Sunday, 22 March 2015

A Scribble

Look at my pen
It’s got weary scribbling soulless words

The last drop of ink that’s left
Seems wary.

The pen’s old; has lost
Its sheen, its agility

It has writ pages after pages but
They mean nothing

They are there just as
Shadows at night
I mean they mean nothing

Want to buy some inspiration.
Can you help?
Just tell me where I can find some.

I sought here and there
Within and without; but
Nowhere I got one.

Look I can pay you if you want
Just tell me what place it is
Where I can find just one little thought
Worthy of being shaped, crafted and lent a life!

It’s a pity
That it knows
It’s got that lives forever

Yes, my pen knows it!

Alas! But it not knows
The trick that could transform
It’s fluidity into immortality!

What? What are you pointing at?

Sunday, 18 January 2015

mind-boggling mind!


Quite queer
this creature is
now calm
and now confused, perturbed and fussy!
O i pity you!
restless, always seeking solace!
here
there
everywhere
found it?
no no no no no no

the most delicate, the most flimsy, what a thing you're
O beautiful mind?

thing? Are you a thing?
Impossible. Science says if it's a thing it's got mass,
and mind ~ you’re not a solid, liquid or gas
Tell me tell me what’re you?
You’re no matter for sure as defined by science for you're massless, weightless, colourless, odourless and so on and so forth
but i know 
that you exist!

i can feel you!
You are there
and because you’re there
this big busy beautiful mysterious seductive world exists.

Sages say the world exist within you.
I wonder!
The world, so big, so vast, so colossal and they say it lies in you, dear mind,
whereas you yourself are situated in a tiny brittle skull!
I don’t believe them!

This world is pure matter!
And my enigmatic mind you, you’re actually a no-matter.
And how is it that they say that the world, the limitless universe lies in you, you a non-material???

I don’t understand their words nor do i get you!

Who are you, who’s me, what’s this world and what’s matter and what’s no matter!
my skull aches now. I sigh!

well but one thing is for sure,
mind’s queer!
All are the same today
As they were yesterday or the day before yesterday,
these filthy streets, sweet home, parents, siblings, friends, birds and trees
but mind has changed
since the day before yesterday and it’s still changing!
It changes and moves
much faster than a drop of water in a stream
It’s nimbler than the wave of sound
or the noiseless winged light

now it loves, now it hates
now it wants to live, now to die
now it's good and now malicious
now it smiles and now it cries

o unsteady mind! you make me suffer a lot!

OK OK, yes you charm, you delight, i like you, alright? But believe me
you make me suffer a lot day and night.

Now, i have lost faith in you
look i don't believe you
because you change like a shape formed by clouds
you stagger, you flicker you waver like a lamp visited by a wind!
o mind
how can something be so inconstant!

Your inconstancy, your instability hurts me!

Well i'll see you.
I have heard something, a secret, about some esoteric trick!
some say there exist ways
ways to chain you
ways to bind you
to cage you, to tame you
and put you in the bars!

They say some Indian sages have found out
how to bridle you! la la la !
well, if they really have, i'll too!
i'll learn from them if there's a way
any way


and then
i'll make you stand still
unlike a ray of light
unlike the wave of sea
but calm, unperturbed and quiet

and then
I'll unite with and lend you my identity or take yours

and then
you'll hear the world, messy and noisy,
you'll feel it,
you'll see it tempt you
but you'll not alter

only smile like an enchanted artist's portrait of a Vedic deity!
i'll get you then!
La la la!

(graphics from pixabay.com)

Tuesday, 13 January 2015

Excerpts from the diary of a drug addict’s mother


(What you are going to read is no fiction. It’s based on the real life story of a woman, a close acquaintance)


January 30, 1978
Mrs Verma’s eyes open up gradually. She winces; utters a groan. She feels the pain of the knife that was used an hour ago to tear up her womb. Acute pain. Mr Verma is standing before her. He's very happy, grinning. It takes Mrs Verma's eyes a few moments to find her son, just born, wrapped in a soft white cloth in her husband's arms. Two drops of tear trickle down her face. A smile grows and before it spreads across her face, it contorts. The merciless pain at her stitches draws her attention. 


March 13, 1982
She has already placed a little lunch box in a school bag. Both the box and the bag are bright red and new. She closes her eyes; her lips read something. They are moist when she opens her eyes. She hands over the bag to Mr Verma, kisses her kid on his forehead, looks into his big eyes, and kisses him again. It’s Prabhat’s first day in school.


April 9, 1991
It’s 6:15 p.m. Mr and Mrs Verma have just reached the school. The programme has already begun. A small girl who still lisps is reciting a poem on the stage. They get seated in the second last row in the school auditorium. Mrs Verma's eyes restlessly look for her son.
The prize distribution starts. A list of names is being called out. After some time, she hears, “…and the first prize goes to Prabhat Verma…” She can see him now. He's on the stage. He bows a bit and receives a cup, made of brass. He faces the crowd, bends again holding the cup high. Here she waves her hands, attempts to shout his name aloud. Something chokes her throat. She is extremely happy. Overwhelmed. A few drops of warm tears roll down her cheeks. She gets a bit conscious as others around her start staring at her. She forces a smile and says “He's my son,” proudly.

Feb 2, 1995
She removes her son's pants from the hanger for laundry. She finds a cigarette in its pocket. She topples over; sits down on the floor; starts taking deep breath.
A fear, big and strong, she can feel, tears apart her heart and gets in to stay permanently. Her fears give her glimpses of extremely terrifying consequences. She’s afraid of losing her child. She turns restless, lost in her thoughts.  It’s 3:10 a.m. Mr Verma is fast asleep beside her. She weeps noiselessly. She flips the wet side of the pillow.

Feb 3, 1995
Her eyes are swollen. Mr Verma enquires. She dodges the question. It’s 2 a.m. Mr Verma is fast asleep. “Shall I speak directly to Prabhat or shall I inform Mr Verma?”  “How would each react, if ___?,” The more she broods over, the fiercer her restlessness grows. She weeps noiselessly on bed. She flips the wet side of her pillow.

Feb 4, 1995
Her eyes are red and swollen. Dark circles underline her swollen eyes. Her face appears pale, her hair disheveled. By the evening, she's caught high fever.

Feb 5, 1995
She's hospitalised. Prabhat is holding a glass of water and a pill. She stares at him, his hands, his lips, his face, his pockets. She tells him about her discovery. He promises he won't smoke anymore. She believes him. She thinks she has defeated the fear within; it will die soon. She smiles and hugs him.

April 15, 1995
The trio goes on a family trip.


Feb 5, 1996
She removes her son's pants from the hanger for laundry. She discovers a box of cigarette. There's something else wrapped in a glossy paper. It contains marijuana (ganja) leaves. She finds something else; some white powder in a zipper. She starts to pant. Her heart begins to sink. An emptiness, a kind of hollow, she feels within. The fear remerges, now much fiercer and much stronger. Mind is benumbed. Senseless and speechless, she lies down. Her lips have turned dry and face white.


Feb 6, 1996
Prabhat asks her for money for petrol. She refuses straightaway. "Take the bicylce. It's rusting." He stares hard at her. Bangs the door and leaves. At night, she asks him to take dinner. He doesn't answer; goes into his room and locks it. She doesn’t insist. She retires to her bedroom, without taking dinner. She hadn’t had her lunch too. She weeps noiselessly.

Feb 7, 2004
It's 1 a.m. She’s trembling. She recalls his face; today his eyes were redder than usual, his hands a bit shaky, when he said, “The world is a mystery. Only few can understand it." He smiled. "Everything is true and everything is false.” “I can solve everybody’s problem. It’s in mind. Just wait and watch.” Then he started quite bitterly, “The society is my enemy, enemy to everybody who wants to do something. People outside are jealous. They object to anything you do. But I won't listen to them, their malicious prattle. I don’t care what anybody thinks and speaks about me. I'm independent. I know what I should do and how I should do. I have discovered the secret of human existence. Do you know what’s it?” He coughed for a couple of times. His mouth stank. “I'll tell you about it some other day, maa." He smiled and stumbled out of the room.
She acknowledges helplessly he must be under influence of some kind of strong drug.

Feb 8, 2004
Mrs Verma's putting antiseptic liquid on her husband's bruises at several places, incurred during a small tussle between him and Prabhat. Mr Verma was trying to grab the bundle of currency notes from Prabhat’s pocket when Prabhat pushed him on the floor. Prabhat has stolen them from the locker a few minutes ago. Prabhat apologises before he leaves with the money. He said he didn’t mean to hurt his father.

November 20, 2004
Mrs Verma discovers there are only a few hundred bucks left in Prabhat's bank account. She recalls the day, 7 February, 1978, Tuesday, a week after he was born, when Mr Verma had opened a bank account in his name. Since then, a sum of money has been put aside in the account every month. Recently, it had enough money to get him admitted in any private engineering college.
She gets a heart attack in the evening. She is hospitalised.

Novmber 23, 2004
Mrs Verma is back home. Prabhat apologises and tries to convince her that all his money is safe and in right hands. He'll soon get them back with a good interest and that he'll buy her a pair of gold ear rings soon. She says nothing.

December 20, 2004
She and Mr Verma file a police complaint about their missing son. He hasn't returned since the morning of December 19, 2004.

December 24, 2004
The police officer informs her that her son is not alone but he's left with one of his friends. They are trying their best to find them out.
At around 4.15 p.m., Mr Verma receives a heart attack. She thinks this is why she used to weep noiselessly when Mr Verma had gone to sleep.

December 31, 2004
Prabhat is back home. His hair has grown longer, his face is unshaven, his eyes have developed a permanent redness, his lips are grey, his ribs can be counted against the black T-shirt bearing a picture of Bob Marley with a bunch of marijuana leaves in the background.

January 1, 2005
Prabhat says he and his friend want to set up a motel on a highway. He needs “only” three lakh rupees while his friend is investing five lakh in the venture. “Don’t go astray. Stay with us. Complete your post graduation. Get a job. Get married. Stay with us. Life is good, life is great here. Don’t go away, don’t go away from us. I know why you need money.”
“You think I’m going to spend them on…”
“I just don’t think so. I know this.”
“I don’t need your money. Hoard them and buy yourself some jewellery.” He leaves.

March 6, 2005
The telephones rings. Mrs Verma  picks up and a voice informs her, "Your son has been arrested on charges of robbery. He along with his two friends robbed a businessman at knife-point."
In the evening, Mr and Mrs Verma reach the police station. Mrs Verma’s eyes are hardened, her face emotionless. She reaches his cell. It's dark and stinking. He's lying on the floor without a mat, without a pillow. His hair is now small; beard and moustache cover his face; his shirt, dirty with marks of mud and blood. He's asleep. She doesn't want to disturb him. He's still her hero kid, the most beloved under the sky. "Ay, you get up," a constable's harsh voice wakes him up. He gets up with a jerk and approaches close to the bars; turns his face down. His father extends a tiffin box. 
The son falls down, holds her feet with both his hands; starts weeping uncontrollably. "Forgive me, maa, forgive me, please." She collapses.

March 30, 2005
The family has shifted to a rented house, five miles away from their own house. Prabhat has assured her mother, he would no more take marijuana or alcohol but he'll quit smoking cigarettes gradually. He promises he will.

April 11, 2005
It's 2:15 a.m. She wakes up hearing a noise in her room. She turns on the light. Prabhat is standing with the keys before the   wardrobe. He's been caught red-handed. There's silence. Mr Verma has woken up too. The son says he needs a little money. It'll be his last, he won’t do it again. He’ll buy some medicine. He needs them immediately, he says. She is dumbfounded and dismayed. Mr Verma throws all the cash and the jewellery out. "Take them all."
He picks up a bundle of notes and leaves saying this is for the last time he would take the drugs.
It’s 12:35 "Why my son?" Why it's happened to him? She throbs as words burst out of her mouth, "You know he was so good and nice,” She recalls Prabhat’s childhood face and gestures and burst out in tears. “Such a beautiful boy... his big round eyes. He was always good. He would say mamma, You’re my favourite.” “Why my son, Mr Verma, why?” Mr Verma embraces her tightly. She continues,“He… he got into some bad company when he was in school and it all started then.” A deep sigh. “He was an innocent and obedient child. Somebody took him away and I didn't utter a word, a single word and allowed him to doom himself.” “Mr Verma… I don’t want to live anymore.” She’s throbbing. “Forgive me, son, forgive me."

April 17, 2005
Prabhat is on a medical ventilator. Acute depression has numbed Mrs Verma’s senses. A psychiatrist is looking after her. Suddenly, she looks at the watch. She stands up abruptly rushes to the bedroom. She fills the small red bag with books and the tiny tiffin box with food. She is a bit perplexed. She wonders, "Is he still playing with his father?" 

.... 
(Got these pix from http://pixabay.com)

Sunday, 11 January 2015

sans wings, sans a copter, see i fly...!


look i can fly. Can you too? 
no! 
ok. Do you wanna fly?
i've got something, a secret, so i can fly. You can too!
i can teach you.

listen, i've been to wonderful places, of different colours, of various shapes, so alien, so exotic, on the earth, beyond the earth, so terrific, so huge and so small, sometimes to murky, dark and creepy places, giving rise to so many kinds of emotions, pure and mixed, but always thrilling!


generally when the dullness here increases and tries to grip me, consume me, i fly;
when things nauseate and people around look with stony eyes, i fly;
i fly when i've got nothing to do, and
even when there's hell lot to do.

wow, what a fun flying is!

what? you called me an escapist, I run away from things?

hmmm. i dont mind. yes, sometimes i do fly when i want to escape.
but i fly not to escape only.

i fly also because flying is great fun.
It's joyous, it's ecstatic it's really good and  interesting and its cool too, you know.

when you fly, the little twinkling trickling sprinkles of sweat on your face'll turn cool and you'll love that sensation, won’t you?

and if you've got long hair, it'd be great, as they'll  flutter and whizz in air.

what? You're bald? No problem, still the air will buzz into your ears. You wanna try? Ok. I’ll tell you in a moment how do I do this.

you know, when i fly i stop, sometimes, on the top of a tree growing on the top of a mountain peak and look down at the abyss below, my heart misses a beat! it's menacingly thrilling!

sometimes a bird i find there; i make her acquaintance and we race; I pretend to have lost the race and she turns happy and jubilant; still she consoles me. “Better luck next time.” I smile and then having made her a good friend, i leave, leaving her there, to see her some other day.
  
flying one day I reached a mysteriously beautiful place. Probably, it wasn't on the earth. Yes, it’s possible. You can skip the boundaries of this blue world, when you start flying like this, like me, like many others, maybe.

it’s wasn’t the day time for certain. Not blue, the sky was crimson with cloud-like things hanging like chandeliers. The edgy peaks of mountain-like things were glossy with light; the source of light not really visible. Quite possible they were radiating light on their own. But before your eyes discover those glossy peaks, the out-of-this world beauty of most-probably-a-waterfall will bewitch you. What flowed down must be water, I guess. But it was pinkish and it was starred with red sparkles.


my goodness! what's this place! 

while I reveled in the utopian beauty, I started to feel helpless. I flew to go closer to them, those hanging clouds, the glittering mountain peaks, that glowing waterfall  ~  to see them, to touch them, and feel them, but they remained away from my reach; i don't why. i wonder if they were all alive and they simply didn’t want to lose their purity, their sanctity by the touch of an alien.

for hours, in all the eight different directions I went  but the distance between them and me never lessened.

i returned with the image of that place locked in my memory.

flying took to me that land of unthinkable beauty. I know my words fall short. But still I wish I could have painted it all with the help of words but you know words are words… they’ve got their limitations, right? Poor words!

don’t call them poor, please.

i'm sorry. you hurt, you love them? Ok, i won’t. Words are something, i'll tell you, what words are to me, ... hmmn, let's do it some other time.

I believe flying is not just fun, it's an healthy exercise; by flying i mean the way I fly, right.

healthy?

yes, healthy.  Look there's something poisonous about many things that are around you. isnt it? it's affected many and maybe you are one among them, the affected lot, I mean.
it's healthy because the toxicity won’t touch you when you fly, fly with little care. it kind of protect you from so many ill things and their ill effects. 
i wasn’t that healthy then; now i am. look, look at me. what say?

don’t laugh at me. Ok I’ve put on a little weight and my tummy has grown a bit bulgy, but wait lift your eyes, yes, here at my face, look at the smile, right here, yes. What say now? Now, this is what’s being healthy. You staring at me? Ok stare well. Don’t miss its lines, its curves. It’s not fake; it’s got its roots rising right from the soil of joy.

soil of joy?

You don’t like the metaphor? Forget it.

what? yes all, yes. It's got nothing to do with your age. Each of us can fly. Fact is if you are alive you can fly, right? ok.

of course your grandma too.

excuse me? your infant child? Hmmm. let him grow a bit. why wanna send him to mysteriously great lands right now. let him first learn to pee properly and we'll lend him the wings. ok? Just kidding, come on. You look pretty by the way. :p

alright. so what was i saying?

yes, flying! It would be great fun when you fly in the bunch of white swans as a part of their pattern and when they reach their destination, they bid you adieu with eyes full of so much of love and similar feelings.


now to experience these kinds of joy, ecstatic and great, you’ll have to learn to fly. And if you don’t, you never find that out.

stop looking at me like that, with eyes full of suspicion. You’ve got to believe me. It’s no fantasy of a derailed m9d, right? I'm situated in this joy. I can help you fly. Wanna fly? I’ll share the secret.

now?

who said that? whose voice was it?

You wanna know. Alllllriiiight!

hmmm. You got to come again for that.

tomorrow?

maybe! So you coming again?

who asked me what's sans?

it means 'without,' dear. 

:)













(pix from pixabay.com)