Thursday, 28 May 2009

Who said angels know everything?

Who said angels know everything?
Our wings carry us across the earth
But we are not of the land-
Mud; earthen-pain; earthly sorrow.
Our wings cry out to fly to the heavens again.
To see the Gods again,
To touch freedom again.

Our music you may love,
But your harsh resonances
Flash against our torn wings-
No longer feathers of white,
But stained red with your
Brethren blood
And singular hate.

Release us from your shackles.
Do not pray anymore.
Our wands no longer function,
And our angel-dust sparkles no more.

The clouds hang in a sullen stupor-
Heavy tears welling, often unshed:
They cannot bear us any longer.
They, too, turn crimson with anger
And are painted a poisoned red.

If I were to ask of the Gods,
I would ask them to revive my kin-
The niads, the nymphs lie dying
In your smoggy din.
And I would ask to fly.
Ah, to fly again
Into joyous isolation.

We hang in a limbo-
Puppet-strings from the heavens.
But instead of God's golden threads,
Your fleshy chains control us.

We will leave, believe you me-
The skies above us beckon.
The stars that are dead are born again,
And we will fly to create 'em.
Abandon hope, ye mortals,
Doomed to hellish lives.
Where cheerily thou abandon love,
Thou ought not to survive!

Reflections on a computer screen:

She sits, alone.
Her face is bright. Happy.
Lit by the monitor's whiteness.
She looks down. Types. Enters. Clicks.
Her eyes sparkle off the glass-
Like the flickering light.

She sits and sits,
Waits and waits.
The clock behind her
ticks and ticks.

The smile slowly wanes.
She touches up her hair nervously.
One half of her face is lit by the screen
As she turns her face to the clock.
She adjusts the web-cam
And waits. And waits.

The clock strikes,
Signaling an hour gone by.
In a hazy-black, non-movement
You can register a single tear drop down.
And the whiteness of the site
Becomes the blackness of emptiness.
She stands up, turns around and walks out.

An empty chair.

Wednesday, 27 May 2009

I fear I'm becoming one of THOSE people!

I fear I am becoming one of 'those' people: people who do not care; who have not found their true calling, waiting for nothing in particular. I fear I am becoming a nobody. What do I really want? I do know I want to teach. But, honestly, I already know that cannot be it. It could not sustain me forever. It is temporary.
I know I want to set up a library. Definitely; someday. Clueless, but hopeful I stand. It is impossible to figure it out- yet. It is too vast a dream. When will it come true; how... Such questions. I have not thought about that place in a while now, what with entrance exams and all. Not that I have studied much, but I have evaded the thought of a new beginning. When will it come true?
I know I love literature, but what in literature? It is such a vast field, you would not believe it. People think, 'Ah literature.' But it is a philosophy unto itself. It ought to be carefully scrutinised to comprehend, and truly appreciate. What is in a word, except the ability to please or wound, is it not?!

I realise this is becoming more of a 'what I want to do' post. But that is just it. Where am I? Am I becoming a slacker? A computer-addict? A non-dream-realiser? Hopefully not.
Sometimes, you need a dream-catcher: to watch over your dreams. Not only at night, but even in the hours of morn.
I dream that I will live quietly by the sea, unmolested by the cacophony of the city lights and city sounds. A little peace in a cavern of silence. But suddenly, I find that loneliness is maddening. It presses in on you like a scream. And you grow restless, and your body aches to be free again, when ironically, you are the most free of all creatures. I fear I am becoming one of 'those' people who cannot come to terms with their isolation.
We all live in our lands of isolation, and find strange consolation in empty conversations. Where will you find a person who is truly free? When can you sit and stare into eternity? I want to be there. I want to be that person.
But I fear, I am becoming one of 'those' people.

Quote for the day:

"Love means not ever having to say you're sorry." - Love Story

Sunday, 24 May 2009

something, nothing/somewhere, nowhere

I am sitting in Kolkata as this gets blogged in, and I am just back from the 'garden of peace', Shantiniketan. It is an amazing place. A township in itself, I saw the variety of shops that sell cotton kurtis and jolna pais (cloth/jute bags) and gypsy beads and gypsy earrings. And the atmosphere was lovely. Today was a day for the rains and we were fortunate to miss the scorching sun. The place was alive with the greenery of the trees and the little rain drops drenched the earth with the aroma of life. I repeat, it was amazing!
The buildings were (yes, my friend called it quaint, but i choose to call them-) ancient. I like ancient, for some reason. I think I ought to have been born in a different era! However, back to the topic, the buildings were a paint-peeling-off cream, with moss all over- a nice antiquey look. And the skies were gray with the colour of an impending downpour.
The people were not too bad, and the place was humungous, but it was beautiful. I might not have accomplished much, but it gave me a sense of belonging. People have thought me as Bengali. Maybe I am?! At heart!
We lunched at Shantiniketan itself. And on our way back, we stopped at a sweet shop and bought some roshogollas and some mishti doi and later had some tea. And the thing is, with your tea and your mishti doi, you get a good supply of matkas that are worth taking home, and painting and keeping your room bright and beautiful. It was an amazing trip. And on our way back the downpour began and didn't stop for quite some time. The fields of green and the skies of blue-gray. It was a pleasant three-hour journey back.
Sometimes, you begin to think, why have we lost that life of leisure and why have we plunged into this frenzy of technology? What happened to all things bright and beautiful? It is not worth it to lose that. Never. Olden days of non-cell-phones and non-laptops. Once, just once, I'd like to be there. And this seems to be that 'there'.
In every dream, there is a reason, and in every reasoning there is a certain madness I suppose.