The rain of the new land

It rained last night. I lay back on bed as the flashes of lightening lit the room through the netted curtains on the window. I had seen a lot of rain before. But this was a different rain; a rain of a new land. I had music plugged to my ears. And the music could’nt have sounded better. The flashes seemed to dance to the rhythms of Malhaar(Fuzon) and Baadal(Om). The beautiful rain of the new land. I say, music doesn’t glorify a season; seasons glorify music. I wish it rains again tonight.

Choice

From the shallows of youth to the uncertain depths of manhood, it’s been a long way. But what has hit hard is the sudden shift. Four years of engineering was supposed to serve as the transition but it hardly did. It was four years spent the way I wanted to spend it; shoving away the inflictions as I could choose to do so. What makes it worse now is that I still have the inflictions but not the choice.

Choice is probably the best measure of success, whatever be the definition. The more the number of choices one has at any juncture in life, the more successful he is. Sounds funny, but by sparing a moment of thought we all would eventually agree to a certain extent. Starting from the choice of schools one has after a successful entrance exam to the choice of brides at a latter point in life; it is a stark fact. We could come up with innumerable examples hidden in the hulabaloo of life. We just fail to identify. So, let's start counting our success and feel good about it.

Here's to a successful life!

As you peek,
In the silence of dawn;
I watch enticed,
Your dancing smile…

Sameer

It was a soggy weekend. Pie Street was not in its usual spirit. The rain, a couple of hours back had dampened the hustle bustle. Couples took their evening strolls while some ambled along alone, preoccupied in their soliloquies. Others chattered along in groups discussing life, passions, politics and everything conceivable. Many cars lined the street; not many plied though. Book vendors laid out their merchandise on tarpaulins along the footpaths that lined the twelve foot wide road. They would look persuasively at every oblivious face that passed by. These people did have a good business going, with quite a lot of avid readers frequenting the coffee shops that lined the street. I sat on the stairs outside Beans recollecting the travails of the week and watching all that was happening on Pie Street; the silhouettes that passed by in front of the glowing neon advertisements, the only jubilance in the otherwise droopy Saturday evening; the children begging for alms and those splashing on the puddles. I had already had my black coffee and was waiting for Sameer.

Sameer was late. He rambled on and on as he laid out his books on a blue tarpaulin. He then began flaunting his latest collection of Camus and Shakespeare. I wondered if he was a bit too grown up for his age for he seemed to read into the books better than I did. Sameer - Just as any other child of twelve, he loves the first showers of rain, the petrichor thereafter and floating paper boats on water filled pot holes, he loves watching the beautiful people walk past and he loves me. He sells books outside Beans. On weekends, I sit with him; we talk for hours. He tells me all about his exploits in school, his friends there, the books he had read, and all that was there to be told about his solitary life. He narrates stories from the books that he reads. I hardly listen to the stories; I stare at his eyes, transfixed as they glow when he talks of a prince or blazes at the mention of a diabolic villain. This has been the greatest pleasure in my otherwise nugatory life, quite soothing, after an arduous week at office. I too juvenilely complain about my life to Sameer; about how my boss had bullied me, or a rickshaw driver had cheated me, about the neighbor’s dog barking at odd hours in the night, or the leaking tap in the bathroom. He probably likes listening to me, for he never budges or fidgets during my jabbering; or perhaps he finds all that amusing. Whenever, a passerby stops to have a shy at the books, Sameer starts his list of recommendations. The recommendations are opinionated and biased; based on his own liking for the book or the author, but are often genuine. And he shows the same zeal for everyone. I, needless to say, happen to be his best customer. I read none of the books I buy. Sameer’s recommendations to me inevitably reach a level of elaboration wherein they become the narration of the entire story. Nevertheless, I always buy the books.

It was Sameer’s birthday. He did not expect me to remember. Days and dates held no meaning for him and moreover, he had mentioned it just once since the time we met. But I did. We had chocolate pastries, ice-creams, watched movies and did all that I thought would enthrall him. We had dinner at Ruby Tuesday and I still remember the glitter in his eyes as he admired all that he could see and feel; the people, the food, the ambience. That was probably the happiest day of his life. I stared at his little facade wondering where in him he hid all the strife that the adversity of life had inflicted on him.

Suddenly, while fondling with the spoon, he started pensively:

Dada, I miss Maa. I still remember her. She would have been so happy to see her darling son here, with you, amidst all the big people. She loved me, and instructed me to love everyone; never to fight. Sister Martha from the orphanage tells me that I’m just like her. However, she tells me that God has given me a small heart, and I since I use it more than others it has grown weak. I don’t know what she means though. But she always weeps when talking to me.

************************************

A year has brought so much change in the Pie Street. The serenity which prevailed earlier despite the hustle bustle is no longer there. However, the neons, the rains, the petrichor and the children splashing the rain waters are still there. They will always be there to remind me of the little boy who loved it all. Happy Birthday Sameer!

The Last Grain

Tranquility,
In the moist breathe;
Seethes
Through the stifled throat
As beads of fear
Shroud the craggy lines of fate.

The netted beams of the moon,
Peek
Through the monsoon clouds
And the reeky night; they
Glimmer on the murky puddles
In the backyard.

The last drops of oil
Feed the wick; the flame
Flutters in the icy breeze.
A trickle down her cheek,
As the knells croon …
The last grain of time drops.

Footprints

A walk on the soggy sands,
A waft of soothing air;
The footprints -
The waters steal away,
To treasure in its bosom lair.

Ravana

The golden orb, smirked at him, at his folly. Far in the horizon, he could see the monstrous silhouette of his brother, lifeless. He moaned, bowing his head in due respect, just as thousands of others did. The sun too bowed low, shrouding a veil of moaning darkness over Lanka. The birds were returning to their homes after having witnessed the greatest fight they had ever seen. They would chirp chirp all night, discussing their hero, their martyr, Kumbhakarna. The greater fight was yet to come, they knew it. Ravana stared as the light of dusk faded out.

He had no regrets. He had wronged none. He remembered the first time he had seen her, wandering in the wilderness, playing with the chitals. Her beauty was pure as a sparkling drop of dew, gently resting on the edge of a leaf. But it would drop off the leaf soon. He shuddered, he wanted to protect her; he wanted her. He brought her to his kingdom. She was juvenile; she wouldn’t come, but he tricked her. He tricked her to a happier life, where he would adore her, worship her. She never accepted him. He waited, he would wait forever. Standing at his balcony, he could see the Vatika where she stayed. She despised his palace, his love. He never complained. His love was unconditional. He would wait.

It would be a long night. He had lost all his dear ones; his brother, his son, his brave soldiers. All had died for their king. He too would never witness the dusk mocking at him again. He knew it. He was a proud man. He was ready to die for love.