sense of anguish runs parallel with that beautiful smile of hers as she walks her way back down.
We find a hustle in the house, complimented with cheers by the little girls as they play with their grandpa while relishing their jalebis with a wide smile. The one storey house was slowly returning back to become their home again; it was over an year since Major Rajdeep had been killed in an enemy crossfire at the border, leaving behind his two daughters, wife and an ailing father.
The matter tripped and triggered one over the other,
Blood boiled and spilled over the name of religion,
Friends became foes overnight,
And love lost to hatred from those very nights.
Sorry is a small word to convey for this,
Apology for the carnage would never suffice,
But it’s not wrong to try, never wrong to apologize,
Because mere words of truth, sometimes, could heal deepest of scars in no time.”