Their Story: Episode 2

What episode one, http://randomthrows.blogspot.com/2009/05/their-story-episode-1.html, missed upon is that this narration is purely fictional and any co-relation to any real life incident is purely co-incidental. The characters’ names and their pen-picture are just those figments of imagination, and hereby, any semblance to a real life analog is disclaimed.

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He never thought he would find something this beautiful, of course until he saw something that was greater in its beauty than the one he thought to be the most beautiful; and how often did he realize that whenever he took is stare off the girl he thought to be the “most beautiful” he had seen until then, would his ever-so-gleaming eyes find another feisty assembly of the softest of the flesh and bones, was the commonest issue within his friend circle. Agreed, Prashant was not that kind that is often described as a mongrel, but his friends thought no better of him. Yeah, what set him apart was the childlike (not childish) notoriety in his smile, and the unforgettably shiny and perfectly shaped teeth behind that partition of black flesh. The listless stare which he threw upon the passersby and girls was the kind that could instill in you, a sense of pique, for being so heartlessly ignored. But only he knew who was ignored, actually. Karuna was not, definitely.

The idea of successfully obtaining knowledge and the dreams of a successful academic career had hardly that factor which could propel his motion towards that creepy tuition place. The usual banter with his granny was more important to him than his mathematics tuitions. That ‘jug head’ was the perfect source of entertainment you could find in a family of six, and still Prashant chose the long walk to his mundane tuition point, the SHIKSHA NIKETAN. The manor was just an underground garage sort of a place, with the perfectly counted flight of 17, and built by the school side. The ugly teacher and his ugly beard were a home to millions of mites, so Prashant thought: he had had the first hand experience. The blokes around were not the best in that trade, and given his mental ability in solving mathematics, Prashant fared considerably well. SHIKSHA NIKETAN was founded by an expelled faculty of a highly advertised coaching place; this was the kind of introduction they had received on their first day of instruction.

Karuna was not a mathematics student but the regular effeminate BIOLOGY girl. Prashant had always fancied a girlfriend, someone from the medical profession. The reason he cited was something I don’t remember, but I have my reasons. Of course, they are the girls with the best of skin textures in the town, the fairest of complexions, the silkiest of hair and the juiciest of lips. Yeah, they do not have the ideal 24-36-24, but there lies the x-factor. That extra bit of supple flesh here and there, those extra pounds are the ‘properties’ which make them all the more desirable. I wish I had someone from the medical world…oh! I love biology.

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The time of the day was reason enough for Prashant to long for Karuna. The math’s tuitions were over; the biology students were not yet available. Karuna was enrolled in the biology classes adjacent to Prashant’s cavern, and the instructor was none other than the “expelled faculty of a highly advertised coaching place’s” brother. There is this legacy thing in our place which dictates the careers of many students who feel confident enough to stay back in the town and aim for the highest of glories. If you are a mathematics teacher, your son is supposed to be a chemistry or physics or any god-damn subject you feel like fit for him teacher, and if a student needs the services of a particular faculty, he has to obtain the services of his family members, mandatorily. Karuna needed biology and English tuitions. She was not well versed in clauses and all that A.J. stuff, and so she took private tuitions from A.J.

Autumn meant the school calendar listed the pooja-vacations and the only time of the day he could see Karuna was during the interval between her tuitions. Prashant had his tuitions from 3:00pm-5:00pm, Karuna’s first one commenced on 4:00pm in the day and the next on 5:30pm. That half an hour was the reason Prashant used to take the long walk to SHIKSHA NIKETAN. The tenderness in her gait, the soft of her air, the blush in her cheeks (remember, the extra bit of supple flesh)…all were the best things in the world for Prashant. Karuna was not the most beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm, just like Prashant (citations: Gone with the Wind). She was the most beautiful phenomenon he had ever seen, not because it actually was, but because his eyes could not move forward from her visage, to find anything that could compare with the __________________ (put in some clichéd expressions) of her eyes. He never saw beyond her eyes. They were serene, and this is one quality that cannot enter the comparative domains of description. Yes, her eyes were her best feature. (Personally, I thought her lips, though.)

The chill in the day, (goof ups: the first episode mentioned “…was amazed at his audacity to sleep in this heat” after mentioning the autumn), could not deter him from waiting for her, all alone. He knew it would be difficult, those minutes before he could catch her frame.

The story is not in a stage wherein the emotions have been shared. Prashant was still waiting, and his wait ends in the much awaited episode 3. Continue reading and posting comments, friends.

A TIRING PROLIXITY.

The train of thoughts has enough amount of the measure of motion, to run down any other wild beast of imagination that dares to cross paths with the galloping giant. The intemperate crush of this ruthless juggernaut is such that even in its……obviously this is not going anywhere. I mean, just look at the hackneyed ‘train of thought’ and ‘the beast of imagination’ expressions. Huh… I can’t imagine where these ideas come from, and definitely not, the proper substitutes for them. Yes, you can keep flooding my comments section by pouring in your vomits on what could have been the suitable alternatives for the aforementioned ideas. Also, I thought if you could help me on what could have been a suitable place for these giants, the mechanical and the biological ones, to collide, the feeling would sink better into your minds. What is important before you read further, expecting the writing to pick up, is a little insight into the frame of mind of the writer.

I have no idea why am I even wasting 3 drops of ink and the only available sheet of paper in my room, in writing something ‘literature’ I don’t know the contents of. But it has been tiring- to sit down every time and try to think, and eventually, prove everyone wrong (the ones who think my writing deserves a reading, and even those who think I don’t write well enough to be writing a blog. Either ways, I am on the safer side when I say this). With the quantity randomness and Brownian motion my thoughts possess, one actually ends up in comments stating the visible digression from the original thoughts, which remarkably is true, though, and about the strangeness of the characters in the no-longer-the-sane(can be replaced with same, as well) plot. I have honestly been trying to write something that does not have any starting point and which does not seem strange. Your job is to keep flooding my inbox with the extent of strangeness and digression. Ultimately, it sounds the success knell.

You see, whenever I try to swim across the “river” of my “_______” (you have the liberty to call whatever this is, a sea as well), there is this flood (you will then have the swelling tides to disturb you). And with one short breath, a novice swimmer, who did not attend the first six days of a swimming camp, invariably drowns. Particularly, when I try to avoid the gaze of an over-enthusiastic coach, is when I feel I should have gotten myself a beaker, at least. Bathing would have been a lot easier then. Joining the camp, in here has been just another attempt towards satisfying one’s voyeurism. But you see, with the water level reaching my shoulders, given I don’t know anything about making correct movements when in water, I don’t even have the leisure of the so-much-craved-for ‘nayansukh’; one either ends up in swallowing the chlorinated pool water, which today bore a great semblance to an insect bed (how I wish it were roses instead of those creepy insects), when the approach is a causal one, or ends up being kicked out of the pool by someone called the PTI and landing in deep trouble, on the grounds of “tharak”, when one tries to be overly cautious. Either ways, you risk your own life (career would have been more appropriate). The pool water along with the insects and the poisonous, dissolved human waste (children and adults have equal shares in this contribution) is an environmental hazard; and the professors’ family leads you into a feud with him, verbal was well as academic. Ehh…. What is the most appalling is the irrelevant itch in the coach’s loins, when the object of voyeurism is not the professors’ families, but the institute girls.

Yeah, I have joined the swimming camp.

What does it matter: My thoughts

It’s very hot and I do not want to open the windows, just for the sake of a sound and healthy sleep. If I open the windows, I will let the mosquitoes in. They will bite, disturb my sleep and I will have to wake up in the middle of the night looking for my mosquito net. Ouch…bites one…real sharp and painful. The sting persists. Sting Or sling?? What is it? I know what’s a sting, but sling? What’s that? I get up and look for a dictionary. But I don’t have one in the first place. Does not matter, my neighbor has one, I can borrow as of now…but would have been nicer if I had my own dictionary. It would have been a luxury. Nicer would it have been, had I a computer of my own. No flips, just clicks and all was fun. But I don’t have one. I am sad and disappointed. Every now and then I have to run to someone else’s room to get an access to the computer and the internet. Huh…"LES MISERABLES".

Nice movie though. I remember a song…"I dreamed a dream"…I had heard it on the YouTube on some “Britain’s got talent” show. That fatso, Susan Boyle sang it so nicely. I remember her face, chubby and cherubic. Yeah. I saw the video once, let me see it again. But darn, I don’t have a computer at my disposal. Oh how cruel the world is and how miserable my life is! Hey did I use darn? What’s that? Oh yeah, Krishna Barua said this during the English class, “My Fair Lady” was the play. I have the movie version of the same and boy, wasn't Audrey Hepburn awesome. The movie was good altogether, but musical. I saw the names of a few musicals the other day. "Edwards Scissorhands” and some “barber of some street” I don’t exactly recollect the name. Both featured that Jack Sparrow.

Wait, where are my thoughts flying to? I must go back and look up for the meanings of sling and darn. I need to get a dictionary for myself. And a computer of course!

VANITY

The vanity of human wishes, and the vanity of their fulfillments, results only in a leaden confluence, silty and shallow. The ever convalescent sense and the ever recuperating mirth are both, senile enough to choose the same eternal cemetery for their haven, all the while trying to distance themselves from their brooding whereabouts. Revolt only leads to a promenade, the cobbles of which are murdered aspirations and the promenade on which ends up in trampling the dying ones. But stoicism does not guarantee anything, while mutiny ends up in anomie.

If all are thinking, then all are thinking. But their camouflage of thoughts is accurate enough to an extent where surroundings take over the demesne of identity. The individual identity always has to accede to the notions of the larger framework. Everyone thinks, but at the same time no one ponders. Everyone think, but he thought is always conditioned. This choked individualism is the silt and the banality of the same is the shoal. If all are wishing, then all are. But the prodigality and rationality of the wishes need to be based upon the individualistic thoughts, and there comes the need to shun this camouflage. Hibernation is always over an extended period of time and arises out of the need to survive. But camouflaging is different from hibernation, and the surroundings are not the pole star. Change seasons, and your masquerade becomes your nemesis. The milieu changes, but perfection requires precision. Water needs all hundred degrees to turn to steam. And its often the hundredth degree which is latent and the requires the longest wait.

What Does It Matter: MY DREAMS

I am sure I would not have wanted to write this. And I am surer, I would not have wanted anyone to know "How I broke a heart". But the everlasting exemplars which are embedded in my memory do not seem to be in fixity. And before they get eroded by the beatings of time (cliches are expected to be pardoned), I wish to write everything at which I feel like stopping a moment or so, while giving a thought to. Behaviors, thoughts, opinions, feelings...everything. Another aspect which reflects my personality, and which is certain to be reflected as I write, is the wayward drift of thoughts. I have seldom completed anything as I thought to, before beginning to write.

I do not dream while sleeping. But when I do, I seldom have bad dreams (the ones I wish I had not dreamed). And I do not want to dream the undesired. I dream I am in love. I dream I like someone, who's been closely associated with me. I dream of some unknown face and wish I could see it alive. I dream of people chanting my name and praises for me, surrounding me. I dream about ghosts, not ugly though, and my frightened states. Sometimes, I dream that I am running after a train, obviously the one to board, and then I want to keep running. The whistle has been long blown, and I am well short of my ground...the anxiety...I love to dream on. (Often, even though I wake up, I refuse to end my dream, and keep sleeping, in a faint hope to dream of catching the train). I dream of the vast ocean; I dream of...of a happy conversation; I dream of an angry hag and an ugly classmate I was afraid of. I dream I am one of the members of Lamb Of God. I dream of a....whatever!

I am not sure if I actually have dreams of the aforementioned. But I am positive that I want to dream of these things. I want to dream of ideas that leave me craving for more. I want to dream of dreams. I want to dream, like every other fellow, of a healthy GPA (I had only 1 dream regarding academics, a good one, and it somehow was pretty accurate). I want to dream of people saying good things about me. I want to dream of the future. I want to dream of the girl I met on the train. I want to dream of the girl whom I had a chat with, the other day. I want dream of myself, fallen in love. I want to dream of my charming romance. I want to dream to see the chase successful. I want to dream of my music band. I want to dream of a better hairstyle. I want to dream of a fairer complexion. I want to dream that I am not just a jack, but an ace. I want to...

(STOP IT NOW. ENOUGH)
(YOU MIGHT HAVE STARTED THINKING...)
(OTHERS MIGHT AS WELL HAVE ALREADY ABANDONED THE BLOG)
:(
 
One more thing, and very curious and very strange but very embarrassing. In most of my dreams (I dare say 90%), I dream of girls. My mother, my sisters, my girlfriend, the girl I knew sometime, my sociology teacher, and often, the few unseen faces. And the good thing is that all these are "HAPPY DREAMS". (I am embarrassed but there is a grin and a broad one, on my face.) And my family is one of the notions I very, very seldom dream of, which makes it all the more embarrassing. I do not see the ones who I take for granted. But I try hard to keep thinking of the things I wish to see fulfilled, even though through MY DREAMS.

But in the end does it even matter?

Of Brooks and Birds

There's a river and it flows,
By the road beside her door
And she's staring it
Smiling so sadly.
On her doorstep she sits
Waiting all day she sings
But she stares at it
Smiling so sadly

It's the song you've never heard
Of the beautiful sea bird
And its wings cut down
By the travelers
From the dawn until the dusk
Flying over the cluster
Of dead buds and leaves
In the wilderness

Its her face that's gone so cold
Beaten by the cruel fall
And her gaze that speaks
'bout her suffering.
And her eyes, dead as gold
And the scars so manifold
Of the bruises that speak
Of her agonies.

When she picks up those stones
Throws them into the burn
With the feeling that she's
Had the last laugh.
makes me wonder
When she swears at the brook
Cursing all that it took
With its waters, stealing
Her happiness.
she makes me wonder.

But see, the brook, it overflows
Swells beyond its bound shores
Rising slowly to kill,
Like a monster.
As I stare at her wicked smile
When she frolics like a child
But she knows she'll drown
In the waters.
this makes me tremble.

And as the brook, it overflows,
I see her sit with eyes closed
And she waits for her stairway
To heaven.
Makes me want her
When she thinks she knows it all
As she listens to the call
Of the bird that was caught
By the travelers.
It makes me want her.

But She's taken by the flood
By the time I reach her hut
And I stare at the stream,
Smiling sadly.
And I swear at the brook
Cursing all that it took
When I stare at the flood
Smiling sadly.

My Apocalypse-II

Nip my fall, when stars I stare,
In arms of Stygian thoughts that glare
At my wits. Help me brace their scorch
And then,
Grant me death, I'll ask no more!

Bring to me, the drops of red,
From corpse of my soul, in the land of dead
Hopes and wishes, and turn them pink.
And then,
Grant me death, I'll ask no more!

Hold me when I, ridges climb,
With vaunted pride, to hear the chime
Of winds that cut through many a throat.
And then,
Grant me death, I'll ask no more!

Help me breathe, the chilling dawns,
Guide my steps, as I climb on
The flight of choking satisfaction.
And then,
Grant me death, I'll ask no more!

Kiss me love, your hues I don,
Untie the clumsy knots of morn,
And sieve my life, up in your abode,
O! Grant me death, I ask no more!

The M.D Extended

Yes, Joseph was very different. A simplistic behavior, if insufficient, he had vices, so stupid, that the opinions on his existence were more of pity than wonder. No one took him for granted, OK, but he was not celebrated either. (His first verbal encounter with the lady in the park and the rolling balls is loquacious enough to bear a testimony to his social status). Anonymity was the wrongly embellished watermark in his empty laughter, anonymity which he preferred to name solitude and loneliness. His moments in retirement were the ugliest. Many blued under the verisimilitude of satisfaction, a few were consumed in the dreary vaults of hibernation and the remaining, the longest, scratched away the last bits of pride and amour for his self. His heightened ego, often was the cause of this seclusion and deterministically eroded away to the ideology of nihilism. The notion of meaningful existence was the target oh his idiosyncrasies. The desire for a classified objective in his life was, perhaps, the only cause, he ignored his incognito reality and the intangible forsakenness.

He wasn't thinking consciously now. The dominant thought in his latent sub-conscience was the phantom of satisfaction. The disturbing part of the same was the threat of the ever issuing mutiny, the mutiny which would be born out of the success of the reigning satisfaction, the mutiny which was, phenomenally, the dormant agent of the existing schism within his faculty of reasoning. Desecrated? Celebrated?? Huh... did it matter any more?

The clarity of the cause, the causality of his presence were reasons enough for his assumed state of pseudo-satisfaction. The extent of reliability on the choices he had hitherto made, was the cause of unrest. "I shouldn't have told her..." " Should I tell her...?"

"...Because you are sure you never can tell..." The song played listlessly in his ears. The visibility was growing fainter with the light. The glaze of the dust-smitten sun was no better than the subway bulb he was standing beneath. The sharply outlined silhouette of a twosome slowly broke into a vision, resembling that of a wet stratosphere. There were no more shadows stamped on the asphalt beneath. The sandstone mansion had survived one more day of gruesome battle against the array of sun rays and the sun, finally, was forced to retire. The mauve was swallowed by the leaden sky.

But the wait was still azure, and Joseph, still satisfied.

2 minutes or so!!!

That the day was "so short", would make me so rude
Saying she was "so hot", would make me so prude
When I talk about her, in a manner so crude
Beginning my story, to her, a prelude.

The journey began, bereft of energy
And I sat alone and guarded by the clergy
The one on my right had a face so dingy,
And the one on my left cast a look so stingy.

Awaiting a face at which I could stare,
Munching my nails, and tearing my hair,
At last I bowed down, began my prayer
"O God, please trap me a girl in my snare."

Champing and chafing, I thus tried to sleep
With a bleeding heart, and a pain so deep,
Marauded, my thoughts, my chances so bleak,
Of gazing at the species, I then longed to meet.

Marooned by the fortune, I lay in repose,
When the scent of her hair flooded my nose
Beaten by ill luck, sick of its blows,
I thought it was just my wish for my ROSE.

When I closed my eyes, hoping some rest,
Then all of a sudden, I felt in my chest
The click of her heels. On my soul's behest,
I yelled to the Lord, "Don't you molest."

I pulled up my blanket, and covered my face
But a healthy commotion smothered the place
Enraged, I woke up, the unrest, to chase
And then my eyes split open, in wonder, in gaze.

Beside me, stood a lass, so white
The hue of her drape, so joyous, so light
The bliss in her eyes, darker than night
The gleam in her eyes, brighter than the bright.

My breath, it seemed, was put to a halt,
My heart, it suffered, so violent a jolt
My spirits ran amok, like a colt,
When I saw her face, a sprouted "MARIGOLD".

The Marathon Dusk.

The time and the place had been eventfully decided. They were to see each other and wishfully, this would be the last time would be “seeing” each other. The act of ignorance and hence the subsequent indifference had dug its lair into their brains. They had taken a severe beating from the tiring exhaustion and the infinite degree of boredom heaped upon them by this mounting strangulation. Both of them were mindful of the other’s infidelity; both of them were aware of the either’s bondage and priorities; both of them pined for independence; both of them had resigned.

The wait was a patient one.

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“You can take my overcoat, if it comforts you.”

Joseph “Droll” was a tall man, though not tall enough to snatch your attention. His three-and-a-half feet torso and an uncannily slender waistline gave a copy-book picture of a eucalyptus. His peaceful face bore not a wrinkle and the tight, pinkish skin gave him the look of a cold, wet lobster. The rat-ish nose was just enough to keep him breathing, and alive. The black in his eyes was black enough to instill a sense of uneasy isolation, and the only feature noteworthy in the whole of his countenance was the breadth, or more accurately, the volume of his “lusty” lips, though it bought him more embarrassment, than it earned him laurels. No wonder, but for his lips, he was not popular among women.

His booming voice beat on her eardrums with the frequency, faster than the thrash she was listening to. For a moment or so, she almost seemed to be toppling from the fence she was straddling. Hurriedly, her supple form regained its composure.

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“Thanks, but I think I am better off on my own,” was the reply. The lady wore a teasingly friendly look, friendlier than he had expected. The rest of her was silently gazing at the steadiness in his steps as he walked past her. Proud as a peacock, wondered she. This was the second time the offered had been refused.

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His thoughts were in total control and more disciplined than the clock, and forcefully led him into the state of semi-unconsciousness. His mind and soul screamed noisily, in perfect octave. The bugle of the clock announced the seventeenth hour of the day. The mélange of the dusk had settled into a sensuous mauve.

But the wait was still on, and a patient one.

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Shifting uneasily, the lady kept quiet.

"I thought you might be feeling sort of..."

Joseph tried to act friendlier. A man in his mid-thirties and still unmarried should not have any different thoughts. The time of the year and the hour of the day gave reason enough for the offered to have been offered. The smooth currents were soft on her dusky melanin. With her only in a thin drape of satin, the chill got it feast of the day. April, after all, is not the cruelest month, and the winter wind is crueler than human ingratitude. Joseph was thinking fast. This was not the first time he was strolling in the Green Square, and definitely not the first lady he was trying to help. "What's wrong if I offer her my overcoat. I got it laundered today, and moreover its a pleasant perfume that I am wearing . And besides , its chilly and she is only in a satin."

Confidently, Droll made his second remark: "I thought you might be feeling, you know, kinda..."

"Shut up, or I will pluck your balls and give them to the same child..."

Before he was done with his 'help', and even before his butts found some ground, her icily cold, ferocious glare conveyed her reply.

He was ruffling the hair of the ten year old, who had come by them searching for his balls, while expressing himself. Casually speaking, his eyes met those of hers, and a chill of her look ran down his spine. The gush of his feelings was stopped abruptly by the dam. He could not help imagining his balls...wait a minute, which balls was she talking about? his eyeballs or... no, no second thought. The lady looked decent and aren't decent girls supposed to talk decent things? She must have meant his...whatever. All he could think of was the cruel pain in his eyes, the sadistic grin on her face and a sense of immense satisfaction in the boy's movement, after being  promised the first of their kind balls as the gift. Three different expressions, three reasons, all valid enough.

His daydream was disturbed by the ghoulish vision of bursting balls and the voyeurism of the lady.

After all, the winter wind was really kinder than the human ingratitude.

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GOD IS DEAD

With a lit lantern, in the radiant hours of the morning, the madman ran out into the market place and cried out: “I seek God! I seek God!” Since many of the people gathered there did not believe in God, he provoked a great deal of laughter. Is he lost? Is he afraid? Has he departed on a long voyage? Or has he emigrated? - were hysterical reactions. They howled and laughed.

The madman leaped into their midst, and piercing them with his stare, said: “Where has God gone? I’ll tell you. We have killed Him. You and I- we both have killed him. But how did we do this? Where are we going to? Are we not plunging down? Are we not drifting through an infinite nothing? Don’t you still hear the sound of the undertakers? God is dead and will always remain so.”

“There has never been a greater deed; and those who are born after us, for the sake of this deed, shall belong to a history, higher than all up until this moment.”

With that he became silent and contemplated his listeners; and they too fell silent and stared at him in shock. Disappointed, he hurled his lamp at the ground and walked away, saying: “My time has not yet come. This monumental event is yet to come. It is yet to reach your ears, though long done. Thunder and lightening need time to strike; the light from the stars takes time to reach the earth. This deed is most distant that the distant stars, and yet they have done it themselves.”

Later that day, he was heard with his requiem in the churches. Dragged out and forced to account for himself, he had only one reply, “What are these churches, if not the graves and sepulchers of God?”

P.S. this is one of my favorite extracts written by the philosopher Nietzsche in his "Gay Sciences".

MY APOCALYPSE

The shrieking quiescence piercing my throat,
Ejaculates a violently pacifying nimbus.
The smoky zephyr rekindles my goad,
My phantom awaits the stalking Succubus.

Doleful stars, scouring the graves,
Snatch the dying flesh of the phaeton.
Lunatic Luna, arousing its slaves,
Calmly hacks the clandestine orison.

Zombies surround me, bathed in mire,
Phoenixes, bewailing their self-destruction;
The brightly dark sables conspire,
Building my pyre, my death construction.

My body, crumbling, so long has hanged,
On poles, fettered amidst the dead.
I wait, foreseeing my doom being planned,
An iron maiden, donning my head.

The Beast arrives, Succubus behind,
With a sanguinary memento, plucked from the bliss
Of surmounting terror. That apocalyptic mind
Chars my lips, giving me, my steaming Kiss.

... And the HELL gleams in MY APOCALYPSE.

When I'll be ready.

Someday, they say, I'm gonna fly

Someday, would rule the sunny sky

When all my dreams I realize

I'll make the rules of my life.

And then, a girl, with whom I'll strut

And then, would have the Midas Touch

But for this itchy shoot to bud

I have so many to vie.

I know, I have

so many things on my brain

Thinking, thinking

and thinking, I just can't refrain

Countless tests, unending hard work

Life's not so full of cakes

But with my resolution, I know

I'm ready for all that it takes

So now when I lie on my bed

Stuck with games, no thoughts ahead

A reckless brat, so in the red

Was this the urge of my life?

This chance, I'm never gonna waste

No choices will I make in haste

Someday when success I'll taste

Would be the day when I'll fly

I know, I have

so many things to explain

Thinking, thinking

and thinking, I see myself changed.

Countless tests, unending hard work

Life's not so full of cakes

But with my resolution, I know

I'm ready for all that it takes

I'm ready

for all that it takes

I'm ready

for all the stakes

I'm ready

to decide

I'm ready

to live my life...

p.s. this is one of the lyrics i have written for our music compositions.

AS YOU LIKE IT III

 written on common demands...

First love is a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity. I am sorry for the insolence, but Mr. Shaw definitely meant it to be the first step towards love. When people say they have fallen in love, the prized bone of contention becomes the futility, read fatality, of the state of mind into which they are lodged. Come on, love is not what alms is to a beggar. You go begging for love but you don’t get it every now and then, beside every altar. After all, who that once loved remains poor? When it’s love, it should be love, actually. It’s very true that many a times people do take steps towards love, but you fall in love only once. And let me remind you, love is not an abyss, but a cauldron of quagmire. The more you try to get out, the more you get soaked into it. When you fall in love, there’s the metaphysical gravity, don’t know why Einstein refuses, that which by then apprises you of all sorts of foolishness and settles all your curiosities. First love is the only time when an individual acts incapably sane. Another very quaint misgiving is the coin of explanation forged from the molten dung of human reason. When you say you are in love, doesn’t is epistemologically, read etymologically, quell the rebellion your foolhardiness arouses? If you love someone because of something, it is plain and simple- it’s that material something you like, not that someone. And then you no longer desire only that someone, but all others with the possession of that something (well, do mark my usage of words). If you love someone, you simply love that someone. Why try and give a reason to the unreasonable? The greatest tragedy of mankind is the adidas, read impossible is nothing, misconception, where it tries to trespass its domain groping for an answer to love. It is then they forget that love is abstract. Anything abstract, I hope you agree, is unreasonable. Why do you pray to GOD? Or is there a God? Why do you live? Do you need a reason to live? Why do you love? Do you need a reason to love? Or do you actually love? Love is love’s answer. You love someone because you simply love that someone. Well, the question of love doesn’t leave me. Love is often said to be a result of alienation, and leading to alienation. Pardon me, but either the source is unaware of love, or grossly misinterprets alienation. Love is an abstract measure of the organic solidarity in the humankind. Love is an outcome of affective actions. Love is involuntary. Love binds, it doesn’t alienate. Alienation is becoming foreign to society, and how can you become foreign when you are woven very much into it. You can’t be alienated if you love the system that alienates you.

Well, you may ask as to when I know if it is love. People, if it is love you will not ask. You may say, was it not the day I was born that I fell into love; where did that first love, curiosity and foolishness thing go? People, start believing in love at first sight. Don’t you love your parents? Was it not them you saw first? And as far as the problem of this kind of love and that kind of love is concerned, well, you have to borrow one common word “love” for both the kinds, till a new word is defined to suit your needs (In the end, one does not always end up with his wishes fulfilled). People, love is not the child of disillusion, but it is the parent of illusion. Love conquers all.

If love is a red dress, give me one in velvet. Not that I don’t have a velvet, it’s just that I am dying for the red one. We have our fair shares of both, thorns and roses. Only that people like the pain of the thorns more than the warmth of the rose; that the pain of the thorns lingers longer than the smell of the roses. I don’t want to be opiated with the gore of bloody thorns, let me embrace the anodyne of the roses. If love is a flower, give me the red rose.