January 23, 2014 § Leave a comment
Inspired by an experience, a friend had recently. This isn’t a real dream, rather a work of fiction,er…I think.
And the gas cylinder burst. I woke up with a start, only to find myself in a room full of what seemed like Oompa-Loompas. They peered at me, curiously, through the bright light; a few moments later they panicked when I blew my nose and a boogie hit one of them in the eye. A big ruckus followed, I lay there, tied, unable to shut my ears, nose or other er…entries,er…access points? Before I could choose the right word,a big needle emerged, which I guessed, they intended to poke me with.
And I screamed my lungs out- never, ever use a needle which you are unsure about; or razors. I have screamed quite a bit in my life, my voice holds its own at those decibels, much like the singer who can out shout..er, sing, supersonic planes, but for some reason my lungs decided to tear. Blood splattered as I continued to scream and splattered the white wall, the whitest thing I have ever seen, except the face of the Oompa-Loompa on whose face the boogie had landed. The blood painted the wall and suddenly the red queen came up to me. She was happy and even conferred a title upon me; the plaque awkwardly placed, caused itches, and I desperately wanted to scratch. At that moment my lungs decided to disintegrate- they seemed to have popped out through my mouth and lay on the floor, the queen stamped on them and the alveoli popped like bubble-wrap. The red queen tasted the blood which seemed to have hit her face, concluded that I was a slimy wretch, decreed I had to be executed.
And I whimpered unable to move. There was water all around, I could feel it and see it out of the corner of the eye, but I couldn’t turn. Above me were the most beautiful colours I had ever seen; what a lovely sunset, I thought. I relaxed, though I knew my limbs were bound and was waiting shark food. It was night, but the sea was lit by some sort of light, I knew not what- maybe a meteorite making its way to end humanity or a volcano- but I wasn’t particularly in a mood to think about our very evolved species. Suddenly, a single horn appeared at the horizon of my sight. I was glad, I would be saved, this was surely a manifestation of the god who has over numerous ancient, not-to-be-questioned books saved quite a few from impending doom. I wasn’t sure I had done enough to merit this, but, strange are the ways of…this is when I became aware that this was a dream…but what if…
And I was right. This wasn’t a dream, I saw that it wasn’t a fish approaching me, rather there was a school of them. Each of a religion, I thought. Food for thought, maybe now their brain might build with that tiny-winy additional protein. I heard screams, so there were others here, lots of good protein, though I am sure they aren’t as fit as I am. As the fish(one, not the school) swallowed me, I felt a tug, there had been a string attached to me all along, so this was all a ploy to catch them…
And I felt the acids burn. It corroded me, my skin was coming off…I was on a mountain top- die, they said, burn, for that is the law of this land, they said, I felt something moving below me, it left familiar, it was my fiance and he was dead. I didn’t scream and accepted it, for there was nothing else to do; it wasn’t done yet. Wait, I am a guy or am I- my hands are still tied.
And they planned to pull my brains out of my head. This seemed comforting, for this would all surely draw to a tame close. At that thought, the doctor looked at me; they wanted to peel my skin, for science. They wanted to test the pain barriers, apparently, for science. Presently they taped my mouth, and the man in the white coat walked up to me and assured me that it would all be deliciously painful.
And bear our sins, they chanted. You are our messiah, I could still smell the perfumes they had sprayed me with a few hours ago. It all burnt, like old cloth I burnt, a mess…
And I could smell the paper burning. I woke up with a start. This was the issue all along, I guess, the paper burning. What a way to wake me up, I chided my head. The paper had caught fire from the mosquito coil, and was burning. I picked up the water bottle and doused the fire, dark the other half.
And the nurse walked in- there she stood, a nurse in perfect whites, hair in a perfect bun, perfectly shined shoes, with a perfect shine, perfect in every way a nurse is perfect. I could even smell the shampoo she had used on her lovely, perfectly curly hair. I smiled, but she looked perfectly horrified. I did not know what and glanced at the bottle. The terror grew, with the pain. At first a tickle, and then a recognition, by the time the terror reached adolescents, my head hit the pillow, I lay.
I could hear someone else walk in, not nurse shoes, maybe a male nurse? But…it was the doctor. I could feel the light slowly fading out, exactly like in the thousands of movies you have seen, but just before I popped off, I saw the doctor, he smiled and stroked my jugular, and said something which didn’t sound too promising. Vampire food, but don’t they like it fresh? I felt something pierce my neck. Damn you, twi…
And blink now, thrice or you shall die.
October 10, 2012 § 2 Comments
The thing about mornings is that you either hate them or love them- unless you sleep through them, which considering how much of humanity is up and screaming and honking away, seems the best way to deal with early mornings.
I love early mornings to begin with peace and quiet and internet. Don’t get me wrong- I would love not to have mornings, but as things stand I love my mornings to be quiet. A good morning is one when where no one attempts to talk to me. Not because people always have annoying things to say or yell about, but because I love to savour dreams.
You see the dreams are more important than coffee. You can savour the latter at any point of the day, provided you like coffee, but dreams- well the morning ones are special. Day dreams are cool- but they aren’t as well planned, laid and thought out as a dream which has run all night long.
Of course, for this to happen, one needs to remember the dream first. A sizable task, considering that dreams don’t make enough sense and the natural tendency is to forget them. But what’s important is to have at least a small known bit to which one can add bits of conscious, thoughtful paragraph or a stanza to, as you go.
It is like completing a story. It just got to be finished. You might not like it all that much, but it is still that wonderful feeling when the last word is typed out in your computer at One-AM in the morning. Because, a story is a story and has to be completed. The devil may not dip you in hot oil and fry you like potatoes, but somebody is not going to feel good about it- you.
So now I have this dream which has to be completed, and the moments after I see the light fall through the window making weird patterns on the floor is dedicated to this. I get out of a bed which surely is at least a 150 years old, rosewood no less with intricate carvings and all that and switch of the alarm. I stumble into the bathroom and pick up that little thing whose purpose has been misunderstood for long- the toothbrush.
The toothbrush is the most magical of devices. It is like a pen in some ways, it helps this dream which has got to be completed. As the standard tasks section of the brain carries out the mundane task of getting your mouth in a presentable state, hopefully, the toothbrush swirls and turns writing out the last bits of this dream.
As the brush goes between gaps, the nitty-gritty of the latest fantasy get fitted out. It is toning down those stark images to make a wonderful balanced sense- like turning the Veyron into a Ferrari or Hemingway’s landscape into that creepy house at the street corner into which everyone throws garbage- in essence it is adding that bit of alive day-to-day to get that right sort of flavor.
Dreams are apparently a mish-mash of what we want, really want. And that’s the coolest thing about them- they show how cool you actually are, how awesome the way you think is- they are a customized story which you have built with your own damned sense!
The toothbrush completes these dreams, but to start out, you need to be inspired- I do not mean watching videos of your favorite actor before going to bed, but you know, build out these awesome thoughts, think awesome stuff- of the impossible, of nothing mundane- at least turning everyday things in the world sentient and preferable not as something out of someone else’s science fiction.
All those guys with big beards and spectacles(not Dumbledore) , they keep telling you to be inspired and do yoga and whatever, but what you do need to do is, stay inspired with new ideas. You know, you could have the most boring life, like working in the inspections department but never the less learn from the security guards- they could whine and sit in one place all day, but they joke about, learn about others lives and build out these awesome stories for themselves(or so I think).
Always remember to go to bed feeling all positive, read Calvin and Hobbes if nothing because you do not want to be writing your own death over and over again. It is fun for a couple of times but after a while, you just get bored, start killing your dreams and the horror- you might start snoring!
January 9, 2011 § 3 Comments
She sat on a wooden stool next to a stub. Her hand moved over the cavernous canvas, freely sketching a parapraxical tree.
A thick, short trunk which called upon an infinite foliage. The olive melt into the bright green- an iridescent plaque of herself to be hung on a sour cream wall of a monstrous mansion. Her passions tempered into a 30 inch hypotenuse, the diagonal to the quenching quadrilateral.
Behind her a seemingly infinite jungle made of imported trees, with eyes prying and mice hiding from venomous snake in rat holes – a montage to the erogeneity of the city. In front of her a perfect boulevard, leading to a monumental arch, commemorating the thesauri of a linguist state.
Yet, neither the painted jungle nor the built arches inspired her. The tree which once belonged there and had cast its shadow to the dusty traveller and the hopeless migrant, was now a marginal stub- cut and left to grow mushrooms, moved her enough to empathies and create.
She sat there, dreamily, unaware of the snide sarees and disgruntled dothis- the gossip mongers and jinn eyed obnoxious self-professed moralists, who knew none better than to judge. Her world moved faster than the time it took the sweat to trickle down from her forehead to her brows. She was in a canopy of dreams and azure blues, beyond the jaded varnish of a painted plants and polythene leaves.
On the stub, stood her paints, strew around and left a mark or two of colours on the once magnificent Banyan. The clock milled along second by second, exasperated, waiting for the artist to reach the poignant final stroke, so that it could stop itself and look at the world for a moment. The Janusian winds urged the dead leaves to rustle a bit more on the cobbled paths and moved the fountains to spray drops on to her enchanting face.
Her hands moved faster than the dissonant traffic, that screamed away past the red lights into junctions of copping helmets. Her face gleamed brighter than the setting sun, the awakening neon lights and the impending moonlight. As the day set into the inevitable night, a sudden chill thrust itself on the painted tree and the paint flowed no more.
In desperation, he searched for her and her work, but none was around. Neither a stub, nor a stool. All that remained were bright lights of the newly laid pathway and flowers with name boards. The trees swayed silently, absorbing the din, the jinn and malign.
As he came to his senses, he realized that it was a dream. A young girl with her mother walked by- there was a book in her hand whose cover he recognized.
April 7, 2009 § 13 Comments
Something stood still-
A barrier to his will ;
As if efforts are meant to be laughed at,
And the world lived far away from the facts.
A day would come , someday,
Where all that was not his would fall;
In a sudden breath of brilliance ,
Life would seem high away in the stars.
Until till , everyday and night ,
He dreamt and saw them high;
His morning star ,he waited for,
The time for the inner call.
Till then he lay , his dreams
never dormant , yet for a few moments,
His mind did torment and remind him
Of days , when love scant and fray.
The wall did stand still ,
But he did paint it –
till it does fall finally,
The paint was a coat of sanity.
And as he does see it as just another wall ,
For the world, he is just another brick in the wall*
But nothing else matters*,
Someday*, things will flipside*,
An overture will break it and give him life
And as the first allegro breaks from the largo,
Life then slowly does seem to raise to the Prestissimo ,
And to the ulterior he can move and grow.
What is within is forever,
The spirit, the will of one will never
Fade into the common commotion of noise
But will rather stand out-the voice of the insane poise.
What does matter does lay in wait,
Down the path ,through the fare way
Placed by our own actions and our plays
Which do make , a butterfly ,
The harbinger of the universe’s fate.
A picture is never complete,
For the world never accepts defeat,
For its desire is to seek,
The purpose and raise higher,
To where the rising sun is lower
And the plains and hills of Earth a blur,
Beyond the bright tempting azure.
But it was about him and not the world,
But it is about him and not the world,
But it will be about him and not the world,
A conceited almost nullity,
Yet if not for him , what could be?
And where will be the ability to see
And hear him and his temperament
His staunch vivacity?
The picture is complete,
For finally The artist does paint the eye,
And the work does come alive ,
And the protagonist does abide,
None. For he is born out of a will ,
And until it is fulfilled, he will walk
The land , how ever long it is spanned
And fulfil the thoughts plan.
Independence contingent upon man,
Destiny presupposed , yet a juxtapose
Did did I rise and it did choose,
And so it will never lose.
Man’s work is to break Inability,
To achieve it or not is destiny.
Mortality is lost ,
When sense of reality is found.
The only justice is poetic,
And it is set into a music,
The matrix when one does act,
The feeling we know it for a fact.
The light shines the brightest
*- Name of songs.
March 27, 2009 § 14 Comments
In my dreams I do believe,
One day I will achieve.
Fairy tales begin with ‘once upon a time’ and so does this one. Once upon a time, in a world far far away from ‘reality’ there was a little boy in a big city. He dreamed of reaching the stars which he saw and thought that if he could keep improving his paper plane design, he could build a craft and finally go and see the stars closer.
He was a good old chatterbox,non-stop super-sense if not to others ,to himself. But what was more shocking was the way he could observe people and things. Though people around made fun of him,he loved the stars and told himself, he would go up away from this world and see them some day , some how. But at that he didn’t know one thing-that when people decide your dream is ridiculous they try to make sure you can never reach it.
And so the time came when the kid entered first standard and the bright lad, now hated school,because the teachers some how didn’t like him.The smart boy he had been in kindergarten was now gone. He realized he liked a certain girl ,who was popular,got good marks and whom everyone wanted to talk to-things he wasn’t. Oh! he and marks – Some how,they never seemed to matter to him,yet they seemed to give people a reason to say why he can’t go to the ‘space’ and visit the universe ,he wasn’t getting enough marks!
But that didn’t stop him,he was a determined kid.In his mind,he could see himself peeping out of the window at the stars and enjoying the serene silence. Where ever he thought of that,he felt on top of that world,below him called earth,how those people tried to tell him he can’t fly,but he was little bird wasn’t he?
In his dreams ,he achieved plenty more. He lead a life,away from the reality. And as life would have it,he was never popular in school, though he wished he was , but that gave him plenty of time,to live in his own little world of ideas and ideals. But his marks saw a bit of daylight and slowly started going up for a while.
By the time he entered his teens,he still thought of his stars but he now understood,what the world would do-he was old enough to understand people and their ways. So one day he sat and told himself,no matter what life throws at him,he would get there.
But within a while,all changed and his dreams seemed to have gone away.Someone seemed to have stamped the little paper plane -he hated it,he never was a earthling,earth was meant for creatures who wanted safety,not for heroes like him.Then suddenly,a thread stuck from the sky and he started to climb towards the stars. One the way up,he knocked on God’s door and give him his best smile.
But suddenly everything came crashing,some human was pulling him down, this shouldn’t happen,to the little boy,the young man told himself , would this be the end of the road for his dream. Then something struck him, there is another path, to his dream,not one of climbing up a thread, but one which he had to discover and on the way he would learn more about humans and the way they act . He told himself that he would make it , he felt the warmth of the dreams .
During the day,he observed the race he was left in and tried to figure out why people were people and why they might be so. Then they called him a idealist. He hated it as much as he hated the way people behaved. But he knew,if he ever was going to go to the stars, he needed to tell these people , it was they who showed him , his ideas and ideals , they who showed him how to build a paper plane and it was they who crushed it and pulled the ropes. This was not helplessness . If he wanted he knew, there were other ways, there were people , who would love to have him(or so he believed) but he despised helplessness , if not this, than that , the stars kept calling.
Year after year,he tried; Then one night,he wept,the man did weep, he wanted his little paper plane , so he took a paper and made such a plane and as things would have it,in the plane he saw what he had missed , he knew that all the while he had made the choices towards love ,he knew that got him here. But he also knew, in the heart of every child,there lives a star and if you remain that kid,no one can steal the dream in your head. So he lay dreaming…..Yup, this was the path of love…
A fairy tale should have a good or a positive ending , will this end is such a way? I leave it you to write what happens to the young man…
March 1, 2009 § 17 Comments
A breath of thought,
And a world bloomed.
In it all was as it should be,
Beauty and sweet to see.
Yet a thought corrupted the mind
And then started the works of a fiend,
The earlier world now grew weeds,
After all there is never peace.
And now as the weeds without the plants
Rot , as no food was there for thought,
The dreamer did realize,that what seed
he does bury,will determine what he does reap.
And now was not too late,
So determined to write his fate,
He opened his mind to the sky,to the sun,
And let the water run
To the good plants
And when few did pop,he plucked the weeds.
P.S:- My first exam in on Tuesday.
February 17, 2009 § 14 Comments
Note:-thanks Indyeah for “IF my life was a song”
If my life was a song,
Then in the verses between
In a candour coveted hand,
I would breathe alive-
An expression set to the breeze
A serenade from the versatile winds
And forever free,in the wild laps
Of the one infinity.
If my life was a song,
Than in the notes high and low,
Connected above and below,
I shall ring the senses
Of mankind and be a passe
To the future-yet remembered
As the sound which propelled
The venerated verses of a magician-
Her wishes in me carried
And complete in wholesome alacrity.
If my life was a song,
I then long,
To be spread as unseen
lengths,in the several
Sounds of a violin;
the breath of a maiden
The etude of an epiphany-
Symphony,an encore to the passion,
The penchant of divine creativity.
If my life was a song,
From I rose,
And maybe it was a lover in remorse,
Or a conundrum engraved to a suppose-
To enchant the gullible and parade
The rhetoric manevolence of a ruler
Set to dispose,the knight right
Chivalry of a mixed man.
Or a dirge ,
A lament of someone young
And fine,In verses set to a graveyard rime.
If my life was a song,
Than maybe a war cry-the sound of melee
And bombs which rob the day and night
Of people with dreams and azure wild dreams,
So as to satisfy the whims of one obscene.
If my life was a song,
I would rather be the praises
Of an exactitude,proposals
Of multitude to some Unseen
And one which the pride of
Man and ignorance is obsessed
And binds and bonds those who will free.
Or if my life was a song,
I shall be the verses of the bard,
Sung aloud in a kinder park of
Beautiful flowers and vivacious
Hearts all running to the willies
Of unknown dangers aware
Which seeked by a few who dare
And than inspired ,fought to wear
And in their arsenal sound memory’s wear.
Or a rare sound from a exotic bird,
One rare,precious chirp.
Or the virtual wisdom of a poet
And in that the wisdom’s tune,
Alive and upright,
Command and comrade,
Never to fade,
Into the shallow depths of human memory.
Yet what ever I may be,
A whine or a rhapsody,
I shall be the one who travels
The beyonds of any verse,
The corners of the hidden universe.
I shall be in my company-
The one who sees life
And death as one to sung
And then the instrument hung,
But never shall I end before another
Has begun,as the world in a song,
Seeks solace and in that phase,
I shall be the winds of change.
That which can never be disconnected,
The works of masters mortal yet immortal,
Beyond moral and miser and miserable medieval
Macabre,the memoir of the birth of the universe,
Unbound and skinless and soulful and sounded
Strings of severe success in killing the cull-able
And pushing the dare-able
To the path of infinite morality,
One where no virtue but that of great
And echoed sounds of the beaten
Shall be a light to those who seek life within.
And as a song,
All along,in march
and in may
on a winter or a sunny day,
The sounds keep the world alive,
Oh! you blind who fails to hear this
Forever shall be self-cursed of the divine bliss.
Come alive and listen,if not to the world ,within,
The notes of the world are never missing,
For a missing verse,is worse than a visceral curse!
And if my life was a song,
I would all this, sing along,
In your sleep,
In your awaken dreams,
I shall pass on the mystery
And guard you, I shall be the sentry.
And yet do not take me for a mystic,
Just listen to me,
I am a prophet,
One by nature born to be,
If you do not act,
But in ignorance relax,
Faith shall curdle
And earth perish,
Lend a voice sing aloud,
Shout as a scout,
Or a bout of feverish hail,
If my life was a song,
I am being sung!!
If my life was a song,
I am being sung!
If my life was a song,
I am being sung.
Life has just begun
And forever it shall run!
The light shines the brightest
November 2, 2008 § 14 Comments
Majestic her hands swayed,
and senses failed-
reality was lost at the foot,
of her,oh!she the cute
girl,oh!she the flower
on a sensitive plant,
who sawys.Into a maze,
she leads me,where,
the sounds of divinity,
and the odour of life
smelts me into beauty
and in it i am lost,
in the deep end profoundity.
Callous becomes my belonging
and at last there she was,
the exilir to fulfil my longing.
Within me something took over,
and nothing can stop the fervor
which made me realize that a flower
which i dream all night,
now stood in front of me-within my sight,
within my reach.
My mind decided my action,
my heart was in reaction,
at the sight of its mate,
at last fate,oh!fate
was sweet and no more bleak.
The birds flew around the skies
and such a sight ,never dies,
the balance of light
and the senseless right,
which might will never might,
for which this fight
was the growth;
and now the stunned broke
and grew to heights-
so high,so high
that thoughts couldn’t hide.
A sudden push
and reality wakens
and realize,i do
that it was dream,
yet can it come true?
What is your name?