Saturday, June 24, 2017

Passing Clouds

courtesy - google images
It was yet another day of waiting.  He stood in the bus stop and searched as many buses he could, he went to the railway station searched every compartment as many times he could; she was not there. He boarded his train, found a seat near the window and sat with his head on the window, eyes on the shining moon, and thoughts on her.  He closed his eyes as the train moved forward his thoughts moved backwards.

28 days back:

After a long wait he boarded his bus which was cramped with men and women.  Between the crushing and pushing, driver had a good taste of songs to play.  The music was soothing and romantic. It was raining mildly outside and the cool breeze joined hands with the music to make the cramped environment romantic.  On the way a wave of breeze entered the bus and blew her bunch of untied hair over his face. It was silky and smooth.  The rain drops wetted her hair and rejuvenated the fragrance of her hair wash; it smelled like she doesn’t use shampoos.  The aroma of naturally blend hair wash along with the smell of jasmine swept his face, swept him away.

She turned to him to catch her flying hair, to catch his breathe, and saw his face between her hair.  He looked into his eyes as did she.

“…dear drizzle that fell on me,
Where were you all these days?”

The lyrics along with the music filled the bus and his heart.  She half smiled at him and turned to the side of her own genders. Just like the lightening shattering a lone standing tree her glimpse shattered him in to pieces.  The bus moved slowly as the rain pulled all late starters from the office to road. Both of them took the tickets to the same destination; Chennai Central Railway Station.  It looked like the bus will take another couple of hours to reach the station.  She looked out of the bus for the traffic to move and he looked at her for the breeze to blow.

He kept his eyes on her and her instinct said that somebody his looking at her, she turned to him.  He didn’t expect the turn and thus startled at her glimpse.  She didn’t smile but bent her head down and half turned to the other side. 

…look at me darling angel,
I am waiting for you eyes to throw the spear of love on me…”

He sang with the lyrics little loud for her ears to respond. She moved the hairs that ran over her ears and threw another glimpse over him to raise his heart beats in joy.  The next thirty minutes moved slower than the traffic but the wave between them was faster than the light.  Someone rose from his seat to get down giving his seat to him. He will not sit, she knew.  She will become out of focus if he sits.  He let another guy standing near to her to sit in the seat; clearing the traffic. She smiled. Just to avoid suspicious eyes on him he turned his eyes to other sides and there was a sudden break from the driver and someone has fallen over his chest.  No! It was not her; it was another girl standing next to her.  He helped her to recoup making his girl unhappy and angry.  For next five minute she didn’t turn, her face faded like an evening flower.  Now he is in a situation to get her back to the mood.  He moved next to the girl who fell on him and said “Sister, catch hold of the iron bar tightly” she replied “Okay” and his girl smiled and became okay.  Her friend who was stood at her left turned to see him since it was deliberate that a wave of love running between them.  She saw that her friend is looking at him.  “What are you seeing?” she said little firmly; he smiled. He moved from place to place in different direction to see if she is searching him.  She didn’t since her eyes followed him wherever he moved.  After two hours the bus reached the destination.   Since it was late and time for her train her friend pulled her by hand and started running.  He got down little late to see her running and turning back to see if he is coming.  He ran behind her but the crowd made it a tough task for him.  Once he reached the station a train started to move. He could not run as station was heavily crowded.  He lost her.

He opened his eyes with a layer of wetness over his lashes.  ‘Passing clouds’ he thought but sometimes passing clouds rains.  He wiped the wetness from his eyes and moved on.

Next Day:

He didn’t search, he didn’t look for her, and he has decided not to wait for her anymore. It was time for the same train that took her away from him.  The train which he supposed to board was late so he has nothing to do other than wait for the train as he has decided again to wait for her.  The train that took her away horned to start.  “No, it is of no use to search, she might have forgotten me” he said himself sitting in the waiting chair.  The train horned again. He jumped from his seat and ran to that train and started to search in the ladies compartment.  The train moved away, now taking his thoughts with it. He walked back to his seat and on the way someone pulled him by hands.  He lifted his head up and it was girl.  No, not the one he was searching.  She said something but he could not hear but he looked at the direction she showed; the other side of the platform.  His angle stood there with wet eyes. She came running to him. 

And their journey started.

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Beacon Of Revolution

courtesy :

In the hands of greedy international chunks,
My identity, my people are in funks.

To satiate the paunch of the few wealthy,
My rulers, whom we believed, are becoming filthy.

Some talk about the sacrifice for mass wellness,
Don't you know to eat human flesh is cunningness!

For the sake of science and technology
It has all become the source of aetiology

In the hands of corporate my rulers were puppets,
In the funeral of farmers and commons they blow trumpets.

They disintegrate us in the name of religions and caste,
They don't know it’s a curse they themselves cast.

It cannot be night all throughout,
The time has come to fight out.

In the stream of fast flowing blood,
Filthy germs will not be spared.

It’s a warning to the power and money hungers,
In the hands of the youth you are in danger.

Technical genocide will not be allowed,
Try and you people, in the revolution, will be swallowed.

Let’s live and let live,
Pray that humanity long lives.

#SaveNeduvasal #SaveFarmers #SaveTN

Sunday, February 12, 2017

Things to laugh at

When I have no guts to cry I write something and console myself; just a try. Compromise, sacrifice, accept, and make everybody happy all these sometime works and many a times make me a hippie. Hell a lot advice when they themselves know not what is wise. In the name of God only the guilt is induced in the heart; who could guard? People believe anything could be spoken just that they have a mouth and believe just a sorry could console and soothe.  Point your finger at someone and name him a sinner. Oh my wonderful people why your brain has become so thinner; nobody is responsible for what happens to you.

What a foolishness to think only what you imagine is right and everything else is a plight.  This is a world, which is nothing but a void, holds all types of labyrinth which holds all the god particles to make us stay cloyed. But humans have created labyrinths that make us strangle and provokes wrangles.  When you put fire on someone’s roof make sure you have enough water to put off the future fire on your roof; now don't ask me proof.  We create chaos and die forgetting our off springs could become sly. What need do we have of science and technology when we do not know we are just insects to this world; understand God’s entomology.

Oh did I forget to write about love! All that we are taught is that, to each other, we owe.  We talk about peace in the world with pieces of meat in our plate.  Bloodshed is wrong; be it for crude oil or to put chicken in foil.  In everything we are distracted and halt in midway.  Being human stops within caste, secularism stops within religion, women’s empowerment stops with wardrobes, parental love stops with off springs.  In spite of all these we teach love and expect to be loved.

So many things to laugh at; just to satiate the urge to grab more that of our need, to overpower others, we play the game of love, hate, angry, happiness, sadness, war, peace, science, technology, racism, socialism, secularism, communism, caste, religion, country, money, politics, democracy, aristocracy, revolution etc.,  All rubbish stays and people who upheld these dies.  When my ancestors roamed in the forest free and naked they were hungry only in their stomach.  When they covered their body and become naked in brain they became hungry in their head; thus the chaos.

 Cutting trees and making fans makes no sense. Inducing poison to cure diseases is insane.  Provoking guilt and pouring love is nonsense.  Cursing someone knowing not the curse spelt on you is nuisance. Making money by poisoning the crops is like cutting your own genitals. Eating rubbish and longing for health is foolishness.  O! Dear fellow beings, how many things to laugh at.

Before I realized what all I gathered in my mind and body is the residue of the society I have become the residue itself.  To clean, understand and enlighten is responsibility of oneself.  God has no role to play, sprites has nothing to say, selfish love cannot stay, everyone is free to live in his or her own way, freewill is what is needed, dear humans, hell bent to society, please don't slay.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

A Musical Confession

When I type, I just don't write the words I think but the musical notes.  May be that is why both are named a keyboard. Like that of a melancholic musical notes that digs the hypothalamus and brings back the memory to eyes, followed by tears to wash it and clean it, when I write, these words plays a song that I wish I shouldnt have heard.  When someone asked me, long back when I was very young, to close my eyes and think back the mistakes and sins I committed; all I heard was a happy song though here and there it was off key.  But now when I close my eyes and think back through the path I walked I could realize I have crushed may roses with my own hands for its thorns has made me bleed.  All I forgot is those are roses and thorns are by nature. It was a beautiful music mixed with melody and rough strings.  The music enters directly to heart from ears before it could reach the brain.  Before the brain analysis what to do with the emotions that thorns already stings the hearts wall and thus my eyes bleed.  I do not want anybody to see that I am bleeding inside and that is why the tears are colorless and not red.

I sit in a garden, to write, filled with essence of flowers and aroma of grasses it was all magical to see the surrounding happy and fresh.  The song of nature was always refreshing, a mild melody that keeps hushing in the breeze that keeps the world moving.  But there also exists a song of sorrow inside the heart.  The sorrow of the bleeding wound, the pain of the scars that could not be healed.  And when I start to write happy words would not come.  My comrade, the solitude, wants to fill my pen with the mixture of my past and tears to write.  Never my comrade left me alone and that is why solitude became my best comrade.  I wondered many a time what makes a good poem or a prose.  I realized that it is not a writer or a poet who makes a piece of writing to enter into ones heart but the song they heart from inside.

My song was so special to me though it is always a sad one.  I know not to sing so could not explain it but I know the notes of the music that what I write down. This is my personal song that only I could hear; all others could listen but not hear.

A voice said Close your eyes relax go deep into your heart.  The expedition starts with a fresh day light like that of an early morning sun.  It won’t hurt.  Get deeper and deeper the music slows down like the ending note of a violin.  Go deeper, wipe the blurred glass where all the stains of the life was hiding; now the song will become melodic, romantic, filled with love and lust.  Get passed through the glass like the light and it begins to dim.  You sometime see twilight loving and harmonic and suddenly you will see dusk, then dark.  The songspitch changes; the drama of melancholy will start.  This journey is not so easy, not a narrow straight path but a wide road with multiple lanes.  Sometimes it brings you to the same road you walked before just to understand the path, make sense out of the experience the road has given you.

Don't open the eyes; just allow your mind to travel.  Do not shut your ears; allow the song to enter into your heart. The dark wall that you have painted with white will start showing its own color.  To show the world that the wall is only white and there exist not a spot of dark you would have painted in white.  But the wall always revel its original color to the one who painted. Only the one who painted can see the darkness behind the white shade. Only the composer knows the missing notes in the song.  Alas! My composer knows the mistakes in the song I just could hear and not correct. 
The voice again said it wrong time to open your eyes, get deeper, travel deeper.  The music now will become poignant.  Dont stop hearing; just keep listening to the music.  The unfaithfulness, the love, the lust, the care, the ambivalence, the malevolence, the gratitude, the good deeds, the bad sins and what not; all that you have done to your life pops out like roses and thorns. 

Remember, the voice said the flower you smelled, its softest petals that you caressed and sucking out all the honey from it you flew away like a cruel bee and the flower started fading.  You didnt look back for you are afraid that flower was fading and its because of you.  You do not know whether there may be a rain to water the rose or a storm to uproot, but you didnt stop to look back for you are afraid the sin might fall on you which are already yours.

Dont open the eyes the voice said again loses are always lose.  You were once a mother feeding the breast milk of love to the baby that was not born for you.  And there came a storm with turned your world upside down.  The baby disappeared leaving its heart in your heart blended.  Centuries you may live but the memory of that touch of the baby, those little fingers that scratched your lips and those tiny lips that sucked your lips, will leave you never.  You will still feel the weight of the baby in your hands for only the heart has grown hands.  Now the song is a sad lullaby which will make the baby sleeping inside the mud to sleep and keep you awake.

You are once in your mothers womb carefree, happy, enlightened, rejoicing the warmth of the amniotic.  And now you want to get back there for you can start your life anew; the same life in different fashion.  But you are not allowed.  More tears now running through the cheeks and it now has touched your chest trying to put off the burning heart. The song changed to longing, the music of guilty.

Open your eyes the voice said you do not want to open the eyes but its not the time to shut down the life so you have to open the eyes and look at the light without fear and guilty for days may not come back for you to correct. 

Deep inside every heart there is always a song of hope, a devotional song of faith and trust. Only the composer knows when to stop playing the music, till then just sit back relax, listen and enjoy when it is a song of joy and cry when it is a song of sorrow.  Hum the song of life and the life goes on till the notes are done.
                                                                                                          - S

Sunday, November 27, 2016

A Love Letter...

courtesy :
It was just another day I was sitting and doing the most difficult task; doing nothing. The park was less crowded, couples here and there was hidden behind the trees hand in hand and chatting.  Elderly couples were obeying their doctor’s words to go around the park how much ever times they could. The twilight made the place enchanting as the reddish yellow race of the Sun peeped through the leaves and branches of the trees.  Kids were busy in enjoying their most with the swings, climbers and the seesaw before their happiness ends up with the call for home works.  The wind was little heavier but soothing. I sat wondering how everybody else was happy except me though I was not sad.

An envelope slapped my cheeks, came flying from some corner of the park. Somebody has dropped it down as waste or might have slipped from their note or book, I thought.  It was not glued helping me to open it without tearing it.  I took out the folded sheet of paper from the envelope and could smell the aroma of rose when I opened it. The guy should have sprayed some scent after writing I guess. It should be a love letter, I thought. I was not wrong, the letter ended with “with love” and a heart-in symbol.  Should I read it or not, I didn’t know.  The handwriting was neat and perfect.  I looked around for somebody who should be in search of the letter.  I found nobody; everyone was busy with their happy life.  I then decided to read.

If I were you who were reading this letter, I would have crushed and threw the paper.

How bizarre to start a love letter.  I wondered who this guy could be, writing love letter when people don't even have a pen in their pocket.

But it is you, who could not crush anything with your rosy palms.

Aha! There he goes, brilliantly telling the lady to not to crush without reading.

I do not want anybody to encrypt my love, spread it in air and decrypt it to you to read that is why I choose the most ancient but lovable way to express my love – a letter.

Ancient! It was just a decade this technical chaos took over the love letters, anyways brilliant.

When there are many girls around you busy with their mobile phones in their hands, the day I saw you, you were sitting alone with your palms on your cheeks. It was not you for whom I was looking for but you replaced everything I was searching.  I wished you should see me at least by the corner of your eyes alike every other girl does. But you didn’t.  I learnt that that was not your style.  You looked straight into my eyes. I was not prepared for the spear from your eyes, my eyes stumbled.

Eyes stumbled! Mmm…

When my eyes waved to see the other girls sitting around you my pupil turned to you again and again.  Just like the wave from the sea, the pressure that pushes the water to the shore again and again, the something which I could not name, the feeling for which I don't have a name turned my eyes to you. I don't want you to move neither I want to move. You got up to walk away; angles do not listen to human’s, I know.  You walked like a slender vine. I wanted to whisper in your ears “Dear slender vine, catch me and roll me up.  I could stand by you for life long.”

Slender vine! A slim girl!

You walked only a little here and there crossing my eyes but with every glimpse I clicked a snap of your image and stored in my mind. You stuck to me and left me not from the day I saw you. Back home, next morning I was listening to a music which was soft and romantic.  I stood and danced slowly to the rhythm of the sound.  I closed my eyes and moved my legs; I opened my arms when the singer called for his lover for a hug.  There you come, in my arms.


We moved to the music, I listened to the acoustic of your breathe.  The music grew more romantic kindling more romance in air. Caressing you kindled little lust in my body.  I held your hips, you grabbed my neck. We were moving our legs with chin in chin.  When your nose kissed my nose our breath mixed and our sprites exchanged. I let my soul get inside you and you left my soul with me. We hugged like broken parts of mirror which shows two images when broken and one image when fixed together.

Broken mirror! Wow that was a good metaphor.  And Sprites exchanged! A confession! Hope she do not picks up the exact meaning.

You whispered something in my ear; I said that I didn’t hear. You placed your lips over my ear and said marry me.  I didn’t know how I should react so I left it to my body and soul to react. I leaned over you shoulder and tears drenched your neck. “Leave me not for a while, for I could drown in longing and die” I whispered. You tightened your hug.

Oh! Oh! This is an unusual love proposal.

“Take me and never let me go” you replied.  I scooped you in my arms and started walking toward the light. I don't want to open my eyes for you could vanish from my vision.  But all this to happen I thought I should write. And that is why this letter is in your hands.  “Will you marry me?” will be a question but I don't want to ask you for anything; just marry me, we will walk towards that light. 
– With love…

No name at the end. 
Aha! How does name matters when the guy hands it over to his girl.  I folded the paper and put it into the envelope.  The next moment I saw a guy sitting at the other corner of the bench I was sitting. 

“Will she be impressed?” He asked me. 
“All the best”, I said and handed the letter to him.

Saturday, October 8, 2016


courtesy :
My will is to write on what I am willing to write.  I force not my fingers to write the words I do not want to read.  I force not my brain to think the sentence just to seduce the eyes that is going to read.  I write because I do not do any meditation.  The knowledge of stopping my mind to think is something I have not been taught.  I decided to teach it myself – I write.  I think of writing so that I think not of anything else.  I look at every letter as a girl sometime, as a child sometime, as a cloud, as a star, as a new born, as a teacher and what not.  Only few times I looked those words I write as words.  Never my mind said I am running out of words because all that it was filled with is just words, all that I didn’t recite.  More than the conversation with my fellow humans I converse with my mind, I watch and it dictates.  Not all time it is my dictator sometimes I proclaim the dictatorship and enjoy the difference of opinion between me and my mind.  I love when it disobeys me. When the thoughts are like slow moving water I stop it with a dam built inside and redirect it to the canals to flow through.  Not all time it is possible that the water flows in tranquil sometimes it rains heavily and the water rushes to the dam with its full force.  The use of cannels makes no sense then; it overflows thus avoiding the wreckage in the dam. What makes one to write is a mystery; the divine code of secret.  When that code is broken and the secret is revealed then that is the day of books; no more books will be published.  Not to all the eyes these are words but to the few, may be to the many, this is just the permutation and combination of words.  Those are the beautiful minds that calculate searches and researches.  For few these letters jumbled in order makes all sense.  They read it with their eyes but what they look at is not the words but the heart of the finger that wrote.  Those were the beautiful hearts. They read, smile and cry at the words for they know under what emotions those words are knitted.  They know under what pain those mistake in the sentences are made.  To write is not an art but a science.  The science of stopping the mind to think, the science of redirecting the thoughts to the way the heart like to flow.  To read is not a science but an art of deciphering the heart of the writer and the art of understanding the pain of the others wounds. It is the art of falling in love with the one that has never ever has appeared before their eyes, never ever spoke into their ears; the real love that everyone is foreseeing for; the unconditional love.  Till that unconditional, unbridled love exists in this planet there will be hands that knit the letters into words then into sentence in turn into book that warms the eyes of the readers. What really is a miracle; the rain of gold from the sky or the sprinkles of water? Tons of gold dropping from the sky will only create fear in the hearts but the rain brings happiness.  Is it not the rain a miracle!  I was searching for bigger things, a great miracle to happen so that I could pen down until I saw the little finger of a girl standing before me.  I could look at nothing else but her finger in her foot; so beautifully sculpted.  I thought it was a tiny finger but the time I took to adore the sculpture made me realize that it is of the size of this universe.  The nail it held were polished and decorated and at the tip of the nail as grown after the coloring so that it looked like a crown of a princess. She moved it like a wand putting me in trance.  The spell that that finger spelled made me stay awake but in a mesmerizing sleep that nothing else around me existed.  Could a little finger can make put me in such a state! I then realized, understood the meaning of the words miracle.  There exist no miracle in the air, it is inside.  Sometimes a little wand like her finger puts spells to provoke it. The ups and downs of those little finger where the speed breakers stopping my eyes to go up or down; mesmerization at its height. Slowly the wand moved from its position and came closer to me.  I don't want it to move for I might wake up from the trance and face the real world.  But it moved, came closer to me, crossed passing me and disappeared. Nothing could explain that enchanting finger than the words; thus it is here. 

Saturday, October 1, 2016


courtesy :
I could near her not though she is not standing at longer distance from me. She stood by the shore of a mighty sea. Like those waves from the ocean that come touches and goes back my unbridled love waves to her and comes back but touches her not. Not one I have seen in my life that of the girl that stood mesmerizing the ocean with her legs.  I could call her an angel but I would not do for she is above that.  There is nothing to worship in her for she is the worship of God himself.  It has become natural to become unnatural and artificial but to be naturally natural is why we are made for. Going against the law of the commune is accepted for the dogmas are made for the arrows that go in the direction of few pointed fingers.  Those fingers do not want any arrow to go in a different direction.  Those were the dogmas which act as a spell from the dark evil.  Even the dark evils are corrupted now and thus knowing not either to do wrong or stay quiet they left their wands in the hands of human beings.

She stood by the shore.  The waves that touches the feminine’s feet were to wash the camouflages thus to unveil the femininity. Terribly it failed for the roots of that femininity was corrupted.  But when it touched the feet of the woman that stood by the shore it cleansed the sanity of the ocean.  The hot day turned to cool twilight the sky bored its own face removing the mask of the light.  The breeze crawled on to her face like a baby crawling to its mother.  Nature knows the nature.

Not in the wardrobes her femininity exists nor in her walk it could persist.  It is in her eyes.  She knows how to look at a man as a man, know how to smile at someone without bringing any lust in their heart.  She has a rich aura that protects her from the eyes of the demons.  Acoustic of her voice could win the softest sounding lyre of this planet; no music could be compared for it is the hymn composed by the divine itself. Once it was a rarity that some creatures goes against the nature and dwells in the artificiality but now it is a rarity that some beautiful creation walks, smiles and lives the life of natures benevolence.  She is one such creation, the beautiful, made by divinity alike every other creation but decided to perceive the femininity that of the nature.

It hurts the mother earth when some so called feminine walks with their spikes in legs, intoxicates the air that we breathe with the chemicals they apply. Few, with there eyes, provokes everything that was hidden in the heart other than love of those who encounters. Not the mistake of the creator, not the mistake of the creation too but the malevolence of the material world. Even the purest of the pure milk is contaminated with the slow poison thus making more evil and gaining more materials.

The one I saw watching the ocean with love and compassion was the one those evil hands could corrupt not for she is the abundance of purity; such amount of evil is yet not found to contaminate it. She is a flower that has the perfume by its nature, a vain that has grown bearing flowers, a tender grass that drinks the dew drops in the night and waits for the sun to flourish it.  To hold such a flower in hands and cherish just one day and get back to the universal soul will be the dream of any.  To live in the flamboyance of femininity and make some real meaning to the days we live is any one’s longing; mine too.

I wanted to take that flower in my hand and feel the aroma of freshness, to feel the femininity in real, to realize the goddess of love that literature spoke. But there were few drops of poison spread in my hands also to pluck the beautiful flower and hold it in hand to dry is something for which my heart says no.

She is the epitome of the gender of love, the true femininity.  Now I remember reading somewhere “they are not equal to men! But above them”