Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya

Finding a Reason

>> Jun 26, 2011

Bricks get burned to make a house. Red, rectangular they are. Never knowing that burning with siblings will comfort many a laughter, many a tears and much more. Women burn with jealousy. There is no comfort in that. It is red, squarish - even from each side. They are like camphors. they burn to get into ashes or into airs. Men burn in indifference. They never know when their souls were stoned and they made bricks out of it in fire - sheltering only themselves. Houses never become homes.

Who is love? Feelings are funny. They have many a crossroads inside you than you know. The shortest route to reach a heart is a mathematics. But to stay there is humane. After making love, in the morning when you look at the walls and the bricks that burned themselves to let you have the comfort of a home, there is a woman who sleeps next to you wrapping herself up in a wrinkled bedsheet. At that point of time, there is a reality check. If the bricks were for that woman, that is love.

There are secrets in our eyes. Ones that ironically crave to be read but hide themselves in shyness. Someone told me you need a storm to read it. I have always preferred quietness - the pauses of it, the screaming of it. So I preferred a prism. Love is about absorbing all its reflections. Its so beautiful that you won't like to touch and feel lusty. You will be ruining a ray if you do that. we wait. That is the softest part of it.

The bricks, the love, the mind - we all are builders of our world in ways. Its a triangle that balances the geometry we choose to live for.

That whole part of it is called, finding a reason.



A Day's Tale

>> Jun 15, 2011

Early mornings have their own essence. It owns people and places. Fog that reluctantly fades away not knowing if it should come back, people who walk to celebrate life, the old chaiwala who sells tea with a nonchalant but smiling face, the red brick house from where the oldest of songs are played on a dying radio - All of it is so perfect and yet casual. It is like the essence that comes with your deepest of emotions in the beginning. The softness that percolates through the souls, resonates with others and hears itself playing a beautiful tune. The perception of the world is in its diffused happiness, then. A gentle breeze and just that.

With the day's burns, comes the sweat. Even a realization is annoyance then. You wish it will pass but it stays back. Hours threaten and hangs until the soul tires. There is no secrecy. It is a time when you lose your personal belongings. There is the sea of humanity. You go and mix. Its when the magic heads downstream. Keeps are worth selling.

Nights are extremes. Either they come with a lot of fears or sits serene. Black is a color of introverts. It absorbs and blots and hides all the feelings one has, or had. The best of romantics could dream looking at the stars and the moon. The best of fears come after two weeks. Most of the emotions are defined in their own territories of wanting to be addressed. Either you do or you lose yourself. Feelings are shy. They grow when no one could see. Touch, and you will know. Emotions die without crying.

You can never believe in a night, the lovers say. Hours peel themselves down seducing moments. One after the other. As it reaches the deepest - I have seen the glowing eyes, I have seen the wet pupils.

Then it dawns - Some slept in peace, some awaiting a morning. Eavesdrop and you will hear sobs or happy breaths. Fears and happiness have shapes. Look at a sleeping woman and trace the mark of her tears on her face - you will know.

Then there is a void. A void that is either happy or sad. The void between the dawn and the morning. The difference between your best of dreams and your shrieking alarm clock. The difference between what happened and what would. The difference between a life and another.

There is no better philosophy than to wish to live a better day. And fulfilling it.



The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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