Starchasing

In pursuit of stars,

I run and I run;

Away from plush bars,

To get my knots undone.

The city thrums around me;

The garish blare of electric lights,

And I long to break free,

To the soft beams of simple starlight.

Oh woe be unto me,

For here 'tis nowhere to be found.

I must away now flee,

From all this noisy city sound.

I take course away from man,

The silent road forgotten by my kind.

And so without a plan,

I seek whatever I shall find.

The milestones fall away,

A blur of yellow and white;

I look for where to stay,

In the dark of the night.

A deserted hill beckons,

And I tread on it's feet.

An untrailed hill I walk on;

For there's a multitude I must meet.

A monochrome canvas lies ahead;
Bare weeds welcome me.
I chart a path unafraid,
To the top of the hill steep.

Reaching the peak I turn up,
And O! What do I see?
The heavens do open up;
And I'm taken in by glee.

Far from the shining brights,
I seem to have come to my destination.
A new world within my sights,
I let the present slip into hibernation.

What can be a more soothing sight,
Than this dance of twinkles and white.
Finally my mind has no fight;
Within the solace of gentle starlight.

The crickets chime a steady rhythm;
The hum of the earth fills me.
Peace at last, extolled in a hymn,
For my soul has returned to me.

The Wanderers

This is for those who never stop and stay,
Those whom life never lets astray.
For they do not have a set path,
And for whom there is no hold steadfast.

They might be awalkin' amongst you guys,
Haunted souls who never seem unalive.
Either bristling with uncontained energy,
Or roving the depths, they will be!

Those who seem to have no home,
Roaming about like a vagabond.
Shooed wherever they might go,
By the others or their own heart's flow.

They're restless like a hungry fly,
And will be till the day they die.
For nothing will ever close the gap,
Their hearts posses, wide and agape.

They'll be a part of your life, Oh sure!
But constrain them and they'll make you sore.
For free spirits as them you'll never see,
Rebellious much, wild and free.

A speck is all that's left of them,
Once they're out and filled with phlegm.
And never will you see them again,
For they have places to be and things to attend.

Of course, what these be, they have no clue;
Fate springs it upon, out of the blue.
Making sure there's not a single day,
That they are a part of mediocrity's play.

They yearn for a land unextant,
Where they can live unmendicant.
A place where they might be at peace,
From the others' selfish greed.

These people they walk alone,
Sauntering, humming a song.
For who can hope to keep company,
To a soul which doesn't know it's symphony.

They're the stragglers that you see lying around,
When you're too busy running on with your frown;
Those for whom you laugh and say,
They're hopeless! They'll never be sane!

What can they do, when their flute;
Plays a haunting melody of disrepute.
Do they simply be a part,
Of your unquestioning farce?

You ask too much to wish for that,
They cannot be actors playing a part.
For one they know to be true,
The song will never lead them askew.

It might be a marching ballad,
That will make your limbs glad;
Or a funeral hymn,
Making your existence grim.

Whatever the song, and whatever the circumstance,
However they're treated by happenstance.
But one thing that will hold still,
Is in the end, the song, their whim.

These people, they might not amount to much,
Roaming around without direction or lust;
They might not lead forward man's way,
Or make millions in one swell lay.

They might not be known by all,
They might not be around when you fall.
They might not do what you say,
They will never shy away.

But to you, I do salute,
For in a world shamelessly lewd.
You are the only one left,
True to their hearts' heft.

You know who you are,
O lost ones!
Silent specters,
With sharp spectacles.

Know that you have a friend in me,
Someone to count on in need.
For if you are truly a wanderer,
You have in me a fellow traveler.

I've been busy!

Terribly, terribly busy. With the horribly tangled up PRs, to the constant pounding in the back of my head to write my SOP; it's just been one blurry hustle of procrastination and scrambling attempts at writing a passable SOP. Anyways, I seem to have gotten somewhere with it. Along with exercising, eating healthier, and being more positive, it seems like I CAN be positive. Humph. Who knew. Anyways, I hope even if(when?) the positive outlook recedes, I can still keep up the other healthier habits. It is true what they say, you know, a healthy body leads to a healthy mind!

Anyways, cheer up. Weird coming from my mouth, but get going. Don't just do something, sit there!

On the topic of my writing, I just don't seem to get in to the mood nowadays. Pragmatism has pulled me out of the comforting womb of romanticism which I used to float around in earlier. But anyways, with the recent changes, I hope to get lost and find the womb again. Mothers have that effect. They brighten up your life ;).

There's this project I've been working on. More of a social experiment, really. Let's see if it works out. It is really going to be a test of my developed social abilities.

Hiatus

I seem to have taken a hiatus from writing poems. I know it looks like that from the two stories in succession, but it'll come. It's just a break, and I'm really enjoying the different style in which the stories have been written. I might seem awfully full of myself when I tell you that 'the stories have been written', but trust me, that's how it is. I don't have absolute control when, and how, they are penned, or in some cases, typed. They're two different, beautiful mediums through which I hope to express something.

A short story is an idea in your head. It's there in pure form, swallowing you in completely till you pay attention to it. And then you try to grasp it; to understand it completely, but come back burnt from the experience, because such purity is not for us mortals. The moment you touch it, you know that you are not capable of handling it. You can't even look at it now without shielding yourself. That's when you take the help of the wonderful invention called words. You wrap your idea all around, like a newborn babe, with infallible words to shield yourself from the sheer intensity. You wrap them softly around the idea, leaving just enough to get a small, loving glance at it. And then you brand your thoughts down, solidifying the infantile form burning bright, forming the words on paper which you know will last.

Poems are a different matter altogether. A poem is like an impromptu dance. Just like at the beginning of the dance, you hear the crescendo of the music, swelling to the point where you just start dancing, so it is with poems. It ruminates in you for a long time, and you feel it coming on, greater and greater, to the point where you must listen to it. It leads you on, to it's own rhyme and rhythm, till you are lost inside it's world. Your pen flies across the landscape of the paper, like a ballerina flitting across the stage; a black swan at it's peak. You are guided by the music, setting the tone of it all, though the steps are your own. And when it is time for the dance to get over, you feel the climax coming, and you build into this frenzy, up to the moment of revelation, when it is all complete. The epiphany, where it all falls into place. And then it's over. And you can go back now.

Dogs

I have always been afraid of dogs. People say it's because I'm a girl, but I don't believe that's true. I remember a few drunk friends of mine, female, ferociously attacking dogs when barked at, so I don't think that stereotype holds for most girls. Anyway, it does hold for me. I am almost paralysed when dogs come running to me. They might be called cute, but in my eyes they are ferocious creatures which have no shred of mercy in them. If you've ever experienced a dog running towards at full gallop, mouth open, teeth bared, barking a blood-curling howl, eyes fixed on you, ready to tear you to pieces; you know what I'm talking about. I've had a few encounters with dogs in my day. It usually involves a bunch of hungry dogs sensing my fear, and surrounding me, ready to strike. A passerby, or a bystander usually comes to my rescue, as I'd be frozen in place. For this reason, I never walk alone in isolated places.

I have this friend, one of those people who gets lost from time to time. He is usually quite coherent, but there are phases where he seems to get off the sane train, and talk in abstract ciphers. They do seem to make some kind of sense, but I cannot guess the context, or his meaning. He is a nature person, and I've often felt like he's better off with nature than with us. Anyway, our interactions are somewhat sporadic, since he doesn't like to talk using modern implements. He prefers face to face. So whenever he'd come around, we'd meet, and talk. He lived in Mumbai, and I in Bangalore, which is a huge distance. But he'd usually visit about once every two months, so we'd meet up to have a drink. He was one of those people who was always calm, so I always felt safe around him. I've never seen him so angry that he'd lose his wits. He's handled every situation I've seen him in, in a composed manner, much like a conductor gracefully handling his orchestra.

He had come to visit this September, and as usual we met up for drinks. We like to try new places, and this time, we went to a bar in a somewhat remote area of Bangalore. He was happy as I had never seen him before, for he was getting married to the love of his life. He was particularly outspoken in his joy, and we spent a lot of time in the bar. I had never seen him open up like that day. In his infectious zest, we both ended up drinking a lot. It was quite late, and the server ushered us out saying that it was closing time. The sky was pitch black, with no moon in sight. There were flickering street lights at long intervals, and in the distance they looked like an airplane landing strip. The whole sight was eerie, and I had a strong sense of foreboding. We started walking along the winding path, following the lights. It was a kaccha road, a mixture of mud and asphalt which threaded the line between making you feel like you were walking in slush, and yet it was solid enough to be called a road. We were too drunk to care anyway, and we started walking. It was a few kilometres to my place, and we decided to just walk, for it didn't look like we would be getting any transport anytime soon. I was scared, but he had this reassuring aura about him, so I felt safe. We walked, chattering about trivialities, and remembering past times.

We had reached a wide spot of road, just under a street light, when I sensed movement around me. I don't know what it was, but there was definitely something moving around me. There was not a soul all around us, and it was deserted as far as the eye could see. I got scared. The first indication of what it was, was a growl rising in a crescendo. The sound brought the world around me into sudden focus, and I could now make out the outlines of several dogs in the fringes of the light. The single growl was joined by more, each more wicked than the last. I felt the pangs of paralysis rising up within me. They gained complete control of me once the dogs started barking. I froze in place, my eyes locked on the dangerous creatures in front of me. There were six dogs which I could see, and they were poised to strike. Their jaws split wide, teeth sparkling in the light, saliva dripping to the road in large dollops. Their eyes were trained on us, as if waiting for us to make the next move. Standing in a loose circle, they seemed to be closing in. I felt trapped from all sides, and unable to move. This was the end.

I felt a warm hand around me, and looked to the side to see him holding me. He whispered slowly, "Don't worry. You're with me. I'll take care of this." I should have been relieved, but I was in survival mode, and in no mood to trust him. I don't remember what exactly happened next. He raised his hand slowly, like politicians in India do to quiet crowds. Slowly murmuring "Sshhh...", he turned to each dog, as if pacifying them. His voice was mesmerising somehow, and in my muddled state, it was inviting. He was firm and strict. I don't know how it worked, but the dogs were starting to shut up. The ones who were first addressed stopped barking, and the effect spread to the rest of the pack. They all looked just as ferocious and blood-thirsty, but they weren't barking. He pulled me forward, holding me tight, and we walked out of the circle while all the dogs were watching us. I did not comprehend what had just happened, just that we were out of the circle. We kept walking. I felt exhausted, and in no mood to talk. Holding me, he dropped me home, where I instantly fell asleep.

I sometimes still get flashes of what happened that night, but those dogs never barked at me again.

The moonlight field

I was on another one of my moonlight strolls through the asphalt streets of the city. My companion walked beside me in absolute silence. Words were but a hindrance in the absolute oneness of our companionship, and we were silent. The roads were completely deserted but for us, making us feel like gods. We walked along, our breaths misting in the cold air, our bodies walking parallel.

An empty field crept up alongside the path, making it seem like the world ended on that side. It had a wall along it's border, one of those dilapidated things which have become one with nature. They have no sense of beginning or end, simply rising up off the ground. The trees are intertwined with the large stones forming it, as if the architect had planned it all along. Even their shapes, formed by the ruthless tides of nature, seem to be their destiny. It felt like we were meant to be gazing on it at this moment. We took a seat on the wall, huddled together, blowing warm breath onto our hands.

Staring back at us from the light mists was a dark foreboding of not being alone. It was almost pitch black, with only the eerie light of the moon lighting up the field. The wind slowly shook the fog like a puppet master tuning his strings. We could see a few plants large enough to be seen on the field. Apart from that, the field seemed entirely empty, with the uneven floor like waves frozen mid-motion. The mists seemed to crystallize, and shapes formed before our eyes. I blinked a few times, just to make sure, but it wasn't a trick of the eyes. The shapes seemed to be moving around without any apparent pattern, just flitting from one place to the next. Some of them collided, and wisps seemed to emanate from them. The longer I looked, the sharper their features became, till I realized with a start that they looked like children. Little children lost in some game they were playing. Sounds wafted in our direction; inhuman high-pitched shrieks which would have otherwise worried me, seemed perfectly fine tonight. Unaware of our existence, they continued their rambunctious play, sounding like the joyous wail of a new-born on his birth. They looked like little puffs of clouds, but on closer inspection, one could see how unnaturally they bent the light, and how they stood out from the mists in the background. They were translucent, their bodies shaped like ghosts from the kids' show on television. I couldn't make out their faces, but there was definitely a human face there.

Floating around each other, one chased another, to the point where they collided, and then started chasing another. The collision broke the form of the ghost, like a smoker's smoke disrupting the existing flow temporarily. A trail formed, like the ghost had just dived in water, and drove the water apart. The form combined again out of the smoke, and the game continued. There were those standing on the edge of the playing field, who moved but little, and inside, who were running like ants toward food. The shrieks came from those inside, as if they were the only ones having fun. The outer ghosts were quiet, standing protectively in a circle, guarding the ones inside. The children made sure not to break this line. The outers made no sound, but silently hovered in a large circumference. They seemed like guards protecting the innocent play. Silent spectres, they gave off the scent of danger which so easily scares me. I don't know what it was; whether it was the cold in the air, the sense of danger instilled by the outers, or my disbelief at the sight before me, I started shivering. My companion held me tenderly, patting my back to stop the shivers. Our arms entwined, we went back to the sight before us, mesmerized by the strange game in front of us.

The sound of tires on asphalt came rumbling along the road, followed by headlights from a car making a turn. We turned towards the light and were temporarily blinded. Accustomed to the darkness, the light seemed bizarre, like a bad cherry in a perfectly baked cake. It went by as soon as it had come, but the effects lasted longer. We turned back to our playground, but it was empty.

The mists had become bare again. The sounds had been muted. Where ghosts were twittering about earlier, there was only silence. The scene was as drab as a cemetery from an old black and white film. A crushing sense of loss filled me. Those forms had been my life for a few moments before, and now they were gone. Where they had being playing in gay abandon, there were now depressing mists idling by. I didn't understand why beings who were separated from me by an unconquerable abyss affected me so much. Beings who were so different, formless, and shapeless, so deeply affected me. I didn't have a connection to them before this night. They had not influenced me in any way before this. This would possibly just be another memory which would fade away as time passed by and life went on. It could have just been my mind hallucinating at night. And then it came to me.

I was closer to them.

The fisherwoman

The stars shone above,
Echoing the world she lost;
Bringing back the time she would bow,
If she had not kept her trust.

She thought of the toil she had done today,
And her net so full of fish,
She felt content, keeping hunger at bay,
And was ready for tomorrow's dish.

The smell of the earth and sea,
And the fragrances playing with the falling dusk,
Lulled her into reminiscing sleep,
Calling upon her story of strife and lust.

She went back to the day,
When she was set free,
Splendidly wrapped, fresh and gay.
Twas the day when she would go to he.

But in the craze of celebration,
Nobody saw the ominous clouds gathering,
The prince who appeared full of contemplation,
Was the harbinger of death come aridin'.

The night, eerily silent and long,
He made her a woman full grown;
But with the mornings' first dong,
Her world had grown horribly wrong.

The madness of power ran strong in him,
While her eyes were full of love.
But in the cocoon, amidst her own whim,
She forgot she wasn't a dove.

Stepping outside, her ground shattered,
The rapine left her dazed,
And her heart grew ridged, hard and rigid,
Forever closed to his gaze.

She had lost her father,
Her mother was slain;
And the loss of life she could not gather,
For carrion had eaten all like grain.

Her head grew hot,
Arms found a strength of their own;
Vengeance for what had been wrought:
The decimation of her own home.

Plucking the dagger she had got,
She marched to her chamber,
Emanating the laugh begetting the carnage wrought,
She charged forgetting all danger.

Death stood her in all his glory,
Laughing at her plight,
Feeding of her misery,
And thus began the fight.

The sounds shook the land;
Twas the fight between death,
And last hope against being damned:
The challenge had been met.

Lights flashed across the battleground,
This battle of light and  dark;
But the darkness surged onward,
Unstoppable against her mere spark.

Hope had been lost,
The sith forces rejoiced;
For all had been host,
To this parasite voiced.

None saw the flickering speck,
Still burn like an ember.
And an angel rose to the deck,
Even he felt a shiver.

The white light blinded all.
The spark birthing the resurgence of
All good, uplifting the pall,
And putting his advance to a stop.

He who was Death fled the scene,
Never wounded before,
Repelled by a single sheen,
Of she who trusted in her own bore.

And thus twas that a single girl,
Repelled all death and destruction.
Saving her entire world,
With the sheer force of determination.

But the engagement had not left her alone,
She became recessed in herself.
For display of purity she did atone,
And now only her eyes betray herself.

Now run along, leave this old man be.
Your moms beckon,
This is the end of this story.
You might think i'm senile,
But when she wrote history,
I was witness.

And if you all are joyful today,
'Tis because of this lonely fisher woman.

Thoughts penned

A little context: I had just started feeling like I could write again for myself, and the first thing I felt like writing was what I was thinking about right then.

"Bind me not before you know what I can create, but if after having set me free, the wonders I bring forth are not worth my freedom."

"I love drawing fires, because a fire has no form. It has been as definite as a drop of water, and as scattered as embers in the wind. No matter how you draw a fire, you aren't wrong, because when you draw a fire, you are mirroring yourself back in it; and who you are cannot be wrong!"

Finally defeated

He stared away, as the world moved around him,
And he rotted inside as he could not bear,

The needles boring into his soul,

The pricks of a mind desolate.

 

He tried and tried, to get away,

But the ghosts haunted him all day,

And when the voices finally stopped,

His walls broken, himself uncorked.

 

He was bare to the world,

Open to pain, and all hurt,

And the reapers came and slashed across,

The darkening core this man had got.

 

And the fatal miscarriage inside him,

His sheared black soul, wearing thin,

Was pulled apart and torn away,

To leave a hollow shell astray.

 

His hopes and dreams all crushed and strewn,

On the field along with wounded soul hewn,

His withering figure shrunk to his bones,

Eyes losing their spark, enervated.

 

Nowhere to go, he knew what this was, 

His final failure, his disgrace sparked,

And in his final wheezing breaths,

A horrid smile lit up his face.

 

For he, who had been king of kings,

Come where his enemies vanquished had been,

The last defeat on that battlefield,

Was the defeat of his conquering soul.

Musings on a bus

Warning: I wrote this while on a bus on a trip with friends to Coorg, amongst a busy cacophony, so it might not upto the mark, but eh, here goes.

Sitting in a bus riding along, my thoughts travel alongside. Racing ahead, they seem to always come back to where I am. Even after piercing through the veil of time, they move forward back to where I am.

My friends and I revel in the simple joy of companionship. No one speaks, because there is no need to. The songs in the background permeate us, taking deeper into ourselves, barely touching the moment. And in the end, it comes down to this.

The moment.

Where else will you find joy? Happiness is an abstract concept that I have not identified with, but joy we have all experienced. Be it after a long, tiring day when you get some good tidings, or when you meet someone after a long time. Winning a competition, or achieving something, all those experiences give you joy. And that is something found only in the moment. I seem at a loss to describe it, but suffice to say that I am, at the moment, joyous.

Speaking about things in the moment, there another feeling that fits the description. It is something so rare today, that you find it only in the fleeting breaks in between our mangles lives. It is peace. The contentment of just being. Another feeling I see around me right now. The world has been reduced to the confines of our bus, and the scenery rapidly falling behind. And it all seems peaceful, like it was meant to be. Ah, which reminds me, let me get out of this reverie, and into my moment ;).