Tag Archives: writing

We Were the Answer All Along

Posted in Poetry English by

A spiritual journey that ends not in heaven, but in the self.

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I was searching for Him, here and there,

asking all the right questions - who and where

I had been looking for Him since my very birth,

under the kind sky and above the sordid earth

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I thought He was my father in a great disguise,

by my side, through all the downs and the highs

Then he went away one day, never to return,

leaving me alone to grow up, survive, and learn

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I thought I saw Him in my mother’s loving eyes,

her stern looks and valuable words, always so wise

Then she chose to live for herself as it was her right,

forcing me to resist, mature, and sometimes even fight

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I searched for Him in the smiles of my friends,

as life made us run around its many sharp bends

They demonstrated their limitations so very often,

and sometimes I even had to carry their heavy coffin

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I searched for Him in the words of my few mentors,

they gave me new knowledge and opened new doors

But then, even they faltered and committed mistakes,

and what we really had was, in fact, all gives and takes

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I looked for Him in the face of a haggard beggar,

sitting on the pavement in his tattered sweater

But then he pleaded and appealed and wept,

and that he was not the Almighty, I had to accept

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I looked for Him in the power of the rich,

ruthlessness and authority without any glitch

But then their corruption became so clear,

and I understood their secret, their dark and hidden fear

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I thought I was never going to find Him,

my efforts all failed, and the prospects were so grim

I looked up and prayed, but there was no reply,

I would never find him, I almost admitted with a sigh

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Then one morning, I woke up from a long dream,

it was so damn lucid, it had an actual theme

The dream was mine, and it was mine alone,

and everything in the dream, I could wilfully own

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In that dream, there was a multitude of choices,

and I could hear all the reasons and all the voices

In that dream, I was free to live and to decide,

I could choose freely, if I wanted shame or pride

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In that dream, I could abandon or hold hands,

and could peep into future, and see results of my plans

In that dream, there was no religion and no rites,

only morality reigned and established all the rights

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It was my dream, and I could make it a nightmare,

it was my dream, and I could make it either cheap or rare

It was my dream, and I was a god dreaming it,

it was my dream, and I could act as I saw or deemed fit

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Waking up, I realized, we all dream our own dreams,

even this life could be one or a long series of dreams

Waking up, I realized, God is not a separate being,

He is our part - we all are almighty and the all-seeing

The Pros and Cons of Thinking and Overthinking

Posted in Poetry English by

Where thinking sharpens insight, and overthinking sharpens fear.

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I am a thinker, and I am almost always thinking,

and then overthinking what I have already thought

That’s what I do all the time, being a thinker,

thinking about what thinking has done and brought

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I believe I was thinking before I was even born,

of my fate and my purpose, and I was so thrilled

I believe I will be thinking after I am dead,

of my life, and if the purpose was finally fulfilled

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I believe I have always been thinking,

of my destiny and the paths leading to it

I believe I will always be thinking,

if I am on the right path or falling into a pit

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I keep on thinking of other things as well,

mostly kind and sometimes so cruel

The kind ones I reserve for others,

while the cruel ones are for myself as a rule

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I keep on thinking of dark possibilities,

the distance between a bullet and my brain

Is it exactly one impulsive decision long,

or do the decisions form a long chain?

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Or how much blood is sprayed everywhere,

when a bullet-ridden body thrashes around?

Is it just enough to write a final message,

or is it by buckets, and seeping into the ground?

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Or even how does the brain perceive the bullet?

Does it get frightened by the violent invasion,

or does it welcome the small projectile?

A possibility of completing the equation?

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Also, how much time do the memories consume,

to fade away in the darkness and to get extinguished?

Are they switched off suddenly and abruptly,

or are they slowly and gradually relinquished?

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I think, and I ask myself all these questions,

and when answered, the results frighten me

But sometimes the questions remain questions,

hanging stalactites, piercing my heart with glee

The Graveyard of Dead Dreams – A Mini Opera

Posted in Poetry English by

A lyrical mini-opera about loss, regret, and the quiet duty of nurturing hope in others.

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Legend tells us that away from the hustle and bustle of life and beyond the light of the setting sun, there is a forest — the emerald forest of imagination. Deep within this forest is the silver pool of glimmering desires.

Surrounding the pool are the grey boulders of regret, and on one of those boulders, sat an old man dressed in a tattered black robe. He held his head within his palms and was pulling on his grey hair in anguish.

‘Oh! I had a dream, and that dream just died

Oh! My poor dream has breathed her very last

‘But where has my poor dream vanished?’ He cried

You must know, you’re my Present and my Past’

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The Past was an old man dressed in moving shadows, while the Present was a young woman dressed in brilliantly colored flowers. They looked at each other with despair darkening their eyes and then addressed the mourner.

‘Your dream is dead as you say, you poor old man!

Death is the beast that is cruel to all and spares none

She has been taken to a graveyard as per the plan

We share your pain but are afraid, nothing can be done’

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The old man raised his head and looked at them in turn, dark sadness permeating his soul. Then, forcing his tears back, he asked:

‘And where is this graveyard of the dead dreams?

I have never heard of it; it’s probably just a story

But if real, I want to know how it really seems

I want to see my dead dream and lament her glory’

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The Past and Present thought for a moment and then spoke in harmony once again.

‘Far away from the dazzling dimensions of existence,

hidden in gloom, lies the graveyard of dead dreams

It borders a quiet lake and is visible from a distance,

and if you try hard, you can hear the silent screams

Filled with many graves, both large and small,

there are even some black urns filled with ashes

So many pretty flowers to be found even in the fall,

and also broken pieces, whatever this life trashes

Sitting at the broken gate, there is the old keeper,

his head is grey, and his eyes are filled with sorrow

All lonely and tired of his vigil against the grim reaper,

hope is something so far off, he can’t even borrow

‘What’s there to guard?’ he is often asked to elaborate

‘They are just broken dreams, need no looking after

They are all dead, you see, so what do you await?’

The people don’t try to hide their taunts and laughter

‘You are of course, right, and I do not blame you’

The old man says with shadows lining his brow

‘But, they are my sleeping children, it’s my view;

graves are their beds, where flowers need to grow’

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The old man heard all this with silent somberness and then left in search of the graveyard.

He walked and walked and then walked some more,

through the valleys filled with dark pain and loss

He looked and looked and then looked some more,

for the forgotten ruins covered in green moss

He walked and walked until he could walk no more,

his heart grew heavy, and his feet bled raw with each stride

He looked and looked until he could look no more,

his spirit lost its resolve, though he determinedly tried

And then one day, when he was about to quit his quest,

he at last reached the graveyard, that of the dead dreams

He just turned a corner and saw it from afar, due west,

the graveyard beside the silent lake, alive with screams

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He carefully approached the ancient custodian, who was quietly smoking an old pipe. On hearing the footsteps, the custodian raised his head and looked questioningly at the old man, his piercing blue eyes peering out from between the silver strands of hair.

‘What do you need, son? This is no place for the living

You look miserable, though, as if you are dead inside

What is that you seek? Or what is it that you bring?

You are all broken, though you hide it well with pride’

Hearing this, the old man fell at the Custodian’s feet.

‘Misery…yes! Broken ….Yes! But there is no pride

I am just here to see my dead dream one last time

My dream was my child; for her, I have always cried

I reared her with my blood; alas! She died in her prime’

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The Custodian was touched by the old man’s pleas, but he was helpless.

‘What you say wrenches my heart, I assure you, son

But I cannot do anything; your dream is gone forever

Yes, you can place flowers on the grave and mourn,

but you cannot caress its forehead and see it never’

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The old man gripped the Custodian’s ankles, and his tears fell in torrents.

‘Have mercy on me, I don’t want to abandon my child

She was my only possession under the lofty skies

Let me sit by her side amidst the flowers growing wild,

mourning the loss of her smile and the shine in her eyes’

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The Custodian thought for a moment and then, holding the shoulders, raised the old man to his feet.

‘Tell me, son, are all your dreams dead or just this one?

If you had just one dream, are the others’ dreams dead too?

Go nurture them, as all dreams become gold under the sun

Go nurture them, as to everyone, their dream is the one true’

‘Now you know the value, when your own dream is dead

Now you know how it feels, the loss of your dearest dream

Go and nurture the dreams of others, and pat their head;

make all those dreams come true and solace, you will redeem’

Who Gives a Shit?

Posted in Poetry English by

A brutal, unapologetic poem about meaning, indifference, and the absurdity of existence.

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Who gives a shit if we win or if we lose;

or if we go free, or if we tighten the noose?

We are all here to walk for only a while,

some walk for ages, and some for a mile

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Who gives a shit if you remember our deeds;

or forgotten by all for whom we sow the seeds?

We are all here to do our own part,

some make it a burden, a few make it an art

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Who gives a shit if we remain forever chaste;

or if we surrender to lust even with distaste?

We were blessed with pleasure by Him;

we must follow its fulfilment at a whim

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Who gives a shit if we walk a virtuous path;

or if we love what’s forbidden and invite His wrath?

Sins are seductive, and virtue is so boring;

to walk straight is dull, and so indulging is the whoring

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Who gives a shit if we are as moral as the prophets;

or if we favour immorality because of huge profits?

Comfortable is what this life is supposed to be;

luxury is what we should all pursue with glee

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Who gives a shit if we believe in one or more gods;

or, if we choose to be faithless and don’t bet on odds?

We may decide to be a herd without a shepherd;

but in a race for survival, we need to be the leopard

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Who gives a shit if we ever get what we want;

or if we fail and are ready to face each taunt?

When we get lucky, we should thank our stars;

when we miss the mark, it was never ours

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Who gives a shit if we are as selfless as we claim;

or if we are all selfish, playing our own game?

Life is so merciless, as we have all lived and seen;

on the other side, it is always brown and never green

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Who gives a shit if we keep on living for long;

or if we die tomorrow, being crushed by a throng?

We didn’t matter at all, we never really mattered;

our dreams of grandeur should be all shattered

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Who gives a shit if all goes quiet when we die;

or if it all restarts and we are born anew with a cry?

One cycle or one after another, a sequence or progression,

we may all be one or a part of a large procession

The Day I Met God

Posted in Short Stories English by

Lost in the desert and abandoned by my caravan, I stumbled into a village where famine had killed everything except love, and there I witnessed the face of God.

A haunting narrative of a traveler abandoned in the desert who stumbles upon a village devastated by famine, where death and hunger reign supreme. Through stark, unflinching prose, the story follows the protagonist from a night of passion with a gypsy woman to a searing encounter with human suffering at its most extreme.

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I had separated from the caravan. When I woke up, the camels were nowhere to be seen. Only the steaming piles of dung and the remnants of smouldering fires remained. The sun had risen in the desert sky - it was already midday. A few vultures sat at a distance, watching me with hungry eyes.

I cursed my luck and silently abused the spicy wine, bought from an equally spicy gypsy woman. That night, I was on my naked back, being caressed by the cool sand, and she rode me with a vengeance. Her head full of dark snakes formed a halo around her oval face. I looked at the glittering galaxy, weaving stars through her Medusan tresses. She moved, and the galaxy moved with her. We left the desert floor and rose into the crisp night air. One supernova of pleasure after another, and I lost myself in both time and space.

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I got up and swayed for a while on my unsteady legs. The day was hot around me as the cruel sun beams scorched all that they touched. The scalding wind blew from an unseen burning oven. I filled my leather flask with muddy water from the hole and started walking. I followed the camel tracks with a rapidly fading hope of catching the caravan.

I walked and walked some more. I walked until blisters formed on the soles of my feet. Then the blisters burst and became sores. But still I walked. To stop meant death, and I didn’t want to die.

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I walked on and came across a village devastated by famine, comprising a handful of mud huts and burnt fields of corn. I looked around and saw death everywhere. Hunger had sucked the life out of the dying children, and the shrivelled breasts of their mothers oozed blood. The earth was blankly staring at the merciless skies, cracked all over and parched with an eternal thirst.

There were a few stray dogs, and they had their bloody jaws buried in the bellies of the dead, thankful for a mouthful of stringy, rotten flesh. The vultures sat atop the dried-up branches of blackened trees, silently watching the last glimmer of life fading away.

‘This is surely hell…!’, I thought, ‘…and God has abandoned earth!’

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A sudden pull on my tunic, and I looked down. It was a woman, rather just the shadow of a woman. Her skeletal hands grasped my ankle tightly - the shrunken eyes screaming a silent plea. A tongue, dry and white with thirst, licked at the dry, clotted blood on her lips. She tried to muster up her leftover energy, but her dried-up throat was unable to produce the word ‘water’.

I offered her the unscrewed flask.

‘Take it!’ I gestured. ‘I am sorry, but only a mouthful is left.’

She held the bottle in her hands, her eyes wide with disbelief. She hesitatingly took a sip but did not swallow.

‘Go on,’ I pushed her silently. ‘Swallow it!’

A ghost of a smile danced on her bloody lips, and I realized that she could swallow, but was saving the water for some other purpose. Bending her head down, she brushed aside her tattered shawl. There was a baby in her lap. She kissed her dying baby on the lips and poured the water into the baby’s mouth.

I looked on, witnessing the miracle of motherly love. She wiped away her dry tears and stared at me. All was dead except the eyes. Then she breathed her last, and the eyes died too.

I saw God smiling from behind the shrunken depths of her dead eyes.

‘I am here,’ He said.